#and just go ‘YOU! NEED! TO! LET! GO! OF! PEOPLE! SOMETIMES!!!!!!’

[mishappeningss]

Heyooo,

Do you think you could do driver reader with other retired drivers like Seb, Jenson, Kimi, Nico and people like that? Like what would they think of her, what would the dynamic be?

she’d do ANYTHINGGGG to be able to go back in time and race w them :(

more about driver!yn

Sebastian Vettel — “She’s the storm the paddock needed.”

Sebastian Vettel isn’t even supposed to be in Monaco. He swore off race weekends — no media duties, no team consultancy, no press box nostalgia runs. But the moment he hears YN is starting on the front row, something inside him itches.

So here he is, leaning against the paddock railing with a soft smile, baseball cap low, sleeves rolled up, and a warmth in his chest that has nothing to do with the Riviera sun.

And there she is.

YN — hair braided, race suit tied at the waist, fireproofs clinging to her like a second skin, bottle of water in hand, muttering something brutal about setup balance and slow corners. She hasn’t seen him yet.

When she finally turns and clocks him, her whole face shifts — eyes widening just slightly, jaw tightening like she’s trying not to grin. Trying not show how giddy she is that her favorite driver’s here.

“Thought you were done with all this,” she says, walking over.

Seb shrugs. “So did I. But you’re hard to stay away from.”

“Dangerously charming, aren’t I?” she deadpans, already rolling her eyes, but her voice is too soft to mean it.

They stand in silence for a moment, watching the chaos of prep unfold around them. Mechanics scrambling. Reporters shouting. Engines screaming in the background. And still — peace, between them.

“How’s the car?” he asks finally.

“She hates me,” YN sighs. “But we’re working it out.”

Seb smiles, something proud and private in the way his eyes crinkle. “Sounds like most good partnerships.”

After the race — P2. Not the win, but damn close. Close enough to make the world pay attention.

Seb meets her just outside the garage, catching her before the interviews. She’s flushed and buzzing, hair frizzed from the helmet, adrenaline still bleeding through her skin.

“That was brilliant,” he says, and it’s not the usual post-race praise. It’s reverent. Genuine.

“You saw the lock-up?” she asks, already grimacing.

“Yes. And the save.” His eyes glint. “You’ve got instinct. You don’t drive like anyone else.”

“That a compliment or a warning?” she teases.

He leans in slightly, like he’s letting her in on a secret. “Both.”

user: seb vetttelll being her calm anchor in a world that’s constantly trying to knock her down??? i’m sobbing

user: when he said “both”… i ascended. i left my body.

user: if you think seb didn’t come back to the paddock just to see her race, you’re wrong and also boring

Kimi Räikkönen — “She reminds me of myself. Just louder, and a lot more sarcastic.”

Kimi shows up in Silverstone with no warning. No media fanfare, no pre-race announcement. Just walks in with sunglasses on, coffee in hand, and a team lanyard he probably stole from someone else.

And naturally, he heads straight for her garage.

YN looks up mid-briefing, squints, and blinks twice like she’s hallucinating. “Are you… lost?”

Kimi doesn’t flinch. “No.”

“Here to consult?” she asks.

“No.”

She tilts her head. “Then what are you doing here?”

He sips his coffee and shrugs. “Wanted to see if you finally learned how to brake after turn nine.”

YN grins, all teeth. “I’ll show you how I brake — through your kneecaps.”

Kimi smirks. “Good. Stay angry. It’s when you drive best.”

Later, she’s in her race suit, pulling gloves on slowly. There’s a storm coming — not weather, just her. Tension in her shoulders, jaw locked tight, heat in her eyes. The kind of energy that usually ends in a podium or a full-on brawl with another driver. Sometimes both.

Kimi’s still there. He doesn’t hover — he just exists near her, like a shadow with a sharp tongue and too much Finnish honesty.

“You ever thought of coaching?” she asks, adjusting her earpiece.

“God, no,” he says instantly.

She chuckles, tossing her head back. “Not even me?”

He raises one eyebrow. “You’d fire me in a week.”

“Fair,” she agrees.

Pause.

“…You’re still my favorite, though.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches out, gently straightens the strap of her HANS device, and walks away.

On the pit wall — race ongoing:

Luca tells her about pushing harder in Sector 2. She snaps back with a sarcastic “I can’t push what’s already over the damn limit!”

The radio crackles again. And suddenly: Kimi’s voice. Calm. Dry. Perfectly timed.

“Then don’t crash. It’s annoying to watch.”

YN cackles mid-corner.

After she finishes P4, she storms into the garage, annoyed, sweaty, muttering about tire degradation and pit stop calls.

Kimi hands her a water bottle and says, deadpan, “Should’ve crashed. Would’ve been more dramatic.”

She flicks water at him.

He doesn’t flinch.

user: kimi showing up like a feral paddock uncle just to roast yn is PEAK mentor content

user: she said “you ever thought of coaching” and he answered like she offered him a job in hell i’m crying

Jenson Button — “I just remind her that she’s allowed to breathe.”

It’s the Canadian GP, and Jenson’s working punditry this weekend. He’s already had three segments where he talked about YN’s sector times like he was narrating a love letter. Not that he’d ever admit it.

Mid-FP3, he finds her leaning against the pit wall, helmet at her side, boots tapping against the concrete like she’s too full of kinetic energy to stand still.

He walks over, calm as ever.

“You’re overdriving turn 3,” he says without greeting.

“I’m testing the grip,” she shoots back. “And also proving a point.”

Jenson chuckles. “You always try to make a point.”

She raises a brow. “And?”

“And you usually do.” He nudges her boot lightly with his own. “But don’t forget to have fun. You used to smile more.”

YN pauses, eyes flicking up to his, and for a second, the sarcasm softens.

Then:

“I smile plenty. Just not when I’m surrounded by men with microphones who think I’m here for vibes.”

Jenson puts both hands up in surrender. “Hey. I am here for vibes.”

During Qualifying — Live TV Broadcast

“Okay, look at YN here,” Jenson says on-air, gesturing toward the screen mid-hot lap. “Watch the confidence on entry — no hesitation. It’s instinct. You can’t teach that.”

“Would you call her aggressive?” the co-commentator asks.

“No. I’d call her decisive,” he replies immediately. “She knows who she is. That’s dangerous in F1. And beautiful to watch.”

The fans melt.

After Qualifying,she finds him in the media pen, finishing a segment. Walks up behind him and says loud enough for the mic to pick up:

“So are we calling me beautiful or just my cornering technique?”

Jenson laughs, tilts his head. “Why not both?”

She grins — genuinely this time. It throws people off.

user: jenson calling her decisive instead of aggressive is EVERYTHING. this is what mentorship should look like. respectful. proud.

user: jenson and yn having mentor/older sibling banter while also looking like they’d rob you in matching sunglasses? ICONIC

user: “she used to smile more” “you usually make your point” “why not both?” STOPPP I’M GONNA START SHIPPING THIS

Nico Rosberg — “She’s chaos with purpose. That’s what makes her so dangerous. And so much fun to piss off.”

He corners her just after the drivers’ briefing in Monza. She’s already annoyed — the sim didn’t translate well, the car feels unbalanced, and some journalist just asked if she was “overcompensating” by being aggressive on track.

She’s two seconds from committing a crime when Nico appears behind her and says, way too casually:

“Still driving like you’ve got something to prove?”

She turns slowly. Narrowed eyes. Jaw tight. “Oh, I forgot this is your ‘I pretend to be insightful but I’m actually just trying to get a rise out of you’ era.”

Nico grins like a man who’s won. “I missed you too.”

Later, she’s mid-interview, giving calculated, smart answers, and Nico (with a mic, of course, because he’s media now) slides in beside her.

Nico asks, “So, YN, think you’ll ever learn to leave any space when overtaking?”

“Why would I? You didn’t.”

He grins in return. “Touché.”

“Thanks. I’ve got years of your footage saved. For research.”

The reporters eat it up. So does Twitter. He smirks. She glares. The chemistry is chaotic.

In private, though — it’s different.

She finds him on the balcony of the hospitality unit, staring out at the track as if he misses it.

Which, honestly, he probably does.

“You’re not that annoying, you know,” she says, arms crossed.

Nico looks over. “You’re terrible at compliments.”

She sighs, a little more serious. “You get it, though. The pressure. The performance. The branding. How they either hate you or want to own you.”

He studies her. “Yeah,” he says, softer. “I remember what that felt like. When the sport loves what you do but resents how you do it.”

Silence.

Then YN nods, once. “You’re still annoying, though.”

He grins. “There she is.”

user: WHY DOES HE ONLY TROLL HER. he doesn’t even acknowledge other drivers like this lmao

user: the way he called her out ON AIR and she just body slammed him with facts and footage. girl boss behavior

user: i’m sorry but they’re so enemies-to-mutual-recognition-to-rivals-who-flirt-through-insults. i’m sick.

[yuyuyukiii]

Two Charms, One Promise ⛐

Summary: Long before the podiums, the titles, and the fame, he was just a boy in a treehouse. She was the girl who promised to stay. She didn’t break that promise. Someone else did it for her.

Content: Childhood heartbreak, missing letters, mistaken goodbyes, unresolved feelings, and one very symbolic bracelet.

Author’s Note 🏎️:

This story is purely fictional and not based on real events. Some timelines, career paths, and personal details have been adjusted or reimagined to fit the narrative. It’s all for the sake of the story, so please don’t take anything here as factual. Just vibes, emotions, and a lot of imagination. Thank you for reading. I hope it makes you feel something 🫶🏻

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

The day Y/N moved in, Max Verstappen was already sitting in the treehouse, legs dangling off the edge, half-listening to the wind and trying to ignore the distant sound of car doors slamming. It was unusually noisy for their sleepy neighborhood, which usually had more dogs than people outside at any given hour.

He was up there because Jos had yelled again that morning, something about focus, about wasting time. So Max went where he always went when things got too loud, up in the treehouse, tucked between thick branches and scratched wood that smelled like old pine and dried glue.

Down below, a moving truck pulled up, rattling and coughing, followed by a car that barely rolled to a stop before someone burst out of the backseat. A girl.

She was dragging a suitcase with one hand and waving frantically at someone inside the house with the other. Max was just about to look away when she turned suddenly and looked straight up. Straight at him.

Then she pointed.

A few minutes later, she was standing at the base of the treehouse ladder, squinting up at him through the leaves.

“Hi!” she called, like they’d met before.

Max didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know her. He didn’t talk to new people if he could help it.

“You live here, right?” she asked again.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Y/N,” she said. “We just moved in.”

He just stared.

“Can I come up?”

That caught him off guard. No one ever asked to come up. Not even the neighbor kids who sometimes wandered too close.

He shrugged. “If you want.”

And that was how it started.

She climbed up with the confidence of someone who had never fallen out of a tree in her life, then plopped down next to him and looked around like she belonged there. Like it was already hers too.

They played cards using a half-broken deck he kept in a tin box. She asked him questions, what grade he was in, how fast his kart was, what he wanted to be when he grew up. She answered all of her own questions without waiting for him to respond.

When she finally left, she said, “I’ll come back tomorrow. You better not lose.”

He didn’t say anything, but when she was gone, he smiled to himself.

And she did come back. Every day after that.

The treehouse became theirs. It wasn’t official, but it didn’t need to be. They carved their initials into the floorboard. They stored candy in a metal lunchbox. They taped leaves and wrappers and even a movie ticket stub to the wall. They shared stories. Secrets. Fears.

Sometimes Max would sit in silence and she would do all the talking, but somehow, she always knew when to stop and just let him exist beside her.

He liked that.

One rainy afternoon, sprawled out on their backs staring at the wooden ceiling, she turned to him and said, “I’m going to be your engineer one day.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Your engineer. I’ll be the one building your car. Telling you what to fix. Then we’ll win everything. You and me.”

Max laughed. Not because it was silly, but because it made something flutter in his chest. “You’re serious?”

“Obviously.”

“What if you work for someone else?”

“No way. I’m loyal,” she said, proudly. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Promise?”

She held up her pinky. “Promise.”

He curled his pinky around hers. It felt important, like something more than just a joke. Something real.

That night, she gave him a bracelet. It had a single charm on it, her initial. He wore it every day after that. The next day, he added one for himself too.

He didn’t have a name for how he felt about her. He just knew he always wanted to see her first after a win. He wanted her to see how fast he was. He wanted her to stay.

He didn’t know that wanting someone to stay didn’t mean they would.

A few years later, everything fell apart.

Y/N’s parents told her the news over dinner. Her dad was calm, practical. Her mom looked sorry before the words even left her mouth.

“We’re moving to Japan.”

Y/N stared at her plate. “What?”

Her dad sighed. “They need me there. The company’s expanding. It’s a big opportunity.”

Her mom tried to soften the blow. “We leave this weekend. It’s fast, I know, but we didn’t want to worry you unless it was certain.”

Y/N didn’t cry. She just asked, “Can I say goodbye to Max?”

Her parents exchanged a look, then nodded.

They gave her a small box the next morning.

It was a phone.

“So you two can keep in touch,” her mom said gently. “You’ve been friends a long time.”

Y/N packed a smaller box later that night. It had a new charm for Max’s bracelet, a tiny silver steering wheel, and a long letter. She told him everything. She told him she was sorry. She wrote her number, her new address, everything. She told him she’d be back one day, and that he better not forget her.

The morning of their flight, she begged her dad to stop at Max’s house. She was bouncing on her toes, hands fidgeting and heart pounding, as she approached the door. The house looked the same as always, warm and familiar in the sun, but something about it felt heavier today. Her footsteps slowed. After a deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked.

A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open, not to reveal Max, but his father.

Jos Verstappen’s expression immediately soured.

“You again?” he said flatly. “You’re always looking for Max. No wonder he’s been distracted in his races.”

Y/N lowered her head, gripping the small wrapped box tighter. Her voice came out small, but steady.

“I’m sorry. I just really need to talk to Max… just for a while…” Her voice trailed off, then she mumbled under her breath, “For the last time.”

Jos squinted. “What did you say?”

She looked up at him, eyes earnest. “We’re moving. Today, actually. I just wanted to say goodbye, give him this, and… I left my contact info inside, so we can still keep in touch.”

Jos paused. For a brief second, his eyes lit up, but he quickly masked it with a sigh and a feigned frown.

“I’m sorry for being harsh on your friendship, kid,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I only ever wanted the best for Max.”

Y/N nodded, hesitating. “Is he here? Can I see him?”

“He’s out,” Jos said quickly. “Training.”

Her face fell.

“But maybe I can give it to him for you?” he added, extending his hand with a soft smile.

Y/N stared at him, uncertain. “You’d really do that for me?”

“Of course, kid.”

Something about it felt off, but she pushed it down. With a quiet “thank you,” she hugged him gently, placing the gift in his hand.

“Please make sure he gets it. It’s really important.”

Jos nodded. “Safe travels, Y/N. I’ll give it to him right away.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Verstappen.”

She turned and walked away, holding in tears the entire time. Jos watched her until she turned the corner, then let out a quiet chuckle.

“Finally. No more distractions,” he muttered, stepping back inside. He headed straight to his office, opened a drawer, and carelessly tossed in the gift and envelope, unopened, unread. The letter inside, carefully written, held her contact information, a hand-drawn sketch of their favorite memory, and a heartfelt message she stayed up all night to finish. All of it, hidden.

—

Meanwhile, Y/N returned to the car, where her parents were already waiting inside. Her mother glanced up as she approached.

“Did you get to say goodbye to Max, dear?”

She looked down and shook her head. “No. He wasn’t around. But I gave Mr. Verstappen my gift and letter that had everything inside.”

Her parents exchanged a look.

“You’re sure, honey?” her father asked gently. “Why not give it to someone else? Maybe his mom, or a neighbor?”

“It’s okay, Mommy. I had a backup plan.” Y/N smiled proudly. “I left the same letter and gift in our treehouse. Max always goes there after naps.”

Her father gave a relieved laugh and ruffled her hair. “That’s our girl. Smart as ever.”

She beamed.

None of them knew that as soon as Y/N left, Jos made his way to the treehouse. Right after hiding the box she had asked him to give Max, he took everything else, every drawing, every note, every small thing that might remind Max of her, and hid alongside the box.

—

Max stirred awake after his nap, blinking at the time. The sun was already dipping lower in the sky. He sat up, stretching, then smiled. It was that time again. Y/N always came over after lunch, and they’d spend the afternoon at their treehouse, playing games, eating ice cream, making plans that reached far into the future.

He jumped out of bed, got dressed, and rushed over to the L/N residence. But as soon as he arrived, something felt… wrong.

There were no cars in the driveway.

No sound from inside.

No curtains drawn.

He knocked once. Then twice. He called out.

“Y/N?”

Nothing.

His knocking turned louder. “Mrs. L/N? Mr. L/N? Hello?”

Still nothing.

A tightness started forming in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar. Maybe something happened. Maybe they were just asleep. He began pounding on the door now, calling out Y/N’s name over and over.

Then a voice cut through the silence.

“Hey, kid. Could you calm down a bit?”

Max turned. A neighbor stood on the other side of the fence, frowning.

“Sorry, sir,” Max said quickly. “Do you know where the L/N family is? Are they at the mall or something?”

The man blinked. “The L/Ns? Oh… they left.”

Max’s stomach dropped. “Left?”

“Yeah. Left the country, I heard. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

Max stared at him, stunned. “No… no. That’s not possible.”

“Pretty sure they don’t plan on coming back,” the man added casually before going back inside.

Max stood frozen. For several seconds, everything around him went quiet. Then he took off running.

“No, no, no,” he whispered between breaths, feet pounding against the pavement. “This isn’t real, this isn’t happening.”

He didn’t even notice the tears until he reached the treehouse. He climbed up, desperate. His hands shook as he pulled open the wooden hatch.

Erased. Everything about her had been erased.

The drawings they made together. The little gifts. Their shared journals. Even the photo they kept of the day they built the treehouse, all gone. It looked just like it did before she came into his life, like how it was when Max was the only one using it.

Like she had never been there at all.

Like she wanted him to forget her.

His legs gave out and he collapsed onto the floor, tears pouring freely now. His heart felt like it was splitting open. He curled up and sobbed, flashes of memory overwhelming him.

The first time they met in this treehouse.

How she always stood between him and a group of bullies, tiny but fierce, shouting that they were cowards for picking on someone just because he didn’t have a “nice dad.”

The way she cheered for him after every race, even the bad ones.

The way she always knew what to say to make things better.

The time he was sick and afraid to sleep, scared he would wake up and she’d be gone. She stayed beside him all night, pinky-promising she would never leave him.

“Forever,” she had said.

He pulled his bracelet from his pocket. It was silver and a little scratched, with only two charms so far, one with her initials, and one with his.

They were supposed to fill it together.

Max stared at it, eyes red and swollen. He clenched it tightly in his fist and whispered into the empty air.

“She lied to me.”

Then louder.

“You lied to me.”

His voice cracked.

What he didn’t know was that Jos had lied. Didn’t know the letters existed. Didn’t know Y/N had tried.

All he knew was the pain.

And all he had left was the bracelet.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Y/N sat by the window, fiddling with the little charm on her bracelet. Her fingers kept tracing the edge of the tiny silver star until her mom gently nudged her arm.

“Are you nervous?” her mother asked.

Y/N glanced outside, where clouds floated past the plane wing. “Yeah. I didn’t grow up in Japan. I don’t really know anyone.”

Her mom gave her a soft smile. “Honey, even if you didn’t grow up there, you were born there. And besides,” she added, brushing a strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear, “Yuki will be there.”

Y/N turned her head. “Yuki?”

“Yes. He was your playmate until you two were around five. I was told he’s very excited to see you again.”

Y/N blinked. Her mind scrambled to find a face to match the name. She couldn’t remember much. Just blurry memories of swings, warm afternoons, and someone always running ahead of her.

The thought settled her a little. Not completely, but enough.

Maybe she was nervous because of Max.

What if he was mad at her?

But then again, even if he was, it probably wouldn’t last long. They had phones now. They could talk.

Things would be okay. They had to be.

—

By the time they landed and arrived at their new home in Japan, it was already late afternoon. The street was lined with people, neighbors, family friends, and curious kids with wide eyes. Everyone seemed excited. The warmth in their greetings made Y/N pause. It felt different here. In Belgium, people kept to themselves. Here, it was like the whole street had come to welcome her home.

She stepped out of the car just as someone threw their arms around her.

“Yatta! Omae ga modotte kita! Ore no saisho no tomodachi da!!” (Yay! You're back! My first friend!) the voice shouted with joy.

Y/N blinked in surprise, momentarily frozen. Then she gently returned the hug and pulled back with a polite but confused smile.

“Konnichiwa… tomodachi yo.?” she said cautiously. “Gomen ne, chotto oboete nai no…” (Hello… friend? Sorry, I’m having a hard time remembering…)

The boy laughed, clearly not offended at all. “Is me, Yuki! You… you no remember? We race shopping cart! Down driveway! You crash into mailbox. I laugh so hard, my mama scold me.”

Her eyes widened. “No way. That was you? Oh my god, I thought you were just a dream!”

He nodded eagerly. “Yes yes! You cry, but only little. Then we eat snack. You bring chocolate.”

She covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Oh my god. I thought I dreamed that.”

Yuki pointed at himself proudly. “Not dream. Real! I real! You come back. We bestest friend again, okay?”

They laughed, slipping into conversation like no time had passed. When Yuki stumbled over his next sentence, Y/N gently switched to Japanese. She didn’t want him to struggle. His eyes lit up with relief, and from then on, they spoke easily in their shared language.

“I have a feeling we’re going to be the beeeestest of friends,” he said confidently, bumping her shoulder.

Y/N laughed. “We already are.”

That day, one friendship was rekindled.

And somewhere else, without her even knowing, another was quietly breaking.

—

Time passed quickly after Y/N moved back to Japan.

She and Yuki became inseparable, just like when they were little. Every morning, he would wait outside her house with two juice boxes and a huge smile, waving at her like it had been years since they last saw each other. They did everything together. They walked to school, snuck snacks into class, and raced paper boats in the gutters after a storm. If there was a school activity, a family trip, or even just a lazy afternoon, you could count on them being side by side.

It was like they grew up as twins, bonded not by blood but by something even stronger: timing, trust, and the track. They both loved racing. Yuki would talk endlessly about engines and tires, while Y/N would try to predict strategies like a seasoned engineer. Eventually, she stopped just listening and started helping. They made a perfect team. If Yuki had a karting competition, Y/N would be there by the side, clipboard in hand, shouting feedback louder than anyone else. And if Y/N had something on her mind, Yuki would sense it before she even said a word.

Just like during that first week Y/N was back in Japan, before everything had settled, she couldn’t help but feel like something was off.

(Flashback)

She sat on her bed, bracelet clutched tightly in her palm. It had been days, but her phone stayed silent. Max hadn’t contacted her. Not even once.

Yuki noticed her quiet mood during lunch one afternoon and nudged her with a cookie.

“You look sad. Is school too hard?” he asked, mouth full.

Y/N shook her head.

“Then what?” he pressed. “Tell me. I fix it.”

She looked down at her tray. “I just thought someone would’ve messaged me by now.”

“Who?”

“…My best friend. From Belgium. Max.”

Yuki frowned. “No message? Why not?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“A bad friend,” Yuki declared with a pout. “Very bad. He made you cry. You forget him. I be your best friend now. Bestest in the whole wide world.”

Y/N smiled a little at that, leaning her shoulder on his. “Okay. But just so you know… Max is really important to me.”

“I am important now,” Yuki said with a proud nod.

(End)

And he really did try. Over time, Y/N stopped checking her phone so much. She still thought of Max often, especially during races or when the wind reminded her of Belgium, but she let herself grow close to Yuki without guilt. Together, they grew up cheering each other on, yelling advice across karting tracks and making silly bets with ice cream as the prize.

But in Belgium, Max Verstappen’s world had become silent again.

Without Y/N, everything felt dull. He’d always known the sport was hard, but now it felt cold. No one was there to throw their arms around him after a bad race. No one sat next to him on the swing set when the other kids said he was weird. No one brought him mango juice or cheered even when he came in last. He stopped hearing kind words altogether.

Even the treehouse had changed.

The place that once held laughter and secrets now sat in silence. The candy wrappers were gone. The tin lunchbox was empty. The walls, once decorated with stickers and scribbled messages, had faded in the sun. The tree itself started to look different. The leaves grew thinner. The branches drooped. It hadn’t been watered or cared for in years, and it showed. What was once their shared paradise had become Max’s hiding spot when Jos was mad again. It didn’t comfort him the way it used to.

Years passed.

Max’s career began to take off. He was preparing to leave Belgium to chase the big leagues. Teams. Tracks. Pressure. Fame. It was everything he had worked for, but something about it didn’t feel right.

He loaded the last box into the back of the car. Jos slammed the trunk and said, “Ready?”

Max paused. “Wait. I forgot something.”

He jogged back through the overgrown yard and climbed up the creaky steps of the treehouse one last time. Dust danced in the light. The wood groaned under his weight.

He sat down in the same corner he used to sit in as a kid and looked around. His eyes landed on one of the old drawings he had carved into the wall with a pocket knife.

A stickman version of himself stood on a podium, arms raised. Above it, the word champion was scrawled in crooked letters.

Right below it was another tiny stick figure. This one had long hair and was clapping with little stars around her head.

Max reached out and traced the line he had written beneath it.

Max wins the world championship. Y/N is his engineer.

He closed his eyes.

“I really thought we’d do this together,” he whispered.

Then he climbed back down the ladder, looked up at the treehouse, and said softly, “This is it.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Yuki was the first to leave.

It felt strange, the morning he rolled his suitcase to the airport check-in. His usual loud energy was quieter, replaced by a shaky smile and nervous fingers tapping against his hoodie sleeve. Y/N stood beside him, blinking away the weight pressing behind her eyes.

“Don’t cry,” he said quickly, voice cracking despite the smile. “You cry, I cry.”

“I’m not crying,” she sniffed, poking his arm. “It’s just the weather.”

“Inside the airport?” he teased.

They stood in silence for a second longer before she hugged him tightly. Neither wanted to let go.

“When we see each other again,” Yuki said, stepping back, “we’ll be big names. You, engineer girl genius. Me, fastest driver.”

She grinned. “Deal.”

“But no goodbye,” he added, wagging a finger. “Only see you soon.”

“See you soon, Yuki.”

With one last wave, he disappeared through the crowd.

—

And then… life moved forward.

Y/N buried herself in her studies. She got into one of the best engineering universities in Tokyo. Her days blurred together: late-night lectures, stacks of notes, greasy cafeteria food, and way too much caffeine. There were moments when it felt like too much, but every time she looked at her worn-out bracelet or passed a go-kart track, she remembered why she started.

She graduated near the top of her class, surrounded by cheering classmates and flashing cameras. Not long after, she aced the licensing exams, officially earning the title she had worked so hard for.

Dream one: complete.

She’s finally an engineer. It still feels a little unreal, but it’s hers.

—

Yuki’s first year abroad wasn’t as easy.

At first, he struggled. English was hard, the food was weird, and no one seemed to get his jokes. He missed Japan. Missed the rhythm of his life back home. Missed Y/N’s easy laughter during long karting weekends.

But he worked. Hard.

Every bad qualifying session, every miscommunication with his team, every lonely hotel night, he turned it into fuel. Slowly, the results came. So did the friends. He learned how to express himself even when the words weren’t perfect. He smiled more. Fought harder.

Years later, sitting on a balcony with his helmet on the table beside him, Yuki stared at the headline on his phone:

Tsunoda Confirmed as F1’s Newest Driver.

His hands trembled. He laughed. Then he called Y/N and shouted, “WE DID IT!”

Dream two: complete.

He was in Formula 1.

—

Max, meanwhile, was clawing his way up on his own.

His F3 days were brutal. He was fast, but raw. Emotional. Other drivers whispered. Some avoided him altogether. He was “the kid with too much fire and no brakes.”

But Max didn’t care. Or at least, he told himself he didn’t.

He carried the weight of everything: the expectations, the lonely nights, the dream that once belonged to two people. There were nights when he’d sit by himself after races, staring at the sky, wondering if she’d be proud. Wondering if she remembered.

Eventually, his talent was undeniable.

F1 came calling.

And even then, it wasn’t easy. He was young. Aggressive. Often misunderstood. The media called him reckless. Teammates didn’t always trust him. Older drivers were cold. But Max kept showing up. Kept proving them wrong. Over time, respect followed.

Now, as he stood on the podium once again, the anthem playing, a crowd roaring below, Max looked down at the bracelet tucked beneath his suit cuff.

two charms still dangled from it.

Dream three: ongoing.

He had made it.

But a piece of him still felt unfinished.

Because the one person who promised to be by his side wasn’t there.

Not yet.

—

Y/N couldn’t figure out why she felt so nervous.

She’d been to races before. But this one felt… heavier.

Yuki had pleaded with her to be there for his debut. “Just this once,” he had said. “It would mean everything.” And of course, she said yes. She always did, especially when it came to him.

But the weight in her chest didn’t feel like nerves for Yuki. Not really. It felt like something else. Like someone else. Someone from back then.

Yuki never asked who Max really was. And she never offered more than a first name.

So naturally, he never really talked about Max in F1 either, because in his mind, Max was just someone from her childhood. A classmate. A neighbor. A boy from another lifetime. It never even crossed his mind that they could be the same person.

He never made the connection.

The moment they landed, Yuki was waiting at the gate, practically bouncing in place. He held a piece of paper that said “FOR MY FAVORITE ENGINEER” in giant block letters, with two messy hearts in the corners.

Y/N laughed and ran into him, nearly knocking the sign out of his hands.

“You’re actually here,” he said, hugging her like he hadn’t seen her in years.

“I told you I would be.”

He toured her around the hotel, pointing out which floors the team was on, where she could sneak snacks, and who to avoid. Then he dropped the bomb.

“I applied for you,” he said. “To F1’s development program. You got in.”

She blinked. “You did what?”

“You’re gonna be trained and mentored by real engineers, and then you can apply to any team you want. This is the start.”

“Yuki—”

“We promised, remember? I’m racing, and you’re beside me. Always.”

The next day was chaos.

It was race day.

Fans screamed from the grandstands. Teams rushed through the paddock like bees in a hive. Yuki looked impossibly small in his suit, helmet under one arm, but his grin stretched ear to ear.

Y/N stayed just outside the restricted zone, watching him get into the car. He pointed at her once before the lights changed, and then he was off.

She barely noticed the rest.

Until something, someone, brushed past her.

A driver, walking quickly. Suit zipped, helmet gripped tight. She only saw him from behind, the dark racing colors streaked with sponsor patches. She didn’t know why, but her chest suddenly felt tight. Like she should have known him. Like there was something right on the edge of her memory.

But she didn’t see his face.

She didn’t stop him.

He disappeared into the pit lane crowd, swallowed up by noise and motion.

—

Max had already finished the final checks. Helmet under his arm, mind focused, jaw clenched.

But as he made his way through the paddock, something pulled at him. He turned his head slightly, just for a second, eyes scanning the crowd beyond the barricade.

There, a girl.

He couldn’t see her face, only the back of her head, the way her hair caught in the breeze, the way she stood like she belonged but didn’t want to be seen. Her posture. Her stillness.

It wasn’t unusual.

And yet.

Something inside him paused. A flicker of memory he couldn’t name. A dream from long ago.

He stared just long enough for his engineer to call his name again. He blinked it away, shook his head, and kept walking.

Whoever she was, it didn’t matter.

Not today.

END (C.1)

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

[azzinator3000]

pure sweet smut after a argument

Camping is supposed to be fun, remember that?

Warning: Minors DNI (Smut)

Okay guys, this is my attempt at writing smut, no idea how yall are gonna take it LOL

The tent was almost bigger than Paige's dorm room, an ample room with a big inflatable bed and enough screens to run an entire streaming service. It was the kind of "camping" only two people who spend their lives traveling for basketball could ever conceive of. It was supposed to be perfect.

It was not.

The day had started with tension that had quickly escalated. Azzi, in her usual way, had thrown her clothes in a pile by her side of the air mattress, leaving Paige to silently and angrily organize her own things into neat piles.

“Your clothes are all over the place,” Paige said, her voice tight and unable to hide her frustration.

Azzi, who was setting up a portable speaker, just shrugged. “Yeah. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal,” Paige shot back, “is that this is a small space. And your things are everywhere. And it’s...just a mess”

Azzi turned, a playful smirk on her face, leaning against the speaker. “Mess? You're the one who eats chips in the tent and gets crumbs all over our bed.”

“Those are not the same thing,” Paige huffed, crossing her arms, irritation building with the back-and-forth. It was stupid and she knew it was stupid,but when Azzi got messy, something in Paige’s intensely organized brain just short-circuited.

So the day had been a series of these little arguments, little verbal punches that left them both a little bruised. They’d never lived together for real, never had to navigate each other’s messiness, and the constant arguments were wearing on Paige. She was tensed up, frustrated, and retreated into a stubborn and super quiet fury that drove Azzi crazy.

It was late now, the tent illuminated by a small, battery-powered lantern that cast a soft, yellow glow over their makeshift home. Paige was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, her arms crossed over her chest, as Azzi fiddled with her phone beside her. 

The light, of course, was on. Azzi couldn't sleep unless a light was on (and Paige, of course, couldn't sleep unless it was pitch black)

“Are you bothered?” Azzi finally asked, her voice soft.

Paige grunted. “I’m not bothered.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You know what? Now I am, because you keep asking.”

Azzi sighed, “I just want to know what’s wrong, Paige. You’ve been quiet all day. I want to talk about it.”

“I don’t think you understand, Azzi. When I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to talk”

“But I want to talk to you because you’re annoyed, but you don’t talk to me about the things that are annoying you.” Azzi’s voice was pleading

Paige, in her tensed-up state, just let it all spill out. “I’m bothered because you’re messy. There you go. I’m also bothered because you don’t take me seriously sometimes”

“Well, you don’t take me seriously!” Azzi shot back. “I asked you to leave your iPad on the charger, and now it’s almost dead. It’s a two-way street, Paige.”

Paige sat up and crossed her arms, her biceps flexing, a defensive posture that she knew well. “Do you see me as a responsible adult?” she asked, her voice sharp. “Because I’m the responsible adult here. I’m older than you.”

Azzi didn’t hesitate. “No,” she said. “I don’t see you as a responsible adult. Actually, sometimes I feel like I’m older than you.”

Paige’s breath hitched. A tense silence filled the space between them. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice tight. 

She was still sitting there, arms crossed, muscles flexing, looking serious and angry and, to Azzi, impossibly hot. She could see Azzi’s eyes, in the low light, lingering on her arms, on her mouth, on the fierce set of her jaw.

 Azzi was getting distracted, and Paige suddenly realized she was too.

Paige’s voice dropped to a lower, the argument slipping away, replaced by a challenge she couldn’t resist. “So you’re a big girl, right? You’re a big, responsible girl who doesn’t need my help, and I’m not a responsible adult. Okay. So what are you going to do if I turn off the light right now?”

Azzi blinked, her eyes wide. “Paige, don’t—”

But Paige had already reached out, her fingers finding the switch.

The tent went pitch black.

The air mattress shifts, and suddenly there’s a warm weight on top of her and soft lips covering hers.

Their faces bump together slightly as Paige’s arms jostle the bed, and it’s dark, so Paige actually kisses somewhere closer to her chin the first time. 

But in the few seconds after, when their breaths are mingling and Paige’s eyes are still closed, her body seems to realize exactly what’s happening. Every nerve comes to life, urging her to pull Paige closer and not let her go, so she slips a hand around to the base of Paige’s neck, puts her knee up to bracket Paige’s hips, and pulls her back down.

The second kiss is magic.

Paige’s hair falls around them, blocking out what little moonlight is diffusing through the tent, and she’s surrounded by the sweet smell of her. Paige presses perfectly against her, a hipbone hitting the most wonderful spot as their chests rub together, and her lips. Her lips. 

They part for air, and Azzi arches up to eliminate the space between their bodies, and Paige lets out a tiny, broken whimper.

“Oh,” She breathes and Azzi drinks it in, tilting her head to deepen their kisses, and then Paige engulfs her like a wildfire.

Like a switch has been flipped, Paige is everywhere at once. Their kisses become hot and open, her hips starting up a steady grind, and she props herself up with one arm while gripping Azzi’s hip with the other.

It’s overwhelming, and suddenly the tent is stiflingly hot. The shower she took earlier did very little to wash off the grossness of being in the woods for the weekend, but Paige somehow still smells amazing, and she tastes so good, and instead of worrying about how thoroughly she’s washed, Azzi loses herself to the rocking motion of their bodies.

She pulls Paige back down, wrapping a leg around her waist, and leaves it up to the universe.

There are moments that are awkward, the mattress is so bouncy that their faces bump together sometimes, and it’s hard for Paige to hold back her strength not having as much muscle mass as Azzi, but it’s so, so good. 

Paige doesn’t even take the time to try to remove their clothes and Azzi’s shirt gets rucked up over her breasts and her bra is pulled down unceremoniously so that Paige can play with her nipples, and she’s eager and a little bit clumsy but it’s more than enough.

When she finally pulls down Azzi’s pyjamas enough to slip her hand inside, Azzi can hear the slick sounds her fingers make as they make contact with her cunt. She’s so wet that she can hear it, and she knows that Paige can hear it, and Paige is whimpering before she’s even been inside her, oh god, Paige is going to be inside her, and it’s all so much 

“Tell me how you want it baby” Paige pants into her neck, slipping two fingers through the wetness between her thighs with little finesse but a lot of enthusiasm. “Tell me” They slip over Azzi’s clit by accident, and she twitches like a live wire. Paige does it again, rubbing broad strokes, and Azzi is pretty sure she’s not going to need much instruction at this rate.

“Two fingers inside, and your thumb fuck!”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, because suddenly there are two long digits nestled inside her and Paige’s thumb is resting against her clit.

“Like this?” She whispers, her voice trembling, and Azzi whines.

“God, yes,  move your hand”

Eager to please, Paige obeys. 

Her fingers slip out almost all the way before plunging back in, and it’s good, but it’s just slightly off, the darkness taking a tool on their effectiveness. Normally Azzi would be quieter, let her partner figure it out on their own, but Paige seems to crave the direction. So she pants into Paige’s ear, adjusting her hips.

“Not like..don’t pull out so much, do shallow – fuck, yes, just like that!” She gasps, tangling a hand in Paige’s hair and tugging hard as Paige switches to shorter, deeper thrusts. At Azzi’s enthusiastic response she speeds up, her hand like a piston, every harsh movement bringing her closer, and Azzi can barely think past how good it feels.

Paige is also very clearly enjoying this as much as Azzi. She’s whining in little puffs of air against Azzi’s collar as she fucks her, and Azzi wants to touch her so badly, but she doesn’t want to startle her into losing control when she’s clearly so close to losing it as it is.

And it’s clear that she is, every muscle is tense, one hand working magic inside Azzi and the other tightly clenching a pillow above her head. She makes desperate noises, whispers things into Azzi’s skin that are intoxicating.

 She murmurs about how beautiful Azzi is, how it feels to be making her feel good, how she can’t wait until –

“Can’t wait until what?” She pants, her voice high and breathy, and Paige groans, speeding her hand up.

“Until I can’t wait until –“

“Tell me.” Azzi demands, and Paige breaks.

“I can’t wait until you come for me, Azzi, I want to feel it, on my hand, on - on my fingers”

And that, apparently, is all it takes. Paige leaves a few circles over her nipple and keeps up her savage pace, and her words hit Azzi at the core of her, down to the quick. That tight, simmering feeling starts to expand, and Azzi’s toes curl in the flannel fabric of the blankets as her back arches.

When she comes, it’s with Paige’s fingers curling sweetly inside her and Paige’s voice in her ear, the salty taste of her skin on Azzi’s tongue and the smell of her hair surrounding them. It draws out longer than usual, Paige still moving her hand with intent, but finally Azzi has to tap out.

“Stop, stop, fuck, I can’t –“ She gasps, tugging Paige’s tangled hair. Paige stops immediately, propping herself up and peering down at her.

“Enjoy yourself mama?”

The question is absolutely absurd, from her side of things.

“You have no idea.” She manages to groan, slinging an arm over her face. It’s partially to give her a few moments to collect herself, and partly because Paige’s gaze is too intense.

Instead she slides a hand down to Paige’s waistband, pulling at it with questing fingers.

“Can I touch you?”

“Go easy” She asks, and Azzi nods.

“Nice and easy, and can you tell me if it’s too much?”

Swallowing, Paige agrees. “Okay.” Immediately Azzi pushes on Paige’s chest gently, until she follows her lead and rolls over onto her back.

“I’m going to take your pants off, okay?” She warns, and Paige nods vigorously, lifting her hips.

Bare. Paige isn’t wearing underwear, and Azzi is staring at the shiny wetness that’s smeared across her thighs, wetness caused by Azzi, she’s wet because of me, and suddenly, the only important thought in her head is taste. Spreading Paige’s legs slowly, she wiggles down the mattress until she’s inches from her clit.

“Is this okay?” She murmurs, reining in the almost overwhelming instinct to have her mouth on Paige right now to make sure she’s feeling comfortable. Paige’s eyes are wide, her mouth open, her chest heaving. Her hand twitches, and she anchors it to her own abdomen.

“Just, slow?”

She nods, lowering her head.

Azzi doesn’t go for her clit right away, she kisses and nips at her thighs, tasting the slick there and trying to keep her pathetic moans at the flavour to a minimum. She makes her way closer to Paige’s center, swirling her tongue slowly all the way, until she finally spreads her open slightly with her fingers.

It’s dark, but she can still see everything she needs to, she runs her tongue around the edges of it, into every fold, tasting and teasing softly. She dips inside her a few times, reveling in the still-abundant wetness there.

Paige’s hips twitch and quiver, but she stays in control of her movements. It doesn't take long until Paige taps on the mattress.

“I’m close“ She gasps, starting to close her legs. The tent is filled with a symphony of both their moans, Paige arches up, her voice cracking as she chokes out Azzi’s name.

As Paige comes back down to earth, catching her breath and almost dropping Azzi from the mattress as she flops back from her arched position.

As they lay together, their bodies slowly cooling and Paige stroking her shoulder, Azzi hears a loud voice in the distance. It comes from a few sites over, at least, probably one of the teenagers they passed yesterday, by the pitch of her voice.

“Finally! For god’s sake, get a room!”

In her post-coital high, rather than being embarrassing, the clear indication that they’ve disrupted half the campground with their romp just makes her laugh. She starts to giggle, and she feels Paige’s chest rumble underneath her as well.

Azzi’s bra is still askew, and her pants are nowhere to be found, and Paige is in a similar state of sweaty disarray, and it’s pretty much perfect.

“Your clothes are still all over the place” Paige says again playfully 

“And whose fault is that, huh Bueckers?”

[reignpage]

If you were a new girl in Satoru’s school, he’d be the type to…

Eye you from head to toe the moment you stepped into class. There was suspicion laced in his cold gaze, always doubtful, always cautious. When exactly he let his guard down, it’s hard to tell – it could have been when your eyes met his and he saw nervousness, an overwhelming awareness of every movement you were making, and a desire to not make any waves. Alternatively, it could have been when he heard your voice call out your own name as part of that awkward introduction everyone has to do and heard nothing but a friend he had yet to make. 

Remember your name. It shocked you the first time you heard it roll off his tongue like it had belonged there all along, he could tell. You blinked, cartoon-like, for a couple seconds before you stuttered a response. Maybe you weren’t expecting him to approach you, maybe you weren’t expecting him to say it with so much warmth, and maybe, just maybe, you wanted to hear it again. 

Poke you during classes. At first, the poking began out of curiosity; you were always so rigid, so tense, he wondered if you were actually a statue. Soon, it evolved into a game, kinda like the one he played with Suguru, where you have to stab sticks into a box and get as many in without bursting the balloon concealed inside. On a normal day, he could get up to six pokes with the eraser side of his pencil. When you got fed up, you’d cut him a glare, which darkens when he only grinned in victory. Sometimes, you didn’t look at him at all. Those days sucked. 

Steal the attention from you if you get into trouble. Though generally studious – if all those times you rejected his offer to have lunch together in lieu of reading up on textbooks were anything to go by – you did, occasionally, show up to class unprepared or late. If for any reason, you became the target of the teacher’s wrath, Satoru would watch you shuffle and fidget, clearly embarrassed, in front of the whole class. He’d tilt his head and think, wow, he’d hate to be you right now. Which, of course, never explained why he’d yawn loudly and pick a fight with the teacher. “Why are you balding?” He’d asked. “You need to cut back on the beer, sir…respectfully.” Distracted, your wrongdoings would be forgotten and the attention shifted away from you. He never looked your way when you tried to thank him. 

Drop snacks and drinks on your desk, claiming it was on a buy one get one free discount. Or, ignore Suguru so he could partner up with you instead, knowing that his charming friend had his pick of the litter and you would rather opt to sit, alone, in the corner. And definitely the type to jog backwards away from the group of boys in P.E so he can make fun of your uncoordinated limbs. 

Interrupt whoever’s talking to him to run over to you the moment you enter his peripheral; he’d gotten his fair share of bumps and bruises from doing it one too many times to his best friends. 

Share his bento with you. Well, it’s less sharing and more dumping the things he didn’t like over to your lunch box. Might even steal an octopus-shaped sausage, or two, from you. And he’d never admit it, but he often purposefully forgot his water bottle at home just so he could drink from yours. It wasn’t anything creepy, at least he didn’t think so. He just liked confirming that you two had gotten close enough to share bottles.

Join you in punishments. You’d talk in class, pass notes, and skip so, naturally, you faced disciplinary action quite often. However, they were rarely ever your fault. Not really, anyway. It’d be Satoru who pesters you with hushed jokes until you hissed at him to shut up. It was the white-haired boy who passed you folded pieces of papers with little doodles that you’d try to return, only to be blamed for it. And it was always, always Satoru who made you forgo the classes, what with his promises of something cooler and better, whether it was a bird’s nest or a rainbow or a spot perfect for people watching. Deservedly, you’d be sent out into the hallway and forced to stand in silence, which never lasted for very long because mere seconds after you, someone else came to join.

Whistling, he'd stand beside you, a little too close. Minutes would go by where neither of you spoke. Sometimes no one did. And most times, it was he who'd break first. Rocking on his feet, he’d nudge you and say something stupid like, “You really need to stop following me; it’s getting creepy.”

He’d say it too at the altar, eyes twinkling and grin painful. 

Right before you kiss him, at the moment where your lips skim against each other, and the whole world awaits your joining, he’d whisper, “Followed me all the way here too? Damn, Mrs. Gojo, you're obsessed.”

[lucky-strike-14]

Yeah, no. I've tried to come back from active addiction to "normal" drinking/using, and pretty much every addict I know has, too. Maybe there are people out there who can do it, but I've never met one who has, and it wasn't for lack of trying.

I did manage a number of years where I drank very infrequently, and only under very specific circumstances. Was I "sober" or "in recovery?" Kinda sorta, maybe, but not really. For weeks ahead of the drinking event I looked forward to it like it was going to be the greatest and worst moment of my life; the greatest because I would get to do the thing I wanted to do more than just about anything, and the worst because I knew how much effort it was going to take to keep things under control.

And I never kept things under control. I always drank the one I'd promised myself I'd limit myself to so fast I didn't even enjoy it, so I would allow myself another to savor. And then, every single time, once I'd had one over the limit, I could rationalize one more over that, and then another and another and another. The promises I made to myself flew out the window; the fact that I was around coworkers or family that I didn't want to make an ass of myself in front of meant nothing; the need to get home at a reasonable hour and hold myself together enough to hide it from my spouse became something I'd deal with when I got to it.

And then I'd feel like shit the next morning, and for days afterwards, and I'd have to have a explanation for that, and I'd have to fight back the voice in my head telling me a little hair of the dog would set me right — because it would have — until the withdrawal finally passed.

And I'd never learn a thing from it. I'd repeat it all the next chance I got. And then I'd manufacture chances closer to each other so I wouldn't have to wait so long. And then I'd keep a couple cans on hand for the hangover. And eventually I was drinking all the time, drinking as medicine to treat the disease.

And something would happen and I'd check into a detox and dry out, and people would remind me what had happened all the times before, and that it would happen again if I opened the door to it, and all the prior knowledge and resolve in the world was meaningless; I'd tell myself there was a way to drink normally and that I'd figure it out, but it always went the same way.

And if I told this story in any roomful of addicts, I guarangoddamtee you it would be a sea of knowing, nodding heads. There's not a thing unusual about it. Because that's how addiction is. It just fucking is.

But like, my question is, why? Why should the goal be to have one drink instead of none? Who gains from that, besides the alcohol industry? Why would my life be better if I had one drink and then stopped, instead of just not starting?

I don't transform into a raving drunk if a single drop of alcohol passes my lips; I know because sometimes I forget my iced tea & lemonade bottle in the car for a couple of days, and when I take a swig I can tell it's fermented a little. That sip doesn't send me running to a package store, sure, but it does wake the addict voice in my head; I immediately start wondering how much I'd need to drink before I felt a little bit of a buzz; it does get me remembering what a buzz felt like, and when it does, I'm just grateful the idea holds zero appeal to me anymore.

Because I don't want to go Out again. If I go Out again, I'm not coming back from it. I won't be able to deal with letting down the people I care about, or the pain of detox, or the loss of faith in everything I learned getting sober. I just know it. So it's not fucking worth it. There's no single drink on earth that's worth it. Not when the risk of all the damage it could set in motion is so high.

It's not that addicts abuse drugs; drugs abuse addicts. And the goal of surviving an abusive relationship isn't "your partner only gets a little mean sometimes, and you have the tools to handle it." It's to get out of the relationship.

Fuck any other noise.

From capitalstitchco on Threads

[ellewritesx]

guide me slowly

(part four of the teach me slowly series)

Summary: One hand around your throat. The other between your legs. Turns out, Harry's very good at listening.

Warnings: early stages of a relationship, age gap, talk about kinks, fingering, knee riding, choking, praise kink, some dom!Harry

Based on: this ask!

A/N: this took one took foreverrr to write, sorry lovelies! i've just been so busy, but thankfully i'll have loads of time to write this month. how have you guys been doing? my inbox is open, come talk to me! hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think, love you sm x

Word Count: 3,556

...

You're smiling when he pulls open the heavy wooden door, a hand on the curve of your back over your dress as he gently steers you into the restaurant. There's something so natural about it, about the ease with which you move together now, the unspoken awareness of his fingers grazing your hip as he thanks the hostess.

The glow of candlelight paints the wood-paneled walls in a golden hue, tucked away in one of the more high-end streets of the city. You get the feeling he likes it that way, the quiet, the seclusion. The kind of place that feels like it's pressing pause on the rest of the world.

You settle into the booth Harry reserved for the two of you, and he slides in beside you, thigh brushing yours. He takes the bottle of wine already sitting in a cooler and pours you a glass, then his own.

''Alright, go on,'' he says, voice teasing as he picks up a menu. ''Tell me how charming I am again.''

You raise a brow at him, smiling behind the rim of your wine glass. ''I never said you were charming.''

''No, but you're blushing. That says enough.''

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are a little warm. ''You're lucky I like you.''

He leans in just enough for you to catch the scent of his cologne, and you can't help but squeeze your thighs together under the table. ''You have no idea,'' he murmurs, eyes scanning your face.

The air shifts, as it always does between you two. A joke turns into a moment. A glance turns into a throbbing between your legs. You're still getting used to it, the way he pays attention to you, the way he always puts your needs before his own without hesitation.

The waitress comes and goes with your orders, barely glancing at you once she sees who she's serving. Harry doesn't seem to notice, or he does, but pretends not to, and you watch the side of his face as he orders two bowls of a pasta dish he insists you have to try and thanks her, polite and unbothered, like he's not the most famous man in the restaurant. You wonder how often he's had to pretend not to notice the stares, how it feels when everyone knows your face.

He turns back to you with that familiar, lopsided smile, the one that makes you feel like you're the only person in the room, and now that you're alone again, the conversation starts to unravel into something softer. He asks you how your week's been. You tell him about a book you've been reading, a walk you took the other day, the little things that most people don't care about, but he listens to everything you say like it's the most important thing in the world. After a sip of wine you ask him something that's been rolling around your mind.

''Do you ever get tired of being… y'know. Recognized? Looked at?''

Harry tilts his glass in his hand, eyes scanning the table as he contemplates the question. ''Sometimes. Depends.''

''On what?''

He exhales slowly, like he's trying to decide how honest to be. ''On the day. On the mood I'm in. Sometimes it feels harmless, someone smiling at me in a grocery store, or a fan wanting a photo. It's nice. Other times…'' He pauses. ''It makes me feel like I'm in a glass box. Like I'm being watched through it, but I can't touch anything on the other side. It's... isolating, at times. I don't know.''

Your heart twists a little at the image. ''That sounds lonely.''

''It can be,'' he admits. ''But it's part of the deal, right? I asked for this. Not all of it, not the way people think they own you, or the weird entitlement, but the rest of it. The music, the performing, the connection with people. That's the part I couldn't live without.''

You nod slowly, letting his words settle. ''Do you think people ever really see the real you?''

He glances sideways at you, then nudges your foot under the table. ''You do.'' He reaches for your hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it like you're some old-Hollywood starlet.

Your breath catches.

''Alright. That was depressing, let's move on,'' he says, looking at you with a conspiratorial smile as he leans in closer, your hand still in his. ''Deep questions or embarrassing childhood stories?''

You laugh. ''Are those my only two options?''

''I mean, I could ask about your thoughts on parallel universes, but we've only had half a glass of wine.''

You pretend to think. ''Embarrassing stories, then. I want to know all your secrets.''

''Dangerous.'' He leans back in the booth, stretching one arm along the back of the couch. ''Okay. I had this phase, I reckon I was around nine or ten, where I genuinely believed I was going to be a magician. I made my mum sit through hours of these dreadful performances in the living room. My sister still has the photos, I'm sure.''

''I'm going to need to see those.''

...

Harry fumbles with the keys, and you lean against the doorframe, watching him with your shoes dangling from your fingers and your smile still stuck in place. You're both laughing when you walk through the door, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment.

''Remind me to never let you order in Italian again,'' you say, squinting at him. ''Your accent is awful when you're drunk.''

He grins, dimples deep. ''It's called authenticity, darling.''

''It's called cultural appropriation, Harold.''

He lets out a bark of laughter and tosses his keys on the entryway table. ''And I'm not drunk, I'm just... tipsy. Barely. Just like you are.''

''How come you're such a lightweight at, what, 170 pounds of pure muscle?'' you say with a huffed laugh, heading toward the kitchen, ''I'm revoking your wine privileges.''

''You wound me.''

But he's already trailing after you, tugging his rings off one by one and setting them carefully on the counter. The top few buttons of his shirt have come undone over the course of the evening, revealing the slope of his collarbone and the beginning of that stupidly pretty chest you try not to stare at. His sleeves are rolled up his forearms, and the tattoos scattered across his skin look like they're moving under the soft kitchen lights. You bite your lip at the sight of the swallows on his collarbones, sinful thoughts flooding your mind.

You turn away quickly, focusing on taking off your earrings.

The silence is comfortable, filled with the occasional clink of jewelry being set down, the soft sloshing of wine as Harry uncorks another bottle behind you and pours two glasses. You send him a disapproving look, but he cuts you off with a smug smile.

''You know,'' he says, passing you a glass and bumping his shoulder into yours. ''You look very beautiful tonight.''

You glance at him. ''Only tonight?''

He grins again, softer this time. ''Especially tonight.''

You roll your eyes fondly but take a sip of wine to hide your smile. ''Flattery will get you everywhere.''

''That's the plan,'' he grins, leaning against the counter beside you.

You both fall quiet for a moment, and you let the hush settle around you. He looks relaxed like this, sleeves rolled up, wine in hand, curls a little unruly from where your fingers kept brushing through them on the drive home. There's something about this version of him, the real him, that makes your chest ache a little.

''Can I ask you something?'' you say eventually, swirling the wine in your glass.

He hum softly, gazing at you intently over the rim of his glass.

''Is it hard pretending to be somebody you're not? Like... in the media?''

The question hangs in the air for a beat. He exhales slowly, setting his glass down on the counter.

''I don't. I show the public a side of myself,'' he says after a moment. ''If I presented myself to be a completely different person... I wouldn't be able to keep up with that. What the public sees, it's... limited, but it's still me. A part of me, anyway.''

You nod. ''That makes sense.''

''It's weird, really, when the entire world thinks they're entitled to knowing everything about you. They want to know all my intimate, dirty secrets while they keep their own hidden. It's invasive, and wildly hypocritical,'' he says, staring at a scratch on the counter, before smiling softly. ''But the view I have from the stage... It's worth all the scrutiny, the speculation, the vile headlines. All of it.''

Your nod softly, and your voice is quieter when you speak. ''For what it's worth, you'll never have to deal with any of it alone as long as I'm here. The highs and the lows.''

''I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. You.''

The words sit heavy in your chest. You take another sip of wine, then shift your weight so your hip bumps lightly against his.

''Hey,'' you say, glancing at him sidelong, wanting to lift his spirits. ''You're not the only one with layers, you know.''

Harry raises an eyebrow. ''Oh?''

''I have hidden depths. Mystery. Intimate, dirty secrets.''

He smirks. ''Any of these dirty secrets you're willing to share?''

You pretend to think. ''Maybe.''

His voice drops a little lower. ''Like what?''

There's a flicker of curiosity behind his eyes now, of interest. That quiet kind of intensity he gets when he's trying to read between your words. You chew the inside of your cheek and shrug, trying to keep your tone light, and you know you have him hooked.

''I don't know. Like… I guess I've thought about certain things. Wondered what I might like.''

''You can tell me,'' he says, softer now. ''No pressure.''

You glance down into your wineglass, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is, how warm the air feels around you. ''Okay,'' you say, half-laughing at yourself. ''But only if you go first.''

He lets out a low chuckle and sets his glass aside completely, folding his arms loosely across his chest. ''Alright. Let's see…'' There's a thoughtful pause before he continues. ''I like being in control. I like guiding things. Making someone feel safe while still pushing a little. Watching them fall apart and knowing I'm the reason.''

Your stomach flips.

''And I like praise,'' he adds. ''Giving it, mostly. I like letting someone know when they're doing well. When they're being good for me.''

You don't realize you're holding your breath until you exhale.

He smiles, a little smug. ''Too much?''

''No,'' you say quickly, ''Not at all. I just… I didn't expect you to say all that so easily.''

He shrugs, playful. ''You asked.''

There's another pause. He doesn't press, just waits. His patience is almost worse than pressure, because you want to tell him. You want him to know. But the words seem to be stuck in your chest, the weight of them making it a little harder to breathe.

You take another sip of wine and then clear your throat.

''I guess I've always liked the idea of… being told what to do,'' you admit. ''Not in a 'do my laundry' way. Just in bed. I like the thought of someone being a little more dominant. Someone guiding me.''

Harry nods, gaze soft but focused. ''That makes sense, especially when it's your first time.''

''Exactly why I'd want someone to take control, take some of the pressure off me. And maybe…'' You hesitate, and then decide to hell with it. ''I'd like to be blindfolded? To surrender control to another person like that... I don't know, the mutual trust, it excites me.''

His smile deepens, slow, pleased. ''That can definitely be arranged.''

''Stop,'' you say, flustered, nudging his arm. ''We're just talking.''

''I know,'' he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. ''But I'm taking notes. So, guidance. Trust. A little control. Anything else?''

You open your mouth, then close it. Then open it again. You run your hands through your hair, debating on your choice of words. ''I think... I'd like to try, um, having your hand around my throat?''

''How?'' he asks breathlessly, taking a step closer and brushing your hair over your shoulder. He takes off your necklace with reverence, fingers deliberately brushing along your collarbone.

You swallow. ''Not like… suffocating. But enough to feel lightheaded, to feel the power you have over me in that moment. I don't know.''

''Like this?'' His voice is almost a whisper as his hand slowly slides up your body to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just... there. You tilt your head back to lean on his shoulder, trying to ignore the undeniable throbbing between your thighs.

You nod once, barely able to move your head with his grip on your neck, but he's not satisfied. He gives your throat a gentle squeeze, just enough to make your lips part and your breath hitch. ''I asked you a question, baby. Be a good girl and answer it for me.''

Your eyes flutter shut, heartbeat thrumming in your ears. ''Yeah... Yeah, um, exactly like this.''

He hums appreciatively, pressing a kiss to your temple.

''We're still just talking?'' you ask, teasing but shaky.

He smiles, softer now. ''For now.''

...

By the time you make it to the bedroom, the air is thick with anticipation, with desire. Harry shuts the door behind him with a soft click, and while you don't turn to look at him, pretending to be focused on the glow of the bedside lamp, the way it spills light across the sheets, your entire body is aware of his presence.

He doesn't say anything at first. Just walks up behind you, slow and steady, like he's giving you a chance to back away if you change your mind. But you don't. You stand still, letting the heat of his body press against your back, and when he dips his mouth down to kiss your shoulder, your breath catches like it always does.

''So brave,'' he murmurs, lips dragging up your neck. ''Telling me what you want.''

He turns you around then, hands firm on your waist, and his eyes, half-lidded from wine and want, flick across your face. The veins on his forearms, running through the inked skin, stand out as he holds you. His thumb slips beneath the hem of your shirt, skimming the warm skin just above your waistband.

''Tell me again,'' he says, voice low. ''Tell me what you want.''

You inhale, shaky. ''I want you to touch me. Guide me, Harry.''

The groan he lets out is quiet and restrained, but it curls hot in your belly. ''Good girl,'' he says, kissing you hard, quick. ''Get on the bed.''

You do. You sit first, then scoot back until you're in the middle of the bed. He follows, nudging your legs open with his knee and climbing between them as he crashes his lip into yours. You reach for his shirt, undoing the last few buttons while he watches you, the heat in his eyes dark and undivided. He shrugs it off his shoulders and tosses it aside, and for a second all you can do is stare at him.

You've seen him shirtless before, but it never fails to take your breath away. His chest is rising and falling in anticipation, his skin flushed and glistening in the lamp light, his eyes drinking you in.

He leans down and kisses you again, slower now, deeper. The kind of kiss that sinks into your bloodstream, lighting up every part of your body with lust. His hands are everywhere: your thighs, your waist, palming your breasts over your dress. And then, without warning, he shifts forward and presses his knee right between your legs.

The pressure is instant. Your hips twitch toward it.

''Oh,'' you breathe, gripping his shoulders.

He smiles against your mouth. ''Feel good?''

You nod. ''Yeah. Really good.''

''Ride it, baby,'' he says, kissing down your jaw. ''Wanna watch you fall apart.''

You do, slowly, rhythmically, grinding against his knee as his lips work down your throat. He worships your skin, kissing, biting, licking a stripe up the side of your neck. One hand finds its way back to your throat, resting there like a promise, not squeezing yet, just reminding you of what you confessed to moments ago.

You moan softly, the sound catching in your throat when he shifts again and bumps his knee into you harder.

''Fuck,'' you gasp, hands twisting in the sheets.

''You're soaked already, aren't you?'' His voice is rough, your eyes nearly rolling back at the sinful sound. ''Just from a bit of pressure.''

You nod again, this time more desperately.

''Good,'' he says. ''God, you're perfect.''

He keeps his knee pressed against your throbbing cunt, letting you grind against it, letting you whimper and gasp and beg. Eventually, he pulls back slightly, just enough to drag his fingers down your chest, bunching your dress further up your hips.

''Can I?'' he asks.

''Yes,'' you say instantly, breathless.

''Want to hear you beg next time,'' he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. ''Just so we're clear.'' You whine at the promise in his voice.

His fingers slip beneath your underwear, and he groans. ''Fuck. You're soaked, baby.''

You bite your lip.

He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, right above where his hand is still pinning your neck down, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder as he slides a finger inside. You gasp, clenching instinctively, still getting used to the foreign feeling of it, and he stills.

''You okay?'' he asks gently.

You nod. ''More. Please.''

He gives you exactly that, one finger at first, slow and steady, curling up inside you with expert precision, then two, pumping into you while his mouth never leaves your skin.

''Doing so good for me,'' he whispers. ''So fucking good.''

You're dizzy with it. The rhythm, the praise, the tension coiling low in your belly. His fingers still work inside you, his palm grazing your clit deliciously, and his other hand experimentally squeezes your throat.

Not hard. Just enough to make you feel it. Just enough to send a jolt of something new down your spine. It's not fear, it's a powerless sort of pleasure, the heady thrill of giving in completely.

''Is this okay?'' he asks, even as his grip tightens slightly.

You can't speak. Not because of his hand around your throat, but because you're too blissed out to think clearly, so you just nod, eyes glassy as your hands twist into the sheets, gripping the fabric.

''Good girl,'' he says again. ''You tell me if it's too much, yeah?''

You manage a small noise of assent.

The pressure of his fingers, the drag of his thumb against your clit, the weight of his palm at your throat, pressing you into the mattress as you moan beneath him. He's watching you, utterly focused, eyes fixed on your mouth as it falls open, your chest as it rises and falls in short, gasping breaths, your hips as they twitch, chasing his touch.

''You're so fucking pretty like this, love,'' he mutters. ''Don't think you even realize what you do to me.''

You whine faintly, overwhelmed.

''Prettiest thing I've ever seen,'' he insists, voice strained. ''My sweet girl. Letting me in. Letting me take care of you.''

You're close, he can feel it. Your walls flutter around his fingers, your legs twitch, your back arches. His hand squeezes a little tighter, constricting your airflow for just a second, and that's all it takes.

You fall apart.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, blinding and white-hot. You cry out, throat strained beneath his hand, body convulsing around his fingers as he keeps moving them, drawing every last tremor from your core until you whine in overstimulation.

Then, slowly, gently, he eases off. His grip on your throat loosens. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple, murmuring soft praises as you come back to yourself.

''Breathe, baby,'' he says. ''There she is. There's my girl.''

You blink up at him, dazed. He brushes the hair from your face and kisses your forehead.

''You okay?'' he whispers.

You nod, slow and heavy. ''Yeah. I'm… yeah.''

''And this... it was okay?''

''It was perfect,'' you sigh contently, stretching leisurely and sinking into the mattress, feeling like you're floating above the clouds.

''Good,'' he smiles softly and reaches over you for his phone on the nightstand, fingers brushing your body as he moves. He lights up the screen, just checking the time, you assume.

You feel his body still on top of you, and look up in confusion just in time to see his smile fade instantly. He goes quiet.

You blink up at him, the haze of satisfaction still blurring your thoughts. ''What is it?''

He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the phone, jaw tightening, brows pinching together in frustration.

''Harry?'' you press, propping yourself up on your elbows.

Finally, he glances down at you, eyes unreadable, the softness from moments ago returning when he sees your worried face.

''We need to talk, love.''

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

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teach me slowly series tag list

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...

[toxicanonymity]

The Pull

CLARK KENT x SUPERGIRL!READER | 3640 words (18+)

SUMMARY: No one was as fiercely good as your cousin. No one did as much good, either. Then, one Sunday night, you got a glimpse of another side to him. Maybe he could be a little bad after all... if you were lucky.

NOTES: First time writing Clark. Not comic-savvy but i loved Superman 2025 so much omg. Kink warning banner by me and you can use it. other dividers by saradika-graphics. I hope y'all have a great start to your week! ❤️

WARNINGS: 18+, sexual tension, fluff, banter, ⚠️ cousinly incest, the lightest somnophilia, feeling, groping, masturbation, voyeurism, size difference, size kink

His old apartment didn't have a guest bedroom, and for a while, he didn't mind sharing his king bed when you visited. He was a sound sleeper and unbothered by your moving around. A handful of times, you woke up with your head on his shoulder and hand on his chest, with his arm around you. 

You and Clark were close, and there’d always been healthy affection between you. You didn't have to call him “Clark” in private, and certainly not in your head, but it helped to think of him that way. Sometimes you'd revert to “Kal,” often when you were drunk. But you liked “Clark.” Admired his commitment to journalism. Liked the way he looked in his work clothes and those glasses.

You and Clark texted and talked on the phone about your days, your plans, your hopes and dreams, and even mused about traveling together like normal people if life would ever allow it. You’d wait in lines, take public transportation, and go through airport security. It put a smile on your face to imagine Big Blue crammed into a plane seat designed for the average human. Even in Business Class, it would look like one of those little tykes chairs. The man was massive. 

You'd come stay with him whenever you pleased. Whenever you got lonely, though you wouldn't admit that's why you were there. You didn't say it out loud - you didn't have to. There was a lot you didn't have to say out loud to each other. 

There was one night where he offered to take the sofa, and that night, the sofa was where you both fell asleep after watching a movie. That was where he held you in against his front, almost like a teddy bear. He kissed the crown of your head just before falling asleep, and he probably didn't even know what he was doing when he cupped your breasts in the middle of the night. 

When you woke up to one big hand spanning both your nipples, your breath hitched and desire swelled deep in your gut. His fingertips were tucked under your arm, holding his hand in place. The slow rhythm of his chest against your back told you he was still asleep. You took a deep breath, tits swelling against his hand.  And then, you registered the massive bulge against your back side, a burst of need shot through your chest. It was warm, thick, and not quite stiff at that point. But almost as soon as you felt it, the package swelled against you through his sweatpants. Not quite stiff, but not soft, either. The heft of it was startling. 

Then it twitched, and your every neuron lit up with a message right from his cock: He was a man, and you were a woman. You would fit together just right, and it would feel so, soooo good. 

It was a message he didn't mean to send, but one that would echo forever. A message your hormones would never let you forget in his presence again. Cousins or not, metahumans or not, there could be something between you. 

In that moment, a hardening cock was between you, and your pussy was slickening itself extra for the size of it.

Not daring to move, you took deep and measured breaths until your heartrate slowed again and you were close to drifting off. In your half awake state, your bottom pushed back against him, and a barely audible grunt escaped his lips as his hips returned the push, making you swoon and gush. 

Fuck. 

FUCK.

It was more excitement than you could remember feeling… ever.

More arousal than any man on any planet had ever managed to make you feel…. and he did it…in his …sleep. 

Genuinely wondering if you’d ever been so horny, only one memory came to mind as a contender: a pretty face between your legs in the backseat of a car one night. Her name was Mona. Maybe that was why the man of steel seemed more at ease with you in his bed back then. You’d only ever brought girls to meet him. 

One night, when the two of you were catching up over sushi, you’d seen an assumption fall away from Clark’s face all at once. 

He asked if you were seeing anyone. 

“Define seeing,” you’d laughed.

”You having fun?” He rephrased with a smile. ”Yeah? Tell me about her, heartbreaker…” That was Clark-speak for ‘slut’ (affectionate).

With a playful, evasive sparkle in your eyes, you paused for a sip of sake, then asked, “You sure it's not a *him*?” 

It was still so clear in your memory: The way his face opened, his eyes darted to your lips, then his gaze fell down your body. It was subtle, but it made your cheeks warm. He cleared his throat, and the friendly banter returned to his eyes. “Yeah? Is it a lucky guy this time?” 

His eyes followed your arms as you crossed them and sat back. 

“Are you x-ray-ing me for cum right now, you fucking pervert?” you accused with a big laugh. 

“Am I? Whaaa–no,” he stumbled. “Gosh, Kara,” he laughed with his cheeks flushing pink. He would never, and you couldn’t resist teasing him. 

After a good laugh, he continued, “I just…” he swallowed and his eyes searched the sushi bar behind you before meeting your gaze again. “I'm happy for you,” he said. “Whatever, whoever makes you happy…makes me happy.”

You shared a sincere smile and could still see him processing behind the new slight squint of his handsome, blue eyes…. He might have been wondering when this started, or whether you’d always been bi. Maybe even how many guys you'd fucked (in sheer, judgment-free curiosity, of course). He probably wasn't wondering how much dick you could take, though. That would be too far for Clark. 

“Well you wouldn’t find anything down there,” you added a few seconds too late to sound casual talking about hypothetical cum.  He'd already abandoned that topic mentally, so you glanced down to your skirt and added, “today, anyway,” with a coy shrug. 

“Hey, I don't wanna know,” Clark raised his hands with a smile, and the subject was changed.

Despite your body buzzing with need, you’d managed to fall back asleep at some point. No doubt about what you were dreaming of. 

By the time Clark woke up, it was 4:00 am. Something felt good, really good, and it was throbbing against you, thick and stiff. Then, something felt wrong. “Good….golly,” he whispered to himself, pulling his hips back and letting go of your breasts. 

He reached between you to adjust himself with a quiet, self-loathing grumble. He stayed where he was, but moved his hand to your arm instead, softly brushing your forearm with his thumb. With a deep breath, his massive chest pushed against your back, then he let out a sigh, relieved to be safe from the primitive reflexes that had awoken in his sleep. He rested his chin on your hair. After a few minutes, he pressed a light kiss to the crown of your head, then scooped you up as easily as a teddy bear as he exited the sofa, all without waking you up. He carried you to his bed, tucked you in, and left you alone.

When you woke up to the smell of bacon frying and coffee dripping, you didn’t hear music like you normally might have. He wanted to let you sleep a little longer while he tried to shake off what just happened. For all he knew, you weren’t aware, and you acted like nothing happened. 

In the kitchen, Clark’s forearm flexed as he whisked a bowl of eggs. When you walked in, he smiled to himself like he had a surprise. 

“French toast??” You asked in exaggerated disbelief.

“It's your lucky day,” he confirmed.

You hopped up onto the counter to watch him cook. Dangling your legs playfully, you resisted the urge to play footsy with his thigh. Your shorts weren’t quite visible under your loose button-down shirt. You turned around to find his portable speaker, then twisted away from him, got up on your knees, and reached down the higher counter for it. With a brief glance back at him, you hoped to see his eyes on your ass, but his gaze was studiously fixed on the batter. You brought the speaker with you and turned it on. 

“God, you've got such a sweet tooth,” Clark chuckled. “I dunno how you eat it. There's no flavor!” he teased. 

“That's what maple syrup is for,” you shrugged. 

“You want maple syrup instead of powdered sugar?” he asked. 

“No, I want both.” 

“Gah-lee,” he laughed. 

“You should try it. You’re always telling me to give stuff a chance,” you reminded him. Not this kind of stuff, of course. Normally people, actually. Clark liked to believe in the good in people. He believed in giving them a chance. 

“You want me to eat French toast for breakfast?” Clark laughed. 

“Yep,” you said. “Can I make the bacon”

“Yeah, alright, but not too crispy,” he cautioned. 

“SO crispy,” you replied. 

He shook his head with a smile, beat the whisk on the side of the bowl, and set it down. You hopped down off the counter and gave his butt a playful little pop as you passed behind them. 

“Hey!” he objected in good humor. 

Clark didn’t mind cooking a full breakfast on a workday. You admired that about him… about morning people. Responsible people who went to bed at a reasonable hour and woke up with energy. Never hungover. You reserved leisurely breakfasts for the weekends and treated weekdays as a chore to get through, but to Clark, every day was deserving of enjoyment. 

At the breakfast table, you sliced a nice juicy bite of french toast and held your hand under it as you stood up. With a forward tilt of his head, he gave a look of false admonishment, raising his eyebrows. When you brought the bite toward him with a devious smile, he relented to the joy in your eyes and opened his mouth. You sat down and propped your head on your cheek, watching him playfully. 

He didn't react at all.

“Well, you don't hate it,” you observed.

He finished chewing and swallowed, jaw muscles flexing. “Yeah,” he agreed. “It tastes like nothing. It's just sugar, cous.” 

You shrugged and kept eating. “It’s really good,” you said with your mouth full. Then swallowed and added, “My compliments to the chef.”

With half a smile and one dimple, he nodded in mock pride. 

You cut another piece, dipped it in maple syrup, then sprinkled powdered sugar on top and looked up at him with mischief in your eyes. 

“No,” Clark shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he raised a giant hand in protest. 

“Come on, try it.” You leaned toward him. 

He pulled his head away, leaned back and even pushed his chair back. He was trying to be serious, but could have broken into a laugh at any moment from the look in his eyes. “I've still gotta go to work. That much sugar is gonna have me crashing in an hour!”

“Oh, come on. Your metabolism is ridiculous.”

“The people need my journalism, Kara. I can’t be passed out at my desk.” 

“A second bite of french toast isn’t gonna make Superman crash,” you giggled. 

He took a sip of his coffee, set it back down, then folded the Daily Planet paper, and held it with one hand. 

His chair was still pushed back. 

After a moment, you popped up out of your seat, fork in hand, stepped toward his chair, and swung your leg over his lap. Straddling those muscular thighs was a nice deep stretch in your groin. Your legs were spread so far it was almost hard to balance. You couldn’t reach the floor with both feet at the same time. 

“Whoa, okay,” Clark said and put the paper down with a chuckle. .

His eyes followed the buttons on your shirt to where the fabric met his sweatpants, then his gaze returned  to your face with a little groan of complaint. His eyes softened, and he began to open his mouth, then your balance faltered. He caught you and steadied you with both hands on your waist, and your heart skipped a beat. 

“You good?” he asked.

Being that close to his face, with both his hands on you, you really were good. The need you felt made you lightheaded. 

His enormous hands idly slid down to your hips. Desire sizzled in your belly and pooled between your legs. You heard yourself let out a nervous giggle, and your face heated. 

“Alright, come on, goofball,” he said, then opened his mouth wide. 

You fed him the most overdressed abomination of a bite of french toast you’d probably ever seen. 

When you pulled the fork from between his lips, his eyebrows went up, his mouth scrunched, and he chewed a couple of times, and then swallowed.

“Geez louise,” he coughed, then leaned forward and stole your glass of orange juice. As he reached behind you again to put the juice back, his eyes fell on your chest for a moment, where your shirt had fully unbuttoned and hung open. 

He looked at his watch. “Alright,” he patted your thighs. “Daddy's gotta bring home the bacon.” 

You laughed. “You’re gonna bring home the bacon to yourself?” 

“Yeah,” he agreed with a self-deprecating smile. Then held you by the waist once more, lifted you off his lap, and set you aside, then picked up the paper. 

Curious if you’d left a wet spot on his gray pants you glanced at his lap and you didn’t see a wet spot, but what you did see in the corner of your eye made your breath hitch. It was only a split-second before he was holding the newspaper in a way that casually blocked his crotch. You looked away, and tried not to look back, but your heart swelled at the idea of him turned on by having you in his lap. It filled you with yearning. You sat down and made a point of looking at your plate as you scarfed down your toast. 

Clark was stuffing bacon into his mouth. When the plates were empty, you got up to take them to the sink. You looked back on your way to the kitchen and saw him adjust himself before standing up. God, those pants should be illegal. “I gotta get dressed,” he announced, still holding the newspaper. “See you later, okay?” 

You turned the hot water on in the sink and left it soaking the dishes. Then, with a spring in your step, you crossed the kitchen to give him a hug. 

He crouched down to meet you, and you put your arms around his neck. While his arms squeezed, his lower body wasn't as close. “Have a good day,” he whispered. “You got your key?” 

He began to stand back up, and for a moment you thought about jumping him. Refusing to let go of his neck, making him stand up with you attached, then wrapping your legs around him. 

“Yeah,” you agreed without acting on the impulse. 

He kissed you on the cheek and said “Good.”

For a moment, it stung that he seemed to want you to leave, but at least you had a key. “Be good,” you smiled. 

“I'm always good,” he reminded you playfully, then tousled his hair with one hand as he turned toward his bedroom. You watched him disappear into his bedroom, then he threw the newspaper onto his bed, reached over his back and took off his shirt. 

God, he was hotter than any man on earth. No wonder Luther hated him so much. Clark’s shower turned on. Luther probably wanted to fuck him, too, you figured. You pondered it as you did the dishes, then you let yourself out. 

-

Your cousin’s hug goodbye had felt like he was pushing you out the door, but the further away you got, it felt like his energy was pulling you back. The sensation was physical. Unmistakable. 

As you exited the elevator on the ground floor, the magnetism from the penthouse slowed your steps.  It was as though gravity was holding the two of you together, and you were more bound by the pull between you than Earthly physics. 

You said goodbye to the concierge and stepped outside. Gazing into the sky, you were saddled with too much desire to take flight. The pull from the top floor of the building was making your blood hum. Each step you took, it was like you were fighting the will of your body, or some other force within you. Each step, anxiety built–butterflies swarmed in your tummy and fluttered up to your chest.

Clark couldn’t have been more than a few minutes behind you. If you lingered, you could walk with him on his way to work. 

When he hadn’t come out after a few minutes, and the butterflies hadn’t left your chest, you went back inside. 

“Should I call Mr. Kent?” the concierge asked. 

“No thanks. I called him,” you lied with a smile. 

You weren't sure why you were being so much quieter than usual, until you stepped off the elevator on the penthouse floor and heard your cousin's  breathing. A regular human wouldn't have heard it, but you did. His heart thumped in your ears and his breath was crisp and vivid. It was unmistakable, and it made your breath hitch. This breathing was labored, but not like he was in a fight or working out. It was sensual. Littered with almost-moans that caught in his throat. Grunts and gasps. 

Driven by sheer need, you did something Clark would never do to you. You stood outside his apartment, put your hands on your hips, and your eyes tingled as you peered right through the wall. And then another wall. In the bathroom, he was standing with his feet spread, pants unzipped and unbuttoned. Sleeves rolled up, one half of his shirt tail out, his hand wrapped around his thick, stiff cock.

Weak in the knees, you braced your hands on the outside wall of his penthouse suite. You wet your lips and took a deep breath, then held it, listening to the squish of his palm around his shaft. Each stroke was palpable between your legs. Tension seeded in your belly. It twisted and wound itself tighter with each heavy breath that hit your ear. 

Your blood felt dizzy under his panting, He was stifling deep moans for no one but himself in the mirror. He didn’t look in the mirror. He looked down. A perfect, dark curl was falling onto his forehead. His massive biceps stretched his white shirt, and his undertank was visible. The back of his work shirt was still tucked in, accentuating the silhouette of his profile. 

“Ohh,” he moaned. “Gah…nn–Ughhhgh.” His hand sped up, 

With one hand still on the wall, you slid your hand into your still mostly-unbuttoned shirt. Squeezeing your thighs together, you grabbed your breast and whispered, “fuck.” It sounded like he could be getting close. Your cunt was throbbing, and your panties were soaked through. The tension in your belly couldn’t wind itself up any further.

He approached the sink, turned on the water, and braced his furthest hand on the mirror. His lips curled toward his nose and his chest heaved with a scowl as the rhythm of his hand sped up. He closed his eyes. 

Abandoning your breast, you brought the heel of your palm to grind against the outside of your shorts, and the tension snapped. Pleasure seized your core, and your thighs trembled. You braced both hands on the wall and shuddered with the pull and push of your orgasm sharpening your nipples and giving you goosebumps. 

Clark’s lips parted, and he groaned as he pointed his load into the running water. His hips pushed forward with each rope, unleashed it like a fire hose. “Ugh—ah–ughhhhh,”he groaned as he came. 

As he finished, he exhaled loudly and tilted his head back, displaying his masculine veins and Adam's apple. The skin of his neck was clammy with a cold sweat. Catching his breath, he glanced in your direction and you stopped watching, allowing the walls to become opaque in your vision once again. 

You rested your forearm against the wall, your head against your forearm, resting, catching your breath.

It could only have been a few minutes before Clark’s front door opened. 

“Kara?” he asked. “You okay?” He squinted and stepped toward you, placing a gentle hand on your back. 

You lifted your head from your forearm and looked at him in a daze. He was wearing a full suit and his glasses. His aftershave smelled so, so good. Especially as your imagination made you detect a whiff of something else under it. 

“Yeah, I…I got lightheaded,” you admitted. 

He raised his eyebrows and gave an I-told-ya-so smile. “Don’t tell me a little french toast made Supergirl crash…” 

You smiled, and he pulled you off the wall. You looked up at him hopefully and he opened his arms.  “Alright, come here,” he offered.  “But I’m putting you down half-way there…”

“And then I’ll carry you the rest of the way,” you offered as he began to walk down the hall with you on his hip like a toddler. 

“Forget about it,” he laughed. 

“I could,” you protested.

“I know you could! Can you imagine me getting dropped off to work that way?” 

“It’d be good for your cover,” you pointed out. “Clark can’t be Superman…did you see his ride to work?”

You shared a laugh and an intimate glance. 

Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, please consider leaving a comment about what you enjoyed, which helps me write more of them. More to come if there's interest. I've drafted the next part and god it's so hot I could barely finish writing it 😳 - but haven't thought far beyond that next part yet. ❤️❤️

masterlist for this fic (once there's more)

superfam - @supergirlincestblog @cosmickid-inmotion @aurorawritestoescape

[serenadexz]

prank'd — daniela, lara, & megan

daniela avanzini, megan skiendiel, and lara raj x seventh member reader — you tell them to leave the room while you change — 801 words

you set your phone down, pretending to check yourself out in the camera while getting ready to head out with your girlfriends. meanwhile, megan and daniela were on the bed, wrestling over something you hadn’t even bothered to figure out.

“i came in here to see if y’all were ready, but clearly, you’re not even dressed,” lara said, raising an eyebrow.

“i was attacked,” daniela huffed.

“she’s being dramatic,” you said.

“and y/n just stood there and let it happen,” daniela added, pouting.

“i’m literally trying to get ready. some people made me late.”

“i think that’s us,” megan said with zero shame.

“i was just trying to show my girlfriend how much i love her,” daniela sighed.

“we were supposed to leave, but you horny ass motherfuckers decided to jump me,” you said.

“you looked pretty into it,” lara smirked.

“not the point,” you muttered.

“anyway,” lara said, clapping her hands, “we can go now. so hurry up.”

“finally. i’ve been ready for hours,” megan chimed.

“i was ready until megan attacked me,” daniela grumbled.

“you’ll live,” megan said.

“can all of you just get out so i can change?” you said, gesturing toward the door.

“oh—yeah,” daniela said, and all three headed out… only to immediately pop their heads back in.

“wait,” lara said, eyes narrowing. “since when do you ask us to leave so you can change?”

“for privacy?” you replied, not even sounding sure yourself.

“you don’t remember what happened like… an hour ago?” megan asked.

“okay—woah! not family friendly,” you said, quickly turning to your camera.

“nothing about us has ever been family friendly,” megan said.

“crazy coming from a disney actor,” you shot back.

“i’m just a little confused,” daniela said, squinting at you. “because like… we literally saw everything earlier.”

“and we didn’t even leave the room when we were just friends,” lara added. “that was three whole years ago.”

“i just need everyone out so i can change,” you said, crossing your arms.

“did something happen?” lara tilted her head. 

“can a girl not want to get dressed alone sometimes?” you said.

“i mean… if that’s what you want,” daniela said.

“we’ll be outside, but just know this is weird behavior,” megan said.

they all slowly shuffled out, still looking at you like you’d grown a second head. once the door shut behind them, you glanced at the camera propped up on your desk and gave it a small smirk. you picked it up and stopped the recording before getting dressed.

outside your room, the girls hovered awkwardly in the hallway.

“she’s never done that before,” megan whispered.

“right? like, i’ve literally seen her change a top mid-sentence while talking about a grocery list,” lara added.

“i feel like we did something wrong,” daniela said, furrowing her brows. “did we cross a line or something?”

the second you opened the door, all three of them were standing there—arms crossed, brows slightly furrowed, looking at you with the most sympathetic expressions.

“listen,” lara said carefully, “if you don’t wanna talk about it, that’s fine. but if you do, we’re here.”

you paused dramatically, then turned on your heel and held up your phone to show all four of you in frame. “y’all wanna say hi to my camera?”

“wait… is this a prank?” megan narrowed her eyes.

“yep,” you said with a proud nod.

“and here i was thinking i’d get through one stress-free day,” lara groaned.

you laughed, stepping back to give them space. “honestly? i didn’t think y’all would actually leave.”

daniela gave a small shrug, trying not to smile. “i just thought you were feeling insecure today and i didn’t wanna make it worse.”

“no because telling us to get out right after we all just explored each other’s bodies was actually insane behavior,” lara said.

“hello?” you cut in, turning your phone slightly. “camera still rolling, bestie.”

“just cut it out,” lara said immediately.

“i’m gonna have to censor the whole video dealing with y’all.”

daniela laughed, nudging your shoulder as she stepped back inside. “you should’ve known better than to film us unfiltered.”

“you act like we’re ever filtered,” megan said.

“if anyone sees this, no, you didn’t,” lara leaned in toward the camera with a deadpan expression. 

you rolled your eyes and hit stop on the recording. “i swear, editing this is gonna take me forever.”

“well, that’s what you get for trying to prank the three people who know you the best,” megan said.

“one of these days we’re getting you back,” lara added with a smirk.

you groaned, already regretting your life decisions. “you don’t even have to do that because i’m never gonna prank y’all again.”

“lies,” daniela said, grabbing her phone. “she’s definitely planning something by next week.”

and honestly? she was probably right.

[xnackery027]

Everyone seems to think that keeping a Sun and a Moon in the same enclosure is “cute”, until they inevitably start getting territorial with each other because THAT’S HOW DCAs BEHAVE. It doesn’t matter if you raise them together and try to bond them when they’re young. They are two different models with very different needs and temperaments. Big Fazbear will show off their cute little pair of DCA models getting along, but behind the scenes, those poor things are suffering. Sun models need a sparse diet and lots of attention from their owners or other models. Moons are solitary and are best kept in their own enclosures with lots of hiding spots. Suns will inevitably try and seek out the Moon to play with them, and the Moon will quickly get overwhelmed and attack out of fear.

And, no, Moons aren’t an “aggressive” breed. You just keep your Moon in a tiny room with no stimulation and expect them to behave. MOONS ARE NOT “LOW MAINTENANCE” MODELS!!! This is a myth! They should not be bought without proper research. Far too often I see Moons kept in a room with nothing but a carousel. This is abuse! Moons need a space at least five hundred square feet to explore. Ideally, you’d buy at least ten queen sized comforters as well as pillows and stuffed animals for its nest. They enjoy climbing and hiding, so it’s best to provide hidey-holes and a loft or a rock wall to play on. Good owners will provide lots of couch cushions and blankets in order for it to create a hide where it feels safest. And for the love of god, do NOT try and turn on the lights and lift up its hides because you “want to see it”. That’s been proven to damage their eyes and moving their hides makes them feel unsafe! If you need to take it to parts and service, train it to respond to a name or command. It’s not difficult! Moons are very intelligent models, and even just basic clicker training and a bag of Moondrops is enough to get them to come when you call.

And that’s another problem entirely! People do not pay attention to their models and will let them fester in their enclosure without giving them important maintenance! Your model’s eyes flickering isn’t a sign of contentment or whatever, it’s a sign that they need to go to a technician and get them replaced! Moon models will sometimes flip on their back and crawl around; it’s a cute little thing they do when in a familiar environment. But they shouldn’t be doing it all the time. If they can’t seem to get unstuck from that position, they need to be carefully examined and evaluated to see if they have hardware issues.

People treat Suns a little bit better, but there’s still so much abuse that goes on with the poor things. They are often left on their own for too long, or not given enough attention when they need it. They are very sensitive to changes in their environment, and if you are upset, they’ll be upset too. They require the same amount of space as a Moon, though up to three Sun models can share the space without conflict. They are much more play focused and don’t need as many hides. Toys are a must with Suns. It’s practically step one. Chalk, bubbles, shakers, chew toys, anything that you would give a child to play with. Avoid cards or other complicated games; they much prefer dolls and trucks. Be careful with anything that could be a hazard; sticky or messy toys like slime only irritate Suns. Think crayons, not paint. It’s not cute or funny to “prank” Suns by dumping glitter in their enclosure or getting them dirty. You’re only making them distressed. An important addition is toy boxes, shelves, and other organizational items that they can use to put their toys away after playtime. Suns are very particular models and will want to put all their favorite belongings in a nice spot. For a sleeping area, it’s a good idea to give them a nice, padded, flat spot for them to lay down. They don’t like too many pillows or blankets. Just a sheeted mattress or a yoga mat will do.

Here’s some behaviors to notice in your models, and what they mean:

For both DCA models, faceplate spinning is a sign of curiosity or confusion. They’ll spin ninty, one eighty, or even a full spin in order to get a better look at whatever they’re confused about.

Moons will sometimes make a chittering noise that some describe as a “giggle”. This isn’t because they are content, though. These are more strained, loud calls meant to ward off danger. If you walk into their enclosure and they start giggling at you, it does NOT mean they like you. It means they’re nervous.

When DCA models are spoken to, they’ll often mimic sounds that they hear. There’s several videos online of Suns and Moons that sound like they’re saying various phrases. Suns tend to be more talkative than Moons, but Moons tend to learn songs better than Suns. They don’t actually know what these words mean, but they can be trained to recognize a simple word like “toy”, “naptime”, or “clean up”. This can be a very fun activity for your DCA! They love hearing you talk and will often repeat back words it’s heard before in an attempt to hold conversation.

On the less fun end, some rescued DCAs will not speak at all. Either through abuse or neglect, they’ve learned that their instinct to mimic either doesn’t attract attention or causes punishment. Most of these models will not speak, no matter how long they’re cared for properly.

Suns like a lot of physical attention, and they will let you know when they want it. Often times they will spread their arms out for a hug, lay their head on their owner’s lap, or press their hands on each other’s faces. They enjoy pretty much any interaction, just stick to petting their head and back. Their sky hook is the only place to avoid; their hook is very sensitive and can make some models uncomfortable.

Moons will, very occasionally and only with a strong bond with their owner, also ask for affection. They often initiate by pressing their hand against the other’s. Holding hands is a sign of a very strong relationship with your Moon. It’s important to let them come to you; trying to touch or cuddle a Moon when it isn’t ready is a sure fire way to make them dislike you.

Moons will sometimes play wrestle with other Moons or large stuffed animals if they are solitary. Though this is cute between Moon models and toys, it can cause injury in the owners. Be sure to establish a firm boundary that they may not pick you up, bite, or squeeze you, even in a playful way. They often don’t mean to hurt you, but they carry a lot of strength and can get overexcited easily. There have been unfortunate incidents where an irresponsible owner allowed their Moon to carry them to a hide or play rough with them and, through no fault of the Moon’s own, the owner gets dropped, bitten, or crushed.

Suns also carry the risk of injury if not treated with respect. They tend to accept a lot of physical affection and teasing, but if an owner stresses a model out enough, they can attack out of frustration or fear. They do not like their favorite toys being moved, and they especially don’t like getting their toys taken away while they are still playing. Sometimes, if anything gets in the enclosure that they aren’t supposed to have, it needs to be taken back. The best way to go about this is to either teach a Sun the “drop it” command, distract the Sun with a more appealing toy or, worst case scenario, knock the Sun out with supervision and take back the item. If it doesn’t seem like it will harm the Sun, don’t take it away, even if it’s strange. Some Suns’ favorite toys are cardboard boxes or plastic bottles.

You can find lots of information like this on the internet. So, please, for the love of god, don’t buy a DCA on a whim because you saw a cute video. Please do your research so your DCA can live a happy, healthy life.

[miley1442111]

admitting- j.abbot

summary: a fight leads to a confession, and jack abbot finally admits something he wants.

pairing: jack abbot x fem! doctor! wife! reader

warnings: lowkey just fluff and jack being really traumatised

banners from my good friend @no-144444 !

Jack usually operated under the assumption that you were asleep when he got home on a Saturday morning. Last night had been a fucking mess, a fight with you (if you could call it that) and then straight into work with a cop and a kid dead in the first 3 hours. The rest of the shift evened out, just regular flu victims, or stupid scrapes and cuts. It weighed on him though, made his entire body ache, made his head hurt like his skull was squeezing his brain too hard. He debated getting it checked out at neuro, but ultimately decided a bit of time in bed with you would probably fix it. That was if you let him into bed. Last night had been awful, he’d been called in at the last minute, a terrible crash would be flying in and Shen was already down a nurse and two doctors. He couldn't let him go at it alone, even if he desperately wanted to finally get his long dreamt-of Friday night date. 

You added the finishing touches to your makeup as you tried to hide your smile. God, how long had it been since you and Jack had gone out, just you two? 3 months probably, and even then it was your sister’s wedding. You were excited, excited to just have one night where he wasn’t Dr. Abbot and you weren’t Dr. Y/l/n. 

He turned the corner into your bedroom, and his crispy white shirt was nowhere to be seen, replaced entirely by the black scrubs he frequented. Your face fell, and a hand cupped your chin as he rested his forehead against yours. “I know,” he breathed out before you could even protest. “I’m sorry.” And that was it, he wasn’t going to say no and stay with you. He was going to go to work like he always did. You knew he was a workaholic, anyone with eyes did, but you hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected this to be so far down on his list of priorities, for you to be so far down. 

You nodded solemnly and stepped back, turning back to your vanity and taking the carefully curated bracelet stack off your wrist. He wanted to reach out, promise you he would make it up to you, but you both knew he couldn’t. This happened too regularly to be made up for. “Wow,” there was venom on your tongue, he could hear it. He just hoped he wouldn’t make it worse. You swallowed it down, leveling out your voice. “Alright Jack. Alright.” It wasn’t alright, he knew it, but Shen needed him. Hurt people needed him. 

“Shen needs me,” he started, taking another step towards you. You turned to the closet next, stepping out of your dress. He bit his lip, staring as he finally saw the lingerie you’d been hiding from him for this night specifically. Fuck, you were gorgeous. You pulled a hoodie over yourself, discarding your bra in the laundry hamper with the matching lace thong. You opened his drawer and pulled on a pair of his boxers. He thought you looked even more beautiful. “I’m sorry-”

“You’re going to be late,” you stated softly, sitting at your vanity and reaching for your makeup remover. “You’d better go.” He gritted his teeth. You were doing that thing, that thing where you just disconnected from him entirely, and he couldn’t even blame you. You had been so excited, hell, you’d ironed his shirt. You two were only going to dinner and a movie, but you were excited to have one night where you had all his attention, and he wished he could give you that. 

“Don’t do that,” he pleaded but it fell on deaf ears as you kept rubbing your makeup off. “Don’t shut me out.” Selfishly, he was desperate for you to just let him go without a fight, let him leave without guilt, but he didn’t deserve that. He deserved to be shouted at, but you’d never do that. You were too sweet, too kind for something like that. Sometimes he wondered what he did in a past life to deserve someone so fucking understanding, especially in those moments when he couldn’t find it in himself to find that same patience for you. 

You sighed, tears welling up. You stood and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Be safe,” you whispered, leaning into him. “I love you.” You were barely even whispering, but he heard it still, felt it still. His heart cracked a little, guilt gnawing at his insides as he pressed a kiss to your cheek and nodded. He didn’t deserve to have you, to love you, or have you care for him the way you did. 

He left. You stayed. That was just the way it was. 

He took one of the prepped meals you made out of the fridge and placed it in the microwave before stepping into the bathroom and stripping down. He left his scrubs in a pile in the corner, he could deal with it later. The water was scalding, just how he liked it. After going months at a time without a shower during his time in the military, there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t thank Benjamin Waddy Maughan for creating hot water heaters. Yes, he’d looked up who’d created them. 

His prosthetic was quickly discarded beside the shower. The phantom pain worsened as the weather changed outside. Summer was winding down and soon the cold months would come, it always made it worse. He stepped into the shower. He scrubbed himself down quickly, sitting on the handily built-in bench you’d insisted on. You were always looking out for him, always demanding he take care of himself. He pushed past those thoughts and continued scrubbing, trying to get the scent of the hospital off of himself, trying to get the stench of his guilt off his skin. He was out in the kitchen when the microwave beeped. He ate quickly, reading over the news on his phone as he stood in the kitchen, a towel hanging on his hips. He didn’t bother with the social media apps everyone else liked to busy themselves with, but he had an instagram, mostly to keep up with what you were posting. He checked it as he left his plate in the sink, a story from yesterday. A picture of you and your friend at a market from the day before. God, you looked stunning. He had no idea what you saw in him sometimes. 

You walked into the house, looking more than exhausted. You didn’t even acknowledge him, not even noticing his figure, as you walked straight to the couch, and flopped down on it. He stared. Your eyes closed and you curled up into yourself as he’d seen you do a thousand times before, and he stepped closer. His hand ran over your cheek. “You alright?” he asked, voice hoarse and gruff. It’d been a tough shift, you could tell. 

“Mhm,” you nodded, leaning into his touch. “Shitshow of a night. Jayden called me. Maggie was super sick, I had to rush her over to the emergency room,” You sighed. His brow creased, a silent question. I didn’t see you? You nodded. “She lives on the other side of town.” he nodded. 

“I’m sorry,” he cradled your head like it was the most fragile thing he could ever hold. It was to him. “You’re a good friend.” 

You nodded. “It was crazy,” you groaned. “Still didn’t get rid of my baby fever though.” You chuckled, reaching a hand up and running it through his wet curls. He stilled. Baby fever. He gulped down the panic rising in his chest and cleared his throat. 

“You have baby fever?” he questioned, the tips of his ears going a pretty shade of crimson. You let out a soft chuckle and nodded, sitting up. He sat beside you, pulling you into his lap, straddling him. A thousand thoughts at once ran through his mind. He’d dreamed of wild mornings and spilled drinks, he’d dreamed of Saturday afternoon practice and sleepless nights with his very own bundle of light in his arms, but it never happened. It wasn’t in the cards for a man as broken as him, someone as… unworthy as he. Men like him didn’t have families. He’d been told when he was younger, a more fresh-faced Jack Abbot, less able to hold his liquor. He’d told some of his squad that he silently wished for a day where he’d have a family of his own, raise them better than he’d been raised. They’d laughed at him. No one would have a kid with you, let go of that. And army men don’t cry, so he didn’t. His soul wept for him, quietly setting the dream down and sweeping it under the rug, hoping that maybe one day he’d get that chance.

You cupped his jaw, watching him with careful eyes. “Jack? Are you alright?” You asked, pulling him out of his thoughts. He nodded softly and pressed his lips to yours gingerly. You kissed him back. He relaxed into it, his hands wrapped around your waist, yours in his hair, uncaring of how wet it was.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he admitted, pulling back from your lips. “I should’ve stayed.” He searched your face, landing on your eyes. He loved your eyes. He loved how he could make you nervous with just eye contact, something so simple. You nodded. 

“Thank you for apologising, but the night would’ve been ruined anyway. I was busy playing mom to Maggie.” You shrugged, a finger drawing patterns between the freckles that adorned his chest. You’d admitted before that it was one of your favourite things about him. You just loved them. He couldn’t understand why, but who was he to yuck your yum? 

There it was again. The idea that you two could have a kid. You with a little baby in your arms, his baby in your arms. A little human that was made from the two of you. His eyes welled up, but he kept his voice steady. You didn’t notice the tears, too busy drawing on his skin. “You want to have a kid?” he asked, just above a whisper. You smiled. 

“You’re not helping my baby fever, y’know,” you finally looked at him again, and your face fell. “Jack, what’s wrong?” A hand cupped his cheek and he leaned into it, a stray tear falling down his cheek. You took his other hand in yours, squeezing. 

He shook his head, biting his cheek to stop himself from falling apart. “I always wanted a family,” he admitted, pushing through it. Pushing through the fear of rejection, pushing through the voice in his head that told him to shut up. He’d been working with his therapist and you on verbalising what he wanted. He was hyper-independant, and he knew it strained you two a little, so this was a chance to actually let you know what he wanted. “I want that with you.” 

Your breath caught in your throat. “Yeah?” you questioned, a surprised smile pulling the corners of your lips up. He nodded silently, anxiety and fear holding all his muscles taught. “I want that too,” you whispered before swallowing his lips with a kiss. 

He had it. He had his wife. He had his job. Now, he’d finally get the chance to get what he wanted, a family.  A family with you.

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[purplejazmin]

𝝑𓏲 waking up with volt and eddie

𝝑𓏲 tags: fluff ; gn reader ; a hint of explicit content ; pure self indulgent

waking up next to volt and eddie is like a goddamn odyssey.

first of all: it's hot.

not the good kind of hot, even if there are boners involved in some shape or form. no, you're talking about the sweaty kind. the one that makes you get rid of half your clothes because you are suffocating to death. 

eddie and volt's human bodies... it turns out they run hot. warm as an oven. and sometimes you end up in the middle of that sweaty combo. crushed in a death sandwich, created by your own treacherous hands.

this morning is one of those times.

you wake up entangled in a web of limbs. one leg hooked between eddie's knees, arms wrapped around him like he was your personal stuffed animal. volt's glued to your back, his long arm loosely holding the two of you. 

your boyfriends are still snoring, blissfully unaware of your schedule for the day. 

but you're trapped. the sunlight peaking through your windows hints about a late morning, making it abundantly clear you're already running late on your plans for the day. and yet, you can't move.

not without waking either of them up.

you won't go without giving it a try though.

carefully, you remove your arm from underneath eddie's body. your moves are slow and delicate, as if you were in the middle of putting together a fragile pyramid of cards. then, you slide towards the edge of the bed. trying not to disrupt volt's hold in the process.

and you think you've made it, that you're about to put your two feet on the ground and escape that deadly embrace when suddenly— a strong hand grabs you by the armpit, tugging your body backwards.

“going somewhere, live wire?” his eyes are not even open, but there's already a pleased smirk on his face. as if he finds your vain attempts to escape funny. endearing perhaps.

“volt—” you groan. “i need to leave the bed.”

“you certainly don't."

to make sure of that, volt crushes you against his chest, his grip impossible to escape now.

“the only job you have is to look pretty while helping us at the club, and it's not open hours. so no darling, you don't need to leave the bed.”

“you know what i mean,” you complain, poking his side in retaliation. “i still have objects to realize.”

“that can wait a few more hours for sure,” he grasps your hand between his own, placing it on his waist instead. “they'll survive.”

“you're underestimating the intensity of some of them.”

at that, volt finally opens his eyes, fixing you on the spot with his fierce gaze. his eyes are impossibly blue up close, extremely hard to ignore.

“i think you're underestimating me.”

his lips find your neck, nipping gently at your skin there. he steals all the words from your mouth, replacing them with a soft moan.

“i'm a selfish lover, live wire. i don't like to share what's mine. and your time is mine.”

you squeeze your thighs together, too close to be persuaded by the insatiable monster between your legs.“fuck volt— that's so not fair.”

“life's not fair.” another voice jumps in from your back, with a slow and raspy tone that just adds fuel to the fire. eddie clings to your body, pressing his face against the back of your neck. “can you two shut up and go back to sleep, for fucks sake.”

volt laughs. 

a sultry thing that has you sighing deeply in defeat.

“you heard him. you wouldn't steal from eddie his beauty sleep, would you? with how hard he works too…”

a long-suffering silence.

“... i hate you two.”

“you don't.” two voices chime in unison. too proud of themselves.

and god help you, they are right.

you let yourself be lured to sleep again, embraced by the two people who occupy your heart and suffocate you to death in your own bed.

[sillybruja]

✦🦂 𝕊ℂ𝕆ℝℙ𝕀𝕆 𝕋ℍℝ𝕆𝕌𝔾ℍ 𝕋ℍ𝔼 ℍ𝕆𝕌𝕊𝔼𝕊 — 𝕎ℍ𝔼ℝ𝔼 𝕐𝕆𝕌 𝕂𝔼𝔼ℙ 𝕊𝔼ℂℝ𝔼𝕋𝕊 𝔼𝕍𝔼ℕ 𝔽ℝ𝕆𝕄 𝕐𝕆𝕌ℝ𝕊𝔼𝕃𝔽 ✦

🖤 the house you lock down, guard, and control — until your truth claws its way out.

1H Scorpio

You hide how truly intense you are. You guard your identity like a secret safe. You definitely look fierce, but deep down, you fear being fully known. Spotlight scares the hell out of you even though you have never been able to avoid it. If they get too close, you vanish.

2H Scorpio

You're more materialistic than you like to admit, so you bury shame around money, pleasure, and self-worth. You need control over your resources, what's yours — but secretly fear not being “enough” to keep what you earn, attract, or deserve.

3H Scorpio

You edit your thoughts to bury your truths. You feel the need to be quiet about your most honest opinions. There are bits of information and secrets about you that you'll never say aloud — because knowing them is dangerous enough.

4H Scorpio

You've had a complex childhood, so you lock in a box. You bury what has happened to you in your youth deep down and instead, you’ve built an entire emotional home on survival instinct. You love deeply, but don’t let others in — because home was once a war zone, not a refuge.

5H Scorpio

You hide your deep desire for attention. You want a stage but you settle for the shadows. You hide how deeply you want to be seen & recognized for ways you transmorph, transmute , & evolve in romance, & play. You crave passionate love, chaotic art, and soul recognition — but you push it away to protect your heart. Your joy is laced with fear.

6H Scorpio

You spend too much time internalizing everything. You obsess over stress, intentionally or not. The stress goes straight into your body and you pretend to be in control of your health, even while you're secretly breaking down. You can have rituals that are not reasonable for the average person but makes sense to you, and it can be what keeps you sane.

7H Scorpio

You attract dramatic/intense/obsessive partners and relationships, and then build walls. Commitment is a major theme for you but you don't fully trust it. Suddenly you become who they want until you start to resent them and you disappear.

8H Scorpio

You hide too much. You hide the parts of yourself that are a lot— your rage, your grief, your pain. But this house needs change. Sooner or later, the mask falls. You eventually realize you can't hide who you are forever, and you shouldn't.

9H Scorpio

You obsess over what you don't know. You question everything — quietly, obsessively. You like to pry for the truth in others but you never show your hand. You change your opinions, moral judgments, and character too often to share with others. Your truth evolves in secret.

10H Scorpio

You hide power behind a sense of humility. You've been given a false sense of power in your life through a protector archetype (mother, father, authority) and you either fear you will become that person or fear you will not. You want power, but fear what you’ll become if you have it. You work in silence, play the long game — and don't let go of anything.

11H Scorpio

You don't trust groups easily. You feel like the loner in your friend group, like the odd one out. Sometimes you can test people's loyalty before you open up to them. You truly just want to belong but you've been burned by so many people in the past, you don't know how to let your guard down.

12H Scorpio

You have buried your shadows so deep, they feel almost dreamlike and illusive to you. You bury your shadows so deep you dream in metaphors. Your healing is secret, sacred, and part of a cycle. You hide your pain in silence — until you literally have no more control over what is unleashed.

⟡ ᴅᴍ ᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ:

🌙 ᴘʀɪᴠᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴀʀᴏᴛ & ᴘꜱʏᴄʜɪᴄ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢꜱ

🪐 ʙɪʀᴛʜ ᴄʜᴀʀᴛ ᴀɴᴀʟʏꜱɪꜱ & ᴀꜱᴛʀᴏʟᴏɢʏ ꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ

𓆩𖤐𓆪 ꜰᴀꜱᴛ, ɪɴᴛᴜɪᴛɪᴠᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴜɪᴅᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱᴘɪʀɪᴛ.

╔═══════ ⋆★⋆ ═══════╗

🔮 ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ — ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴄʀᴇᴅɪᴛ.

✨ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏꜱᴇꜱ ᴏɴʟʏ.

🌙 ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴀꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟ, ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ, ᴏʀ ʟᴇɢᴀʟ ᴀᴅᴠɪᴄᴇ.

╚═══════ ⋆★⋆ ═══════���

[witchescollection]

protection work 101-ish

1. the basics

to start with, lets look at some common terms. i’d define them as follows:

wards = long-term protection on spaces (altar, room, etc) - they’re generally seen as permanent despite needing energetic top ups.

shields = temporary personal protection (veiling, amulets, visualization) - you can also shield someone else, either directly or remotely.

cleansing = an act that resets energy to neutral - can be a space, yourself, or an object.

banishing = essentially telling energy or an entity to fuck off (in varying degrees of hostility). i tend to be more nice than mean, especially if that entity is important or likes to hold a grudge.

these concepts get blurred sometimes, and that's fine. most people use them in overlapping ways - it’s just useful for this post (and this blog) to have a list of definitions.

2. why protection work was hard for me at first, and what i do now

i've always found protection work difficult to keep up long-term. i really struggle with doing big rituals consistently (probably the ADHD). i don't have the energy for it. for ages, my protection either just... didn't exist, or it happened in the moment - shielding when something felt off, visualising energy forming around me, stuff like that. the idea of putting wards up every full moon or doing protective cleansings every sunday made me feel exhausted just thinking about it. the energy it took, the way it felt like a chore didn’t feel right, and had me really questioning if witchcraft was for me. i believe that the more energy you give something, the more energy it has - but the more i complicate things, the harder it gets for me, and the less my magick feels like an extension of myself

so instead, i started doing it intuitively. i put my wards up once, and rather than topping them up on a schedule, i check in with them. if they feel off, i fix them. if they feel fine, i leave them! this is something that no one really talks about in protection work, which is: you have to get to know yourself. you have to build trust in your own senses. that comes from meditating, yes, but also from learning to set boundaries, making decisions about what you want your space to feel like, and letting yourself be messy and wrong and curious until you start to learn what "off" feels like. building your intuition will help you sense when you need to top up your wards, when things aren’t right. i visualise a pulse scanning out from me (think like a laser beam), to figure out how my wards are. when my wards are strong, i feel a kind of energetic solidity around me. when they're broken, it feels more like a wooden fence with slats in it, and the energy leaks. things come through that shouldn't. sometimes i feel it energetically. sometimes it's just vibes being off. sometimes my deities let me know. sometimes i don't notice at all until shit starts going sideways.

i also have a servitor who maintains my protective space (his name is alfred (like from batman)). i created him, i feed him energy, and he works like a bouncer: letting only kind-intentioned spirits and energies through. i’ve talked about my “swinging-door” policy here if you want to read more about it, and if you want a separate guide on how to set a servitor up let me know. ultimately, this means that sometimes, if i'm meditating and talking about something, a deity i wasn't expecting shows up. i might think i need aphrodite's help, and freyja turns up instead. or maybe dionysus just wants to hear some gossip. it also allows deities to decide what kind of relationship we have, and let them take the lead. i also send a regular pulse scan out, and if my wards are low I feed energy into them and servitor with visualisation, usually i'll set a five-minute timer and visualise a meter filling up, like i'm charging a battery. i can do this from my bed so it’s decently low effort. again, if you’re like me and find ceremonial magickk feels more performative than a natural extension of yourself, it’s fine to not overcomplicate it! find your own rhythm.

3. advanced protection

i mentioned before about using a shield on someone else, either directly or remotely. taglocks, which you’ll hear mostly used in baneful magickk, are helpful if you're protecting someone else - usually i enchant a crystal or an amulet for them. consent is important here - i don't like remote magick on people without them knowing. for example - my boyfriend (who's very much not a witch) wears a few protective bracelets, one of which is a hematite bracelet from me. it’s sentimental and serves a spiritual function (win-win). you can also shield someone else if you’re with them in person, just by visualising them the same way you’d visualise yourself! this only really works whilst their visible, but can be useful if you and a friend are walking through a busy place and you want to shield you both from the energy.

another thing worth mentioning, and this goes for all advanced practices, is that the most potent magick is that which is a natural extension of the self, and that doesn’t feel like a chore (more on that in another #moaw post). veiling is one of my favourite low-key protective acts. so is wearing enchanted jewellery. both of these work at the subconscious level, and have the added benefit for those in the broom closet of being pretty discrete (you can veil with anything over your head! doesn’t have to be a headscarf). i'm messy, so i don't clean my space often, but when i do, i notice the energetic shift - it’s one of the most underrated methods of cleansing, and again, very discrete. another method is setting up my digital boundaries! curating what i consume, who i let into my digital space, and noticing what drains me. this is energy work too. protection work doesn’t mean much if you’re then bringing negative energy into your space through your phone.

and here's a big one: know your land. get to know the spirits around you. build good relationships. that way, you're not doing protection alone - you have backup. if something breaches your wards, you have plant spirits, ancestors, deities, and the land itself helping you notice, and you can (with consent) draw from their energy or ask for their support. so even when i'm tired or distracted, i'm not unprotected.

4. “i think something’s in my space - help!”

don’t worry! i’ve created a handy flow-chart below to help!

step one: diagnose it

is it just negative energy from an interaction you had? have you been behind on cleansing? is it something mundane?

→ if yes → cleanse and reset your space

→ if no or unsure → keep going

step two: what is the entity?

use some method of divination to figure out who the entity is! some good questions to get started:

what do they want?

are they trying to communicate?

did i do something wrong?

is this a known spirit? have we interacted before?

is it just some local energy passing through?

step three: response

if it’s just lingering energy → cleanse

if you accidentally offended something → apologise or offer something meaningful, and keep talking - depending on the level of upset, you might be able to salvage this and forge a new relationship

if they’re just cranky for no reason → be compassionate, but banish! sometimes entities (especially ghosts) take out their anger on random folks, and you might just be unlucky.

if they won’t leave/are actively making things worse → banish!

step four: check your wards

do the pulse technique i mentioned earlier (or whatever works for you), and figure out how the entity got in - are your wards fractured? did you forget to energise your servitor? whatever it is, diagnose it and work on it.

step five: reflect and learn

most strong negative energies don’t just wander into your space for fun. hopefully by now you’ve figured out the root cause - write that down and reflect on the experience!

5. final thoughts

banishing is, firstly, a boundary. it's no different than saying "hey, i don't want to talk about that right now” or “please leave my house.” it can be kind. it can be neutral. it can be mean. it's just a way of telling an entity to leave. i think there’s this misconception in the community that banishing is negative, and it can be, but it doesn’t have to be. and sometimes the kindest thing is to send stuck energy moving if you can’t help it and it’s causing a nuisance (or being actively damaging).

and honestly? you're probably fine. when i was starting out, i wasn't talking to spirits or doing anything risky. i could've skipped protection entirely and been fine. as i got more confident, i started staying in places where the vibe felt off, just out of curiosity, because now i know how to handle it if something weird happens.

you're probably not going to get haunted by a demon. you probably don't need ten layers of magickal protection. if you're not poking around the otherworld, antagonising spirits, or diving into deep trance work, you're probably okay. there’s so much fear-mongering out there, and i get why - better safe than sorry - but take a moment to remember that everything will be okay, and if you fuck around and find out and need a hand, there’s many resources and many people here on witchblr to ask.

and if you’re gonna keep fucking around and finding out? good on you - but you might need stronger wards than someone like myself, who stays pretty far away from the fucking around part of witchcraft now.

--

thank you for reading this! i hope this was helpful, and if you have any questions or add-ons please reblog/reply or send an ask. just a reminder: everything i wrote here is my opinion, and i know people will have different methods, and i encourage y’all to share those! and if you have any suggestions for topics you’d like for this longer form series (tagged #moaw if you’d like to read the others), please also send me an ask.

[mona-risms]

Sometimes I think about the very inappropriate use of in-ear monitors :3c

I adore that they've added that detail in instead of just skimping on it like other animated stuff with idols or musicians in general, because sure it's not like you need it (I sure as hell don't use it), it's EXTREMELY helpful when everything is so loud that you can't hear yourself sing or hear the timing of things. But this thought also extends to how bc they serve as a way to hear yourself better, imagine having them use it while you fuck them in secret aha

Zoey's already vocal enough as is—out of the three members, she IS the freakiest after all 😜. She'd be begging you to keep going, to please give her more so she can still feel it while she's on stage, whimpering out that you feel so fucking good inside her. The audio feedback from her IEMs would be CRAZY—she already knows she's vocal and she's very unashamed of it, but hearing herself louder through the IEMs has her hearing what you're hearing from her, and she just begs Even More

Mira's less vocal out of the three, but she's VERY reactive. These deep groans and the hitched breaths escape her as she grinds on your thigh in her costume—she may even let out a bitten-off moan, not because she's ashamed or anything but bc biting her lip is her attempt not to lose herself completely. The fact that she's usually quiet makes using IEMs a LOT more fun bc her mic's picking up Every Bit Of Feedback, so she can very much hear her rapid breathing and usually-quiet sounds in crystal clear audio in her ear. Just hearing herself gets her So much more wet, and she doesn't realise that she's grinding on time w herself

And then there's Rumi. She's already naturally embarrassed as is when it comes to sex, thanks to her traditional upbringing, so fucking her out of the bedroom? This girl is SO FLUSTERED that you'd have to pry her hands off her face as you eat her out. She'd bite off her moans BECAUSE she's embarrassed, unlike Mira, and she'd try to be quiet so people can't hear. UNFORTUNATELY FOR HER those IEMs are picking up her noises and it gets her simultaneously a lot more embarrassed AND a lot more turned on (if her cunt trying to squeeze onto your tongue and her hips bucking up was any indication). Bonus if her demon voice acts up when she's overstimmed enough el oh el bc she's hearing its effects on her voice......and it's snitching on her to EVERYONE who can see the Honmoon. So Zoey, Mira...Celine LMFAOFOAOAA

All they gotta do is hope and pray the audio doesn't get routed to the speakers just yet too! Else they're getting put on blast and OOPS! SCANDAL!

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Consider Me Gone || Bruce Wayne ||

A/n:Angst fic with a happy ending

Song Inspo:

Gotham City never slept.Neither did you.

The clock ticked past 3 a.m., casting long shadows against the penthouse windows. The cold side of the bed was always cold—no warmth, no imprint, just the constant echo of a man who gave more to a city than to you.

You stared out over Gotham, arms wrapped around yourself in your robe. The words in your head spiraled and stung. You had rehearsed them so many times in silence, but now you would say them aloud. Even if he wasn’t here to hear them.

“You say you’re doing me a favor, by hangin’ around…”

Your voice broke in the quiet. “Then why does it feel like you’re doing everything but loving me?”

You turned back toward the room. Everything was his. The cufflinks left on the dresser, the faint scent of leather and whiskey, the flicker of the Bat-Signal sometimes reflected in the mirror when you stood there brushing your hair.

You had asked for more. Not his secrets. Not the cowl. Just him. Something real. Something that didn’t leave you tracing bruises and lipstick on a pillow.

But every night, he left.

And every morning, you woke up alone.

The note was short.

A single sentence written in your hand, folded on his pillow:

“If I’m not the one thing you can’t stand to lose… consider me gone.”

Three Weeks Later

He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten right.

Alfred noticed, of course. So did the others. But they knew better than to press him when it was about her.

Bruce stood in the Batcave, hands clenched, your note worn and crumpled in his palm. The city had been quieter lately—he’d made sure of that. He hunted with precision, as if each criminal might be the one who could make the ache go away.

He thought about seeing other people, hoped that something would help the ache in his chest.

But none of them were you.

None of them had your voice, your touch, your smile. None of them stayed.

“If you’re gonna walk, you better walk your walk, and you better back it up…”

Your voice, in his mind again. God, he missed you.

He had told himself it was safer this way. That you deserved more than the fragments of a broken man. But all it had done was leave two people hurting—one in silence, and one trying to be brave enough to leave.

And he had let you go.

That Night – Your Apartment

You didn’t expect the knock.

Not at midnight. Not with rain hammering the windowpanes like a storm trying to break in.

When you opened the door, your breath caught. His black suit was soaked, hair dripping, and for once, Bruce Wayne didn’t look put-together. He looked wrecked.

“Can I come in?” he asked softly.

You hesitated. His eyes flicked to the duffel by the door—yours. Packed. Ready.

“You’re leaving Gotham?” he asked, a flicker of something desperate behind his voice.

You didn’t speak.

Bruce stepped forward, taking your hand gently. “I didn’t think I needed anyone. But I was wrong. I need you. I love you.” He paused, searching your eyes. “I thought I was protecting you by keeping you at arm’s length. I didn’t realize I was pushing away the only peace I’ve ever had.”

Tears pricked your eyes, your lip quivered for a moment as you turned your head away from him.

He swallowed hard. “Don’t go.”

You whispered, “Do you mean it?”

“I mean all of it. You want me to walk my walk? Here I am—drenched, terrified, and standing in front of the only person who ever made me want to stay.”

Your arms wrapped around his neck. His around your waist. You both stood in the hallway, rain and all, letting everything fall away except the moment.

Later that night, wrapped in blankets and heartbeats, he whispered into your hair, “Don’t ever consider yourself gone again.”

You smiled softly. “Then don’t give me a reason to.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice cracking. “Not ever again.”

Because this time, when he said he loved you—

He Stayed

[unsolicited-opinions]

you're right, i am in pain. my partner and i (and others) decided to leave our synagogue last year after leadership ignored a vote that lacked a majority and released a statement supporting israels actions anyway. there arent any other synagogues in our city. saying i dont know my jewish history is incredibly hurtful, in fact you came across as very patronising.

im not going to answer point by point, because i think your beliefs in some areas are entrenched and it would be meaningless and hurtful to us both.

i would like to apologise for my wording that accused you directly of things that dont apply- though your bolded quotes arent actually quotes from my message, which is misleading about my points. i wasnt necessarily talking directly about YOU for some statements, just what i have witnessed in this debate in our community.

and to address that, i bought up my jewishness because in the past i have instantly been called an antisemite or even a nazi for being upset about palestinian deaths. it wasnt an etempt to manipulate you, i have to state it in every conversation on this topic now or i am attacked (and i sometimes am anyway, being called a self hating jew and once even a kapo which was fucking awful). that was my argument about conflating the government (and actions) of israel with the jewish people is harmful, because my family, community, and loved ones dont live on the same continent but are being tarred with the same brush. and yet when i criticise the government thats meant to represent me somehow, im a bad jew. antisemites will always be antisemites, im not saying this is new or of anynes creation. im saying they are being handed ammunition, and i have been hit with it.

but yes, i apologise for not making it clearer i was not accusing you directly of having all the beliefs in my post, but you clearly disagree with a lot of what i said.

firstly, the "hamas run" health ministry is propoganda to make you not believe the number of deaths. the GAZA health ministry, which yes is run by the government, just like the garbage collectors and people who write birth certificates, is taken as a valid source by human rights watch, the UN, and many other organisations. in fact, we likely ARE getting incorrect information, and human rights groups estimate that the death toll is much higher, and have been saying that for months. "i dont believe that that many people have died" with the only evidence you have being "the other guys said it" is either bad faith or willful blindness. of course, israel COULD let in impartial investigators, aid groups, and journalists in so we could get completely reliable information, but they refuse to do so.

saying there isnt credible evidence that the israeli government is purposefully starving gazans is laughable. there are quotes of genocidal intent from every level of government, but i dont want to get into the details because searching for recent quotes isnt how i want to spend my time. i can however link you to 74 statements that legally fall under "genocidal intent" made by israeli legislators in the first FOUR MONTHS after oct 7th alone. i know there are other databases like this, if you are interested in looking them up. https://law4palestine.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/01/2-Database-of-Israeli-Incitement-to-Genocide-15th-January-2024-LEGISLATORS.pdf

i dont need to say that the israeli government doesnt care about the hostages- their families have done that for me.

saying that civillian casualties are awful but are to be expected is just false. in no war in modern history have civillians been killed to this extent, and legally israel is responsible for that. if hamas was hiding the hostages under tel aviv, do you think the IDF would have used the same tactics and flattened it? no, because israeli lives matter to them, but palestinans dont. in fact, they have been going for maximum damage to destroy all infrestructure to support life and culture (a check in the legal genocide box). also "human shields" is not, and has never been, a legal excuse to kill a civilian. even if terrorists are embedded in civilian populations, it is NOT LEGAL to kill the civilians en masse as colateral damage. it sounds like a great argument, but put it in any other context or situation and its clear it's unacceptable. and yes, hamas hiding under civilians is unacceptable too, but that doesnt excuse mass murder in retaliation. two war crimes dont cancel each other out.

nearly every human rights group, hundreds of legal experts, many genocide scholars (including from inside israel), and holocaust survivors themselves have said this is a genocide. it is not antisemetic to say that. ive read the legal arguments and papers. you may wish to bury your head in the sand and believe that netanyahu, ben gvir, and other people like them havent used their power to create these circumstances that have lead to genocide, but they have.

my "probably killed hundreds of thousands" was sourced from a lancet paper published in july last year estimating the deaths to be 180,000, due to the lack of counting of those who are missing under rubble, or died of illness or starvation that would otherwise be preventable. seeing as that was a year ago, and 700,000 people are currently suffering accute starvation, and the fact that everyone agrees the gaza health ministry numbers are low, i dont feel like i am wildly over-exaggerating with my statement. but to be fair, you are right in that those numbers have not been confirmed, and won't be for what will probably be a long time, so i'll retract that.

and im sorry, but your section about moral distinctions disgusts me. because those moral distinctions /dont apply/ to the civillians. an IDF soldier who snipes a child through the skull for target practice repeatedly is JUST as evil as a hamas militant murdering children on october 7th. and your talk of "winning" as if there is anything to be won here, or that its asymetric, which yes IS MY POINT. this is a terrorist militia vs one of the best funded militaries in the world. this level of death and destruction on the part of the IDF is entirely unwarrented, because they have the capability to have done a better, cleaner job and chose not to.

and "who started the war" is such a bad faith argument, because no, the war didnt start on october 7th. there was operation pillar of defence, operation cast lead, operation protective edge (also known as the gaza war (2008), the gaza war (2012), and the gaza war (2014). y'know, mowing the lawn. if we were to try and argue who started this war, we'd be going back over a hundred years. thats how cycles of violence work. but yeah, when one group is the occupied and one is the occupier, they tend to have more power.

i have been following this as closely as i have been able to when it started. i am willing to admit that some of my knowledge may be wrong, or outdated, but that doesnt mean i havent read the articles, the papers, the quotes, etc. to back up what im saying. and im sorry that i dont have the capability to find every quote and every source and get into an academic debate with you.

honestly i shouldnt have messaged you in the first place because it was an impulsive action from being triggered and this is a topic i have been trying to avoid for my mental health. i have been pretty successful in avoiding situations like these- i have been off all social media since march last year because the number of dead children i was seeing caused me to have a mental breakdown. i still use tumblr though, and found comfort in some of your posts about judaism outside this general topic. unfortunately i wasnt prepared to see so many arguments that i believe are false and impulsively responded with a lot of pain. you are right there. so i am sorry, because i dont want to hurt you with accusations in response to my hurt. i want you to know that my messages come from a place of deep hurt and frustration with the world, and i know that taking that out on you isnt fair. so im sorry.

Okay, we're continuing from here.

Again, I can see that you're hurting, Anon. I won't dismiss that, but your pain doesn't make your false claims true or your contradictions coherent.

Claim: No modern war has seen this level of civilian death

Just false, and by a huge margin. Civilian deaths in Syria, Iraq, Yemen, and Rwanda were far higher.

We don't disagree, child. You're just provably wrong and presenting a falsehood as if it's a proven fact.

Claim: The Gaza Health Ministry is a neutral source

It's controlled by Hamas. UN and HRW cite it because it's the only available source, not because it's independent or verified. It has repeatedly been caught lying and presenting obviously bad data.

Claim: Israel blocks all aid and wants starvation

Untrue. Aid is restricted, but not stopped. Other factors like Hamas, Egypt, and logistics are also responsible. The idea that Israel wants mass starvation an accusation, not a fact. And it's an accusation you can't support. I agree the GHF and IDF failed to solve the distribution problem, but there's literally no evidence that Israel has sought starvation.

Claim: Genocide is undeniable

Incorrect. The ICJ has not ruled that genocide is occurring. Your opinion being settled is not the same as a legal definition being satisfied.

Claim: 180,000 Gazans have died

This is not and never has been a fact. It comes from a letter, not a study, published in The Lancet. It was not peer-reviewed. It did not rely on body counts, health records, or eyewitness testimony. It used a speculative mathematical projection based on indirect indicators and assumptions, many of which are unverifiable or contradicted by other sources. Experts across the spectrum, including critics of Israel, have noted that this letter is not reliable evidence of actual deaths.

Claim: 74 quotes prove Israeli genocidal intent

The law4palestine.org document you linked is a political advocacy tool, not an objective legal analysis. It compiles statements (many of them mistranslated, decontextualized, or rhetorical) from Israeli officials and claims they prove genocidal intent, but genocidal intent in law isn't proven by inflammatory soundbites. It requires sustained evidence of a state policy aimed at destroying a people as such. No court has found that standard met. You wouldn't accept a partisan anti-Palestinian compilation as proof of genocide by Palestinians. You shouldn’t apply a double standard here, but you do. Why do other Jews call you antisemtic or self-loathing? This is why.

Claim: 700,000 Gazans are experiencing acute starvation

This figure comes from a March 2024 IPC projection warning that 677,000 Gazans could face famine-like conditions if aid was not scaled up. It was not a measurement of real-time starvation, and the IPC clarified that these categories refer to risk, not confirmed deaths or clinical starvation cases. Conditions are dire, but no international body has verified that 700,000 people are currently starving.

Claim: Civilian deaths shouldn't happen in war

They do. Especially in urban combat against embedded militants. That doesn't make it moral, but it makes your framing historically and legally absurd.

You say you value all lives equally, but treat Israeli victims as abstract and Palestinian victims as sacred.

You say criticism of Israel isn't antisemitic, then blame Israel for global antisemitism.

You say you weren't attacking me, then say my moral distinctions disgust you.

You say you're open to being wrong, but refuse to check your own claims or engage with sources that challenge them.

You say the war didn't begin on October 7, yet you demand Israel behave as if it did...as if there were no rockets, no kidnappings, no attacks, no trauma, and no history before thatday.

You say collective punishment is wrong, yet apply it rhetorically to all Israelis while excusing Hamas because they're weaker.

Anon, you're overwhelmed with grief and outrage, absorbing unverified claims and activist messaging as if it is settled truth, and mistaking moral intensity for clarity.

I don't hold your pain against you, but your pain isn't a suitable substitute for evidence.

Here's what I see in both your asks:

You confuse emotional impact with factual clarity.

You accept anti-Israel claims uncritically and reject Israeli claims reflexively. The accusations against you of antisemtism have, therefore, a basis.

You demand Israel be perfect, but excuse Hamas as inevitable. The double standard is antisemitic.

You can't separate the horror of war from the legal definitions you're invoking without understanding war or the terms you're using.

You admit you can't verify your claims, then double down on them.

Your overwhelmed moral outrage isn't truth, Anon. Your belief that you're somehow a victim because other Jews don't like your antisemitism is, I'm sorry, absurd.

You don't know Jewish history, and it's okay with me of I come off as patronizing to you.

Your arguments are that clueless, that unsupported, that ignorant, and that sloppy.

"yet when i criticise the government thats meant to represent me somehow..."

WTAF, Anon? Do you see the layers of falsehoods here? You've gone far beyond criticizing government policies, nobody has claimed Israel represents you but antisemites, and Israel didn't invent antisemtism. I criticize Israel's government daily, and that's perfectly fine - but that's not what you do.

You spew unsupported nonsense and then play hurt victim when others point out how unsupported and nonsensical it is. You can't seem to differentiate between a fact and an assertion/accusation. You spout moral judgments absent any moral reasoning.

You're probably in your 20s or 30s, Anon. It's past time to move beyond this sort of adolescent bullshit and learn how to disagree like an adult.

You have strong opinions about a topic you claim to have followed closely, but prove this false by routinely misrepresenting reality with provable falsehoods and unsupported accusations which presume a priori that anything Hamas says is gospel truth and anything Israel says is a lie. You're called self-hating because you have deeply embedded, reflexive Judenhass at work. It's an unexamined, partly unconscious bias you need to unpack.

Look at what you wrote: "...IDF soldier who snipes a child through the skull for target practice..."

Either support this kind of accusation with evidence or shove it back into the ignorant piehole from which it sprang.

Listen to the dreck you spout: "if hamas was hiding the hostages under tel aviv, do you think the IDF would have used the same tactics and flattened it? no, because israeli lives matter to them, but palestinans dont."

Israel doesn't hide weapons under schools or hospitals for the explicit purpose of creating civilian casualties.

Blaming Israel for the consequences of Hamas using civilians as shields flips the moral logic. Israel warns civilians, Hamas traps them.

Expecting Israel to value Palestinian lives more than Hamas does is a rigged double standard.

What I'm saying, Anon, is that the problem here isn't how you're treated by other Jews.

The problem is you.

The Jews who know you irl and accuse you of being self-loathing, an antisemite and/or an aspiring kapo have a strong argument...while you have no argument at all.

Your mental breakdown isn't the fault of Israelis, Bibi Netanyahu, your local synagogue, or the tragedies of war. Please unpack these cognitive distortions with your therapist. If you don't have one, find one.

You're right. You shouldn't have submitted the first Ask in the first place, and I shouldn't have given either Ask this much of my time or patience.

You're not making any moral arguments, you're just doing some emotional dumping which reveals your unexamined biases very clearly.

Your hurt and your frustration are real, but they don't justify/excuse your dishonesty, laziness, and sloppy thinking.

Your partner may have to tolerate the emotional dumping, but I don't.

Take care.