#it's one of the questions they don't answer

[neellscapsule]

My Heart — Part Two

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 4.4k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) i plan on making this a series. please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13.

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942

previous. next.

The paint stains your fingers in shades of umber and charcoal, seeping into the skin beneath your nails, filling the creases along your knuckles. You’ve stopped noticing how it feels—the slight stickiness of oils, the bite of turpentine on raw fingertips. It’s part of the process. Part of the mess you’ve accepted as your life.

The studio smells like linseed oil, rain-dampened brick, and faint candle smoke from the altar of used coffee cups near the window.

You haven’t eaten. You never do when you’re in this state.

The canvas towers in front of you — a human torso, cut open and reassembled with impossible precision, gothic window tracery bleeding from the muscle, spine bent beneath the weight of cathedral motifs. A ribcage crowned with delicate arches. Veins following the curve of stained glass.

It’s grotesque. It’s sacred.

It’s yours.

You push the brush across the canvas, smoothing the crimson edge of one carved shoulder, teeth digging into your lower lip. It’s not done. It never feels done. You don’t know what compels you to keep building cathedrals inside people. You just can’t seem to stop.

You don’t notice the knocking at first.

The sound seeps through the fog of your focus, faint and rhythmic, knuckles tapping wood. You groan under your breath, setting the brush down beside the palette, fingers sticky with paint. 

It’s probably Pam again. She’s sweet, too sweet sometimes — hovering, asking if you’ve eaten, if you’ve slept, if you’ve seen the sun in the past forty-eight hours. It’s not her fault, but you’ve been very clear today.

“Pam, for the love of God,” you call, not turning away from your work. “I told you, I’m not hungry. You don’t need to hover like a worried mother—”

You turn then, irritation curling your mouth as you wipe your hand absently on the hem of your oversized paint shirt, ready to face the soft-eyed persistence of your assistant.

But it’s not Pam.

It’s Jason.

He stands near the door, arms crossed, helmet clipped to his hip. His eyes are fixed on you, unreadable, sharp like they always are when he’s too quiet, watching you like you’re still the kid he used to mess with, still the little sister too easy to fluster.

Behind him, Damian is already wandering through your studio, his hands clasped behind his back in that overly formal way he’s always had, posture unnaturally straight for a thirteen-year-old, his eyes tracing every painting, every sculpture, every unfinished sketch with the kind of reverence that makes your skin itch.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” The question comes out sharper than you intend.

Jason shrugs. “Nice to see you too, princess.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse stumbles. Childhood memory pulls behind your ribs, unwelcome.

“You didn’t answer the door,” Damian remarks, calmly, as though this is the most natural place for him to be. His tone doesn’t match his age. He’s a teen but speaks like a soldier twice his years. “We assumed you would not appreciate us arriving with excessive fanfare.”

You stare at him, stunned. “You broke into my building?”

Jason lifts a brow. “Didn’t know we needed an engraved invitation to check on our sister.”

You grip the rag on your desk a little too tightly. “You can’t just show up here. This is my space.”

Your older brother strolls further in, his steps deliberately slow. “Yeah? You didn’t really leave us much choice, you know. You’re hard to get a hold of.”

“That’s the point.”

“You invited us.”

“I meant the gallery, Jason,” you snap. “Not my apartment.”

Jason clicks his tongue, mockingly. “Bit touchy, aren’t we?”

“Studio,” Damian corrects quietly, still inspecting the room. “This is not merely an apartment. It’s an artist’s space.”

Your gaze flicks to him. His tone is formal, precise, the way your father speaks in boardrooms, the way assassins speak before they strike.

You know that cadence. You used to wear it too. Before you remembered how tired you were of being sharp-edged.

His focus drifts from canvas to canvas, lingering on the darker ones, his expression carefully neutral. He walks as though he’s in a museum — slow, controlled, absorbing everything. For a second, you think he would enjoy the gallery much more, and you quickly get rid of the thought.

Damian finally turns to face you, his green eyes unsettlingly direct. “We came to see you.”

You cross your arms, suddenly conscious of the paint-streaked shirt, the disheveled hair, the exhaustion under your skin. Your space feels invaded. Claustrophobic. Like they cracked the sanctuary you built around yourself and stepped right in without asking.

“How did you even know where I live?”

Jason’s grin is infuriating. “Come on. Did you really think you could keep that from us?”

“I moved across the country.”

“Yeah. You’re not as stealthy as you think.”

“I used aliases.”

“Cute.”

Damian’s voice cuts through, quiet but deliberate. “Tim found you.”

You blink.

Jason’s smile falters slightly. “Yeah, that helped.”

You glance between them, irritation flaring in your ribs. “Tim hacked into my stuff?”

“Only the necessary. We didn't see any of your dirty stuff,” Jason makes a grimace, completely disgusted. "God, I hope you don't have that stuff 'cause that just made me sick."

“Choke in your vomit while you are at it,” you reply back, eyes narrowed.

Jason pushes off the doorframe, wandering deeper now, hands in his pockets, gaze sliding over your unfinished works.

“You’ve been busy,” he notes casually, though there’s a flicker in his expression you don’t miss. Something thoughtful. Guarded.

“I didn’t ask for company,” you say evenly.

“No, but you sure as hell needed it,” Jason mutters under his breath. “Did you eat? And don't lie. Cause I can and I will talk to Pammy over there. Surely blondie could answer that as well as you.”

You roll your eyes. Damian interrupts, stepping toward a sculpture perched on a pedestal near the back of the studio. His voice is smooth, formal. “This one is exquisite.”

You stiffen immediately.

Jason follows Damian’s line of sight, curiosity dimming into something else when he focuses on the piece. His posture locks, his smirk gone.

The sculpture isn’t large, but you’ve kept it protected, guarded in the corner like it was something precious.

Because it is.

Two figures, with faces that merely touch by an ear to a cheek, no bodies, just faces and necks and only a bit of chest. Her arm protects him, crossing to his shoulder. There is no paint. Just faces. Blank faces that are too sad.

You and Jason.

Younger. Before death. Before he was gone.

Jason steps closer, his lips parting like he might say something, but nothing comes out. He’s staring at the chipped edge where your fingertips almost touch his neck.

The moment feels too exposed, too raw, too much.

You rush forward, grabbing the draped cloth from a nearby chair and hastily covering the sculpture, heat creeping to your cheeks.

Jason’s eyes stay on you. Quiet now. The teasing’s gone. What’s left is… complicated. Damian, meanwhile, has stepped closer, watching the whole exchange with unnerving focus. His eyes are greener up close. Sharper. Too observant for a thirteen-year-old.

“Why is that hidden?” he asks simply, as if the question isn’t a blade twisting in your ribs.

“Because it’s not for display,” you answer curtly, adjusting the cloth, the warmth in your cheeks refusing to fade.

Damian steps beside you, quiet but watching. Always watching.

“You should come home,” he says, direct as ever, eyes locked on yours. “To the Manor.”

The words slam into your chest like a steel door.

You bark out a hollow laugh, shaking your head as you retreat back toward your canvas, grabbing your brush with shaky fingers.

“I’m not going back there.”

“You should,” Damian insists, his voice low but firm, carrying the same command your father always wielded — only softer, more desperate under the surface. “You belong with us.”

“No,” you reply, knuckles whitening around the brush. “I belong here.”

Jason leans against the wall, kicking a stray paintbrush with the toe of his boot. “Look, you don't have to move back into the Manor. No one’s trying to suffocate you. But you don’t have to be alone all the time.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Yeah?” His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You’re talking to a brick wall, painting holes in people, and eating nothing but coffee and stubbornness. Sure doesn’t look like you’ve got a full house in here.”

You scowl. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He shrugs. “Fair.”

The studio falls into a thick, tense silence, the quiet hum of city traffic beyond the window the only sound.

Damian breaks it, voice colder, but not unkind.

“We miss you.”

You stare at him, at the strange, complicated little brother you barely know, the only one who shares your blood — half, yes, but more than enough for him to treat you like you’re his.

Your heart wavers. Because you were always like that with your siblings. Always too soft, too easy to catch. It was not your fault; how could they look at you like that and expect you not to fall?

But you still retreat behind your work, turning your attention back to the cathedral-ribcage and the arches blooming from muscle and bone.

Jason exhales slowly, fingers tapping the edge of a nearby shelf.

“Alfred asks about you, you know.”

Your spine straightens. You don’t look at him.

“Yeah,” he continues, softer now. “Old man’s been stuck with nothing but bats and brats. Pretty lonely in that big house.”

The words knife into your chest.

Alfred.

You swallow hard, brush faltering mid-stroke.

“He misses you,” Jason adds, voice rough with something that sounds too much like guilt. “The others— they’re stubborn. But him? He just wants you home.”

Your eyes sting, but you don’t let the tears rise. You breathe through your teeth, steadying yourself as the memories press against your ribs — Alfred’s gentle hands bandaging your bruised knuckles, his voice soft in the dark after failed missions, the way he saw you when no one else did.

“He’s… fine?” Your voice is fragile.

Jason nods. “Tired. Old. Still making those goddamn scones no one likes but you.”

You huff a quiet, broken laugh despite yourself.

Damian steps closer, the stiffness in his shoulders easing as his eyes soften — still sharp, still possessive, but open now. Waiting.

“We’ll leave,” he says carefully. “But you should consider it.”

“I’m not going back,” you repeat, but it cracks more than you intend.

Jason sighs, shrugging on his jacket again.

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes lingering on you, old regret buried under forced nonchalance. “Didn’t think you would.”

But they don’t push.

They leave the studio quietly, the door clicking shut behind them, the echo of their presence curling in the corners like smoke you can’t scrub away.

You stare at the unfinished painting, the gothic ribs and spires reaching out like a cathedral begging for worship.

And for the first time in hours, your hands shake too much to keep painting.

2021

You are Gotham’s darling.

You glide through the gala like a practiced storm, a smile stretched soft and convincing across your painted lips, pearls heavy against your collarbones, a custom dress clinging to your figure in all the right ways.

You know what they see.

They see elegance. Charm. The precious Wayne daughter — the pianist, the prodigy, the golden girl.

But they don’t see the cracks. No one ever does.

You know exactly how to play this game.

You lift a flute of champagne from a silver tray — you won’t drink it, of course. You just need to hold it. It’s part of the image.

Your eyes flick across the room, cataloguing politicians, socialites, investors, foreign dignitaries, all humming in the same stale rhythm.

It’s always the same.

And it’s so easy.

A charming laugh here. A delicate touch on the arm there. The perfect tilt of your head, the perfect compliment, the perfect distance. You flash a smile, soft and warm, as another politician’s wife tells you how radiant you look tonight. You accept the compliment like it’s your birthright. You have learned to wear praise like perfume — light, intoxicating, gone in a moment.

They eat it up.

You are exceptional at being what they want you to be.

Across the room, you can see them.

Your family.

Your father. Bruce Wayne, always the shadow, always the gravity around which you all spin. Talking to someone from the Mayor’s office, brow furrowed, jaw tight, not looking at you.

Dick — always moving, always orbiting. Laughing with some acquaintances, tipping his glass toward them, that golden boy glow turned up to full wattage. He hasn’t looked your way in over twenty minutes.

Jason — unfamiliar to these parties, still stiff in his tailored suit, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, eyes darting toward the door like he’s already plotting his escape. You catch him staring at you briefly, but he looks away too quickly, feigning disinterest.

Tim — glued to his phone, tucked in a corner, nodding absently at the older men who mistake his silence for reverence. He won’t make it through the night without ducking out to work on whatever case is currently eating him alive.

None of them are looking at you.

And yet, you are here.

You are always here.

The daughter.

The musician.

The delicate thing to be paraded in pearls.

You love them. You hate them. You love them. You hate them.

It’s always both.

They forget you. They adore you. They neglect you. They would burn the world for you.

But not tonight.

Tonight, they’ve already forgotten.

You remember the first time you played for the public — twelve years old, barely tall enough for your feet to brush the pedals. You’d glanced toward the side of the stage, hoping, aching to see your father there.

He wasn’t.

But Alfred was. He always was.

You play like you’re starving.

You play like it’s the only way you know how to be loved.

Your fingers fly across the keys, weaving through the rises and falls of the piece you’ve practiced to perfection. Every note is a plea. Every shift in tempo is a crack in the armor.

See me.

See me.

Please, see me.

The crowd is enraptured.

Gotham adores you. You know how to keep them in your palm.

When you finish, the applause swells, thunderous, pressing against your ribs.

You find Alfred near the kitchens of the Manor. His face softens the moment he sees you.

“My dear.”

You step into his arms without thinking, without needing to guard yourself. He holds you tightly, his hand gently cradling the back of your head like he did when you were a child.

You were always a child in his arms.

“You played beautifully,” he murmurs.

“Did you listen?”

“Of course I did.”

“You stayed the whole time?”

“Always.”

You swallow thickly, pressing your face into his shoulder.

Alfred has always stayed.

“You should be the one they parade around,” you whisper.

He chuckles softly. “I’m far too old for that now.”

“You’re the best of all of us.”

“You are part of that ‘us,’ you know.”

You pull back, but his hand lingers on your cheek, thumb brushing away the hint of tears.

“I see you,” he says, voice warm and steady. “Even when the others don’t. I see you, my girl.”

You nod, the lump in your throat too heavy to speak.

Alfred gives you a knowing look. “Your father is not always as clever as he pretends to be.”

“I’m not looking for clever.”

“Perhaps not. But I suspect you are still looking.”

You don’t answer.

You’ve already learned that some searches never end.

But you smile for him anyway.

Because you can’t bear to let him see how much it hurts.

PRESENT

The world feels better upside down.

You’ve decided that much after the third drop, when your body spirals through the air, silk ribbons biting into your thighs, your wrists, your waist, the floor disappearing somewhere below.

There’s freedom here, wrapped tight in fabric and gravity’s quiet threat. Up here, it doesn’t matter what your last name is. It doesn’t matter whose eyes you inherited, whose legacy you abandoned. It doesn’t matter how many invitations you wrote that no one showed up for.

It’s just you.

Your body.

Your strength.

Your silence.

The silk coils like a lover around your legs, keeping you suspended a solid twenty feet off the ground. You hang there, breathing slow, the city bleeding in through the open studio window — car horns, distant chatter, the faint wail of sirens that sound far too much like home.

You hate how your chest tightens at that sound.

The pressure wraps across your ribs as you climb, muscles burning, silk cool under your palms. The deep blue fabric coils like water as you flip, twisting your legs, pulling your body upside down, your hair trailing toward the floor twenty feet below.

For the first time all day, your head spins in a way that makes sense.

Up here, it’s just you.

Not the invitations you stupidly wrote.

Not the unanswered questions from Damian.

Not the quiet ache Jason left behind.

Not Alfred’s face, worn and tired, haunting the back of your mind.

You’ve spent hours here, in the studio that isn’t your art studio—the other one, the hidden space in the upper floor you converted into your training room.

“Okay,” comes a voice from below, too familiar, too soft with that unbearable warmth. “Now that’s impressive.”

Your eyes snap open.

Dick Grayson stands beneath you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, blue eyes glinting with quiet awe — and a pride you’ve never seen aimed at you before. Not like that.

“Birdie,” he says, grinning up at you, that old nickname curling off his tongue like honey over a blade.

Your stomach flips, the nickname scraping through your ribs with bitter nostalgia.

You were never a Robin. Never wore the cape, the tights, the too-big legacy that was supposed to mold you into their perfect image.

But you were a bird too.

His bird.

Once.

“You’re supposed to announce yourself,” you say flatly, ignoring the way your pulse skips at the sound of his voice.

“I did,” he teases. “You just didn’t hear me over all your death-defying tricks.”

You exhale through your nose, keeping your face blank as you shift in the silks, body still upside down, legs tangled securely.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice is even, practiced, but your heart stumbles anyway.

Dick rocks back on his heels, gaze still glued to you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Is that any way to greet your favorite brother?”

You arch a brow. “Favorite? Bold assumption.”

“Ouch.” He presses a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “Right through the heart.”

You twist in the silks again, limbs coiling expertly, giving him your back for a moment as you let the tension in your core guide your position. You love the feeling — controlled, steady, detached from the floor, from all of it.

When you finally pivot back toward him, his eyes haven’t left you.

There’s a gleam there — pride, yes, but something heavier buried beneath. Guilt. Sadness. That quiet, unbearable Grayson softness that makes you want to run in the opposite direction.

Or scream at him.

Or both.

“You shouldn’t sneak into people’s studios,” you tell him flatly. “Some artists are territorial.”

Dick chuckles. “Yeah, well, I figured it was safer than knocking and getting the door slammed in my face.”

“Tempting.”

“You gonna come down?” he asks, tilting his head. “Or are we having this whole conversation with you playing Cirque du Soleil?”

You smirk faintly, fingers loosening your grip on the silks.

“Suit yourself.”

Before he can argue, you drop — fast, controlled, the silks unraveling in a fluid blur, your body spinning toward the floor at breakneck speed.

You hear him curse under his breath.

The moment before your feet hit the mat, you hook your legs, slowing the descent, landing clean and balanced with barely a whisper of sound.

Dick’s eyes are wide, hand halfway extended like he thought you might splatter across the floor.

“Jesus,” he mutters, hand scrubbing down his face. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You shrug, peeling the silk from your wrists. “Just keeping you on your toes. You’ve seen me do worse, anyway.”

His eyes roam your frame — not with scrutiny, but with that quiet, admiring calculation you remember from years ago, back when you were smaller, younger, chasing after them in the halls of the Manor with too-big eyes and a heart desperate to be seen.

“I didn’t know you got this good,” he observes, tone dipping softer now. “The aerial stuff.”

“I’ve had time.”

His gaze sharpens, and you know he hears the bite beneath your words.

Of course he does. Dick’s always been good at hearing what people don’t say.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, softer now, the teasing edged away, replaced by something closer to… awe? Pride? Guilt? You can’t tell. It’s always layered with him. His eyes stray to the scattered equipment, the crash mats, the window cracked just enough to let in the faint summer breeze.

“It suits you,” he admits, tapping his thumb against his palm. “The silks. The… flying.”

You fold your arms, stepping back toward the silk rig, giving him space — and putting distance between yourself and whatever sentiment he’s about to throw at you.

“Let me guess,” you exhale, sticky hair clinging to your neck. “You’re here to talk about the Manor. About coming home. Just like Jason. Just like Damian.”

Dick’s jaw flexes.

You straighten, rolling your shoulders, tugging the silks aside as you wipe your palms on your leggings.

“If that’s the case,” you add, sharp and controlled, “save your breath.”

“Birdie—”

“I’m not going back.”

His face flickers, the usual effortless charm faltering under the weight of your words.

He watches you for a long, measured moment.

You cross your arms, leaning against the nearest support beam, heartbeat still settling from the adrenaline of the silks, though the real tension in the room comes from him.

“Did they put you up to this?” you ask quietly. “Bruce? The others?”

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head, stepping closer. “They don’t know I’m here.”

Your brow lifts. “So what, you just… showed up?”

His lips curl faintly, crooked and boyish. “You’re hard to track down when you don’t want to be found. But I’ve had practice.”

A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. “Yeah. Surveillance and interrogation. Real family values.”

“Okay, that—” Dick laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I deserved that one.”

You sigh, dropping your head for a moment before meeting his eyes again.

The weight of his gaze settles heavily between you. Pride. Longing. Regret.

It’s all there, barely hidden beneath the years of distance.

“I’m not coming back,” you repeat, quieter now, but no less certain.

Dick’s expression softens, his shoulders lowering as he closes the last few feet between you, stopping just far enough that you still feel you have room to breathe.

“Look,” he starts gently, voice dipping into the same soothing cadence he used when you were little—before everything cracked. “I’m not here to drag you back. I’m not even here to lecture you.”

You snort. “That’s new.”

He gives you a dry look, but his smile returns, faint and a little sad.

“I just wanted to see you,” Dick admits, glancing around the studio. “See how you’re doing. How… this life is treating you.”

Your chest tightens, unexpected warmth blooming under the guard you’ve spent years building.

You want to believe him. Part of you does.

But the other part—the part that remembers every missed recital, every unopened letter, every time you stood on the edges of family dinners while they laughed without you—knows better.

“I’m fine,” you lie easily.

He frowns, eyes drifting over you, reading you the way only he can.

“You don’t look fine.”

You roll your eyes, turning back toward the silks, fingers tracing the cool fabric as a distraction.

“Don’t start playing big brother now, Dick. It’s been years.”

“I never stopped being your brother.”

Your throat tightens, but you mask it with a shrug, grabbing the silk, twisting it idly around your wrist to keep your hands busy.

“This isn’t the Manor,” you whisper. “You don’t get to show up and play big brother.”

His expression fractures — just a little, the mask slipping.

“I’m building something here,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the studio, the silks, the life outside Gotham’s shadows. “It’s mine. No capes. No patrols. No… disappointments.”

His face twists with something complicated—guilt, frustration, maybe even admiration.

“I get it,” Dick says softly. “I do.”

You arch a brow. “Do you?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I ran from it too, remember? Blüdhaven. The circus. It’s not so different.”

“It is,” you counter, stepping forward, close enough now that your voices stay low, private. “You had the option to visit. To come back whenever you wanted. Me? I didn’t know if I even belonged there in the first place.”

Dick’s jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“You always belonged,” he says, fierce and broken, eyes burning into yours. “We were just too damn distracted to show you.”

The admission punches the air from your lungs.

You look away, throat tight.

“Jason mentioned Alfred,” you murmur after a beat, the memory of the old butler’s face ghosting over your thoughts. “How… is he?”

“Still the only one holding the Manor together,” Dick answers, his voice soft with fondness. “Tired. He misses you... Everyone does. I do.”

You shake your head, pulling the silks through your fingers, grounding yourself in the familiar texture.

“It’s not that easy.”

“I know.”

“It’s not like I can just walk back in and pretend nothing happened.”

“Trust me, birdie, I’m not pretending.” He pauses. “We screwed up. I screwed up.”

You glance at him, wary.

His eyes meet yours, steady, open.

“I should’ve been there. More. Better. I thought— I thought you’d always be there. That there’d always be time.”

You swallow around the ache in your throat.

“Don’t pull the ‘we were kids’ card.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says quietly. “I was going to say I wasn’t paying attention. That I thought being your brother meant just… showing up for the big stuff. The galas. The battles. I didn’t realize it was the little things that mattered.”

You look away.

“I used to send you letters,” you murmur, voice tight. “Invitations. Notes.”

“I know.”

“I used to save you seats.”

“I know.”

His voice is thick now.

“I didn’t think you wanted me there,” you whisper, fingers tightening on the silks. “I thought you had better things. More important people.”

He steps closer, not touching, but near enough to feel the warmth of him.

“You were always important,” he says. “I just… didn’t act like it.”

You blink rapidly, trying to hold back the stupid, stinging heat behind your eyes.

“I’m still not coming back.”

He smiles softly. “Okay.”

You glance at him, surprised. “Okay?”

“I’m not here to drag you home,” he says. “I’m here to see you. To remind you that you still have a home. That you still have a brother who’s proud of you.”

Your throat tightens.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“It’s true.” His smile grows. “You were always a bird, you know. Not like me, not like the Robins. You were something wilder. Something I always wanted to fly like. My little birdie.”

He gets close, and for the first time you let him, chest aching for the love he once gave you. Dick kisses your temple, looking down at you for a moment.

“There's going to be a gala in four days. Because of the anniversary of the enterprises. Just . .  . think about it. You have my number. And take care of yourself, please.”

[jackdaw-sprite]

This would be used in addition to the danny phantom tag, turning it into a true umbrella tag for everything related to Danny Phantom, while having a few major sub-tags for people to find exactly what they want.

---

After some more discussion with members of the fandom in the notes of my poll asking about a community and elsewhere, it seems like the better option for everyone might actually be a new tag, so I'm making a new poll here!

Some answers to questions I think people might have are below the readmore:

Q: Why are all of these only one word?

A: For the same reason the dpxdc tag is only one word! Tumblr's tagging implementation is Not Good. Tags with spaces don't play well with it, and especially don't play well with blocked tags. If someone wants to block non-crossover Danny Phantom content, we want to make it as painless as possible for them.

Q: What issues were raised around communities?

A: A few! To name some of them:

Limited interactions with posts: Communities only let you react with emoji and leave comments on posts reblogged into them. Not great, if we want to have long reblog chains riffing on one another

Original Posters aren't notified if someone else reblogs their post into a community, even if it's public. So if someone reblogged your post into the community for you, you wouldn't know about it -- or know to look for people interacting with it.

Communities have mods, and therefore would need trustworthy, engaged mods to make it work. Over a short time frame, we could probably manage it! But over a longer one, a community for an entire fandom would probably have moderator drama. That could lead to fracturing, or people leaving specifically because they don't like the mods, etc. A tag is a lot less active maintenance.

A few people also expressed a general dislike for the feature, even if they were willing to move to one. This seems like a much smaller change that will let those people stay away from a feature they don't like, while interacting with the content they do.

Q: What about less-common crossovers? Won't those get excluded from this tag?

A: They will. I'm asking about this poll first because I figured getting the community to make a decision about the other crossovers would be easier if we'd already decided on the non-crossovers.

The current idea is to move those to their own tag as well, so they can get dedicated attention from the crossover enthusiasts who love them. One of the people I talked to about this runs the niche-dp-crossovers blog, so it's on the radar. If you have concerns or suggestions about that, the notes on this post is as good a place as any to suggest them!

[miredfate]

time to be really sarcastic and annoying because i'm bored and irritated and have nothing better to do (i'm answering all 60 with very little seriousness. yes, 60, it skips 10 of the questions)

complicated

my girlfriend

the fuck kind of question is this, who DOESN'T

similar thing as above

i call penny my girlfriend mostly out of the convenience of using the label i don't understand romance

No

chocolate milk

i did gym in highschool because i had to

only when they get long

never

it's clear this is meant to be a romantic phrase but considering i don't really do romance i don't know what to do other than take it very literally.. .Yes i like human beings around me actually

never really kept track of that tbh, idk

i'd say "who doesn't" but i've met people who are unable to hate

who doesn't miss someone

six cats

dissociated and blunt and spiteful. hence, answering ALL of these because i'm bored and because i can

i don't understand the significance of this happening in the bathroom it's just another room

yes, not by choice, they're cute

no because i know better than to think i wouldn't just endlessly fuck up whatever plan i have in mind

*googling "snogged" * ... idk i don't keep track

go to store, buy stuff to make my room more comfy :3

No

No

subjects? what? i'll assume school subjects? i can do well in any subject technically but i'm at the whim of my long-term mental health. i guess...,,, math and science?

this question already got asked (14)

jersey mikes steak and cheese sub sandwich ,,,

this is a romance question, isn't it? uhg

the concept of cheating shouldn't exist. it's based on monogamous bullshit, we live in a patriarchy

i don't know?? i don't keep track of this kind of thing?? i've made somebody cry i'm sure

these fucking questions

i'm sure

i don't see value in a single color without context

yes

school. it's been three weeks since i've gone to school. idk why i keep dreaming about it

i don't know i don't keep track

absolutely fucking not

i still find myself surprised that people are capable of doing either of those

i'll have to wait another couple decades to answer this one

STOP THIS SHIT AT ONCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

No

51. huh it skips from 40 to 51- anyways can't pick favorites here 52. listen i'm the wrong person to even let think about this kinda thing 53. JAKED OFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 54. see (28) 55. sometimes, right now yes maybe 56. none 57. STOP THIS SHIT AT ONCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 58. can't pick favorites here either. variety is good 59. mhm 60. idk 61. boy/girl? where the fuck were these questions sourced from? Neurotypical Bob? Cishet Joe? i'd do the comical amount of exclamation points again but this doesn't deserve that much attention from me 62. Hello Neurotypical Bob 63. Hello Cishet Joe 64. STOP THIS SHIT AT ONCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 65. STOP THIS SHIT AT ONCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

66. STOP THIS SHIT AT ONCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

67. STOP THIS SHIT AT ONCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

68. not worth my energy 69. "Stop this shit at once" with more exclamation points than you can understand 70. in theory yes in practice no my brain wouldn't let me

70 horrible questions ... Fuck it

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? 02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? 03: Do you regret anything? 04: Are you insecure? 05: What is your relationship status? 06: How do you want to die? 07: What did you last eat? 08: Played any sports? 09: Do you bite your nails? 10: When was your last physical fight? 11: Do you like someone? 12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours? 13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? 14: Do you miss someone? 15: Have any pets? 16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? 17: Ever made out in the bathroom? 18: Are you scared of spiders? 19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? 20: Where was the last place you snogged someone? 21: What are your plans for this weekend? 22: Do you want to have kids? How many? 23: Do you have piercings? How many? 24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? 25: Do you miss anyone from your past? 26: What are you craving right now? 27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? 28: Have you ever been cheated on? 29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? 30: What’s irritating you right now? 31: Does somebody love you? 32: What is your favourite color? 33: Do you have trust issues? 34: Who/what was your last dream about? 35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? 36: Do you give out second chances too easily? 37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? 38: Is this year the best year of your life? 39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? 51: Favourite food? 52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? 53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? 54: Is cheating ever okay? 55: Are you mean? 56: How many people have you fist fought? 57: Do you believe in true love? 58: Favourite weather? 59: Do you like the snow? 60: Do you wanna get married? 61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? 62: What makes you happy? 63: Would you change your name? 64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? 65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? 66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? 67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? 68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? 69: Do you believe in soulmates? 70: Is there anyone you would die for?

[reallyreallyreallytrying]

Who are you and when did I start following you?

i get this question a bewildering amount and i don't know how to answer the first part in a meaningful way and i don't have access to the data to answer the second part at all. my most gracious suggestion would be that you accidentally clicked "follow" while moving your cursor over one of my posts that someone you follow had reblogged. i don't have any other theories. i don't remember everyone i've ever followed. but also don't have the expectation that i'll be able to remember the circumstances under which i followed them. that's what gets me through the day

[vixenvtuber]

do you think that ragatha will abstract in the next episode of the amazing digital circus, or will she have a chance of surviving?

y'know, i get a lot of asks like this, and i usually just delete them, but i wanted to genuinely ask something back

at this point, me and my castmates have recorded most of the show already. so stuff that happens next episode? i already know. we already know. and we tell people at panels not to ask specifically because we can't answer

but like, would you REALLY want such a major plot point spoiled for you?? by a random voice actor on a random wednesday morning? like, even if i lied about what my "opinion" was, discussion of the next episode & rest of the show would be permanently tainted by people screenshotting my answer to a question like this and being like "well, gangle's voice actor said..."

not trying to single you out at all, asker, because i understand this mostly comes from a place of enthusiasm!! but i wonder if you realize how catastophic it would be to the theory-crafting part of the fandom if i answered, even if i lied or was vague, lol. the theory-crafting part is for you guys to enjoy!! it's meant to be fun! don't let me ruin it by encouraging me to dip my slightly-more-informed toes in. one day, you'll get an actor in a piece of media you like who genuinely doesn't get it and answers something like this and ruins the fun part for everyone-- i wouldn't recommend encouraging that!!

[nottivagos]

notti's nightly thoughts (18+)

an: going to be honest, i don't really know what this is. i'm sleepy 😔

it wasn't uncommon for lando to miss you whilst he was away racing. he knew he couldn't bring you to every race, and he respected that you had other aspirations and responsibilities away from supporting him at races. but god did he need you now.

it wasn't like a regular craving that he could shake away with a quick scroll through some pictures of you together, no, this was different. it was the kind of desire that he did prepare for, but never knew could actually happen. he needed to hear you. desperately too.

he'd been trying to get himself off to some odd voice notes here and there for a while that evening, but it wasn't enough. he needed to hear your voice again, and craved to even be told what to do by you.

in an act of desperation, he called you, not expecting you to answer. it was an ungodly hour for you at home, so he wasn't getting his hopes up for anything, but luckily he'd struck gold.

you stirred from your sleep, groggily turning over to your bedside table to see lando's name lit up on your phone. lethargically answering the phone, you croakily spoke into the microphone, wondering what your boyfriend's reasoning was for calling you at such an ungodly hour.

when lando answered, his voice was already a little breathless. his cock was half hard as he rested topless on his large bed in his hotel room, one hand just aimlessly tracing over his bulge whilst the other held his phone in his hand.

"you sound a little breathless," you asked out of concern. "you alright, lan?" you asked with a genuine concern, "you don't sound very well," you added with your eyebrow raised.

"me? oh, i'm alright babe," he laughed off, fisting himself through his boxers. "just got a little bit of a cold that's all," he mumbled, closing his eyes as he continued to rub up and down the now painfully straining cock in his boxers.

with a hum, you shrugged it off. you started to talk, rambling about things going on at home, blissfully unaware of lando pleasuring himself to your voice. lando's hands came to nearly rip his boxers from his body, letting his angry red cock bounce free onto his lower stomach, tip leaking with salty pre-cum.

lando continued to stroke his length as you continued rambling, thumb smearing the pre-cum down his length, whilst his curls fell on his pillow as he tilted his head upwards in pleasure. his mind was hazy, high on not only the adrenaline pumping through his veins, but the ecstasy of hearing your voice after so long apart.

losing any self awareness, lando let out a short whine, biting his lip to try and suppress it as much as possible, but failing miserably. your eyes widened in realisation, stopping what you were saying mid conversation to question what the hell lando just did.

"why did you just moan?" you asked bluntly and directly, adjusting yourself upwards on your bed.

"n-no!" lando exclaimed, grip hard on his twitching length as his froze, hot blood pumping through his veins. "why the hell would i moan?" he tried to laugh off, but you weren't having it.

"are you touching yourself to the sound of my voice?" you asked rather bluntly again, but lando could sense the smirk plastered on your face from his end of the line.

"why would i do that?!" he blurted out sheepishly, trying to lie through his teeth but failing miserably. "i'm not touching myself," he denied again, "i just-, i just missed your voice, okay?"

"aw, that's cute," you mumbled, "but i'd bet you'd need me to tell you what to do, wouldn't you? i bet you're so lost without the sound of my voice in your ear," you trailed off as lando grabbed his throbbing cock, thrusting the fleshlight around it so it fitted ever so snugly.

"please," he whined stupidly, phone now discarded to the corner of the mattress. "i need you," lando panted, pleading nearly as the breath was sucked out of his lungs in the breathless gasps escaping his lips.

"tell me what you want me to do, baby. i'm all yours," he added, biting his bottom lip at the feeling of the fleshlight fitted snugly around his throbbing length, making him a mess. but god did you revel off of that.

"yeah?" you asked, "you're all mine, are you?" you hummed with a devilish excitement flurrying in your insides. "why don't you let me hear those pretty little noises that you make whilst you tell me how you're feeling, hm?"

"fuck," he panted, fisting his cock with the toy. "it's just-," he stuttered, tears forming in his eyes as he continued to jerk himself off, "i just need to feel you- inside of me, and i can't-," he cut himself off as he whimpered, biting down on his hand to suppress a moan mixed with a sob.

"oh, it's that bad, huh?" you cooed, "you really miss me that much, lando? aren't you such a sweet thing," you murmured, voice laced with venomous sweetness as you felt your panties become wet from hearing lando's moans vibrate through your phone's speaker.

"if i cum please just promise me that you'll come to my next race," lando breathed as his hips rolled in a haste rhythm whilst thrusting the toy harder onto his cock. "that's all i ask," he added, before groaning, "fuck-, i'm close."

"oh you're close?" you hummed with a raised eyebrow. after a moment of pondering, listening to lando's moans grow louder and louder, you answered, "alright, i'll come to your next race," giggling before adding in a sultry mumble, "come for me, lando."

salty tears streamed down lando's face as he let out a guttural moan, hot spurts of come painting the inside of his fleshlight. the sticky white trailed down his length, painting the inside of his thighs as he panted, coming down from his high.

"good boy," you praised as lando whimpered, chest heaving. "that feel better, lando? i bet it does, doesn't it," you murmured into the phone with a sadistic smile on your face.

"now turn on your camera," you commanded, "i want to see what pathetic mess my stupid boyfriend made on his toy thinking about me." <3

[whysoblue2]

Projecting my flu onto Narinder

It has been a while since I bullied Narinder...

I really hope your flu has gone away after all this time, Anon! Sorry for taking ages 💙

Take care and stay hydrated! Dr. Kallamar's orders!

[ao3commentoftheday]

I have seen a few authors in different fandoms who had no ship in their relationship tag, but instead added something like "No shipping because I hate all the ships" or even just "Shipping sucks". I always found those tag rude and needlessly aggressive, but I never know if they are an offense that I should report or not? And if yes what does that even count as?

Thank you so much for always taking the time to answer all your asks so in-depth, you're always a great help!

About three years ago now, a Policy & Abuse (PAC) volunteer did a takeover of this blog and answered a similar question. It's been three years, so things might have changed, but if they haven't then this doesn't seem reportable to me.

The reason why I say that is because those example tags don't insult specific people or threaten violence against anyone. You can read that linked response to get the full picture, but that's my summary.

That said, PAC is a lovely team of people, and they're happy to answer questions about the Terms of Service as well as questions like this one. You can always report 1 work that you see with tags like that (instead of a whole bunch) and ask them whether that kind of tag is reportable. If things have changed in the last few years, they'll be able to let you know. Otherwise, they'll tell you that it's not reportable and you'll know for certain.

[saetiate]

call it what it is. (or, the five times sae and you are "just friends". and the one time it stops being possible to deny what this really is.)

itoshi sae x f!reader fluff. friends to lovers, first kiss, how love happens, reader goes by she/her pronouns and has some personality (sorry, i couldn't get around it bc of The Plot but i kept it as minimal as possible) word count: 2.3k author's note: you both have a whole dinner date, go to events together, take care of each other, and then get surprised when people think you're dating??? okay so the sound of fireworks are less obvious than whatever yall have going on

Bitterness churns at the back of your throat. Is it from the roasted beans of the coffee you've been slamming into your system for the last few days, or from the lack of sleep?

Not that it matters. You've worked OT, both your team and your clients are unhappy, and according to your Excel worksheet, you're on your 85th job application. So really, it doesn't get worse than —

The doorbell rings.

Who the actual —

You breathe out the biggest sigh at the pretty face standing before you. It's definitely the lack of sleep, isn't it? Either you really should've checked the peephole and put on something a little more flattering, or he's a hallucination.

Let's hope it's the latter. You move to close the door, and his hand reaches out lightning-quick, holding it still. In a spark of annoying rebellion, you press all of your body weight against the door, and it doesn't budge an inch.

Right. Athletes and their stupid, stupid strength.

"You didn't answer my calls."

They say sighing is a necessary part of your lungs, that one of the struggles of artificial lungs was getting them to sigh. You wonder if it meant this many times in a day. "Sae, I'm busy. Wait, I didn't answer your calls? You don't answer my texts 90% of the time."

Then he's in your entryway, because of course you can't argue where your neighbors can hear, that's rude. But then he's in your kitchen, washing his hands, opening your fridge.

"There's nothing in here. When's the last time you took a shower?"

"You come here just to insult me?"

A towel hits your face with an oof before it falls into your arms.

"Sae," you try again, as the towel slides down your cheek, "You can't just barge in here and —"

20 minutes later, there's two steaming bowls of katsu curry rice on your now-clean desk. Sae opens up the little ziplock of togarashi, leans it against your bento box with more care than you'd expect.

"Itakadimasu."

~

It's the strangest thing, walking into your place only for someone to already be in there. How the noise cuts through, something unbelonging but welcomed.

"You know, giving you the key wasn't so you could just walk in here whenever you want. It was for emergencies only."

The only answer you get is the smell of onions being caramelized, crackled sparks of savory in the air.

"I answered your call," you continue, undressing behind a half-open door. "So this can't be an emergency. And you have a much nicer place than this."

Sae barely glances at you as your head peeks into the kitchen. "You could stay there."

"What, with you? Like we're roommates? Nah, you'd see what a mess I am."

"I'm already seeing it."

A spatula waves in little circles around the pan.

“What are you doing here, Sae?”

Like he's already braced for the question, the refrigerator light beacons out into the descending night. Your favorite wine passes from his hand to yours.

"Got gifted it," he responds before you can even ask. You could've caught him looking at you, but the gold label glints with stars in your eyes.

"How'd you get gifted icewine? You've never talked about it in an interview."

He doesn't tell you he asked his manager for recommendations, that he knows they let it slip to someone looking for a brand deal with him. Instead, he watches as you struggle to pop the cork open, the xylophone clink of ice into twin wine glasses.

"So you do like sweet things," you comment as the nectared drink meets your tongue with a smile. There's a reverence to it: how he watches you chop the vegetables before sliding them into the pan, how the last remnants of today's sunlight filter through the window and past your hair.

Sweet things. He supposes he does like something like that.

~

"This event, is it a big deal?"

He vaguely hears a ruffle of clothing behind the half-shut bathroom door, lightstream swept across the floor. He offered you what he knows his teammates get their wives for these events — stylist, makeup artists — but he watched you stand in his bathroom layering on eyeshadow for yourself anyways.

I don't trust anyone else to touch me. A simple statement made stark.

"Sorry, Sae. Could you help zip me up please?"

Maybe it's that implication, that hidden trust you place in him, that makes his exhale a little shaky as one of his hands wraps around your waist to hold the dress down, the other carefully pulling up metal piece up.

You've often thought athletes would naturally be aggressive. You've seen Sae make a fast pass across the entire field without breaking a sweat. But when his hands are on you, they're always light. You think of the falling of snow, its soft and silent touch that comes unexpected, the easy descent it makes before it melts into the ground.

Love is a little like that, maybe.

~

It's a common feeling, to feel as if you're completely alone in this world. Easy to get into your own head, to see only yourself within four walls again and again and forget that there is a whole world outside. It's logical, well-researched, known. It's because of that that you can factor out the feelings when it hits you.

The four walls has never felt as striking as now, coughing into the hollow quiet. The morbid thought strikes that if you died here, no one would know. They'd find your body days later, after the smell starts to waft out.

But you chose this. To move and to fight and to create a life worth living. You, with your ambitions and heavy heart and endless survival faith that makes you somehow believe you can still make it. Sometimes you have to force a door close before wrenching another one open with nothing but your bare hands. Sometimes you have to swallow all your pride and roll up your sleeves and pray to no higher gods you worship that the decision you made is worth it.

You think you hear something click as your mind fogs back and forth into sleep. You hope whoever's burgling you will at least leave you alone and only take what they need. You hear your name, and then a shuffle, and god this is really the worst time to have a stalker.

The back of a hand over your forehead is cool to the touch, the night's breeze still pressed between the molecules.

"You're sick."

Thank you, intruder, for pointing out the obvious is what you want to say. But instead, your head lulls heavily to the side. "I just need to rest for a bit."

"You need a hospital."

"I'm fine. I'm just- being dramatic. But I'm fine."

Your world tips on its axis, warmth blooming into your side. He lifts you into his arms soundlessly. You almost envy how effortless it is for him; the weight you carry is so heavy when you're carrying it yourself.

It's only halfway towards his car that you find yourself processing, finally speaking, "Thank you, Sae."

There's a sharp intake of breath from him, the hard line of his body protecting you from the night's chilled-sweet air. His heartbeat against your ear is as steady as the shore, the way it waits for the kiss of the tide.

"Just call me next time."

~

Sae's not sure how he feels about this.

It's his first time being late when he's meant to be taking you to this event. He moves fast through the crowd, searches with keen eyes. Chandeliers flicker and crystal-light dances —

Only to find you propped up against the wall, Rin leaning down close.

Sae might be less confused if Rin didn't look — for what might be the first time at an event ever — like he actually wanted to be there. He's listening to you with all his attention, has no problem being in your space.

Sae only approaches once you've been whisked away by Bachira.

"Why were you talking to her?"

Rin whips around, and instead of looking guilty, he's in wide-eyed shock, and then narrow-eyed annoyance. "Ha? She's your girlfriend, isn't she?"

Sae blinks. Did he say that? He would've remembered, wouldn't he?

"You good-for-nothing older brother," Rin's voice is a grunt, nothing like the sweetness he gave you. "You didn't even introduce me. I had to fucking find out through Isagi."

"How does Isagi know?"

"Oliver."

"How does Oliver know?"

Rin gives him an begrudged, deadpan look. "He's your teammate?"

That explains nothing. Actually, Sae is even more confused. He has about a dozen more questions.

"She's nice." Rin mumbles low, playing with the stem of his wine glass, watches as it almost tips before swooping it back up.

"You like her?"

"I think she's nice." Rin grits, and Sae really doesn't know how Rin gets away with faux passes on the field when his reactions are this obvious, because he watches how his eyes grow with realization as another thought passes through his brain. "You don't like her?"

"I like her." Sae accepts quickly.

"Ha??? Then what are you asking me for?!"

~

If Sae's being honest, he knows he has more than enough. He wonders what this thing is that he's had since he was born, never satiated even as he reaches the top. He thinks about how Bachira describes his 'monster', a childlike wonder, whether this is his own version of something like that.

But even the blackhole-depths of his greed doesn't anticipate wanting you. Like remembering the sea upon the drink of an oyster. A second breath, heart soaked with knowing.

What am I doing, sleeping in his bed? The night grows darker with every step, so the invite was innocuous enough. You sink into the mattress and the blanket of night muffles the fear, the thought that love is never so easy. There will be complications and contracts —

You turn to him and all the braveheart strength seeps out of you. Maybe you can put it down here, just for a moment.

He looks at you love-first, in a thousand colors, something he can't find with anyone else. He brushes the hair from your face so delicately, you find yourself stuck between watching his relaxed expression and fluttering your eyes shut to absorb the feeling. The back of his fingers caress your cheek, a butterfly's wing.

"Are you happy? Satisfied?"

Sae is not abstract. It's a vague but concrete question. You understand him at first glance.

"Not yet," you exhale honestly. "I have more to do. I'm gonna get there."

I'm gonna be the person I want to be. And by that time, I'll also be —

I'll also be the kind of girl you'd consider worth dating.

"Just wanna be worth it," you smile weakly instead.

He looks at you with a tenderness that feels dangerous. You think of a bird's first flight, the swoop of the fall. The crackle of a flame before it eats the firewood.

"People are worth something the moment they're born," he recites with no inflections.

"I know that."

"You're the one who said that." It's not accusatory, it's a reminder: your own truth, a perception of love you've been made the exception of. It's too heavy with degradation for him to feel comfortable focusing on, so instead he asks something he knows.

"If you had everything you want now, would it be enough?"

You sit up, his eyes following you. Your body heat no longer pressed against his feels like a loss, something he's sure to correct.

"No. You know that's not how it works." You should know, better than anyone.

He does know. That greed is a bottomless abyss, ambition an infinite sky. There is no amount of good enough that could ever make it all feel worth it.

His hand circles around your wrist, pulls you in on top of him until you're chest to chest.

Love is not your right. Shattered somethings cradle your heart. Trees can grow around items. You wonder if your heart is the same — muscle grown strong around fractured glass, a whisper of a cutting edge with every beat.

If you're always going to want more, be better, go further —

Could you have a little something in the now?

He's so close to you now that it fills your mind completely. He's not naked but he feels so bare under you, your hands framing his cheeks, soft skin brushing against your fingertips. One of his hands skates up your back, the other slides up your jaw, cups the back of your neck.

You wonder when you started letting him touch you like that.

He treats you so gently, so unlike the overwhelming emotion that crashes into you. Both lightweight and heavy, you feel swept under, you just want to anchor onto something —

His lips touch yours and everything falls into place.

~

"How'd you know about her?"

Oliver could make it easy for him. He won't, because getting a reaction out of Sae is much more fun. Instead, he tries and fails to feign ignorance. "Who?"

"My girlfriend."

Oliver leans his head back against the wall, a playful smile over his face. "So she is your girlfriend. Loyal too."

Sae narrows his eyes.

"Relax. I just talked to her at one of those events you brought her to."

"You talked to her?"

Oliver gets the sense that Sae is trying to make it sound like a normal question, but all it sounds is exactly how annoyed he feels.

"She just said she's waiting for you."

notes: unbelonging is not a word, i used it anyways on purpose to strengthen the idea of something not belonging. nectared and lightstream are also not real words, but i like them. twin wine glasses is kind of a reference to twin flames, though i do think you and sae are actually soulmates. i wonder if people can be both. "the weight you carry is so heavy when you're carrying it yourself" is a double meaning, not just your body weight but everything else you carry too.

call it what it is: / a love created, hand-sculpted to fit. / a silent reprieve, / to be seen, / constellations bursting at the seams. / unfounded heart, / a tepid start,/ an easy, soft-sweet thing. / say what this really is. / place it on the justice scales of the abyss. / what you're meant to be / versus what you choose / you can decide you have a right to this.

[tajmutthall]

" it’s a long, difficult process, and you can’t do it alone, and you might need medication and therapy".

I have been through this. (More than once.) Nothing more irritating than people telling me to just do [whatever]. And frustrating. Because, if I could do it, I would**. Anything. I had finally made it to the doctor's office because of excruciating nerve pain. The only thing to read was a brochure on the table. It was a checklist of symptoms. I realized that almost all of them applied to me, and the conclusion was: you might be depressed. Talk to your doctor immediately. Since I was there to see a doctor anyway, I mentioned it to them. They gave me a referral.

Even though I was the one who initiated it, I resented every minute of the first few sessions with the counselor. Like, I'm smart, I'm more than competent, I'm intelligent, and I don't want to answer your questions and I don't want to do the things you suggest.

surprisingly, when I finally got through that hurdle, I started to improve slowly, to the point where they were able to give me a prescription, which helped immensely. which led me to gradually awakening to the fact that I hadn't felt truly happy in years. That my energy had been flagging for a long time. In retrospect, I was so lucky to have those resources.

** but, yes, as I said having been through it more than once, it is true that doing anything is an achievement. Did you get out of bed today but you couldn't yesterday? Make yourself a checklist of "to do today "with one item: get out of bed. Check it off the list. You are awesome! Tomorrow, use the same checklist. Maybe in a day or so, add one more thing to the list. One thing that you can check off. Put on clothing. Feed the dog and put away the dog bowl afterwards. Step outside. Good luck to you all.

doing anything is hard when you’re depressed but sitting around in apathy ain’t gonna help. get the fuck up. seriously. do one thing. open the curtains. dust your monitor. throw away those leftovers in the fridge from last week. clean the bathroom sink. its an ocean of bullshit and you need to swim. break the cycle of misery and guilt and apathy so you can get better. its hard. do it anyway. recovery starts with breaking the cycle. baby steps, but steps.

[crowleysgirl56]

The below quote was grabbed from the David Tennant Facebook page, and answer to a fan question about what head-canons David has about Crowley and Aziraphale, asked at Dutch Comic Con.

"They hang out, they’ve been best friends through eternity. They are not very good at admiting that. Crowley is not very good at admiting that, Crowley is a bit reluctant to admit how much Aziraphale means to him, how much he needs Aziraphale... So I think they do everything, all sorts of things together, some of which we may never see, we can only imagine... You join the dots, I don't know! You lot are the ones who write that sort of thing, not me. I'm sure you'd know better than I do what they get up to when the cameras are off."

…DAVID IS AWARE OF OUR FANFICTION!

*runs around in panicked circles*

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

141 x reader reacting to incel/redpill content?

Poison in the Algorithm

Pairing: Poly!141 x Reader

Warnings: Misogyny/redpill content (as a narrative device), emotional distress, swearing, comfort, light suggestive references, mentions of toxic internet culture, soft polyamory, fluff, hurt/comfort, domestic dynamics, protective!141

Author's Note: This one-shot explores the impact of redpill/incel rhetoric when it bleeds into everyday life—and how love, trust, and shared warmth push it back out. Featuring your favorite grumpy-soft boys being protective, supportive, and just a little bit petty.

Summary: A spiral of doomscrolling lands you in the middle of a redpill echo chamber. Your boys aren’t having any of it—not with you, not in this house.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The video’s thumbnail was obnoxious. Red text. Squinting man in wraparound sunglasses. Buzzwords like “WOMEN OVER 25” and “HIT THE WALL” punched across the screen like it was selling a political thriller. You pressed play.

Ten minutes later, your stomach hurt.

You didn’t even realize Johnny was home until he was suddenly standing behind you, towel still looped around his neck, a scowl etched into his face.

“What the fuck is that?” His accent sliced through the audio before you even registered he was there.

You startled, flipping your phone over. ”Just—something that popped up. I was curious.”

“Curious?” Johnny snatched the phone like it personally offended him. “Jesus, babe. This is Andrew Tate’s discount cousin.”

You laughed, thin and nervous. “I didn’t think it’d mess with me this much. I just wanted to see what people are watching.”

Johnny scrolled. “They’re not watching. They’re inhaling this shit like it’s gospel.” His voice was sharp, but his eyes were worried. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The content was stupid, you knew that—but somewhere between the charts, the smugness, and the cold detachment with which women were dissected like faulty products, something inside you cracked.

And Johnny saw it.

“Hey,” he said, voice softening. “Don't you dare believe a fuckin’ word of it.”

From the hallway, Kyle’s voice carried in. “What’s going on?”

“She’s watching incel videos,” Johnny called.

Kyle appeared in seconds, dishrag in one hand, brows raised. “Oh, hell no.”

You gave a weak smile. “It’s not like I agree—“

“Doesn’t matter,” Kyle cut in, eyes kind but firm. “That shit gets in your head. You let enough of it in, it’ll start whispering lies in your own voice.”

You tried to brush it off. “I just wanted to understand it.”

John’s heavy footsteps hit the hardwood floor before you heard him speak. “You don’t need to understand it, sweetheart. You just need to stay away from it.”

He walked in wearing an old army tee, sleeves tight on his forearms, mug in hand. He looked like he’d seen this before—like he’d dealt with more than a few young soldiers who came back from leave parroting the same poison.

“They want you to question yourself,” he said, sitting beside you. “That’s the whole point. Convince you you’re not enough so they can sell you the illusion of control.”

You stared at the muted video still playing on your phone. “But what if I am too much? Too opinionated, too independent, too—“

“You’re ours,” Simon interrupted.

He was leaning against the doorway, black hoodie, hood up, mask half pulled down. His voice was dead calm. Dangerous.

“If you ever repeat that shit about yourself again, I’ll break every one of their microphones and necks.”

You blinked at him.

“They want you insecure because insecure people are easier to manipulate, he said. But you? You’ve got four highly trained men wrapped around your little finger. And not one of us would change a damn thing.”

John leaned over and kissed your temple. “Exactly.”

Kyle knelt in front of you, hand on your knee. “You’re not ‘high-value’ like some commodity. You’re just you. Funny. Fiery. Gentle. Smart. Real.”

Johnny nudged your shoulder with his own. ”Also ridiculously hot. Don’t forget that part.”

That got a chuckle out of you.

Simon crossed the room and sat on the arm of the couch beside you. “Tell me something, he said quietly. Do you think I’d share a bed, a life, with someone who didn’t make me feel safe?”

You shook your head.

“Exactly,” he whispered. “You’re the only soft thing I’ve got left. And I’m not giving that up for anyone’s idea of what’s ‘marketable.’”

Kyle grinned. “Besides. If you were some ‘obedient tradwife’ type, Johnny would spontaneously combust.”

“I would,” Johnny said. “I’d set the fuckin’ kitchen on fire out of spite.”

“I’d help,” Kyle added.

“And I’d be recording,” John muttered.

You were laughing now, tucked between them all like you’d never left. Warm. Safe.

Johnny looked at your phone again. “You want me to throw this against a wall?”

Simon held out his hand. “Give it here. I’ll queue up some actual content—cat videos, maybe. Slow cooking. Paint mixing.”

“You’re such a softie,” Johnny teased.

“No. I’m just anti-bullshit.”

John’s arm slid around your shoulders. “You know what I think?” he murmured. “Let them sit behind their cameras preaching loneliness. Meanwhile, you’ve got four men who’d die for you—and live for you, too.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Kyle leaned up and kissed your cheek. “You’re so much more than they’ll ever deserve.”

You let the phone slide off the couch and buried your face in Johnny’s chest. The video kept playing, muffled by cushions. But it didn’t matter.

Because you couldn’t hear it anymore.

Only the heartbeat of the men who loved you—four anchors holding you above the noise.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[elfwreck]

This stems from, in addition to the constant problem of "everyone wants to get out of work they don't need to do," the major problem with most modern education systems:

They grade on correct answers, not on learning.

Students are rewarded for handing in correct answers. Some answers are more subjective than others - there is no "correct" analysis of a movie they watched in class, but there are certainly wrong ones.

Students are not rewarded for learning the subject matter unless that also produces "correct answers" on homework and/or tests.

Every student knows other students who know fuck-all about the topic but have managed to produce Correct Answers via some trick - whether that's copying answers or stealing the test questions in advance or some neat algorithmic trick learned online ("tests by X company follow one of these three patterns of multiple choice...") or advanced bullshit talents for writing essays that sound coherent but say nothing. Or wheedling their way into extra chances, or just cramming hard the night before the test and holding all those facts in their head for 15 hours and not a moment longer.

And that's without getting into "his father's on the Board of Trustees so the school absolutely will not fail him." Not talking about corruption - just tricks to produce Correct Answers without knowing the material.

Every student probably knows someone who knows the material well - but cannot produce Correct Answers on demand, and is failing or close to it. From students whose disabilities aren't being addressed (can't read or write fast enough to fill out the tests on time; can't study in a noisy crowded room), to those whose home life doesn't allow them to finish homework, to those who are sick often enough that it affects their grades, to those who are brilliant and so bored they can't (or just won't) focus on the tests far below their level.

Most students figure out by high school that "get good grades" and "know the material" are two entirely separate skills.

And if they don't get a break from school before they jump into college... they carry that awareness to college.

Which also... utterly fails to focus on "learn the material" instead of "produce correct answers."

They know damn well it's cheating. But the penalty for cheating is not any higher than the penalty for not producing correct answers. It might even be less; getting caught cheating often comes with a do-over, do-better option.

And most of the people going into Nursing or Architecture or Psychology or Engineering, aren't doing it because they have an extreme passion for the topic and they really really want to improve other people's lives.

They have an interest in the topic - which doesn't lead to good grades on its own, regardless of how much understanding they have - and they want a career that makes solid money.

You get the career with good grades, not with understanding of the topic. The school's hope is that "good grades" are because of "understanding the topic" - but there's no direct connection.

ChatGPT just makes that gap wider.

The fix is not "ban ChatGPT for schoolwork" (Not because "we shouldn't ban it" but because it's a bad idea to pick impossible goals. Schools do not have the ability to remove access to ChatGPT. Action to restrict or end ChatGPT & similar apps has to be outside of the lens of "good for students.")

The fix is, "overhaul the education system so that grades are based on learning the material."

That's big, and it's an ugly fight. Among other things, it would mean disconnecting age from grade level. It means refocusing grade schools and middle schools on academics and removing some of their babysitter functions - in an era where those functions are essential to keep the economy running, because capitalism needs all the parents to be employees.

As long as grades are based on putting Correct Answers On The Paper, answer-generators that are 75-ish percent correct are going to be widely used.

The college fix is easy enough: More labs. More in-person, hands-on activities that can't be skipped. Make some of them essential for graduation - and make it so straight-A's in paper classes and D's in labwork raises a huge red flag and kicks off an investigation.

Of course, for that... colleges need to allocate space, time, and teachers to lab classes small enough for the teacher to understand what each student is doing.

And again, actual learning does not align with the goals of capitalism.

Right now, there's a few odd professionals here & there who cheated their way through college with ChatGPT or something like it. Watch for warning flags and be ready to switch if you catch them.

If the AI industry doesn't collapse in the next three years or so, in the next 5-10 we'll have a LOT of people with professional degrees or certificates that have a terrifying lack of comprehension of what they're doing.

Some of them will figure out pretty damn quick that they can't build bridges/assist at surgery/calculate a flight path etc. But of course they won't want to give up the career they've "worked hard for."

...They'll apply for inspector jobs. That's much safer for everyone, right?

ur future nurse is using chapgpt to glide thru school u better take care of urself

[moonlight-lillies]

jinu x reader submission for series by anonymous. prologue. 12:11 AM - saturday

“what ever did happen to the saja boys?”

you cringed at the mention of them. the saja boys, a demonic boy group that did minimal to destroy the honmoon. many people had forgotten about them, summing them up to a ‘one-hit-wonder’. but you knew the truth, you knew it all. from the demon world, to the hunters, to the honmoon. you were the only person who knew everything in full detail.

you weren’t a demon, and you sure weren’t a hunter. no, you were someone in-between. the gray area of the demons and the hunters. a paritegi. named after the goddess that leads people to the underworld, your job is to lead the hunters to their full potential, and to lead all that wish to help gwi-ma to his realm.

when the saja boys were banished behind the honmoon, you knew you would never see him again. kim jinu, your boyfriend.

you had known each other through your time in the underworld, but you were always a fleeting moment of jinu’s life. a passerby. when demons with an elaborate plan fail, they are ridiculed. many stay in hiding.

since the saja boys failed, they were definitely being ridiculed. you were already in gwi-ma's realm for strictly business, but if jinu never showed himself, you would rarely see him in passing.

you took a sip of your drink, "probably what happens to all nugu groups, one hit song and then disbandment."

yeojin, a long time friend of your was a journalist, more so a gossip columnist. she was looking for any trace of the once hit group. it was hard to keep a facade around her.

"i just don't get how people like that can just disappear," she looked at you, her expression worn from the late nights she has spent talking to you.

you shrugged, looking towards the street. and there it was, a rip in the honmoon.

it was just strengthened, it couldn't mean that gwi-ma was already planning something. but it wasn't the rip that caught your eye, it was the five men that came out of the rip.

no way it could be what you thought. different clothes, a different look on their face, it was them.

"sorry, i just remembered i have to do something." you said to yeojin.

"oh.." she responded, tucking her things away.

once she left you had many questions. and only one person could answer them.

gwi-ma.

a/n: really quick prologue but i'm excited to start a series! this is just some world building and minor character intro!

see you soon!

[formulafanfics13]

Caught in 4K - LN4

Masterlist

Singapore was thick with heat.

Not just the kind that clung to your skin and soaked through your fireproofs, but the kind that pulsed beneath the surface, coiled under media obligations and sponsor smiles. The start of a race weekend was always a circus.

And today's press conference had started fine.

Routine questions. Engine upgrades. Strategy speculation. Softball questions from regional outlets about heat and tyre wear.

Until: "Lando," said the journalist in row two, voice sweet but too sharp, "can you clarify the identity of the girl you were seen leaving a club with in Monaco last Friday? Because that... wasn't your girlfriend, right?"

The whole room tilted.

Every driver on the panel turned to look at him.

Max blinked. Charles's jaw twitched. George raised his eyebrows so high they nearly disappeared into his forehead. Even Logan leaned forward slightly, like did we just hear that right?

Lando froze. He didn't laugh. He didn't blink. He didn't deflect. He just froze.

A beat of silence. Then another.

  "I-what?" he said, voice cracking slightly. "I don't know what you mean."

But it was too late.

The moment had already hit the airwaves. The broadcast team clipped it instantly. Every screen in the McLaren hospitality lit up with that one sentence, "Because that wasn't your girlfriend, right?"

And she was watching. Right there. Still wearing her pass, tucked into a McLaren hoodie, one leg folded under her on the hospitality lounge sofa. Water bottle untouched. Phone buzzing like it knew.

The room went still.

The intern by the coffee machine slowly turned away. One of the McLaren engineers looked up from his laptop and immediately looked back down. A PR rep muttered "Jesus Christ" under their breath and quietly started typing at lightning speed.

She didn't react. Not outwardly. Not yet.

But the colour drained from her face. Just a little. Her lips parted. Her eyes stayed on the screen as Lando sat there in Monaco lighting, visibly panicking.

"I uh- look, it was nothing. I don't know where that came from."

"Was it someone from your team?" the journalist pressed. "Because the photos don't-"

"There are no photos," Lando cut in, too sharp. Too defensive. "And it's got nothing to do with the race, so I don't know why-"

"Just to clarify," came another voice from the back of the room, soft, curious, twisting the knife, "are you denying you were in Monte Carlo last Friday?"

"Fuck's sake," he muttered under his breath.

Oscar, sitting three seats over, didn't say a word, but looked absolutely horrified.

Carlos turned in his chair, openly staring. Lewis's eyebrows were drawn low, unreadable.

And her? She stood. Slowly. Quietly.

Didn't say a word. Didn't cause a scene. Just walked out of the hospitality suite, sunglasses still perched on her head, water bottle still clutched in one hand.

The silence in the press room was deafening.

Not actual silence, there were still flashes from cameras, the faint clatter of someone adjusting a mic stand, but it was the kind of emotional silence that thickens the air. That presses on the skin.

The kind that happens when everyone knows a line's just been crossed.

Lando's ears were ringing.

He didn't even know what he'd said anymore. He could feel the heat rising in his neck, crawling up to his ears, bleeding out onto the surface of his skin like panic sweat. His knee bounced under the table. He shoved one hand into the pocket of his jeans to stop it from shaking.

To his left, Max leaned back slightly in his chair. His expression was unreadable. Arms folded. Eyes fixed not on Lando, but somewhere just past him, like he didn't want to look directly at him.

Charles didn't bother hiding it. He stared straight at him, brow furrowed, mouth twitching at the corners like he wanted to speak but knew it wasn't the moment.

Oscar sat two seats over, shoulders drawn in like he was visibly cringing. He'd pressed his mic button earlier to answer a question and hadn't let go. Just sat there now with the light still on, lips tight, staring at the table.

Even Lewis was quiet. Still. Watching.

He didn't need to say anything. The disappointment was in the stillness of his posture, the way his jaw tensed, the way he slowly crossed one leg over the other and refused to acknowledge the camera in front of him.

No one joked. No one teased. No one saved him. Because they all loved her.

The grid didn't agree on much, not on strategy, or teams, or who was most likely to go three-wide into turn one without warning. But when it came to Lando's girlfriend?

They all liked her.

She was warm. Funny. The kind of girl who remembered birthdays and asked about injured wrists and meant it. The kind who brought baked goods to debriefs. Who sat quietly in corners of hospitality with headphones on during practice so she wouldn't distract anyone. Who made shy interns feel like someone saw them.

She was real. And she loved him.

Everyone knew it. Which is why they were all sitting there like this. Silent. Frozen. Judging.

Across the paddock, the team principals were spread across the hospitality food court. Casual post-practice energy. Espresso cups. Sliced fruit. Soft chatter over contract talk and tyre allocations.

They were watching the press conference on the mounted screen above the coffee bar.

Christian Horner had just lifted his cappuccino when the question hit:

"Lando, can you clarify the identity of the girl you were seen leaving a club with in Monaco last Friday? Because that... wasn't your girlfriend, right?"

The room stopped.

"What the fuck-" Fred Vasseur said around a mouthful of melon.

Zak Brown, who had been halfway through pouring oat milk into a to-go cup, missed the mark entirely. The milk hit the counter. He didn't even blink.

Guenther stared at the screen like it personally offended him.

"I'm sorry," Andrea Stella said to no one, "is this live?"

It was. The red corner light said ON AIR. The McLaren badge gleamed under studio lighting. And Lando? Lando looked like he'd seen a ghost.

The camera had cut to him close-up now, face tight, lips parted, hands twitching.

Christian was the first to say it. Quiet. Icy. "Idiot."

Otmar shook his head. "She's in Singapore."

"She's here, in the garage," Andrea added, quieter.

Across the room, Toto said nothing. He didn't need to. His jaw was locked. Eyes on the screen. Arms crossed.

A full storm brewing just behind his calm.

Because he'd met her. He'd spoken to her. He'd liked her. And now he was watching a young man with the world at his feet unravel it in real-time, with cameras rolling and microphones hot.

Back in the press room, the moderator tried to redirect.

"Right, let's move on, next question is for George-"

But the tone was already gone.

No one laughed. No one followed. The boys stayed quiet.

And Lando? He stared at the floor, the hum of his mic still live, the press lights suddenly ten times too bright.

The press conference ended without ceremony. No jokes. No fist bumps. No post-interview banter.

Just a quiet "Thank you" from the moderator and the soft clatter of mics being turned off. Journalists filed out slowly, their expressions somewhere between smug and stunned. Even the PR officers didn't linger, they all had damage control to do.

Within minutes, the room was empty. Except for the boys.

Lando sat in his chair like the air had left the room. Hands in his lap. Shoulders curled in. Face pale, eyes unfocused.

No one said anything at first. Then Charles stood. Paced once. Twice. Hands fisting at his sides like he couldn't physically sit still with the rage building in his chest. "What the fuck was that?" he finally snapped.

Lando blinked. Looked up. "I didn't, I wasn't thinking-"

"Yeah, no shit."

Max exhaled heavily. "You couldn't have lied better?"

George leaned forward on his elbows. "Are you serious right now?"

Oscar didn't speak. He just sat there, arms folded, face unreadable. But he wouldn't look at Lando. Not once. Eyes locked on the empty glass of water in front of him, jaw clenched so hard it looked painful.

"Is it true?" Carlos asked.

Lando didn't answer.

"Lando."

He nodded. Slowly.

Charles stepped back like he'd been slapped. "You cheated on her?"

"Yes."

Max's voice was low. Flat. "How many times?"

Lando hesitated. "...More than once."

The silence that followed was visceral. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just final. Like something had split. Like something important had broken between all of them.

Lewis stood from his seat slowly. Walked over to the table and picked up his water bottle without a word. He looked at Lando. Just looked. Then shook his head once, slow, disgusted, and turned away.

Oscar finally spoke. His voice was soft. But it hit like a sledgehammer. "She loved you, man."

Lando didn't move.

"She defended you. Every time someone talked shit. You had everything. And you just-"

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

And that's when the door opened. Zak Brown walked in first. Andrea Stella followed. They were both mid-conversation, casual, but clearly not happy. 

Zak stopped walking. Andrea's smile faded instantly. They both looked at the boys, then at Lando, still seated, still hunched, still small.

"Someone want to tell me what's going on?" Zak asked carefully.

No one answered. Charles sat back down, arms crossed tightly. George glanced at the ceiling like he couldn't believe what was happening. Oscar finally stood and walked toward the door, shoulder brushing Zak's on the way out. "Ask him," was all he said.

Zak looked at Lando. So did Andrea.

"...Well?" Zak asked. "What's the truth?"

Lando opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, "It's true," he muttered. "The question they asked me. It's true." He took a shaky breath, "They asked about a girl in Monaco. She wasn't my girlfriend. I... I cheated."

Silence. Andrea blinked.

Zak didn't move. He just stared. "And you're telling me," Zak said slowly, "you knew she was here. In our hospitality. Wearing our badge. Watching our press feed. And you still let that question hit the air without having the fucking decency to handle it like a man?"

Lando didn't answer.

Andrea exhaled sharply. "Jesus Christ."

Zak ran a hand through his hair. "How many times?"

Lando flinched. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I didn't think it would come out like that-"

"But it did, Lando," Andrea snapped. "It came out. On air. In a press conference. In front of twenty drivers and the whole paddock and her."

Zak's voice dropped. "You embarrassed her. You embarrassed us. And you made this team look like a fucking joke."

Lando swallowed. "I'm sorry."

It was quiet. Weak. Useless. Zak didn't accept it. He just turned to Andrea. "We need a plan. Now. Before this buries us."

Andrea nodded grimly. "Start with a written apology. Then someone finds her."

They both walked out without another word. The door shut behind them. And Lando? Still sitting in the same chair. Alone now. More alone than he'd ever felt in his life.

She didn't remember how she got to the back lot. Only that she'd walked out of McLaren hospitality in a daze, staff looking anywhere but at her, the air around her thick and too hot and silent. The world buzzed but her ears were ringing. The camera crews had moved on. Practice was over. No one followed her.

She ended up behind the paddock tower, a place few people wandered, shaded and quiet, empty folding chairs leaned against a chainlink fence.

She sat down in one. Hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Sunglasses on. Phone off. Still. Just still. Until a shadow fell across her. She looked up. Lewis.

No press smile. No soft grin. Just calm, serious Lewis, hand outstretched, voice low. "Come on, darling."

She blinked. Her lip quivered. But she stood. He didn't say anything else. Just placed a hand between her shoulder blades and guided her out of the alleyway, through the maze of back corridors, past catering, past loading trucks.

And when they turned the next corner,  Toto. And George. Waiting by a private gate behind Mercedes.

She stopped walking. Her heart broke all over again.

Toto didn't speak. He just opened his arms. And she stepped into them. Buried her face in his shirt. Let herself breathe again.

George rubbed her back. Lewis placed one hand on her hair.

It wasn't dramatic. She didn't sob. But her fingers curled in Toto's shirt like she was drowning and he was the only dry land she could remember.

"Come," Toto said after a moment. "Let's go somewhere quiet."

His office was cool. Clean. A small fan hummed near the floor. There was tea on a side table, untouched. A monitor still glowed with timing sheets.

She sat on the low leather couch. Lewis and George stayed near the door. Toto sat across from her.

None of them rushed her.

After a while, she whispered, "I didn't know what to do."

Lewis crouched beside her. His voice was gentle. "We can book you a flight tonight. We can get you out of here by morning. Or we can get you somewhere else to stay. Whatever you need."

She shook her head. "I'm supposed to be staying with him."

Silence. George looked at Lewis. Then at Toto.

She kept her voice quiet. "He's in the hotel. We're sharing. I just, I don't know what I'm allowed to do. I don't want to... I don't want to cause more mess."

George stepped forward. Sat beside her. "Then don't stay with him."

"I don't have another room."

"Yes, you do," he said simply.

She looked at him.

George gave her a soft, crooked smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "You're staying on the Mercedes floor."

She blinked.

"I'll bunk in with Lewis. He's used to my snoring."

Lewis chuckled, a little tired. "Sadly, I am."

Toto nodded once. "We'll have the room ready in ten minutes."

"But-"

"No arguments," George said gently, nudging her shoulder. "You think we're letting you sleep next to him after what he did? You think we're gonna let you fall asleep wondering if you're even allowed to be angry?"

She swallowed hard.

"You're staying with us. End of discussion," Lewis added.

"And if he tries to find you," Toto said, voice low and final, "he comes through this team."

Something about that made her breath catch. She nodded. Whispered, "Thank you."

George leaned over and pulled her into a hug. "You don't owe us anything. But you're not alone, alright?"

Lewis kissed the top of her head. "Get through tonight. We've got you."

And Toto? He didn't say anything else.

He just placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it the softest squeeze. A promise in silence.

[mmmmilo00]

Sevikas love languages

Modern au

I think one of Sevikas love language is definitely act of service. She's always there to do whatever it is in her power to make you feel comfortable and safe!

It could be as small as her peeling your fruits so you don't have to, or opening jars that are too hard for you to open. She'll even detangle your earphones, when your too frustrated to handle that.

She's always there to offer her help, support and her love, without ever being overwhelming. She understands that you are a capable adult of handling your own stuff but she also wants to spoil you at the best of her capabilities!!

You've made a comment about how you liked oranges? Tomorrow there's 2 bags of them waiting for you on the kitchen counter. You've absentmindedly complained about how your back hurts from sitting around all day in your office? She'll religiously apply soothing cream on your back, every single night before going to sleep.

She's the type of lover that always has you in her mind. For example,she's a pretty light sleeper so she'll often wake up at night randomly. She'll definitely use that moment to make sure your head is positioned correctly on the pillow so you won't deal with cramps in the morning:

It's summer, the weather is super hot and your apartments AC is broken. Sevika wakes up slightly irritated and sweating like crazy. As she tries to get up, she feels a weight on her body. She looks down and sees your legs sandwiching her torso. One of your arm is on her chest while the other is behind your head. You look like a mess and she's genuinely wondering how you're able to pull that position. She huffs at your nonsense and slowly detangles herself from you, pushes you on your back and places both your arms at your side. "There, baby. I bet that's more comfortable" she hums softly. She's not expecting any answer, but when your face scrunches and she hears you grumble, she can't help but softly chuckle at your attitude before landing a soft peck on your forehead.

Contrary to popular beliefs,I do think she shows a bit of physical touch when she expresses her love for you.

Maybe not in the beginning of your relationship,where she's super hesitant on being vulnerable with you in fear it will backfire on her. However,as months go by,she'll start leaning more into your touches.

If you're a clingier person when it comes to your partner,it may come off as overwhelming for her at first. She's not used to sharing so much of herself with people,and she definitely isn't too educated on what to do. She's lowkey awkward lmaooo

But,as mentioned,she grows out of it, and starts seeking your affectionate touches more frequently. She'll kiss your cheek in public whenever she misses you,even when you're literally next to her. She'll hold your hands in her big ones and rub your palm with her thumb whenever you're anxious to give you some sort of comfort. She'll even twirl your hair whenever SHE'S anxious hehe

And her hugs!!! Her hugs!! It's like being engulfed in a giant soft marshmallow. Heres a cute scenario that's been on my mindddd:

It's been a long day of work for you and you're honestly so exhausted from the huge amount of workload you had to do. As you drag yourself to your shared appartment with the last bit of energy that you have, you start fumbling for your keys. Once you open the door door, you're met with Sevika in her kitchen apron and fuzzy socks.

"Hey sweetheart, took you some time" she softly questioned. You could barely answer her as you were fighting to get your coat off of you. She smirked slightly before getting closer and helping you unbutton your cause of stress. "Here, let me help"

Her smell was so intoxicating, so sweet, so like her that you just melted on her,making her gasp softly as she quickly held you with her big strong arms so you didn't fall. This was honestly the life, you softly closed your eyes and snuggled deeper into her chest as she softly rubbed your back.

"Missed you too hun" she softly hummed before kissing the top of your head.

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Requests are open! I got no more ideas lol maybe they'll inspire me;) No NSFW obvv