#strategies in teaching reading

[psy-ay-ay]

oh man it's literally 6:40 am and i haven't slept so i dont wanna talk too much but

taichi suo-san conversation in vol 27

[loganremade]

i enjoyed teaching and working with smaller groups this semester and i feel like i’m getting better at it

[m-0thmans]

every time i go volunteer at the elementary school im like. oh my god. how do you do this every single day

[justsaying4041]

Literacy Support - It Starts at Home!

In today’s fast-paced world, the responsibility for fostering literacy often seems to rest solely on schools. However, foundational literacy starts long before a child enters the classroom. Parents and guardians are their children’s first and most influential teachers. By embracing this critical role, families can lay the groundwork for a lifetime of learning and literacy success. Why Literacy…

[psychemochanight]

Dick is used to doing everything on the move, so he doesn't even notice that his behavior is not "normal".

When his mom was teaching him history, he was hanging upside down from the trapeze, trying to do a new routine.

When his dad was teaching him math, he was calculating the angles of his jumps and spins in the air.

Language? He practiced a new language on the trapeze with his parents, associating new words with the routines. If he made a mistake (either with routine or with language), they would start over so he could learn correctly.

He likes to read, but not while sitting. He usually reads while hanging upside down or swinging.

When Bruce receives the same message from his teachers for the fifth time in a row, saying that his son ward is "brilliant, a genius, but lazy", Bruce doesn't understand, since Dick always has his schoolwork done. How could he be lazy?

That is until he discovers that nine-year-old Dick is doing his homework while doing six other things at once, including practicing jumping routines, learning a new language and also planning a strategy to contain the Penguin.

Bruce: Chum, you have ADHD.

Dick: Why do you think that? *he says while hanging from the chandelier, with a math book in one hand and a device he just built that only he knows what it does in the other hand, until a second ago singing a song in a language Bruce didn't even know the little boy could speak*

[bookishdiplodocus]

The Neurodivergent Writer’s Guide to Fun and Productivity

(Even when life beats you down)

Look, I’m a mom, I have ADHD, I’m a spoonie. To say that I don’t have heaps of energy to spare and I struggle with consistency is an understatement. For years, I tried to write consistently, but I couldn’t manage to keep up with habits I built and deadlines I set.

So fuck neurodivergent guides on building habits, fuck “eat the frog first”, fuck “it’s all in the grind”, and fuck “you just need time management”—here is how I manage to write often and a lot.

Focus on having fun, not on the outcome

This was the groundwork I had to lay before I could even start my streak. At an online writing conference, someone said: “If you push yourself and meet your goals, and you publish your book, but you haven’t enjoyed the process… What’s the point?” and hoo boy, that question hit me like a truck.

I was so caught up in the narrative of “You’ve got to show up for what’s important” and “Push through if you really want to get it done”. For a few years, I used to read all these productivity books about grinding your way to success, and along the way I started using the same language as they did. And I notice a lot of you do so, too.

But your brain doesn’t like to grind. No-one’s brain does, and especially no neurodivergent brain. If having to write gives you stress or if you put pressure on yourself for not writing (enough), your brain’s going to say: “Huh. Writing gives us stress, we’re going to try to avoid it in the future.”

So before I could even try to write regularly, I needed to teach my brain once again that writing is fun. I switched from countable goals like words or time to non-countable goals like “fun” and “flow”.

Rewire my brain: writing is fun and I’m good at it

I used everything I knew about neuroscience, psychology, and social sciences. These are some of the things I did before and during a writing session. Usually not all at once, and after a while I didn’t need these strategies anymore, although I sometimes go back to them when necessary.

I journalled all the negative thoughts I had around writing and try to reason them away, using arguments I knew in my heart were true. (The last part is the crux.) Imagine being supportive to a writer friend with crippling insecurities, only the friend is you.

Not setting any goals didn’t work for me—I still nurtured unwanted expectations. So I did set goals, but made them non-countable, like “have fun”, “get in the flow”, or “write”. Did I write? Yes. Success! Your brain doesn’t actually care about how high the goal is, it cares about meeting whatever goal you set.

I didn’t even track how many words I wrote. Not relevant.

I set an alarm for a short time (like 10 minutes) and forbade myself to exceed that time. The idea was that if I write until I run out of mojo, my brain learns that writing drains the mojo. If I write for 10 minutes and have fun, my brain learns that writing is fun and wants to do it again.

Reinforce the fact that writing makes you happy by rewarding your brain immediately afterwards. You know what works best for you: a walk, a golden sticker, chocolate, cuddle your dog, whatever makes you happy.

I conditioned myself to associate writing with specific stimuli: that album, that smell, that tea, that place. Any stimulus can work, so pick one you like. I consciously chose several stimuli so I could switch them up, and the conditioning stays active as long as I don’t muddle it with other associations.

Use a ritual to signal to your brain that Writing Time is about to begin to get into the zone easier and faster. I guess this is a kind of conditioning as well? Meditation, music, lighting a candle… Pick your stimulus and stick with it.

Specifically for rewiring my brain, I started a new WIP that had no emotional connotations attached to it, nor any pressure to get finished or, heaven forbid, meet quality norms. I don’t think these techniques above would have worked as well if I had applied them on writing my novel.

It wasn’t until I could confidently say I enjoyed writing again, that I could start building up a consistent habit. No more pushing myself.

I lowered my definition for success

When I say that nowadays I write every day, that’s literally it. I don’t set out to write 1,000 or 500 or 10 words every day (tried it, failed to keep up with it every time)—the only marker for success when it comes to my streak is to write at least one word, even on the days when my brain goes “naaahhh”. On those days, it suffices to send myself a text with a few keywords or a snippet. It’s not “success on a technicality (derogatory)”, because most of those snippets and ideas get used in actual stories later. And if they don’t, they don’t. It’s still writing. No writing is ever wasted.

A side note on high expectations, imposter syndrome, and perfectionism

Obviously, “Setting a ridiculously low goal” isn’t something I invented. I actually got it from those productivity books, only I never got it to work. I used to tell myself: “It’s okay if I don’t write for an hour, because my goal is to write for 20 minutes and if I happen to keep going for, say, an hour, that’s a bonus.” Right? So I set the goal for 20 minutes, wrote for 35 minutes, and instead of feeling like I exceeded my goal, I felt disappointed because apparently I was still hoping for the bonus scenario to happen. I didn’t know how to set a goal so low and believe it.

I think the trick to making it work this time lies more in the groundwork of training my brain to enjoy writing again than in the fact that my daily goal is ridiculously low. I believe I’m a writer, because I prove it to myself every day. Every success I hit reinforces the idea that I’m a writer. It’s an extra ward against imposter syndrome.

Knowing that I can still come up with a few lines of dialogue on the Really Bad Days—days when I struggle to brush my teeth, the day when I had a panic attack in the supermarket, or the day my kid got hit by a car—teaches me that I can write on the mere Bad-ish Days.

The more I do it, the more I do it

The irony is that setting a ridiculously low goal almost immediately led to writing more and more often. The most difficult step is to start a new habit. After just a few weeks, I noticed that I needed less time and energy to get into the zone. I no longer needed all the strategies I listed above.

Another perk I noticed, was an increased writing speed. After just a few months of writing every day, my average speed went from 600 words per hour to 1,500 wph, regularly exceeding 2,000 wph without any loss of quality.

Talking about quality: I could see myself becoming a better writer with every passing month. Writing better dialogue, interiority, chemistry, humour, descriptions, whatever: they all improved noticeably, and I wasn’t a bad writer to begin with.

The increased speed means I get more done with the same amount of energy spent. I used to write around 2,000-5,000 words per month, some months none at all. Nowadays I effortlessly write 30,000 words per month. I didn’t set out to write more, it’s just a nice perk.

Look, I’m not saying you should write every day if it doesn’t work for you. My point is: the more often you write, the easier it will be.

No pressure

Yes, I’m still working on my novel, but I’m not racing through it. I produce two or three chapters per month, and the rest of my time goes to short stories my brain keeps projecting on the inside of my eyelids when I’m trying to sleep. I might as well write them down, right?

These short stories started out as self-indulgence, and even now that I take them more seriously, they are still just for me. I don’t intend to ever publish them, no-one will ever read them, they can suck if they suck. The unintended consequence was that my short stories are some of my best writing, because there’s no pressure, it’s pure fun.

Does it make sense to spend, say, 90% of my output on stories no-one else will ever read? Wouldn’t it be better to spend all that creative energy and time on my novel? Well, yes. If you find the magic trick, let me know, because I haven’t found it yet. The short stories don’t cannibalize on the novel, because they require different mindsets. If I stopped writing the short stories, I wouldn’t produce more chapters. (I tried. Maybe in the future? Fingers crossed.)

Don’t wait for inspiration to hit

There’s a quote by Picasso: “Inspiration hits, but it has to find you working.” I strongly agree. Writing is not some mystical, muse-y gift, it’s a skill and inspiration does exist, but usually it’s brought on by doing the work. So just get started and inspiration will come to you.

Accountability and community

Having social factors in your toolbox is invaluable. I have an offline writing friend I take long walks with, I host a monthly writing club on Discord, and I have another group on Discord that holds me accountable every day. They all motivate me in different ways and it’s such a nice thing to share my successes with people who truly understand how hard it can be.

The productivity books taught me that if you want to make a big change in your life or attitude, surrounding yourself with people who already embody your ideal or your goal huuuugely helps. The fact that I have these productive people around me who also prioritize writing, makes it easier for me to stick to my own priorities.

Your toolbox

The idea is to have several techniques at your disposal to help you stay consistent. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket by focussing on just one technique. Keep all of them close, and if one stops working or doesn’t inspire you today, pivot and pick another one.

After a while, most “tools” run in the background once they are established. Things like surrounding myself with my writing friends, keeping up with my daily streak, and listening to the album I conditioned myself with don’t require any energy, and they still remain hugely beneficial.

Do you have any other techniques? I’d love to hear about them!

I hope this was useful. Happy writing!

[angstandhappiness]

Nice

One of my favourite tropes is "character who you wouldn't think is good with kids is actually great with kids"

[thisisgraeme]

A Positive and Tailored Guide to Enhancing Reading Comprehension for Adult Learners: How to Unlock the World of Words

Reading Comprehension for Adult Learners: A Brief Guide As educators in the realm of adult education, we are tasked with the vital role of unlocking the potential within each learner, guiding them through the intricate journey of personal and professional development. At the heart of this journey lies the mastery of reading comprehension for adult learners —a crucial skill that serves as the…

[harrysfolklore]

lily - but daddy i love him

summary: max verstappen and yn wolff welcome their first baby into the world. READ BUT DADDY I LOVE HIM HERE. wc:1.6k

folkie radio: GUYS I JUST COULDN'T HELP MYSELF OKAY !!! i love the bdilh babies so much and i missed writing about them and this was just the perfect opportunity. i hope you like this!

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

The hospital room is quiet now, the chaos of delivery replaced by a peaceful calm. Early morning light filters through the windows of your private suite in Monaco, casting a gentle glow over the tiny bundle in your arms.

Lily Verstappen-Wolff, all of six hours old, has her father's eyes. They're that same impossible shade of blue, currently studying your face with what seems like intense concentration.

"She's got your nose though," Max whispers from where he's perched beside you on the bed, one arm around your shoulders, the other gently stroking Lily's impossibly small hand. "Thank god."

"Hey," you protest weakly, too exhausted and happy to really be offended. "Your nose is cute."

"Tell that to the aerodynamics team," he laughs softly, then goes quiet when Lily makes a tiny sound. "Sorry, princess. Didn't mean to be loud."

The way Max looks at her makes your heart feel too big for your chest. He's been crying on and off since she arrived, the four-time world champion, known for his fierce determination on track, completely undone by five pounds of baby girl.

A soft knock at the door interrupts your moment. Your father peers in, and you've never seen him look quite like this - his usual composed demeanor completely cracked open, eyes shining with tears.

"Is it... can I..." he starts, unusually lost for words.

"Come meet your granddaughter, Papa."

Toto approaches slowly, as if Lily might startle. When he sees her face, he completely breaks down, tears flowing freely now.

"She's perfect," he whispers, touching her cheek with one finger. His hand is trembling slightly. "She's absolutely perfect."

"Want to hold her?" Max offers, already carefully lifting Lily.

You watch as your father - the intimidating Mercedes team principal who's made grown men cower - cradles your daughter like she's made of glass. He hasn't stopped crying, and it makes your own eyes well up.

"Hallo, kleine Prinzessin," he whispers, his voice trembling. "I'm your Opa." He gently rocks her, studying every feature of her tiny face. "You know, I've won many championships, seen many incredible moments in racing, but nothing... nothing compares to this moment right here."

He touches her tiny hand with one finger, and when she grabs it, a fresh wave of tears falls. "Such a strong grip already. Just like your mama - always holding on tight to what matters."

Max wraps his arm around your shoulders as you watch your father completely melt.

"I promise you, Lily," Toto continues softly, "that you will always have someone in your corner. Someone to protect you, to guide you..." he chuckles wetly, "to teach you all about racing politics and team strategy."

"Papa," you laugh. "She's six hours old."

"Never too early to learn about the importance of good strategy," he says, but his eyes never leave Lily's face. "Although maybe we'll start with simpler things. Like how to wrap your papa around your little finger - though I see you've already mastered that."

Max grins. "Like mother, like daughter."

Toto shifts Lily slightly, cradling her closer to his chest. "You know, meine Kleine, I thought I knew what love was. Thought I understood it completely. But seeing you..." his voice cracks, "seeing my little girl become a mother... holding you..." He has to pause, overwhelmed. "You're going to change everything, aren't you? Just like your mama did."

You reach out and squeeze his arm, your own tears falling freely now.

"Papa?" you ask softly after a moment. "Who else is out there?"

"Just Lewis," he manages, still gazing at Lily. "But we don't want to intrude..."

You exchange a look with Max, who grins and nods.

"Are you kidding?" you laugh. "Get him in here. He needs to meet his goddaughter."

"I'll get him," Max says, kissing your forehead before heading to the door.

Moments later, Lewis appears, looking uncharacteristically nervous. When he sees Lily in Toto's arms, his face does something complicated before crumpling entirely.

"Oh my god," he whispers, moving closer. "Oh my god, look at her."

"Want to hold her?" your father offers, though he looks reluctant to let go.

Lewis nods, unable to speak. When Toto places Lily in his arms, he lets out a shaky breath that turns into a sob.

"Hey baby girl," he manages through tears. "I'm your Uncle Lewis. I'm... I'm going to spoil you so much. And teach you everything about racing. And protect you forever."

"Lewis," you say softly, touched by how emotional he is.

"I can't help it," he sniffles, swaying gently with Lily. "Look at her. She's... she's perfect. She's got your smile already, Little Wolff. And Max's eyes..."

He looks up at Max, who's watching from beside your bed. "You did good, man. Really good."

Max wipes at his own eyes. "We did, didn't we?"

"The best," Lewis agrees, looking back down at Lily. "God, I'm never going to stop crying, am I?"

"Join the club," your father says, still wiping his eyes.

"You know what this means though?" Lewis says suddenly, a mischievous glint appearing through his tears. "As godfather, I get to buy her her first race suit."

"Ferrari colors, I assume?" Max raises an eyebrow.

"Obviously."

"Over my dead body, Hamilton."

"Boys," you warn, but you're smiling. Some things never change.

"We'll let her choose," Lewis decides diplomatically, then adds in a whisper to Lily, "But red would look really good on you, princess."

You watch them - these three strong, competitive men, all completely undone by your tiny daughter. Your father has his hand on Lewis' shoulder, both of them looking at Lily like she's the most precious thing they've ever seen. Max sits beside you again, pulling you close as you all watch Lewis whisper promises to your daughter.

"Welcome to the family, little one," Lewis says softly. "You've got quite the crew looking out for you."

Lily makes a tiny sound and grabs Lewis' finger, making him burst into fresh tears.

"Oh, she's got a good grip," he laughs through his tears. "Future world champion material right there."

"First female world champion," Max says proudly. "Right, princess?"

After several more minutes of Lewis making promises to Lily about racing lessons and future championships, your father gently reminds him that you need rest.

"Just one more minute," Lewis pleads, still cradling Lily like she might disappear.

"Lewis," your father says fondly, "they'll still be here tomorrow."

"And the next day, and the next," you add with a smile. "She's not going anywhere."

Finally, reluctantly, Lewis places Lily back in your arms, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Love you already, little champ."

Your father hugs you carefully, mindful of Lily, then surprises everyone by pulling Max into a tight embrace. "You did good, son," he says softly, and you see Max's eyes well up again.

After they leave, the room falls into a peaceful quiet. Max settles beside you on the bed, his arm around your shoulders, both of you gazing down at your daughter.

"Hi baby girl," he whispers, gently stroking her cheek. "It's just us now."

Lily's tiny hand escapes her blanket, reaching up to grab Max's finger. His breath catches.

"Still can't believe she's real," he murmurs. "That we made her. That she's actually here."

You adjust the soft yellow hat on her head. "Remember when we had to hide from everyone?"

"Couldn't even hold your hand in public," Max laughs softly. "And now we have her."

"And now we have her."

Lily makes a tiny sound, drawing both your attention immediately. Her eyes - so impossibly blue - seem to focus on Max's face.

"Hey princess," he whispers, voice thick with emotion. "I know I probably look scary right now, crying all over the place. But I promise I'm usually more put together than this. Usually. Unless I'm around your mama. She tends to make me emotional too."

"Softie," you tease gently.

"Only for my girls," he admits without hesitation.

You watch as he carefully takes Lily from you, cradling her against his chest with a natural ease that makes your heart ache. The contrast of his strong hands - hands that have controlled the most powerful cars in the world - being so impossibly gentle with her tiny body is almost too much.

"I had this whole speech prepared," he says suddenly. "All these things I was going to tell her when she arrived. About racing, about life, about how much we wanted her. But now..." he looks down at Lily, who's watching him with what seems like intense concentration, "now I just want to tell her that I love her. That I've loved her since the moment we knew about her. That I'll love her forever."

"I think that's all she needs to know," you say softly, leaning against him.

"You know what's crazy?" Max adjusts Lily's blanket with careful precision. "All those championships, all those wins... nothing compares to this. To her. To us."

You watch them together - your fierce, passionate husband gone completely soft for this tiny person who's barely six hours old. The way he keeps checking her blanket, the gentle sway he's adopted without seeming to realize it, the look of pure wonder on his face every time she moves.

"I love you," you say suddenly, overwhelmed by everything. "Both of you. So much."

Max tears his gaze away from Lily to look at you, and the emotion in his eyes takes your breath away. "We love you too," he whispers. "Right, princess? We love Mama so much."

Lily snuggles closer to his chest in response, her tiny hand still gripping his finger.

Outside, the world keeps turning. Soon there will be visitors and photos and congratulations. Soon you'll have to share her with the rest of your extended F1 family. Soon there will be decisions about races and schedules and how to balance everything.

But right now, in this quiet room with the morning sun painting everything gold, there's just this: your little family, complete at last. Max humming softly in Dutch, Lily drifting off to sleep in his arms, and you, watching the two loves of your life together.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

[kogal]

this actually kind of puts into perspective why sites like twitter and even here are so known for people misunderstanding points ("bitch that's a whole new sentence") and it's... scary

i'm so glad someone else was bitchy about that post bc i couldn't be bothered to when i saw it. the reason that literacy rates in the usa are poor is because of rising inequality and also because kids are just straight up being taught to read wrong. not because of fucking fanfiction or YA or 'puriteens' or whatever the fuck else is the bugbear of the week for people who still stake their self esteem on their high school english grades

[joelmichaelmurphy]

The Reading Rope Unwound: Translating Science into Special Education Strategies

The challenges of imparting proficient reading skills are amplified in a middle school special education setting. With the insights gained from the LETRS training, the task of blending theory with practical instructional strategies becomes a promising venture. The objective is clear: to build a bridge from the foundational theories of reading to actionable teaching strategies that cater to the…

[astroxrion]

Your Hidden Abilities based on your 10th House:

(Status,Legacy,Reputation,People Presenting)

Aries in the 10th

You were built to dominate but your hidden skill is resilience under pressure. When shit falls apart you get sharper. You lead when everyone else freezes. You’re the one that makes chaos follow your direction. Authority isn’t optional. It’s who you are under fire.

Taurus in the 10th

Your power is in consistency but your hidden edge is silence. You build behind the scenes so steady no one sees it coming. By the time they notice you it’s too late to catch up. You win by outlasting everyone who moved faster but meant less.

Gemini in the 10th

You sound like chatter but your real power is information warfare. You know what to say how to say it and when to make it land. You can talk anyone into a yes and outthink any room. Influence is your baseline. Mind games are your specialty.

Cancer in the 10th

They see nurture but miss the strategy. You read people and predict moves like a psychic in a suit. Your ability to lead with emotion is your weapon. You make people trust you then take the throne while they’re still thanking you for caring.

Leo in the 10th

Your shine is loud but your hidden power is loyalty. When you commit to the vision nothing can move you. People think you want the attention but what you want is legacy. You’re building something that outlives applause. That’s what scares them.

Virgo in the 10th

You look quiet but you control everything. Your hidden skill is precision under pressure. You see mistakes before they form and solve problems before others notice. You lead through detail. Your perfection isn’t pretty. It’s surgical.

Libra in the 10th

You look soft but you move like a diplomat with a knife behind your back. Your hidden power is negotiation. You know how to get what you want without ever raising your voice. People follow you because they think it’s their idea. That’s the trap.

Scorpio in the 10th

Your presence alone shifts the room but your true power is control. You see what’s not being said. You play long games. You don’t move often but when you do it’s permanent. You’re feared for a reason. You never lose. You just wait.

Sagittarius in the 10th

You joke and charm but your hidden weapon is vision. You see beyond the moment. You map futures. You know how to move a crowd and shape culture. You teach what frees people and make it profitable. You make expansion look easy.

Capricorn in the 10th

Everyone sees the grind but your hidden power is discipline so ruthless it scares people. You will outwork outplan outlast without flinching. Your name becomes law because you built the system that runs it. You’re already in control.

Aquarius in the 10th

You look detached but your mind is five steps ahead. You invent systems before the world knows they need them. Your hidden skill is innovation that can’t be copied. You don’t lead the room. You rewire it. The future answers to you.

Pisces in the 10th

They underestimate you because you’re soft spoken. But you move through intuition like a ghost. Your hidden power is influence through energy. You can read a room and bend it. You lead without force. You make people follow what they feel.

Get an Astrology Reading With me : https://www.tumblr.com/astroxrion/784631769533136896/o-my-readings-the-rion-code-o?source=share

[theskywithin]

Birth Chart Breakdown: North Node in The Houses

North Node in the 1st House

You’ve spent lifetimes slipping into the background like a well-practiced echo. But this life asks you to be the voice, not the silence. To stop reading the room and start reading yourself. Becoming you is not betrayal, it’s rebirth.

North Node in the 2nd House

You’ve been the drifter, the one who let go before anything could be taken. But this time, you’re here to stay. To build slow. To let your roots deepen into your own worth, even when everything in you says: keep moving.

North Node in the 3rd House

Your soul remembers the high peaks of distant truths, but this life calls you to the street corners. To conversations, to simplicity, to the sacred art of paying attention. Not every answer lives in the sky. Some are tucked between words you haven’t spoken yet.

North Node in the 4th House

You’ve spent lifetimes out in the world, proving, building, striving. But now, your evolution begins in the quiet. In the warmth of your own hands. You’re learning that safety isn’t something you earn, it is something you remember inside your ribcage.

North Node in the 5th House

You’ve hidden behind strategy, survival, responsibility. But this time, joy is the revolution. You’re here to play like your life depends on it. To create badly. Love boldly. Laugh too loudly. You don’t have to deserve the spotlight, you just have to step into it.

North Node in the 6th House

You’ve danced with the infinite, wandered through dreams, visions, the great wide everything. But this life calls you into the soil. Into rhythm. Into the sacred repetition of waking up and tending what’s yours. This isn’t small. This is holy.

North Node in the 7th House

You’ve walked through lifetimes alone, carrying only your fire. But now, your soul wants to meet itself in someone else’s eyes. Not to disappear, but to soften. To let love teach you the edges of who you are and the tenderness of who you could become.

North Node in the 8th House

You’ve clung to certainty, to surface, to things you could hold without losing. But this life asks you to let it unravel. To touch the depth that scares you. To surrender to what cannot be planned. You’re not here to be untouched. You’re here to be transformed.

North Node in the 9th House

You’ve lived in the known, folded yourself into logic, kept the questions quiet. But now, your soul wants to run wild. To roam the inner wilderness. To believe in something without needing proof. Your evolution lives where your wonder begins.

North Node in the 10th House

You’ve kept your brilliance tucked into private corners. But this time, the mountain calls you by name. You’re here to take up space in the world, not for praise, but for purpose. To build something that lives on after your footsteps fade.

North Node in the 11th House

You’ve known the safety of closeness , the comfort of the familiar, the intimacy of small circles. But this life asks you to cast your net into the unknown. To trust that your voice has reach. That your dreams belong to others, too. You’re here to find the ones you haven’t met yet, the ones who will see your vision and say, “I’ve been dreaming this too.”

North Node in the 12th House

You’ve built your world on structure and certainty. But now, the ocean asks for you. Your soul is learning to rest without needing answers. To dissolve without losing itself. Surrender is not the end. It’s the beginning of everything you forgot you were.

[shipsonmymind]

Abolish the Republican Party.

[ryin-silverfish]

So You Want to Read More about Chinese Mythos: a rough list of primary sources

"How/Where can I learn more about Chinese mythology?" is a question I saw a lot on other sites, back when I was venturing outside of Shenmo novel booksphere and into IRL folk religions + general mythos, but had rarely found satisfying answers.

As such, this is my attempt at writing something past me will find useful.

(Built into it is the assumption that you can read Chinese, which I only realized after writing the post. I try to amend for it by adding links to existing translations, as well as links to digitalized Chinese versions when there doesn't seem to be one.)

The thing about all mythologies and legends is that they are 1) complicated, and 2) are products of their times. As such, it is very important to specify the "when" and "wheres" and "what are you looking for" when answering a question as broad as this.

-Do you want one or more "books with an overarching story"?

In that case, Journey to the West and Investiture of the Gods (Fengshen Yanyi) serve as good starting points, made more accessible for general readers by the fact that they both had English translations——Anthony C. Yu's JTTW translation is very good, Gu Zhizhong's FSYY one, not so much.

Crucially, they are both Ming vernacular novels. Though they are fictional works that are not on the same level of "seriousness" as actual religious scriptures, these books still took inspiration from the popular religion of their times, at a point where the blending of the Three Teachings (Buddhism, Daoism, Confucianism) had become truly mainstream.

And for FSYY specifically, the book had a huge influence on subsequent popular worship because of its "pantheon-building" aspect, to the point of some Daoists actually putting characters from the novel into their temples.

(Vernacular novels + operas being a medium for the spread of popular worship and popular fictional characters eventually being worshipped IRL is a thing in Ming-Qing China. Meir Shahar has a paper that goes into detail about the relationship between the two.)

After that, if you want to read other Shenmo novels, works that are much less well-written but may be more reflective of Ming folk religions at the time, check out Journey to the North/South/East (named as such bc of what basically amounted to a Ming print house marketing strategy) too.

-Do you want to know about the priestly Daoist side of things, the "how the deities are organized and worshipped in a somewhat more formal setting" vs "how the stories are told"?

Though I won't recommend diving straight into the entire Daozang or Yunji Qiqian or some other books compiled in the Daoist text collections, I can think of a few "list of gods/immortals" type works, like Liexian Zhuan and Zhenling Weiye Tu.

Also, though it is much closer to the folk religion side than the organized Daoist side, the Yuan-Ming era Grand Compendium of the Three Religions' Deities, aka Sanjiao Soushen Daquan, is invaluable in understanding the origins and evolutions of certain popular deities.

(A quirk of historical Daoist scriptures is that they often come up with giant lists of gods that have never appeared in other prior texts, or enjoy any actual worship in temples.)

(The "organized/folk" divide is itself a dubious one, seeing how both state religion and "priestly" Daoism had channels to incorporate popular deities and practices into their systems. But if you are just looking at written materials, I feel like there is still a noticeable difference.)

Lastly, if you want to know more about Daoist immortal-hood and how to attain it: Ge Hong's Baopuzi (N & S. dynasty) and Zhonglv Chuandao Ji (late Tang/Five Dynasties) are both texts about external and internal alchemy with English translations.

-Do you want something older, more ancient, from Warring States and Qin-Han Era China?

Classics of Mountains and Seas, aka Shanhai Jing, is the way to go. It also reads like a bestiary-slash-fantastical cookbook, full of strange beasts, plants, kingdoms of unusual humanoids, and the occasional half-man, half-beast gods.

A later work, the Han-dynasty Huai Nan Zi, is an even denser read, being a collection of essays, but it's also where a lot of ancient legends like "Nvwa patches the sky" and "Chang'e steals the elixir of immortality" can be first found in bits and pieces.

Shenyi Jing might or might not be a Northern-Southern dynasties work masquerading as a Han one. It was written in a style that emulated the Classics of Mountains and Seas, and had some neat fantastic beasts and additional descriptions of gods/beasts mentioned in the previous 2 works.

-Do you have too much time on your hands, a willingness to get through lot of classical Chinese, and an obsession over yaoguais and ghosts?

Then it's time to flip open the encyclopedic folklore compendiums——Soushen Ji (N/S dynasty), You Yang Za Zu (Tang), Taiping Guangji (early Song), Yijian Zhi (Southern Song)...

Okay, to be honest, you probably can't read all of them from start to finish. I can't either. These aren't purely folklore compendiums, but giant encyclopedias collecting matters ranging from history and biography to medicine and geography, with specific sections on yaoguais, ghosts and "strange things that happened to someone".

As such, I recommend you only check the relevant sections and use the Full Text Search function well.

Pu Songling's Strange Tales from a Chinese Studios, aka Liaozhai Zhiyi, is in a similar vein, but a lot more entertaining and readable. Together with Yuewei Caotang Biji and Zi Buyu, they formed the "Big Three" of Qing dynasty folktale compendiums, all of which featured a lot of stories about fox spirits and ghosts.

Lastly...

The Yuan-Ming Zajus (a sort of folk opera) get an honorable mention. Apart from JTTW Zaju, an early, pre-novel version of the story that has very different characterization of SWK, there are also a few plays centered around Erlang (specifically, Zhao Erlang) and Nezha, such as "Erlang Drunkenly Shot the Demon-locking Mirror". Sadly, none of these had an English translation.

Because of the fragmented nature of Chinese mythos, you can always find some tidbits scattered inside history books like Zuo Zhuan or poetry collections like Qu Yuan's Chuci. Since they aren't really about mythology overall and are too numerous to cite, I do not include them in this post, but if you wanna go down even deeper in this already gigantic rabbit hole, it's a good thing to keep in mind.

[ilianasbruce]

“Checkmate,”

word count: 4,730

summary: you got distracted by the chess and Bruce got distracted by the other thing ♡

warning: full +18 content with a plot. minors do not engage, please.

notes: hi!! ♡ another idea came to my mind from the mix of a few things and i said why not. i believe that Bruce would be obsessive about his wife’s mind about many things and he would gladly accept her challenges. and i had seen a heavy perception about him he would likely not have time or prefer quality time with his loved ones. when i analyzed him, honestly i don't think it’s true. Bruce is a man who cares and loves deeply. and he’d try to have a specific time for his loved ones, even if it’d tire him. yes, he’d have more of his time on Gotham, but that did not mean that he’d ignore his family or beloved ones. so, here we go!! this is again for the female reader, happy reading!!! ♡ and thank you, thank you so much for your support!!!

“What are you reading?”

You looked up, from the book you were trying to read, to the side of the room where his voice came. Your eyes found his form at the door: his dark hair ruffled from his eleven hours of sleep (including the afternoon hours), his usual navy blue, decorated specifically for him with a ‘B.W’ night robe, a bruise on his jaw and dark circles under his eyes. Very typical form of your husband.

You gave him a small smile before turning your eyes to the book about chess. “A chess book. I want to learn chess.” you retorted to him, turning to the 5th page of the book. You heard his footsteps as your eyes were glued to the book curiously while he approached you. “Where did that come from?”

He sat in front of you, looking at you questionably. Your eyes found his sleep-filled eyes from your book, giving him an innocent look.

“I saw the chees channel on TV. I just want to try to learn.”

You were being sincere. Since last week, you have been watching chess matches on the TV. You came across randomly to the channel and stayed because it was suddenly fascinating to you. The strategy, the moves, the black and white board, all reminded you of the constant journey throughout reality, interestingly a new adventure scheme for your mind. You were mesmerized by the board and you wanted to know everything about the game. Thus, you could wander through the board as much as you wanted.

Bruce gave you an unreadable look. “Alright,” he murmured, “Do you want Alfred to search for a tutor for you?”

You beamed at his words. “That’d be so good.” you said elated. “Thank you so much.”

“Or I can teach you by myself.”

You raised your eyebrows at his confession. You never knew he was a chess player. Frankly, it never came to a conversation between you. It was normal to be unaware of his skills like this one. “I didn’t know you knew chess,” you said with an adorable look in your eyes when you’re clueless that Bruce loved heavily. The corner of his lips shifted when he gave you the ghost of a smile.

“You know now.”

He said as his hand reached for the book you were holding. He skimmed a few pages before returning the book to you. “I can teach you.” he said, his lovely blue eyes holding a glint in them. “We can play together.”

“I didn’t know you could have time this easily either?” you asked. It was the truth. Bruce was already busy with his dual Caped Crusader and his ‘Bruce Wayne’ lives. He did have time for you — as much as he was disciplined about his other identity, he was obsessed with you, too. Thus, he did balance his responsibilities as a true, devoted man. The only exception was his ‘Bruce Wayne’ facade which he gladly managed with a ‘now-husband’ mode on. He was only interested in his company, philanthropy, and his wife.

You still did not wish to bother him with the leisure time you had and your curiosity about some game. He needed to rest and sleep which he sometimes refused. Alfred and your looks were a great scolding for him to go to bed.

“We can play after breakfast.” he suggested, resting his elbows on his knees to lean on slightly.

“But you have your breakfast when you wake up.”

“You can wake me up when you eat breakfast.”

You furrowed your brows. “That means you will get little sleep. No.”

His thick brows creased, too. Before he said anything, you interrupted him. “I’ll tell Alfred. You get your sleep.”

“It-”

“No.”

You two stared at each other for a few seconds before he surrendered with a sigh. “Fine.”

You leaned on and kissed him on his cheek. “Thank you.” you added with your beautiful smile.

One thing was about Bruce that he was too smitten with you to know when to close his mouth. He would look rigid when they looked at him but he would follow you to the end of the world without any question — a lover indeed.

He gave you a small smirk. You left your book on the armchair you were sitting on and pulled his hand when you stood up. “Come,” you indicated him to follow you.

“Let’s get Alfred’s 17:30 tea.”

The next few weeks had passed with you learning chess. You nearly spent 6 hours of the whole day with your tutor Henry to learn the game. It was terrific for you. You were relishing every second of it and truthfully, you were learning fast. Bruce would see your personal lessons with a quick look bypassing the room you were in or Alfred’s occasional tea and snack bringing. You did not have any acknowledgment about his one idea that was spiraling through his head when he was seeing you playing chess but you did learn it on the next week’s Friday night.

You were casually sitting in the same study room where you’d spend your lessons, flipping through the chess book you’d found since the first day as you decided to learn chess. After your tutor was gone, you’d play against yourself — try to manage to learn every specific angle of the board. You didn’t notice when Bruce entered and his approach to you behind.

“What are you doing?”

You were startled by him, a stunned look in your eyes when you found him next to you. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I did not mean to startle you.”

He was supposed to be in the cave he usually spent his evenings before he went to patrol. And that was why you were caught up like a deer in the headlights. It was not your fault that he was too quiet when he wanted to be — years of practice.

“Are you playing against yourself?” he murmured when he caged you by standing from behind, his both arms around your shoulders, resting on the table as you were sitting on the chair. He leaned to kiss your temple as he gazed down at the page you were on. “We can play together if you want.”

He was very into playing together or teaching you since the beginning — the devil was in the details, you just did not pay attention to it.

“Can we?” you asked him, turning your head to catch his eyes. He smiled at you before leaning to kiss you.

“Sure we can, baby.”

“What about your patrol?”

“We do have two hours.”

Bruce sometimes could flex his hours just like that. Specifically, when the city was slightly quiet and still early for the Batman; also when there was no Bat-signal by Gordon. Those were your favorite hours since you could spend your precious time with him, easing the feeling of missing him. And he knew how much you appreciated those. He did them, too.

You beamed at him as the Sun itself, happily pressing a peck to his lips.

You two started the game immediately. The first moves on the board were simple since Bruce did not want to scare you off. He just let you play freely at first for the ease.

After 30 minutes, you were confused and frustrated with the game or him. You couldn't choose but something about his simple gaze and complicated movements drove you mad.

“You are doing it on purpose.”

You said, losing your next pawn again. He raised his eyebrow, giving you a stare.

“Doing what?”

Actually, you did not know how to answer or accuse him fully. Back when you look at the game, it looked simple: he was winning. But he was just… that. As if he was doing it on purpose. When you frowned at him with your flushed cheeks from irritation, instead of answering, he gave you the ghost of a smile. As if he knew that you were vexed, but he kept his composure.

“Are you angry because you are losing?”

He said half-mockingly, half-truthfully, able to hold his tone of voice. You didn’t answer him until to the next moves of the game which resulted in your loss. You two started at each other before he muttered ‘checkmate.’.

“Wanna practice again?”

“No.”

You did not want to play again to high his ego. You were so sure that he was keeping his nonchalant look to rile you up. And you couldn't prove that he was doing that deliberately to unleash something from you.

A mere anger? Or frustration? For what?

Before you said anything further, he gave you a look that you positively knew it belonged to Batman. Half-judging, half-dissapointed. But he could never be disappointed with you, he was just expecting so much more from the move he planned to make ahead of all. It just ventured to the other side, resulting in the undermined gaze.

“You learned to play just to give up?” he asked you. That made you glow with irritation. Of course, you did not. But it wasn't helping when he deliberately controlled the wheel of the game. You were just a rookie and he was using it.

“I don't want to play with you anymore.”

“Why, is it because you can't win?”

“No, it is because you’re purposely making it harder.”

“I am just playing.” he said with furrowed eyes and a determined tone at you. That made you to be quiet because you couldn't prove anything. Even though you both knew what you were talking about.

There was a silence between you for a few seconds before he leaned on and his warm hands found your legs under the table. He grazed his fingertips further under the hem of your gray cashmere skirt, moving them on your bare skin. He gazed into your eyes with the intention is his blue ones. You did not know you were holding your breath when he was staring into your eyes like this.

“You spend your whole day for this?” he muttered to you. You stayed quiet, just holding his eyes. “To lose and blame me as if I was your tutor.”

You opened your mouth to say something but you couldn't. He continued to graze his fingers on your bare skin, on your thighs under your skirt while looking into your eyes for you to decipher his unconscious reason. Which was rooted in the back of his mind since the beginning.

“I,” you started after the dreadful silence. “It is just a month that I am playing,” you reasoned. “Guess I need to spend more time with the game.”

He brooded over your words. You went on thoughtfully.

“I should ask Henry for a few more hours for the lessons.”

Oh, that was the rope you pulled unconsciously — to reveal the detailed devil. You could swear to God when you saw it immediately in his eyes when you mentioned his name.

Henry, you chess tutor.

He was such a nice guy, at the same age as Bruce, very talkative and friendly. And he was powerfully good at chess and his explanations of the classes you had taken with him. You two could start after breakfast and continue until after lunch with a good focus on the game and lessons. Almost as if time operated for you two and the chess.

You were sometimes too caught up with the game you did not see Bruce’s gaze on you two. Well, in fact, you did not catch him when you were with Henry, purely focused on the game. You were too busy with the game and Henry’s instructions on the board.

That is what would be the reason why Bruce was giving you a hard time on the board, deliberately and delicately bending your moves at his will. To prove you something, something that clicked on you in the next seconds. All those ‘We can play together’s and ‘I can teach you’s meant something to you now. He a few times suggested you that he could teach you more after your hours with Henry. But you’d refuse because, he was already busy and needed to rest. You’d assure him that you would play with him when you’re good enough and he was free. He’d be giving you a slightly dissatisfied look with a brush of ‘Okay.’.

It all made sense now. He was trying for something — something in an innocently cunning manner. To prove to you that you were losing because you did not get good tutoring and strategy, all because of Henry. And all because of one thing probably.

Jealousy.

You unconsciously leaned on him on the table with a confused look in your eyes.

“Are… are you jealous?”

Words left your mouth with a soft mutter. Which them got him instantly.

“What?”

“Are you jealous of Henry?”

“Where did it come from? Don't be ridiculous.”

Well, he was the one who was being ridiculous, and that made you smile from ear to ear. He slightly tilted his head with a frown on his face. He looked so adorable in this light — all worked up because of some chess tutor who was not even into the girls. And he did not even bother to fully look into the file of Henry when he pulled out by Batcomputer — not that you were aware of his actions.

Of course, he would research the man with whom his wife was spending her six hours alone about a damn game. Of course, he would get the information about the poor guy. And of course, he was jealous. Jealous that he was blinded to not dig deeper to know about Henry’s preferences.

You pressed your elbows on the board, your hands finding his shoulders to pull him to yourself closer than he was. You gave him a doe-eyed look with a sweet smile on your lips.

“I did not know that you’d get like this,” you said to him. He just stared at you while you explained more. “Promise, I was not doing that intentionally.”

“I don’t know how did you come up with that,” he muttered with a face that he looked almost innocent about it. As if you were the one who was creating the scene that he was jealous. Very opposite of the fact that he was fuming inside when you talked to him at dinners that how Henry was a good guy.

He was not accepting his motives but you knew how to push his buttons. You withdrew your hands from his shoulders and pushed the chair to stand up, which forced him to take his hands to himself from your thighs. You crossed the table in one movement and stood over him with a smile. He gave you a confused look before turning his direction to you on the chair. You took the opportunity and sat on his lap.

As your arms wrapped around his neck, you slightly towered him on his lap. His blue eyes were always gorgeous when you looked at them closely like this. One of his hands was on your waist and the other went to your knee. You looked into each other’s eyes for a few seconds before you spoke.

“So, is it okay if I ask Henry for a few more hours?”

He was silent, both in the eye and tongue. He watched you as you watched his reaction to gauge him.

“You can ask as much as you want.” he said nonchalantly. Your nose nuzzled to his adoringly with a sweet look in your eyes you pulled to push him further. He played with you on the board, and why not play with him in this?

“So, it won't be a problem?” you murmured to him. He was still dead silent, but you could feel the vibrations of irritation in him. The slight twitch of his fingers on your bare skin was enough for you.

“Yes?” you whispered to his lips next, brushing the word softly against them. Your eyes were closed but you knew him all too well to know his reaction. A few seconds had passed before you whispered a ‘Bruce’ and he was a goner.

He crashed his lips to yours after the word of his name left your lips. God, how much he missed you. He kissed you as if he had seen you for the first time; with the need you only saw and felt on the days when he was either too exhausted or busy with the city that he couldn't have.

He kissed you hungrily, not letting his usual sweetness drip into the kiss. You let his tongue gladly as much as his hand on your leg. In the next few mintues of making out with a need, you pulled back for a breath but he got your lips in the next seconds after your breathing and half-lidded eyes on him.

You almost did not realize when he had you in his arms in a manner to carry you when he stood up from his chair. You softly gasped at the broken kiss when he started to carry you with the quiet ‘Hold on tight.’.

How he carried you to the master bedroom without Alfred seeing you both, you had no idea. You two were too busy with the breathless kisses. When your back hit the sheets, he was on top of you instantly. He did not even bother to switch on the chandelier when carried through the room, only closing the door into the darkness. Bruce had crossed that room many times to know his way in the dark.

You felt his fingers under the skirt of yours while you were busy with his lips. His fingertips were too slow as if he was doing the same moves deliberately as he did on the board. He was slowly running them up and down, never to the inside of your soft thighs nor to where you wanted him.

His kissing did not stop, devouring you sweetly as he took his time on you. But you managed to break the kiss to call his name. He knew what it meant and he had no intention of stopping his torture.

His lips found your right cheek, then your jaw, and finally your throat. Your hands were around his neck, pulling him to you for more. And when he was adoring you with his wet kisses on your throat, you tried to move one of your legs under his hand around his waist to let him more to you. But he bit your skin as a punishment, letting a soft moan escape from your lips.

Bruce took his time with discarding your shirt with idleness and kissing your bare collarbones. He then took his time with your lacy bra with no further movement of his fingers. That drove you mad because most of the time he was already fingerfucking you or eating you like a starved man. It was obvious that he was still pissed off.

“Baby,” you whimpered to his lips on your nipple when you felt him roll his tongue on it. He was good on the up but on the down? God, you were aching. Too wet for him already just from his kisses and mouth.

You sighed when he finally let his fingers to be close where you wanted him but still not close enough. That husband of yours.

He bit, sucked, licked your chest with an effort that you just melted from that. And when he finally started to have his way in your thighs, you saw the stars in the darkness. He began by diving his fingers into the waistband of your lacy, bra-matching, dripped panties, this time you pulled him for a kiss. He hummed to the kiss as he stopped to take off your skirt first, then your panties. It took a few minutes but it felt dreadful to you.

He came to your arms as he belonged there. He reached to your lips from your initiation, his fingers between your thighs. He muttered a ‘Fuck,’ to your lips when he felt your wetness on his fingertips.

“I did not even touch you,” he muttered with pride in his voice. “Do you want to me fuck you that bad?”

You loved it when he talked dirty to you. He had a duality in bed as he had in his daily life. It was perplexing to know Bruce who spoke sweetness to you in the light, also spoke obscene in the darkness. And he was too arrogant about his duality. Because it was you who knew about it and it was just dedicated to you.

You moaned when he dived his two digits into you while he rested his forehead against yours. The sensation of his fingers felt so perfect. You let your soft moans fill the room without any thought, your eyes closed and your head pressed down to the pillow by your own force. He hit all the spots deftly with his calloused fingers.

Bruce usually had a trait of finishing his fingers’ movement most of the time. He liked to stretch you out for a good time, not fully committed to letting you finish. Not because he did not wish, it was because he could give better than his fingers and he knew you loved it too. But tonight, he chose his fingers to let you see the stars first.

You were overly bathing in the feeling of his fingers to realize that. You only realized when you came from your high, dizzy, and furrowed brow in the darkness. But the darkness was slightly gone when Bruce switched on the lamp on the nightstand to see your lovely face.

“Open your mouth,” he murmured to you. You blinked from the sudden light as some trait, then your vision found his face. He had a focused but pent-up look in his eyes but you knew better.

You let his fingers to your mouth, softly sucking your own high from them while he watched you with a tensed jaw that you could see his vein near it. When your eyes found him in the yellow light, he gently let his fingers off from your lips and then crushed his lips on you.

You pulled him by your arms around his neck again but he had no patience about you anymore. He broke the kiss to take off his shirt first to let you see and touch his scar-filled soft skin, then his pants. He deftly pulled the condom patch from the drawer of your nightstand before he went further. When he was on his boxers, and when they were gone too, he bit the material with his teeth to get the small plastic. He kissed you when he slipped through the condom on his cock. Your arms went up around his neck again, to his shoulders, your fingertips on his soft skin.

You felt him almost in the seconds between your thighs, entering you. You softly let moans out on his lips when he was diving into you. Bruce could be irritated or pent-up but he was always too gentle when he was with you. You encouraged him with ‘Please, baby.’ and ‘Don’t make me wait up more.’ to fully buried in you with an elated groan.

He’d usually start to move after a few seconds, fully relishing the feeling of your pussy tightly wrapped around him. But tonight?

“Baby,” you barely moaned to him, full of his thickness.

“Yeah?”

That husband of yours knew what he was doing.

You should be angry at him for being jealous of something trivial but you were wrapping your legs around him to fuck you to the where you would be sore. Your perfect, thigh-length skirt-covered legs to be unsteady? The ones that drive Bruce mad when he looked at them? Oh, you knew what you were asking for.

“Please, move.”

He gave you an unsatisfied look. “Should I?” he muttered to your lips. “Yes?”

He did the exact thing you did when you were pushing his buttons. Now, he had all the cards again. He got you where he wanted and look at what situation you were in.

He kissed your lips sweetly, such as taking his time on tasting you while you were aching for him to move. He broke the kiss with a soft thrust into you, making you let out a soft whimper.

“I didn’t mean to make you jealous,” you murmured to him under his needy gaze. God, you should be the one not letting him to the bed, but look at where you were. Bruce knew you as the back of his hand to know you were telling the truth and that was the thing that riled him up since the beginning.

He self-blamed himself for unconsciously being jealous, of the fact that he even stalked Henry when he was in the night. But how could he not? Not be haunted by the terrifying ideas of you leaving him? Leaving him to deserve the good things he couldn't give you. The nights, the sanity, the peace, and many more that haunted him day and night when he saw your face. But he did not realize you were so happy with him. So glad to be his. You were blinded by him and his love as he was blinded by you like the Sun. But he was still insecure. Even when you had his name. Similarly, he was too stubborn to let go of his act. He was now doing it because of you tried to rile him up.

“Hm?” he hummed when he started to move his hips into your scorching walls but drawing them to his liking. “I thought you wanted a few more hours?”

You let your head be pressed to your pillow with a moan when he played with his pace. He started to kiss your throat while hitting your favorite spots slowly but deeply. You tightened your legs around him at the feeling.

“But I,” you sighed in pleasure, “it was just about the c-chess.”

Oh, he knew about that.

“Fuck that,” he muttered as he sped his pace up slightly after the good mintues to keep your toes curled about his languid pace. In the next seconds, he started to thrust into your sweetest spots with more rougher pace.

He bit your neck, creating berry-colored spots on your skin; where you could only hide by wearing a turtleneck. He wanted you and anyone who looked at your delicate neck to see them. To see to whom you came. But you didn’t care about that at the moment. The only thing you cared about was his thrusts.

For the whole good minutes, you did not know how many had passed, he fucked you so good. So good. But when you seemed to be close, he could and would slow his pace down to earn a whimper from you. This happened a few more times before your head fell onto his shoulder with a weak sigh.

“What?” he muttered to your ear, his voice thick as well as he was inside you. “Can’t keep up the game you had started?”

He just laughed before kissing your ear. “You are lucky that I love you.”

That was the final strategy he played and it finished you with an amazing climax. Your arms around his neck were tight to feel his skin to yourself, your nails left deep marks on his upper back and shoulders — not that he cared or felt — when you came. It was so full of the overwhelmed muscles easing into the whole sweetness that you couldn't even describe it.

He followed you with the same feeling you had, both of you too overwhelmed by his actions. He gave a few rough and deep thrusts, then ended it with a groan through his throat. He came right deep inside of your pussy with a protection. He just loved the feeling of your warmth so much; both of your body and your core.

Both of you were flushed, marked by each other, and breathless, tangled with each other tightly as if any of you would be a dream. Bruce let his head be pressed to your neck for a few promising mintues before he caught his breath. You caught his gaze when he looked at you. You two kissed sweetly a few times, just with soft and quick kisses. Then, he kissed you for the last time before he asked you about how you were.

“Want me to draw a bath for you?” he asked as he pressed his face to yours satisfied.

“No,” you mumbled. “I am good.”

“Good then,” he said as he kissed your cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

He started to untangle himself from you before you stopped him with a whisper.

“Are you leaving?”

You always despised when sex happened in the evenings because he needed to leave. You knew it but you couldn't help the feeling. And he knew it, too but he had to do it eventually.

“Just a few hours,” he said as he promised you. He despised leaving you, after the most intimate action he had in his life every time.

“I’ll be careful, I promise.”

You sighed when he kissed your temple. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

And with that he untangled himself from you and pulled the covers for you. His hand went to the lamp to switch off, not letting you see him leaving. You just sighed softly and nestled into your pillow. With that, for the first time, you knew what he felt when he was jealous. A worthy of a checkmate, both on the board and in the bed, indeed.

thank you so much for reading! ♡