#and i had no idea what i was getting myself into even

[cheftsunoda]

Would you consider doing something with a quiet/ reserved reader. I love the idea of a reader who's an up and coming driver but isn't about the press or media at ALL. Like dodging cameras and running away from interviews, and maybe a boy (I don't mind who you pick) misunderstands and thinks that she's running away from them? Maybe add some drama from f1 update twt accounts escalating the situation and painting the reader in a negative light for being "rude" or "impolite".

Thx!! (Sorry for any confusion, English is not my first language but I hope you get what I mean)

miss misunderstood— op81

smau + blurbs

oscar piastri x !quiet/shy driver reader

yn has a lot of pressure on her shoulders— she is the only female driver in f1 and that leads to her consistently having to prove herself to not only her team, who took a chance on her, but the press who are constantly there hounding her. she has always been very shy and reserved— especially around people she does not know. when fans notice how she skips out on interviews and hides from big crowds, the hate pours in, especially after she is seen avoiding a conversation with the grids other most quiet individual— but he is persistent and wont give up on her.

(a/n) : such a cute idea anon! i understood you perfectly fine my love. i hope you enjoy this. i thought it would be fun to pair reader with someone who is also rather quiet and reserved.

fc : amna al qubaisi

—

f1gossipgirls

257,087 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Almost all of our favorite drivers have touched down in Barcelona for media day. Some of our first arrivals include YN LN, Charles Leclerc, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris and George Russell.

—

view 32,057 other comments.

username0 : george not dressed properly for the weather pt 899

liked by f1gossipgirls

username10 : yn always looks like she doesn’t want to be there. why is she even in f1 if she hates to do the job??

username15 : everyone is smiling, waiving, talking to fans and press and then there is yn who immediately books it to the paddock and ignores everyone

username22 : ill say it once and i will say it again— f1 is not a silent film. she either needs to speak up and play the role or step aside. good driver or not. that job comes with more responsibilities than just driving around the track.

username5 : she gives off “im better than everyone else” energy and im sick of her.

username00 : every time i try and like her, she gives us absolutely nothing. cold and awkward isn’t a personality, babe.

↳ username9 : yet you guys eat it up when oscar does it. the double standard is insane.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username11 : its always the quiet ones y’all tear apart for not being loud enough. she’s there to drive. not entertain you.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username17 : you guys are extra hard on her because she is a female. and it is sick.

username101 : she minds her business, she’s fast, and she is unproblematic. you guys are just finding reasons to hate her. jealousy is a disease.

liked by f1gossipgirls

—

They say I’m cold. Unfriendly. Standoffish. Like I’m trying too hard to be mysterious or above it all. But they don’t know me. Not really. Because if they did, they’d know I used to be warm. I used to talk too much. Laugh too loud. Hug people without thinking twice. But that was before. Before the phone call. Before the hospital room. Before the person who knew me better than anyone else—who loved me without needing me to be anything but myself—was just… gone.

Losing a parent is something people talk about like it’s a passage. A sad inevitability. But they don’t talk about what it does to you when it’s sudden. When it’s brutal. When the last words you said were something stupid because you thought you had more time. My dad was my safe place. The only person I could fall apart around. He was the reason I started racing. The reason I believed I could do anything. And when I lost him, I didn’t just lose a person—I lost myself. I haven’t spoken about it. Not to anyone.

Not to my engineers. Not to my teammates. Not to the drivers who think I’m just “shy” or “quiet” or “moody.” Because once I say it out loud, it becomes real in a way I’m not ready for. It becomes the thing people pity me for instead of the thing I’ve survived. So I stay quiet. I keep the noise out. I protect the stillness inside me. People don’t understand it, and that’s fine. They think I’m emotionless when really, I’m overflowing and just trying not to drown. I hear what they say. The fans. The media. That I don’t engage. That I don’t give enough. But I didn’t come here to be their favorite. I came here to race. I came here to honor my father. To survive something else. To find moments of peace between the chaos and the grief that still sits like stone in my chest.

They’ll never understand why I am the way I am. Because they never saw me before. Before the silence felt safer than the world ever did. And I don’t owe them an explanation for that.

—

The air in Barcelona is thick with heat and noise—press cameras clicking, fans shouting driver names like spells, a thousand voices layered on top of each other. I keep my head down but offer a small smile, lifting my hand in a quiet wave. They cheer anyway. Some scream my name. Others don’t. Some just stare, waiting for me to trip or ignore them or give them proof I’m “as cold as they say.”

I smile again, even if it doesn’t reach my eyes. It’s not fake—it’s just not loud.

Security walks with me as I cross the paddock. My eyes flicker over the cameras stationed outside team motorhomes, the reporters already calling out names, hoping for a quote. I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag. Just a few more steps.

I keep walking. Fast, but not suspiciously fast. Just enough to dodge the press circling like hawks, waiting for a moment of weakness, a headline, a clipped quote that can be turned into whatever version of me they want to sell this week.

Finally, I step inside Red Bull. The air conditioning kisses my skin. The silence—relative silence—is heaven. I make it to my driver room, push the door shut with my shoulder, and lean against it for a second. Eyes closed. Deep breath. The chaos is muffled now, like a storm just beyond the walls. Then the door opens again without a knock.

“Nice escape,” Max says, completely unfazed. He shuts the door behind him like he owns the building. “You only almost ran over two photographers. New record?”

I huff out a laugh—quiet but real. “Felt like twenty.”

He drops into the chair across from me like he’s been doing this his whole life. Which, to be fair, he basically has.

Max studies me for a second, unreadable as always. “You look like you’re about to vomit. That your media day face?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

He shrugs. “Just saying. You do realize they can’t eat you alive on camera, right? Legally.”

“I don’t know. I think one of the Sky guys has sharp enough teeth.”

He chuckles, dry and quiet. “You’ll be fine. Say as little as possible. Give one-word answers. Scowl a little. That’s what I do.”

“You give plenty of one-word answers.”

“Exactly,” he says, proud. “It’s an art.”

He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, face softening just slightly.

“They don’t matter, you know. The journalists. The fans who think they know you. The Twitter freaks. You’re fast. That’s what counts. That’s what wins. Let them think you’re a robot or a villain or a Bond girl or whatever mood they’re in this week.”

I nod. A slow exhale.

“Thanks, Max.”

He shrugs again. “Just don’t cry on camera. I already have a reputation for being emotionally unavailable. Don’t need yours adding to the Verstappen Cold Front.”

This time, I laugh out loud. He grins. Mission accomplished.

“Go be scary,” he says, pushing himself up. “And if you panic, just pretend they’re all standing in front of your car at turn one.”

“I’d drive through them.”

“Exactly.”

He leaves without another word, and for the first time all morning, I feel like I can breathe.

—

I answer with the same even tone I always do. I deflect, redirect, smile where I’m supposed to. I’ve trained myself not to flinch. But it still chips away at me, a little at a time. I finally escape outside, tucked behind one of the Red Bull displays near the fan zone—close enough to be seen, far enough to feel like I’m not drowning. I sip from a water bottle, hoping the air might settle in my lungs again. That’s when I see her.

A girl, maybe twelve, in a handmade cap with my number scribbled on it in glitter glue. She’s holding a small notebook and a marker, standing with her dad and hesitating like she doesn’t want to bother me. I almost keep walking. I’m tired. Overheated. Ready to shut down for the rest of the day. But something in her eyes stops me. She doesn’t look like the others—she looks like she’s trying to be brave. So I walk over.

Her eyes go wide when I stop in front of her. “Hi,” I offer, voice soft.

She blinks. Then holds out the notebook with slightly trembling hands. “Um—sorry, I just—could you sign this? I know you don’t really like talking to people a lot, but you’re my favorite. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want.”

My chest tightens. Not in a bad way—in the way it does when something hits a nerve you didn’t know was still exposed. I take the notebook and sign it carefully.

“You know,” she says, voice quiet, “I get nervous talking to people too. But I think you’re really brave. I like that you don’t try to be loud just to fit in. You make me feel like that’s okay.”

I blink fast. It’s not the kind of compliment I get. It’s not about speed or podiums or stats. It’s about me. The parts I’ve always kept hidden because the world made me feel like they were wrong. I smile—genuinely this time—and crouch a little so we’re eye level.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “That means more than you know.”

Her face lights up like I just handed her a trophy. We take a photo. I sign her hat. She hugs me before I even have time to react—but I don’t mind. Not even a little. As I walk away, I feel lighter. Like the weight pressing on my shoulders loosened just a little. Maybe I’ll always be the quiet one. The misunderstood one. But to that one girl? I was seen. And that’s enough.

—

The moment I cross the line, the radio explodes.

“P1, YN! That’s P1! You did it! You absolutely nailed that last stint—what a drive!”

I don’t say much. I can’t. My throat is tight and my hands are shaking around the wheel. The pit wall is screaming, my engineer shouting through the static. The grandstands blur into one giant roar. I slow the car down and guide it into parc fermé, P1 board waiting. The marshals are waving, cameras already turned in my direction like hungry mouths. I sit still for a beat. The engine is off, the world is loud, but in my cockpit it’s just… quiet. Then I hear it—Max’s car pulling into P2.

“Let’s go,” I murmur to myself and start the slow climb out.

But my limbs feel heavy. Every emotion I’ve buried all year starts clawing its way to the surface, and I’m suddenly not sure if I’ll make it over the halo without falling flat on my face. And then—there’s a hand. Max, already out of his car, standing beside mine like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He holds his hand out without a word. Just a look that says, Yeah, I know. Take it. I take it. He helps me out of the car, firm but unshowy. As soon as I hit the ground, I sway a little, overwhelmed—but I don’t fall.

He leans in, dry as ever. “You know you’re supposed to breathe when you win, right?”

I huff out something between a laugh and a sob. “I’ll try next time.”

Our helmets clink together briefly as we hug—quick, tight, familiar—and then he nudges me toward my team. They’re already there—Red Bull crew surrounding me, cheering, hugging, spraying water. I let myself fall into it for a moment. I smile, genuinely. I hug back. One of the engineers lifts me off the ground and spins me, and I let them. Because this is theirs, too. Ours. But just as the broadcasters and press start pushing through the sea of mechanics, I slip away—ducking behind the barrier, walking briskly toward the cooldown room before they can catch me.

I hear a few voices behind me—“YN, one word for Sky? Just a few seconds?”

I keep walking. The cooldown room is blissfully empty. Cold, quiet, white walls and a table with water and towels. I sit, press the bottle to my forehead, and finally breathe. No cameras. No questions. No pretending. Just silence. Just peace. Just… me. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.

—

The water bottle sweats in my hands, condensation dripping slowly onto my race suit. I haven’t said much since sitting down, and Max hasn’t asked me to. He’s lounging across from me on the other bench, head tilted back, eyes closed like he owns the room. His suit is halfway peeled down and his hair’s a sweaty mess, but he looks… content. Neither of us are fans of the overexposed post-race routine. The lights. The forced questions. The soundbites that get twisted a dozen ways before the sun even sets. So we sit here, in the eye of the storm, letting the world knock on the door without answering.

Max finally cracks an eye open. “You going to do the interviews?”

I lean my head back against the cool wall and sigh. “Eventually. Maybe. If they don’t forget I exist by then.”

He grins slightly. “You just won. They’ll send a SWAT team if you don’t come out soon.”

Before I can answer, the door opens — fast but tentative — and in walks Camille, my press secretary. She’s breathless. Her clipboard’s half tucked under her arm, and she looks like she’s been fighting off wolves outside.

“YN,” she starts, trying for calm but clearly begging on the inside, “I hate to interrupt, but they’re getting antsy. Sky, F1TV, everyone’s lining up. They want quotes, a soundbite—anything.”

I nod slowly. I expected this. It doesn’t make it any easier.

“I’m not doing the scrum,” I say. “Not the pen. Not the mixed zone.”

Camille looks like she wants to scream into a pillow. “Okay. Fine. What will you do?”

I glance at Max, who’s watching like it’s the most entertaining episode of Drive to Survive he’s seen all year.

“One interview,” I finally say. “That’s it.”

Camille’s already flipping through her mental rolodex. “Okay. Sky? F1TV? Maybe something for social? Martin Brundle is waiting and—”

“No,” I cut her off, gently but firm. “If I do one, it’s with Lissie. No one else.”

Camille blinks. “Lissie—Lissie Mackintosh from Sky?”

I nod.

“She’s the only one who doesn’t make me feel like I’m under a microscope,” I explain. “She’s kind. And she actually listens.”

Camille softens a little. “Okay. I can work with that. But they’ll push back.”

“Let them,” I shrug. “I don’t owe them anything else today.”

She studies me for a moment, then exhales and heads out, already dialing her phone as she goes.

The door shuts again, and I fall back into the silence like it’s a blanket.

Max raises a brow. “Lissie, huh?”

“She doesn’t try to make me a headline,” I reply.

Max gives a nod of respect. “Smart. Wish we all had a Lissie.”

I glance down at my fingers, still slightly trembling from adrenaline. “I just need someone who sees me.”

“You just won a damn Grand Prix,” Max says, standing and nudging my foot with his. “They’re gonna have to see you now, whether they like it or not.”

—

yn's post race interview with lissie mackintosh- barcelona

—

third person pov

YN steps down from the small stage, fingers tugging at the collar of her suit as if she’s trying to breathe easier now that the lights are off. She’s walking fast, already focused on making it back to the safety of the garage. She doesn’t see Oscar until she turns the corner, he is halfway through his own interview with a different outlet. He’s smiling—tired, but still upbeat—and when he spots her, his expression brightens like he’s been waiting for a chance to say something. Oscar turned to YN as she passed by.

“You should really be talking to the winner, huh?”

His voice is friendly. Joking. The kind of throwaway line that’s meant to show camaraderie, not pressure. YN pauses just for a second. She offers a small, polite smile—closed-lipped and barely there. No laugh. No response. Just a nod. And then she’s gone. Quiet steps, fast retreat.

Oscar watches her disappear down the corridor, his smile faltering slightly. His interviewer says something, but he doesn’t really register it.

“…Did I say something weird?”

He turns back to the camera, eyes a little more unsure. In the back of his mind, the question settles in— Does she just not like me? But the truth is simpler. And sadder. She doesn’t dislike him. She just doesn’t have room for warmth in the places where the world watches too closely.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Race Winner, YN LN, only gave 1 two minute interview with @/skysports Lissie Mackintosh. Oscar Piastri who was P3 today, was also doing an interview when LN happened to walk by and made a joke to which YN just walked off. He then asked the interviewer if he said something wrong. Thoughts?

view 120,004 comments.

username00 : imagine winning a race and still managing to have the personality of dry toast 😭 poor oscar was just being NICE

username22 : as someone who watched the full interview with Lissie — she was genuine and soft spoken. maybe what she needs is respect, not attention.

username08 : i love Oscar but this isn’t that deep. she clearly has boundaries and isn’t fake about it. that’s kind of refreshing.

username09 : she didn’t even thank the fans today. one interview and vanishes? okay ice queen 🧊

username17 : not her making Oscar second guess himself when he was literally just being sweet? i would NEVER recover.

username20 : this is why she’s boring. no charisma, no interviews, no interaction. i said what i said. 🥱

username30 : are y’all ignoring the interaction she had with a younger fan today?? she is such a sweetie, she is just camera shy.

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, redbullracing and 1,7005,002 others.

ynfromredbull : good shit.

—

view 74,032 other comments.

lissiemackintosh : Honored to have been the one to share part of this day with you. Congratulations again, YN! ✨

liked by ynfromredbull

username0 : i feel like max is the only one that understands her.

maxverstappen1 : good shit indeed.

liked by ynfromredbull and redbullracing

oscarpiastri : Insane drive today, YN. 💪🏻

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ username0 : oscar is much better than me bc id be a hater rn

alexalbon : can someone pls nerf the redbull team. i am tired.

liked by maxverstappen1, ynfromredbull and redbullracing

username10 : can y'all shut up now- she is literally taking pictures with fans.

↳ username0 : wowww one time in her whole career.

carlossainz55 : such a beast. congratulations yn

liked by ynfromredbull

—

I don’t like nights like this. Too many people. Too many lights. Too many eyes that don’t know me but swear they do. I don’t stop for cameras, I don’t pose, I don’t even slow down when someone calls my name. I just head straight inside the theater like I’m late for something, even though I’m not. I keep my eyes low, find the row I asked Max to save for me, and drop into the seat beside him with a quiet exhale. He glances at me, unimpressed but amused.

“Nice entrance. Scared three PR people on the way in.”

I almost smile. “Was aiming for five.”

He snorts, and just like that, I feel a little more human. Max has always understood the value of silence. He never pushes, never demands more than I can give. We talk a little—about the ridiculousness of the event, the car updates, the championship—but mostly, we just sit. It’s enough. Until I feel a shift. I don’t even have to look up. I can sense someone walking toward us with too much hesitation, like they’ve already decided I’m going to run. When I do glance up, I’m met with wide brown eyes and a nervous smile. Oscar.

“Hey. Sorry—YN? Can I talk to you for a second?”

Max raises a brow. I pause, heart twitching in my chest for reasons I don’t fully understand, and then I nod. I follow Oscar into the hallway, the noise of the event fading behind me like static. The lighting is dimmer here. Softer. Still too bright. He turns to face me, shifting on his feet like he’s rehearsed this five times already.

“I, um—did I do something to upset you?”

My stomach drops.

“What?”

“After the race. I made that joke and you just… walked off. And I get it if you’re not a fan of me or something, I just—” He laughs nervously. “I keep thinking I said something wrong.”

I blink. I want to laugh, but I don’t. Instead, I look down, ashamed.

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong.” My voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s not you. It’s just… me.”

He looks confused. Still gentle, though. Waiting. I don’t know why, but I want to explain—just a little.

“When I was younger, I lost someone. My dad. He was… my person. The one who made the noise of the world feel a little less loud. And after it happened, I kind of… shut off. I don’t like being watched. I don’t like being asked to smile when I don’t feel like it. I just… exist better in the quiet.”

Oscar doesn’t speak for a long moment. But his expression softens in a way that makes my chest ache.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says eventually. “But thank you for trusting me.”

I nod, throat tight. Then, a flicker of guilt. “And I’m sorry for walking off like that. You didn’t deserve it.”

He smiles, shy and genuine.

“So… you don’t hate me?”

That makes me laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

“No,” I say softly. “I don’t.”

There’s a pause, and for the first time since I got here, I feel something shift in my chest. A crack of light.

He nudges me lightly with his shoulder. “Cool. Friends, then?”

I think about it. About how hard it is to let people in. About how much it scares me.

Then I nod. “Yeah. Friends.”

—

3 month time skip

ynfromredbull

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, lando & 2,409,001 others.

ynfromredbull : as my counterpart @/maxverstappen1 would say— these last few months have been simply lovely. 🏆💪🏻

—

view 127,002 other comments.

username0 : this caption is the most personality i’ve seen from her all season.

username14 : i can’t believe she is leading the wdc rn

maxverstappen1 : id sue for copyright infringement if i wasn’t so proud

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : very artistic post yn

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ ynfromredbull : thank you mr. piastri

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ lando : OMG SHE SPEAKS

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ lando : yn i didn’t mean that in a bad way pls don’t drive me off the track

liked by ynfromredbull

georgerussell63 : it is against fia regulations to have a teddy bear in the car. RACE BAN (she is still destroying all of us— it would not help save the season)

liked by ynfromredbull

—

f1gossipgirls

428,023 likes.

f1gossipgirls : For the first time in her F1 career, YN LN has not walked into the paddock alone. She walked in with none other than Oscar Piastri himself. Not only did she walk in with him but the two stopped for the press multiple times and stopped to talk with fans. Many people say that this is the most they’ve seen her smile in her whole career. Thoughts?

—

view 15,539 other comments.

username00 : from Oscar “did I do something wrong?” to Oscar walking her in and making her smile… the arc is so insane

username15 : f1gossipgirls is finally being NICE about her. this is how powerful love is

username17 : i haven’t seen her this relaxed since she debuted. i’d cry if i wasn’t already crying.

username22 : this is NOT a drill. she SMILED. she TALKED. she STOOD STILL for the PRESS. what is happening

username0 : So now she wants the attention? Pick a side. Either be private or don’t.

username14 : she’s literally only tolerable when she’s standing next to a man. that’s so sad lol

username20 : i’m sorry but this whole “she’s just shy” thing got old last season. f1 drivers are public figures. she knew what she signed up for.

—

It happens slowly. Like sunlight through tinted glass — warm but filtered, creeping in without permission. Oscar’s been around a lot lately. Not just in the paddock, where we’re both supposed to be, but everywhere in between. Track walks, post-race debriefs, long flights, short layovers, dinners in quiet towns we don’t name on social media. He’s become part of the background noise of my life, and for once, that doesn’t scare me.

I notice it when we’re sitting side by side in the sim room, not speaking, just existing. The silence between us feels easy now. Familiar. Like I don’t have to earn my space — I just have it. I notice it when he hands me a coffee before I’ve even asked, the way he always remembers I take it black with a splash of oat milk, no sugar. Or when he throws a hoodie at me because I always forget I get cold before FP3.

I notice it most on the plane ride. He’s asleep beside me, his head tilted toward me, headphones slipping. I’m staring at the clouds and thinking about how close I am to the title. Closer than I’ve ever been. I should be terrified. But I’m not. Because he’s here. And for some reason, that grounds me.

He mumbles something in his sleep and leans slightly toward my shoulder. I freeze. Not because I’m uncomfortable — but because I’m suddenly too comfortable. My heart stutters. It’s a dangerous thing, comfort. I’ve avoided it for years, convinced it would disappear the moment I reached for it. But Oscar—he never asked me to reach. He just stayed.

Now I’m sitting in row 8F of some transatlantic flight with a soft-voiced Aussie curled up next to me and a World Championship lead in my lap — and all I can think is... God, I might actually be in love with him. And that’s scarier than any press conference I’ve ever dodged.

—

I could already feel the heat of the Monaco sun pressing down as we stepped out of the car. The walk to the paddock always felt long, even when it wasn’t. My palms were tucked into my jacket pockets, nerves dancing beneath my skin like they always did. But this time, I wasn’t alone.

Oscar walked beside me, chatting softly about absolutely nothing — the weather, the coffee at the hotel, the chaos of the Monte Carlo grid. I appreciated it. His voice was grounding. I didn’t have to say anything, and he didn’t expect me to.

I kept my eyes low, used to the flashes of phones and the buzz of people trying to get my attention. Normally, I’d keep walking. Fast. Direct. No room for error. But then I heard it.

“YN!”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t aggressive. Just… hopeful. I slowed down without thinking. Oscar noticed instantly and stilled beside me.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… give me a sec.”

I turned toward the barricade. A young fan was holding a poster of my car from Australia. I’d won that race. My name was scrawled across the sidepod in sharp lettering — a moment frozen in time I’d barely let myself process. I took the marker from their hand, signed it quickly but neatly.

“Thank you for today,” the fan said, eyes wide. “You’re… amazing. You’ve always been amazing.”

The words hit me somewhere in the chest I didn’t know was sore.

“…Thanks,” I said, almost too quietly. Then louder: “Thanks for saying that.”

They smiled like I’d handed them gold. I took one photo — just one. And then I stepped back beside Oscar, who gave me a subtle smile. Not too proud. Not too over-the-top. Just there. Solid. Steady. We weren’t even halfway through the paddock before a Sky Sports reporter called out.

“YN! Oscar! Over here?”

I froze.

Oscar looked at me. “Wanna skip it?”

I shook my head. “Just one.”

We walked over together. I didn’t say much — I never do — but I stood there. Present. Listening. And when they asked how I was feeling going into the weekend, the words came before I could edit them.

“Focused,” I said. Then, after a breath: “And a little less alone today.”

Oscar glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. There was a flicker of something soft there, something understanding. It felt… safe. When we finally reached the Red Bull garage, I exhaled for what felt like the first time in twenty minutes. I peeled off my jacket, tugged at the brim of my cap, and tried to disappear through the back. But Max was already leaning on the pit wall, headset half-on, watching me with that unreadable Verstappen face.

“You smiled,” he said, completely monotone. “Terrifying.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start.”

He smirked just slightly. “I’m just saying… if you become media friendly, I’m going to have to be the difficult one now.”

“You already are,” I deadpanned.

Max laughed under his breath and tossed me a bottle of water. “You did good, LN.”

And for once, I let myself believe it.

—

The world was quiet around us. The kind of hush that only existed in moments like this — between heartbeats, between stares. Monaco’s lights flickered just beyond the windows, gold threads pulling through navy silk. I could hear the sea in the distance. Oscar lay beside me, legs stretched across my duvet like he belonged here. He wasn’t touching me, not yet, but he was close enough that I could feel every inch of space between us — and it made my chest ache.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he said softly, barely above a whisper.

I turned my head toward him. “That’s saying something.”

He smiled, tired and tender. “Fair. Still true.”

I didn’t answer. Because truthfully, I was scared. This was all new. The closeness. The comfort. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t hard to figure out. Then he said it — no fanfare, no buildup, just a simple truth.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

It should’ve terrified me. But it didn’t. Not really. It cracked something open.

I stared at him, eyes burning, heart folding in on itself. “I think I already have,” I breathed, voice barely there.

The silence that followed was thick — not heavy, not awkward. Just real. He reached over, his fingers grazing mine so gently it made my skin buzz. It wasn’t a grab. It was an invitation. And for once in my life, I accepted. I laced my fingers through his and sat up, pulling open the drawer next to my bed. There was only one thing inside — an envelope. Worn at the edges, the flap taped down three times because I’d opened and closed it more than I should have. I handed it to him. His brows furrowed as he opened it slowly. The photo slipped into his hand.

Me, at six. All tiny teeth and wild hair, grinning up like the sun had never set. Standing next to a man in a racing suit. His hand was on my shoulder. The same eyes. The same smirk. My father. Oscar looked between the photo and me, and I saw the shift happen in real time — confusion to understanding to quiet reverence.

“That’s… is that who I think it is?” His voice cracked just slightly.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “My dad.”

I didn’t say his name. I didn’t need to.

“He died when I was eight. It was… it was violent. Sudden. One second he was there, and then he wasn’t. He was my safest place. My everything. After that, I… broke. I stopped talking for months. And when I started again, it was never the same.”

He didn’t move. Just stared at me like I was something delicate, like if he breathed too loudly I might fold in on myself.

“I never told anyone,” I continued, voice barely holding. “I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want to be treated like some ghost of his shadow. I wanted to be me. Just me.”

Oscar’s fingers tightened around mine — not too much, just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone anymore.

“You are,” he whispered. “You’re everything.”

I looked at him then, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like hiding.

“I think he’d like you,” I said, smiling through the burn in my throat.

Oscar leaned in, resting his forehead against mine, and whispered back, “I like you more than I should.”

And in the soft glow of the Monaco skyline, wrapped in the quiet I used to fear, I finally let myself feel it all. Love. Safety. Peace. Him.

—

f1

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, ynfromredbull & 8,029,003 others.

f1 : Your 2025 World Champion, YN LN! Incredible drive this season, YN. This is well deserved.

tagged : ynfromredbull

—

view 239,492 other comments.

username00 : MY QUEEN! CONGRATULATIONS YN.

username15 : gonna be insufferable about this for the next 40 years ok????

susie_wolff : YN has made history. I am forever proud of her.

liked by ynfromredbull and f1

username30 : people doubted her, the press dragged her, and she STILL smoked them all. cold-blooded. we love a quiet assassin 💅

lissiemackintosh : I’ve seen your journey up close. You are everything this sport needs. Congratulations, champion. 💫

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : No one more worthy. What a season, YN. 🏆🤍

liked by ynfromredbull

lando : MY GOATTTTTT LFGGGG

liked by ynfromredbull

lewishamilton : It’s been inspiring watching you come into your own. World Champion sounds good on you. 🔥

liked by ynfromredbull

maxverstappen1 : Couldn’t be more proud. YN deserved this more than anyone.

liked by ynfromredbull

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, lando and 12,037,024 others.

ynfromredbull : this is what it is all about. thank you all. it is an honor to be your 2025 world champ. i hope you grow to love me as much as i love all of you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

We were far from everything — the noise, the cameras, the endless headlines. Just a small coastal town somewhere in Portugal, sun-drunk and slow, the kind of place where people didn’t care about championship points or last names. Oscar and I had spent the day walking through sleepy markets, eating too much gelato, and laughing at nothing. Now, the two of us lay tangled together on the bed in the little apartment we rented, the linen sheets kicked down to our ankles and the windows cracked open to let in the salt-kissed night air. His hand rested on my stomach, thumb drawing slow circles over the hem of my shirt. The world outside our window was quiet, but my mind wasn’t. Not tonight.

“I want to do it,” I said into the stillness.

He turned his head, his voice a low murmur against my temple. “Do what?”

I hesitated, even though I already knew he’d understand. He always did.

“The interview. I want to finally say it. Talk about… him. All of it.”

Oscar sat up slightly, enough to look at me properly. “You’re sure?”

I nodded, throat tight. “It’s time. I’ve hidden behind the silence for so long. And I don’t want to anymore.”

He searched my eyes, then gently tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You don’t owe anyone your pain, you know. You don’t have to justify who you are.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But I want to tell the story. My story. People have made it for me for so long — all the gossip, the assumptions. I’ve let them believe I’m cold or arrogant or just awkward. But the truth is…” I swallowed. “The truth is, I’m just someone who lost the one person that made the world feel safe.”

Oscar’s hand found mine under the sheets, his fingers warm and steady.

“I think he’d be proud of you,” he said softly. “For everything. For surviving. For being brave enough to do this now.”

I blinked hard, staring up at the ceiling to stop the tears from spilling.

“I miss him so much, still. Every day. Sometimes I think that little girl in the paddock died with him — the one who used to talk to everyone, who smiled without thinking about it.”

He pulled me into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “That girl’s still in there. I see her every time you light up after a race. Every time you laugh when you think no one’s listening. You’re still her. Just… grown, and stronger.”

I breathed him in — the cologne I’d come to associate with safety and something close to peace.

“Will you be there? When I do it?” I asked quietly. “When I finally say his name?”

“Every step,” he said without hesitation. “Always.”

And in that moment, with his arms around me and the stars blinking somewhere above the rooftops, I knew I wasn’t alone anymore.

Not in the silence. Not in the truth. Not ever again.

—

‘hey lissie— its yn. i want to do an exclusive interview with you. if you’re willing.’

’omg hey champ— obviously id be willing to. where do you need me?’

’my house. next week? i can send a plane your way.’

’ill be there. i am honored, yn. truly.’. 

—

world champion, yn, sharing her truths from her home in monaco with lissie mackintosh - 1/2/2026

—

ynsenna

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, oscarpiastri & 17,023,004 others.

ynsenna : i’ve spent most of my life trying to be quiet enough not to be noticed. not because i didn’t have anything to say—but because grief took the words from me before i ever had the chance to speak.

this season changed my life. not just because of the results, but because i finally stopped running from the part of me that hurt the most. my father was everything to me. and losing him the way i did shattered something i didn’t know how to rebuild—until recently. the truth is- i’m proud to be his daughter. but i’m also proud of the woman i’ve become, entirely on my own.

to those who’ve seen me when i couldn’t see myself—thank you. to the ones who stayed kind even when i stayed quiet—you mean more than you know.

and to the person who reminded me i’m allowed to be loved, messy and whole—i love you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirl : YN just did an interview from her home with Lissie Mackintosh going into detail about her childhood and revealed that Ayrton Senna is in fact her father. She spoke about how her father’s tragic death left her emotionally shut her down for most of her life— and she chose silence as form of self protection. She led Lissie through a room in her house which held a large collection of her father’s helmets and trophy’s and she shared a few photos of them on her instagram today— which her new instagram handle is @/ynsenna. She also revealed in this interview that she is indeed dating Oscar Piastri. Oscar was behind the camera silently supporting her during the interview. Thoughts?

—

view 802,482 comments.

username0 : i’m crying real tears. she carried the weight of that legacy in complete silence. absolute warrior.

username14 : Oscar being behind the camera and just silently supporting her???? marriage. immediately.

username20 : now it all makes sense. the silence, the eyes that always looked a little sad. she’s been carrying so much. proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

username15 : she didn’t win the championship for the world. she won it for her dad and for the little girl who lost her dad. i’m not okay.

username17 : everything about this interview was raw and honest. we don’t deserve her but god do we respect her.

username30 : the fact she said nothing for years and let people think the worst of her, just to protect herself?? she’s not cold. she’s human. and she deserves peace.

—

oscarpiastri

liked by ynsenna, maxverstappen1, lando & 10,273,005 others.

oscarpiastri : proud to know you. proud to love you. you are the strongest human i know. you made him proud, sweetheart.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

The interview with Lissie had gone live less than twelve hours ago. I’d barely blinked since then. I was curled up on my couch, hoodie three sizes too big, hair in a bun, face completely bare. Oscar sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, his back leaning against the couch between my legs. I absentmindedly ran my fingers through his hair while he scrolled through TikTok with the volume low. My phone buzzed every five seconds on the table, but I ignored it. Oscar didn’t ask questions. He just stayed. And he was quiet in that way that felt like peace.

The soft hum of city traffic below filled the silence until—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Someone was knocking on my door like it owed them money. Oscar and I both jolted.

“Are you expecting someone?” he asked, twisting to look at me.

“No—wait. Shhh. Listen.”

BANG BANG BANG.

Then—“YN! OPEN UP! YOU OWE US A DAMN EXPLANATION!”

That voice. That unhinged tone.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. “Is that—Max?”

Oscar looked up at me. “Should I get the bat?”

I was still laughing as I padded to the door, the sound of voices growing louder.

“Carlos, stop pressing the buzzer, it’s annoying.”

“She’s probably ignoring us—”

“She probably moved to Brazil, bro.”

“Shut up, George.”

“YN, IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR I’M GETTING THE SPARE FROM CHRISTIAN!”

I opened the door. And immediately got hit with a wave of chaos. Max was at the front like the ringleader. Behind him stood Charles, Lando, Carlos, Pierre, Yuki, Lewis, George, and Alex, all staring at me like I’d just casually announced I was royalty.

“Hi,” I said blandly.

“‘Hi’?! That’s all we get?” George sputtered.

Max shouldered his way in first, eyes wide. “You—YOU—” He pointed at me. “Are Senna’s daughter and you didn’t tell anyone?!”

“I told Oscar,” I mumbled, leaning against the door frame.

“Yeah, okay, Oscar gets a free pass,” Lando said dramatically, waving a hand as he walked in. “Since he is the boyfriend.”

“I can’t believe you’re his,” Pierre said, mouth open as he stared around the apartment.

Yuki beelined for my kitchen. “Do you have snacks?”

Carlos gave me a look that was half stern, half soft. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Lewis stepped forward, eyes kind. “You didn’t have to. But… damn. That was powerful, YN.”

“Yeah,” Charles agreed, nodding slowly. “I cried, but that might’ve been the wine.”

The room was buzzing. Full of movement, questions, half-jokes, too much cologne, and disbelief so thick I could feel it crackling in the air like electricity. And yet, through it all, I just… Chuckled. I mean — this was my life now? Eight world-class athletes pacing my apartment like it was a race strategy debrief while Oscar, my boyfriend, my soulmate, looked like he wanted to protect me from the emotional onslaught with nothing but a throw pillow.

Max stared at me. “What’s funny?”

I smiled — wide and honest. “You guys are all losing your minds in my living room. Like I’m a unicorn or something.”

George raised a finger. “To be fair, you are. We just didn’t know it.”

Lando turned toward Oscar. “You knew. You absolute sneaky bastard.”

Oscar held up his hands, all innocence. “She told me. I didn’t say anything. Not even in the group chat.”

“I’m so proud of you, and also I hate you,” Pierre muttered, clapping Oscar’s shoulder.

And then — without warning — Max said, “Alright, that’s it. Everyone shut up.”

I blinked. “What—”

He lunged. Then Lando. Then Charles. Then George. Before I could even think to protest, I was being dragged into a ridiculous, suffocating, all-limbs, too-many-colognes, full team group hug. My face was squished between Max’s shoulder and Pierre’s head. Oscar laughed and wrapped his arms around all of us from the outside.

Someone yelled, “We’re proud of you!”

Someone else yelled, “She’s a Senna but she’s our YN!”

And I think it was Alex who shouted, “WE LOVE YOU, WORLD CHAMP!”

I couldn’t breathe. Not from the pressure of the hug — from the feeling of it all. Acceptance. Support. Love. After years of walls, of silence, of solitude, it all rushed in like the wave I didn’t know I’d been bracing for. And I let myself sink into it. Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to carry the legacy alone anymore.

—

[clockwayswrites]

Pair of Jacks, ch1p2

part 1 (please no editing or concrit <3 tired, migrained, had to SHOP today)

Tim gripped his mug of coffee tightly. The wills were spread out across the kitchen table. Bruce was taking notes, which was good. Tim didn’t know if he could let go of his mug right then without just vibrating into nothingness like Bart on a sugar high.

“The good news is, that if we ignore the multiple biological parents, the wills are rather straight forward,” Bruce said. “As Daniel is the only surviving member of the family, almost everything goes to him. A portion of the inheritance will be set aside to use for expenses and the rest will go into a trust that Danny gets access to when he turns eighteen. The sale of the estate will be managed by a Vlad Masters, the biological father of Jasmin Fenton, the sister. Had she survived, things would had been far more complicated.”

“That sounds horrible to say,” Tim muttered.

“It does. It is horrible to say, but it’s true,” Bruce said. “Had Jasmine survived, Masters would have become the first choice guardian for both of them, as not to separate the children. There is also an aunt as a relation, a few minor things go to her, but she was listed as the last resort guardian. Apparently she never wanted to deal with children for more than a few weeks at a time.”

“Will she cause problems? I mean, that could have changed, right?” Tim sighed and rested his head against the edge of the mug. “What am I saying, if she’s someone that Daniel actually knows, wouldn’t it be better for him to go to her if she wants him to?”

“Only if it’s not a momentary flash of grief,” Bruce said. “We have to trust that the Doctor Fentons made the choices they did for a reason. If the aunt was their last choice, over someone Maddison had an affair with, then she should be their last choice.”

“I guess. What was with that anyways?” Tim asked. “Jack… Jack sleeping around is no surprise. There were times my parents were on breaks from each other or Janet would sleep with someone just to throw it back at Jack for something he did. I heard their arguments enough when they were home. But why were both of the Fentons from different dads?”

“I suspect that the answer to that is in this letter,” Bruce said, holding the envelope out towards Tim. “It’s addressed to Jack, but it would go to you as his legatee.”

“Can’t you just say heir like a normal person?” Tim asked. He didn’t take the envelope. “Read it for me?”

“Sure, sweetheart,” Bruce said. He opened the envelope cleaning with the stylus and pulled out the letter. “Jack, I actually doubt that you remember me. You seemed pretty at ease with the idea of a weekend fling. It’s part of why I picked you out. Your curiosity and open thinking were other reasons. That, and your name also being Jack, same as my darling husband, amused me. It meant that we weren’t lying when we said that ‘Jack’ was Danny’s father.

“You see, my Jack would rather not have anything to do with procreation or sex. He’s adverse to it even to the point that sperm donation would have been a struggle. But I wanted another child. And while our first was born from something of a throuple, there was no such thing this time. So I went searching for some fun and a sperm donor. If life goes well, I’ll get to burn this letter when Danny turns eighteen and no one will ever know about this, especially Danny.

“If you’ve gotten this, it means both my Jack, myself, and my darling daughter are dead. While I hardly expect you to be a father to Danny, I do expect you to ensure that he makes it to eighteen in a good state. It’s the least you can do for me listening to you complain about your wife all weekend.”

“Well, she put that pretty bluntly,” Tim said. He was half torn to laughing. It would have served Jack right to have to deal with that. Daniel—Danny would have probably just been sent off to some boarding school until he was eighteen and then paid off to never come back.

Tim liked to think he could do better than that.

“Can you take next week off classes?” Bruce asked.

“Yeah, for sure. I think this counts as an excused absence, but even if not, you know,” Tim said. He pulled his phone of his back pocket to check his calendar and what was on it.

“Then I’ll take off work and get the jet scheduled,” Bruce said as he pulled up his own calendar on his tablet. “I’ll also rearrange patrols. Is there anything you’re looking into that need specific covering?”

“A stake out. I can hand it over to the Birds though. It could benefit from Oracle’s hand anyways,” Tim said almost absently. He had a calculus test he’d need to reschedule, but maybe he could just get it done before the trip. It was just calculus.

Bruce nodded. “Focus on that and school then, I’ll manage the rest. The only thing you’ll need to do is pass along word that we’ll be coming, and that I’ll also be listed as a guardian. Assuming that you’re alright with that? I’m not trying to take him from you or—”

“No,” Tim interrupted. “I’m not trying to be his dad or anything. Besides, there’s a chance that he’ll live here and then you having guardianship too makes sense. Like, if you need to check him out of school or something. Though I guess we can offer here and the Nest? Like, there is another room. Or I could move. I guess I’ll have to figure out where he’d go to school—”

“Tim, breathe.”

Tim sucked in a shaky breath and let it out slowly. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bruce said. “It’s a lot. Luckily I’ve been through this a few times. I promise it will work out.”

“I hope so,” Tim said. He wished he could be as confident as Bruce, but all Tim could think was: what if he doesn’t even want to be my brother?

[wayward-dreamer]

Drop The Charges

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Plus size!Reader

Word count: 4.1k

Summary: After a car accident a few weeks prior, you were determined to make the asshole that hit you pay. Unfortunately he was incredibly handsome and convincing as he comes up with a pretty enticing way to get you to not press charges. (no outbreak!au)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, swearing, mention of minor car accident/damage to vehicle, reader being unnecessarily mean and stressing Joel out but girlie's going through some shit okay?, mention of past relationship/bad breakup, minor mention of body insecurity, age gap (reader in her early 30s, Joel in his early 40s) heated argument, ultimatum, Joel's assertive and reader is into it, strangers to lovers, smut: dirty talk, oral (f! receiving), Joel's a capital M Munch™️, using panties as a gag, apologies, fluff. Reader described with female anatomy, no use of y/n.

A/N: This was written for @clubsoft's Have You Ever Tried This One? Writing challenge. This was such a fun prompt to write, I hope you like it, Dulsè! I may or may not already have thought about part 2 for this! Happy reading everyone! <3

Main Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Characters Masterlist

You walked through the foyer of the courthouse, your purse slung over your shoulder and your light gray trench coat fluttering from the wind in the large expanse of the vaulted space, as you followed behind the lawyer that had been assigned to you from the court. Your black heels clacked against the marble floor as he led you towards a hallway, with doors on each side all marked with numbers engraved on the dark wood. He stopped in front of a door marked ‘6’ and twisted the door handle, holding it open for you and allowing you to step in first. You walked in and dropped your purse on one of the chairs at the conference table, turning around and folding your arms across your chest as you waited for the man that followed behind you.

Joel Miller stepped through the threshold, rubbing his palms together as he looked around the room and avoided looking at you. You glanced between him and your lawyer, giving him a small nod to let him know that you were okay for him to leave.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” he reminded you before he closed the door behind him.

An awkward silence fell in the room as you glared at Joel, watching as he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, his other sliding into the front pocket of his dark jeans. He was wearing an olive green shirt that was tucked into the denim, his sleeves rolled up his forearms which he had clearly done on the walk from the courtroom to this empty conference room you now occupied. Unfortunately for you and this situation, he was incredibly attractive, with specks of grey in his dark locks and salt and pepper stubble across his jaw. If you didn’t have unnecessary beef with him, maybe you would’ve asked if he was interested in having dinner with you.

“So, you’re the one who asked to talk this out,” you said, your sharp tone startling him a little. “Start talking, Miller.”

“Hey, you’re the one who’s got it out for me, sweetheart,” he countered, taking a small step towards you. “For no good reason, I’ll add, so why don’t you tell me why you’re doing this.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” you argued.

“Okay, you know what? You don’t but you gotta stop this, alright?” he reasoned, holding his hands up in defence. “I stopped and helped you out, gave you my information, just like I was meant to. So I don’t understand how we even got here.”

Honestly, you had no idea how you got there, either. It all started with that fateful morning a few weeks ago, when you were driving to work with red, puffy eyes that your make-up did nothing to cover up. You had just broken up with your boyfriend the night before, well, he had broken up with you. It had been awful, you screamed yourself hoarse as you tried to make sense of why and of course as was the case with so many men, he didn’t give you a good reason. He had never said it outright but you knew he had issues with your appearance, subtly referring to your weight or the way you dressed. In hindsight, you had never been happier to be out of that relationship, but at the time it felt like your whole world was crashing down around you.

The morning after he broke your heart, you had decided work would be a good distraction and had left a little earlier than you normally did. Little did you know, you would be at a red light and then rear ended by the black truck behind you. You had cursed up a storm inside your car as you found a spot to pull over, slamming the door shut as you met the guy halfway and started hurling insults at him. You remembered him apologizing, he gave you a “seriously, I have no idea what happened, I’m an idiot” and then took out his phone to exchange information with you for both of your insurance companies. You had reluctantly gone ahead with it, but inside you had been fuming. You weren’t in the right headspace for days after, far too scarred from the breakup and you just wanted some type of justice brought. Your car had been dented but the damage wasn’t all that bad, but you still managed to find a way to a lawyer and then to a court date. You were surprised you had managed to drag it that far.

When you stepped into the courtroom earlier, the overwhelming feeling of guilt swept over you as you waited for your case to be called. You could see Joel across the aisle, hands clasped as his jaw clenched and didn’t meet your gaze even when it was time to stand in front of the judge. The older, white haired man behind the bench tried to make sense of the situation, but when he also expressed the fact that this could’ve been handled outside of his courtroom, you knew you had been caught in your exaggeration of the situation. You felt your heart sink into your stomach as you learnt that Joel was just a simple man, a contractor with his own business he had with his brother, a single father to a 14 year old girl and just living a quiet life in their Austin home.

Blaming this all on your broken heart was not going to hold up in court, and you had no idea how to salvage this. Just when you were about to admit your wrongdoing and ready to face the consequence, Joel had cleared his throat, briefly made eye contact with you before addressing the judge.

“Your honor, if we can find a way to sort this out, even just ten minutes-”

With a declaration of a recess and a small beat of his gavel, that was how you found yourself in that room with Joel standing across from you. His gaze was oddly penetrating, as if he was trying to figure you out and you didn’t miss the brief once over he gave you, his eyes taking in your curves before looking back at you. You couldn’t help but admire him either, your annoyance mingling with another feeling, something you never would've thought was possible to feel towards someone you barely knew.

“I’m not gonna attempt to make you tell me why you did this, you had your reasons, as messy as they might be. I’m just asking you to drop the charges. That’s all.”

You knew that you should. There was just no way to do that without admitting your fault in all of this, though. You pressed your lips together, gulping nervously as you began to feel your heart beating rapidly in your chest. Slowly, he walked towards you as he no doubt sensed your hesitation. There was a strange charge in the air between you as neither of you glanced away from each other, his intense gaze making you squeeze your thighs together under your black dress.

“How ‘bout an ol’ fashion deal between adults?” he suggested, raising his brow.

“You can’t offer me any tempting way to settle this, cowboy,” you frowned. Despite your words, you had to admit your curiosity for what he had up his sleeve.

“Sure ‘bout that? ‘Cause I can think of a few things that have been on my mind since I saw you in that dress that might convince you,” he stated, a smirk pulling at his lips as something twinkled in his eye. “And I think they’ve been on your mind, too.”

You might’ve slapped any other man for attempting a line like that on you, and yet with him standing in front of you looking like every fantasy you had ever had, you couldn’t ignore the heat that radiated through your body, wrapped around your spine before settling deep in your core. Your arms dropped down at your sides as he was mere inches from you, staring down at you. 

“Like what?” you asked, your eyes flicking up to meet his.

He slowly lifted his hand, lightly cupping your cheek as his thumb stroked your chin. “We got about…” he briefly glanced at the clock on the wall before looking back at you, “six minutes before we gotta be back in that courtroom. If I can make you cum on my tongue before then, you drop the charges. Judge doesn’t even need to know you made this a bigger thing than it was. Deal?”

“Seems like you get the better end of this deal. What’s in it for me?” you countered, trying to stand your ground but the tremble in your voice gave you away.

“You’ll see when you let me between those gorgeous thighs of yours, darlin’,” he breathed, his voice deep and husky.

You weren’t sure what made you believe him considering you weren’t used to compliments like that. It was hard for you to accept them in relationships let alone from people you had just met, but there was a sincerity in his gaze that gave you a reassurance you weren’t insane. Maybe it was just delusion, maybe it was the heat that burned low in your stomach, but either way you found yourself holding his gaze as you shrugged your trench coat off your shoulders. You dropped it on the chair with your bag, allowing him to take your hand in his large, calloused one and lead you away from the table.

Joel held your waist firmly in his strong grip as he walked you back towards the wall. Your breath hitched just as you pressed up against it, your eyes locked on his as he continued to take in every feature of your face. You felt his hands dig harder into your soft flesh just as he leaned down, capturing your lips in a rough, fervent kiss. You gasped as your arms draped over his shoulders, the sound opening your mouth slightly for his tongue to slip in, mingling with yours and eliciting a deep groan from you. That noise alone was enough to make your thighs squeeze together, feeling the familiar tingle up your spine as you clenched around nothing. He pushed himself closer to you, one of his hands sliding up the curve of your body and cupping your cheek, his lips still fused tightly to yours in an overwhelming embrace. Despite the unfortunate circumstance of how you met, it had still only been a few weeks since the incident, which still made him a stranger. This man shouldn’t be kissing you and caressing you in a way only familiar to lovers that found their rhythm over time, couples that spend years learning everything about each other. Yet there he was, his thick calloused hand sliding over your ample breast and squeezing, causing a surprised moan to escape your lips as you tugged at the collar of his olive green shirt.

His hand continued to drift down your body, finding its way between your legs over the fabric of your dress. He cupped your mound, causing you to pull away with a whimper, staring deep into his eyes. You saw the dark glaze in his brown orbs and you knew that you probably held a similar look, the tension between you both reaching a point of return. Suddenly, the urgency of what he promised you, the deal he was trying to cut, had him pulling away and taking your hands in his, raising your arms up and pressing them against the wall, clasped above your head.

“Keep ‘em there, y’understand?” he muttered against your lips.

You frowned briefly but nodded, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth.

He dragged his hands over the fullness of your curves as he sank to his knees, gazing up at you as they rested over the hem of your dress, thumbs brushing over the soft skin at the edge of it. A soft hum left you as he pushed the material up, a smirk pulling at his lips as he revealed the delectable thickness of your thighs. You pressed your lips together as his rough palms slid up your smooth flesh and gripped your full hips once again, leaning closer to your covered sex, concealed from him in light pink lace.

“So fucking beautiful,” he husked, lightly nuzzling his nose over you. “Can’t wait to taste you, darlin’...”

You didn’t know where the boldness to speak came from, especially in such a brash way, but in that moment all you needed was for him to deliver on his own proposed solution to this mess you had found yourselves in.

“Then hurry the fuck up, Miller, unless you want my lawyer walking in on us.”

He chuckled as he looked up at you, his fingers hooked into the lace of your panties. “Someone’s eager.”

“Please,” you scoffed, meeting his gaze. “I just want this over with so I never have to see you again.”

“Really? ‘Cause…” he started, harshly tugging at your underwear and pulling it down your legs, taking them off from each foot as he took in the sight of a light sheen of your arousal over your pussy. “I think she’s protestin’ to that, sweetheart.”

He tucked your panties into his back pocket before he nudged your knee and parted your legs without another word, making your muscles seize up at how exposed you were to him. A soft whine left you as he shifted closer, grabbing your hips in his firm grip as he sat down completely and crossed his legs, making himself comfortable as he nestled between your spread legs. Your brows pinched together as you couldn’t figure out why he had done that, but you got your answer very quickly as a long swipe of his tongue over your folds had you gasping loudly. Hearing your reaction had him repeating the move before dipping the muscle between your folds and running tight circles over the bundle of nerves, a small groan from him vibrating against you and sending a shiver through your whole body.

“Joel,” you moaned, softly, glancing down at him.

“So perfect,” he muttered against the inside of your thigh, kissing your skin softly. “All dripping and swollen just for me, aren’t ya?”

You watched on as he moved back to the apex of your thighs, your hips in his hard grasp as he slid his tongue along the seam of your sex, alternating with paying attention to the swollen nub, radiating shockwaves through your whole being. You bit down on your lip, trying to keep quiet and not alert anyone outside the room of what was happening, knowing you didn’t have much time before your lawyer would come back and tell you your ten minute recess was over. As much as you had tried to deny it before, you didn’t want it to be over now, with Joel slowly winning you over with every stroke of his talented muscle.

“J-Joel,” you whimpered, licking your lips as you continued to look down at the top of his head, his luscious graying curls looking incredibly pullable. “Fuck, f-feels so good.”

You heard and felt him chuckle against you as he pulled back slightly, enough to meet your lustful gaze with his own. “Knew you were lyin’ before, darlin’. Taste so fucking good, gonna make a mess of you.” 

Before you could conjure up any kind of response, his plump lips sealed around your clit and a sharp moan, one far too loud for someone not to hear, escaped you as one of your hands flailed against the wall and fell into his hair. You grasped the strands between your fingers, holding him in place but as another cry left you, he pulled back from you entirely, his lips and part of his stubble glistening with your arousal. You whined in protest but gulped in surprise as he suddenly stood up and stared deep into your eyes, his brown ones ablaze with desire. He took your hand and roughly placed it back up against the wall, above your head to once again meet the other.

“Do as I say, darlin’, and just so this isn’t over before we’ve even started,” he ordered, reaching into his back pocket and taking out your panties. He rolled them up and brought them to your mouth, stuffing them between your parted lips as your eyes widened. “Now no one’s gonna hear those screams of yours.”

He wasted no time as he dropped down to his original position on the floor, situating himself once more as he dragged your dress up and dipped his head between your thighs. You squirmed and whimpered as you felt his lips around your clit again, his stubble scratching at the flesh of your inner thigh, the sensation of it all at the same time making you moan wantonly, the sound muffled by the lace in your mouth. He continued his ministrations, alternating between licking over your folds and circling your bundle of nerves, burying himself deeper into you and taking you apart like a man starved. You breathed heavily as your squeezed eyes shut, feeling the familiar tug in your core, your thighs quivering as you tried to remain steady while he devoured you but it was too overwhelming.

You couldn’t even remember the last time your ex had made you feel this good, let alone a man you just met through an unfortunate incident weeks ago. You never did this, never let strange men take hold of you in such a way that you never wanted them to let go. This wasn’t you; and yet, you never wanted it to stop. You wanted to grab onto him, tug at his hair and scream for him to give you that euphoric bliss you haven’t felt in a long time, but the gag between your lips wouldn’t allow that. Then, through some luck you hadn’t wished for but were grateful to receive, it turned out you didn’t have to say a thing.

He moved back a little, kissing over your mound as he looked up at you, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Cum for me, darlin’, wanna feel you soak my face and remember what you taste like…”

He grabbed onto your thighs and dove back in, as your hips undulated against his face. A rumbling groan escaped him as he continued to lick and suck, faster and harder with each muffled noise of pleasure from you. His hands slipped around to the curve of your ass, pulling you further into his mouth, making you scream behind the gag as you felt the coil tighten with each stroke of his skilled tongue over you. With a few more swipes, you wailed and fell apart, feeling your wetness coat his lips. You dipped forward slightly, your hands dropping to his shoulders to support yourself as you came down from the highest peak you had ever experienced. He lapped at everything you had to give him, groaning into your center as held you close, savoring the taste of you.

Slowly, he shifted back and let your dress fall back into place as you leaned back against the wall, pulling your rolled up panties out from between your lips. You breathed deeply as you came down from your high, chest heaving as he stood up in front you, the back of his hand swiping over his mouth before he pulled you close. Your eyes locked on him with your hands still on his shoulders, his arms sliding around your waist as his gaze flicked down to your lips briefly, down further to your breasts, enticing him with the deep v-neckline. A soft moan fell from your lips as he moved down, kissing the top of your cleavage, gasping as his tongue licked a trail up your clavicle to your neck, nipping softly at your pulse point. Your head craned back as you offered him more of yourself, unable to recognize yourself through these actions, but you couldn’t help yourself when he was making you feel so good. How could a stranger make you feel so seen? So wanted, so sexy.

Just as he reached your lips he stopped, a mischievous glint in his eye as he looked down at you. “So? What’s the verdict?”

You smiled softly, leaning in close and brushing your lips against his. “You got yourself a deal, cowboy.”

“That easy, huh?” he smirked. “Maybe I should’ve struck this deal on the side of the road all those weeks ago.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t have been so easy then,” you countered, laughing lightly.

You shook your head as you remembered how enraged you had been at him, dragging him all the way to a court date just because he slightly dented your car. He had been so apologetic and exchanged details as was the norm, but you just couldn’t get past your anger, projecting it all onto him. He hadn’t deserved you blowing the situation out of proportion, and maybe you owed him an explanation but you didn’t think you could cope with it right then. You still had a lot to deal with.

So you just apologized for your overreaction.

“Joel, I’m sorry for how I handled this,” you said, sighing heavily. “It’s just… I was upset about something else that day and I took it on you, the next thing to piss me off and I shouldn’t have.”

He nodded, slowly, a small smile pulling at his lips. Lips that had just done sinful things to you. “I appreciate that, darlin’.”

“I’ll talk to the judge,” you added.

A look of understanding passed between you as neither of you moved out of the very intimate embrace. The longer you stood there, as the seconds dragged on, his eyes darkened once again just as yours did. You weren’t sure what was happening, but you couldn’t deny that what had occurred between you was the most electric, the most erotic, the most alive you had ever felt. You had to wonder if he was feeling it, too.

And he was. Joel wanted nothing more than to turn you around and throw you down on the conference table, ignore the fact that they were due back in the courtroom any minute and absolute ravish every inch of you. Even on the day of the incident, he couldn’t help but take a second to think about how beautiful you were as you screamed and cursed at him. Just as he was about to open his mouth and possibly ask you if you wanted to grab a beer with him, the hope died on his tongue as a loud knock came at the dark mahogany door. Your lawyer called out both of you by your last names, making Joel pull back from you, losing the warmth and the feeling of his bulge against your leg.

“Are you both ready?”

“Almost,” you answered, voice raised.

With one last look passing between you, a look that you delusionally thought to be longing, you fixed your dress and fluffed your hair to make it look decent again. Just as you stepped up to the chair you left your trench coat and purse on, you looked down at your hand, your pale pink lace panties still in them. You bit your lip as an idea came to you, shaking your head at your ridiculousness, but you took the chance. You turned around, seeing Joel waiting for you by the door. Picking up your belongings, you sauntered over to him, your eyes never leaving his. You stopped in front of him, and with a smile that was a mix of mischief and innocence, you reached forward and slipped the lace into his jeans pocket. He stared down at your hand, eyebrows furrowed by an aroused glint in his eye as he looked back at you.

“Something to remember me by,” you whispered against his lips.

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against his lips and tasting the remnants of your arousal. Before your confidence could slip away and make you question your actions, you pulled the door open and stepped out of the room, following behind your lawyer as you told him you were dropping the charges. You added an extra swing in your hips as you walked away, Joel’s gaze undoubtedly on you as you heard his heavy footsteps behind.

Later, when all was said and done, you both went your separate ways without another word.

Just the memories of what happened in that empty room would occupy your every thought from that day forward, and the hope that maybe your paths would cross again someday.

Follow @wayward-dreamers-library for notifications of when I update.

[eye-may]

Never-before-published model sheets for canned Amblin Cats movie 🐈‍⬛✏️👁️

Hi all. As promised, I am sharing a comprehensive .PDF of model sheets that were created for the Amblimation Cats movie that never saw the light of day. Most of these model sheets have not been published or posted anywhere on the internet as far as I'm aware. I'm going to get ahead of some questions for the good of the order:

Are these real? I certainly didn't sit and create all 117 pages myself for the sake of an elaborate hoax!

How did you get these? I work in the animation industry. A senior coworker caught wind of my cats obsession and said he had the Xeroxes and asked if I wanted him to bring them in. Internally, I flipped my shit. And then I digitized his hard copies.

How did your coworker get these? They were found in the library of the university he used to go to. (Not super unusual at an arts school in southern California.) He made photo copies back then and has been holding onto them. The thing is he knows nothing about CATS; isn't a CATS fan, never seen it, etc. I guess he just felt it was something worth holding on to!

Can you upload better quality? Unfortunately what you're seeing as good as the quality gets. These are scans of photocopies from the 90s. There is nothing to be done for the crunchiness.

What about (missing characters)? I'm showing you everything I was personally given!

Which character is (nondescript drawing of a cat)? If the image isn't labeled, your guess is as good as mine! I put all the misc./unlabeled cats in the back of the PDF. The only exceptions are ones that I felt were abundantly obviously supposed to be a specific character.

Who are the artists? Unfortunately, there's no way I can tell for sure. None of the sheets are signed. I wouldn't even go about guessing because many concept artists can perfectly emulate more "well known" illustrators whose styles were sought after. My coworker said he might be able to figure out who the draftsmen were; until then it's a mystery! If I find out, I will come back to this post and update it with that information.

Are these all the model sheets ever? No! In fact, there are model sheets that have been posted online that are not in the bundle I was given. I have no idea of the sum total of model sheets in existence.

Where's the link?! Here it is! Have fun kitties!

[thisismypervyacct]

On my first trip to England, I was walking through the park in front of the Royal Naval Observatory. This man was walking an old dog, the dog clearly tired yet carrying on while the man kept a similar gait.

"Is that your puppy?" I asked in my spritely US accent.

The older man replied, "I have no idea what you just said." It would've been more condescending if he had simply called me a damnable yank.

I slowed myself down and enunciated without the sing-song, all life drained from the words: "is that your puppy?"

"She's 15. She's not a puppy." Okay, I get it. You're a killjoy. It got worse, but it stopped being interesting.

As I walked away, I broke down my phonemes: Zzae, djyur, PUH-bee. It must've sounded like Rimouski Quebecoise to a 16th ward Parisian.

Until that moment, I had prided myself on sounding clear and universal to all that understood spoken English. My mother had insisted that I not sound like the "deez n doze" folk of our neighborhood in Utica. She sent me to a Catholic school across town so I sounded like regular Americans. Oh, the irony that the Brooklyn nun that ran my third grade math class at Lourdes became my inspiration for so many characters.

By the time I started public high school, I sounded like a news anchor (network news, not local). I enunciated without thinking about it. I was Guy Smiley for punk music.

I spent most of my university hours doing radio, recording spots, sounding very clear without being too pompous. A smile in your voice can prevent a surprising amount of animosity.

After school I worked phone bank jobs. I sounded good, even at 4 kHz.

Now I was 31, in the home of my native tongue, mere blocks from the stage that gave us Shakespeare. Some upper class jag had left me bereft because I sounded American.

I think the old pup may have been a Borzoi. Not the human -- he wasn't cool enough to be a battle scarred puppy.

me when i see a cat: CAT! cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat

[moonlight-prose]

SIN TI

a/n: years ago when the falcon and the winter soldier came out, i wrote a one shot that has solidified itself as one of my favorite fic i've written. it's a friends to lovers arc and while i wanted to end it there. i couldn't stop myself from giving them another chapter to their love story. so i hope y'all enjoy. there's plenty more torres fics to come. also a massive thank you to my favorite person @soulores who bounced ideas off me and helped me with some of the spanish (i'm learning to fix up my fluency i promise).

note: this fic in my head is a latine reader, but there's no specifications/descriptions so imagine who you wish!

summary: five years have passed. five years since he boarded a plane and left you behind to wait diligently for the man who would never return. when letters and patchy phone calls failed to keep the spark of your relationship alive, you find each other again. only this time as two entirely different people.

word count: 11.2k+

pairing: joaquín torres x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!, epistolary beginning, angst, broken hearts, long distance relationships, epistolary style at first, romance, friends to lovers, arguments, passionate declarations of love, fingering, p in v sex, alcohol consumption, biting, cumplay, rough sex, desperation, yearning + pining, he's got a filthy fucking mouth, more angst, the grief of failed love, second chance romance, forever.

SIEMPRE

December 5, 2023

Mi amor,

It’s hard to believe you left only a few weeks ago and somehow I miss you more than I could say in words. If it were possible I’d have sent a longer letter than this. I’d tell you how I miss our mornings spent hunting for coffee, our nights wandering the streets. I’d tell you I miss your lips. But that seems cliché given the circumstances.

I wanted you to stay. And yet…I know how important it was that you go. You need this. You need to figure out where you exist in this world after living in it alone for five years. So I hope you discover what’s always been meant to find you. And when you do, please know that I’ll be here waiting for you.

Back where it all began.

Siempre te amaré.

-Tu corazón

January 8, 2024

Mi corazón,

God I miss your voice, your handwriting, your fucking smile. I miss every part of you. If I told you what I’ve actually been thinking of you’d probably never forgive me for putting it down somewhere in permanent ink. No te culpo. I wish I had better news, or at least some stories to give you, but they’re kicking my ass even before my eyes open. Bright and early at dawn until my whole body is screaming.

I don’t want you to worry mi vida. Please don’t worry. I’m doing okay. I’m alive at least. Gracias a dios. Well I wouldn’t exactly say no to a candle being lit in my name (maybe to help with the constant wake up calls of how you felt that night). Tell Clara and Michael I miss them. Give mi mamá a kiss and drop some flowers off for pops. But most importantly do me a favor.

Wear them for me yeah corazón? They’re my “lost” pair (got reamed out for “losing” my first fucking pair of dog tags but it was worth it to give you a piece of me.) Keep ‘em on. And know that I’ll be fighting like hell to get my way back to you. Back to our spot, back to morning coffee runs and night walks in the city.

They’re yours. Just like I am.

Siempre te amaré.

-Yours forever Joaquín

January 16, 2024

Mi amor,

Thank you baby for the tags. I cried when I felt your name engraved in the metal. Just the feel of the letters reminded me of the way you’d draw on my papers in high school. They were so bad, but I think I still have a few of them in the back of my closet. Somehow that feels like a lifetime ago. I can tell you that I miss you—that’s true—but it’s not entirely the full truth. I never got a first date, rarely got a chance to see your eyes open when we woke up together, or drink shitty beer on the roof of my apartment.

I wish I could say that it doesn’t hurt to wait for you, but that would be a lie. And I can hear you in the back of my head saying: eres mentirosa bebita. And it makes me laugh.

This letter will probably find its way to you near Valentine’s Day. And I can’t have my brave pilot missing the fun. Don’t show anyone. Keep it in your wallet, and enjoy the late nights mi vida (pretend I’m there with my mouth to keep you company, or my hands, or my pussy).

We’ll find ourselves back in that queen sized bed soon enough—that I’m sure of. I will have to take a week off work just to get my fill of you; although even I have to admit that’ll take a long fucking time.

You and I both know I’ll never have enough.

I’ll be thinking of you, as I always do. Especially in our bed. Come home soon mi amor and I’ll be here when you finally do.

Siempre te amaré.

-Tu corazón

February 16, 2024

Happy Valentine’s Day mi corazón.

You’ve got no idea what those Polaroids did to me. I think I touched myself fucking raw (or at least that’s what it feels like). I’ve got half a mind to frame them, proudly display my girl. But I know you might actually murder me, so I’ve got them where you asked—safe in my wallet. I’ve been thinking about you. Okay let me be honest. I always think about you. Seriously you fucked up my brain bebita before I left. Had me wrapped around your finger long before that night, but after…I’m going crazy without you.

Dios mío, yo también te extraño (probably more given how winded I get just thinking about you). And I wish I could say that I’ll be home eventually, but I don’t know. I wish I did. You’ve got no idea how much I wish I could find my way back to you. The air force is…it’s harder than I thought. Nothing I can’t handle.

Until then imagine me finally taking you out on that date. In fact plan it. Figure out where you wanna go, pick out an outfit that’ll drive me batshit, and I’ll be there. On that dance floor to finally finish what we started. Te amo mi corazón. More than you know.

Siempre te amaré.

-Yours forever Joaquín

February 20, 2024

Mi amor,

The thought of you has driven me insane. I actually sprayed your cologne on the pillow you slept on the last few days we were together, just to remind myself of what you smelled like. I also may have rode it. But that didn’t matter. It did nothing but make me ache. Te extraño mucho Joaquin.

I don’t know what to do with myself but go to work and wait for you to come home. But I’ve done what you said—I planned our date. Dinner at our favorite place, a night of drinks at Siempre, and dessert at the small ice cream parlor on the corner.

I want to believe you when you said you could handle the airforce, and I do, but something isn’t right. Por qué mientes mi amor? You forget, I know every piece of you. I know when you’re upset. I know when you are struggling and don’t want to say it, because you think you can bear the heaviness of the world. Even when you were younger you thought you could carry the weight of everyone’s troubles on your shoulders, but you don’t have to. I’m here. I’ll carry it with you.

You can tell me what’s wrong and I’ll promise to listen, to make it better however I can. What’s our love meant to be if not carrying one another through the harsh times of life?

Tell me everything amor. I’ll listen. I’ll save you this time around.

Have they told you when you’ll be able to visit? I know it’s only been a few months, but I just always wonder. If they haven’t I understand—I just miss you. But you know this. I won’t fill up this letter with misery, because you deserve more than that. Your mamá and I have dinner on Sunday’s now (she’s teaching me how to cook so I’ll promise to make a good meal for you).

Clara and Michael are together at last! And they’re worse than us in terms of PDA. I seriously wish you were here just to help me one up them. Give them a show. But that can wait. All of it can wait. As long as I know you’re coming home to me.

Please take care of yourself mi amor. Stay safe and I’ll be here making my apartment a home for the both of us.

Siempre te amaré.

-Tu corazón

March 30, 2024

Mi amor,

I hope my last letter didn’t get lost on the way to you. I’ve heard it could happen. But I’m getting worried with this constant silence. Estas bien? Are they treating you okay? Is the base nice? I just need something to know you’re okay baby. Send a letter, find a way to call me, but don’t leave me with nothing.

I’m not the only one worried and you know it.

I hope you’re safe.

Siempre te amaré.

-Tu corazón

May 18, 2024

Mi corazón,

I don’t know how to start this. I should have answered you earlier. Or sent something in return to your Valentine’s gift. Or shit I should have at least fought tooth and nail for a visitation day to come see you, but that’s no longer possible mi corazón. I’m being transferred to a base further away and I’m not sure when I’ll make it back. I don’t even know if they plan on giving me an idea on what’s going to happen with me, but that’s why I had to tell you.

Lo siento bebita. I’m…I’m just sorry. I love you, I always have and always will. But I can’t force you to wait for me forever. That’s not fair to you. And you deserve better than a man who could never gather the fucking nerve to tell you the truth. Waiting on a soldier like me shouldn’t be your future. So I’m doing what’s necessary.

I’m sorry.

I will always love you.

Forever.

- Joaquín

June 1, 2024

Fuck you Joaquín Torres. You don’t get to rip my heart out that way. You don’t get to end this without looking me in the eyes. Why? Why would you make me fall in love with you if you knew this would end? Why would you promise me forever when you never meant it to begin with? Tell me. Write a fucking letter and answer me!

I deserve the truth. All of it.

I know you are struggling and won’t tell me. I know you’re fighting for your life to keep up with the demands of the airforce and like to pretend you’re fine. But you’re not fine baby. You can’t lie to me and pretend nothing’s wrong. You just…you can’t do that to me. Please. Let me in amor, let me help.

I love you Joaquín.

I need you.

-Tu corazón

FIVE YEARS LATER

The coffee tasted much more bitter than what you remembered. A biting darkness that burned the back of your throat as you gulped down what you could in the fifteen minutes you had for lunch. Whatever food you packed sat forgotten about in your fridge. Another day rushing to the office, another day wandering the streets of a city you could paint with your eyes closed.

A piece of you echoed with the voices of all who came before you. Friends you made, found family that adopted you as their own. Streets overflowing with scents of arroz con pollo and Jamaica flowers boiling away in kitchens—open windows begging for some fresh air.

July scorched the streets with heat you learned to endure. Yet this year felt worse. A curse bestowed upon the people of New York without rhyme or reason.

You pressed a piece of ice to your neck, dabbing at the sweat sliding down your chest. In the hopes you might find some relief from this torture you were forced to endure. Working in an office that barely payed you enough for the rent of your apartment and was far too cheap to put money towards a working air conditioner. You calculated the numbers for them. They could afford it.

“Fuck the heat,” you moaned, wincing with the heat of your coffee.

“That skirt’s sexy mami.”

The sound of her voice was unmistakable. A soft drawled accent of someone who spent her days speaking Spanish more than she did English. You rolled your eyes, digging out another ice cube from what remained in your plastic cup—dropping it in between your breasts with a hiss.

“Tell me why we’re out here?” you asked, shifting as the ice slid lower, finding a spot beneath your breast.

She dropped onto the bench, yanking off a black blazer that looked like hell to be wearing. “Because if I have to spend another day in a court house I’m going to blow my brains out.”

“You work in a court house Clara.”

“Callate. Don’t fucking remind me.”

Her ebony curls were gathered at the top of her head, pinned in place with a familiar teal butterfly clip you lent her a year prior. At this point asking for it back felt irrelevant. She looked better with it than you ever did—never quite learning how to pin it effortlessly like her.

“We’re going out tonight,” she announced between swipes of lipstick, fixing makeup that was primed to perfection.

With a sigh you dug for another ice cube. “Do I have to?”

“Yes.” Her compact clicked shut. “I rarely see you anymore. Plus Michael got the night off so he’s joining us.”

“And where exactly are you dragging me?”

“Dancing.”

You groaned, sinking into the bench far enough to be drowned by the floor. Swallowed whole into the center of Earth—an escape from being whatever you forced yourself to pretend. An adult with a clear path, someone moved on from a heartbreak that ripped you to pieces, someone whole. Yet asking for that felt as if you were signing a life altering contract with gods who weren’t listening to your cries of anguish.

Clara knew you were suffering—she could see the exhaustion on your face—but her specialty was never empathetic talks. She spoke with actions. Loud, boisterous, displays of affection. Like dragging you around town when all you were concerned about was getting home to feed your cat.

“I don’t-”

“Think so,” she mimicked, clicking her tongue. “Ay Dios how many times are you gonna use that fucking excuse?”

“What excuse?” you exclaimed, fixing her with a glare she brushed off with a sigh.

“You need to resurrect yourself. I know you don’t want to talk about him—and I won’t—but you deserve to move on. He became a superhero-”

“Don’t even get me started.”

“Then why aren’t you letting yourself finally meet a future where you get to thrive?”

She was right. You knew every word out of her mouth echoed with enough truth to stab you in the chest. Five years passed before your very eyes and you barely gave yourself a chance to breathe. He’d been your best friend, your partner in crime all these years, and to live a life without him in it felt like a betrayal. Only you weren’t the one to issue the blade, you weren’t the one to open a wound so large it took everything in you not to bleed before her now.

The trail of red followed you on the bleak path ahead. A future without love, a life half lived.

He existed in the world as a hero—a monolithic piece of history the world clamored for. You were merely a mark on a past he might never mention, a brief lapse of youthful hope diminished by powers you held no control over.

What good was it to forget yourself? He certainly didn’t miss you; he barely even thought of you. Yet somewhere along the way you gave him every ounce of strength you should have reserved for yourself.

With a sigh you tossed the empty cup into the trash beside you. “Fine.”

She laughed with a glee that helped break through your melancholy stupor. “Let’s go mami!”

“Where are we going?” And with one word she sealed your fate.

“Siempre.”

The heels were a bad idea, the short silk mini dress was a bad idea, the whole night reeked with poor decisions you should have caught a mile away. Clara shoved you into a green dress yanked from the back of her closet—a forgotten gift she claimed. Only to leave you alone at the bar, her golden yellow nails burrowed into Michael’s arm to drag him deep into a mass of people you tried to avoid.

Your mezcal was tepid, a rim of lipstick decorating the edge of the glass covered in your fingerprints. The music blared loud enough to leave a high pitched ringing in your left ear—a thumping bass causing the floor to tremble with each new song.

You had half a mind to leave, already a sweaty mess just standing listlessly by the bar in a meager attempt at the fun you once had. The same joy that happened right in this very club. But tonight felt different—an energy you couldn’t name that stuck to your tight chest.

“One more,” you called over the music, tapping your glass with a nail coated in chipped polish.

“I’ll get hers.”

You stiffened, his voice washing over you like a bucket of ice dumped atop your head. For a brief moment you wondered if it finally happened, if you reached the point of hearing him when he was nowhere to be found. A dreadful hope that lingered in your chest—a dream you couldn’t speak aloud for fear of driving yourself mad. Until he filled your peripheral, a familiar leather coat you would recognize a mile away and dark hair now cropped and cut short enough to alarm you.

“Mi corazon,” he murmured, leaning close enough to invade your senses with his cologne.

The bottle he left with you still sat on your dresser. Coated in five years of dust, untouched and frozen in a time you would give anything to go back to. Your teeth clamped onto the inside of your cheek hard enough to spill copper across your tongue—a disgusting mixture with the tequila you downed moments prior.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you croaked, barely able to look at him.

“I got home last week.”

“Good for you.” The words were biting, harsh enough to make him wince. Satisfaction flooded your veins.

“Clara invited me,” he admitted, stuffing his hands into his pockets—another song blasting off speakers you wished to break. “I thought…she didn’t tell you did she?”

“What do you think?”

He sighed, ducking his head to stare at his warm mezcal, a withered lime precariously placed on the rim. “I wanted to see you corazón.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped.

Music rang in your ears, a deafening echo that suffocated you beneath the weight of all you couldn’t carry. He fell silent, waiting for an indication that you wanted him there. But none ever came. The irony tasted bitter at the back of your mouth—five years later and still you walked a tightrope he promised to keep upright.

He offered you forever. You just never realized how quickly he could take it all back.

The alcohol stirred in your stomach, bile clawing up the back of your throat and suddenly Joaquín showing up out of the blue wasn’t your only problem. You couldn’t be there. You didn’t know how to stand beside him, feel the heat of his body packed in with everyone else—shame digging its talons into your skin with a malice you probably deserved. Neither of you fought for the love to last.

He didn’t fight for you.

“I came to talk to you-”

“I can’t do this,” you rasped, pushing off the bar before he could finish his half formed pathetic excuse.

“Wait.”

A hand curled into the satin fabric along your back—your quick movements pulling him into the fray. You itched to twist away, remove any trace of his touch that begged to seep into sticky skin and taint the sporadic beating of your heart.

The wall of people stopped you in your tracks, their bodies moving with fluid grace. They called to you, whispered notes of a siren song you could hear beneath the rush of blood in your ears. A thumping promise that banged against a door you sealed shut. You knew it wouldn’t fix anything—only a guarantee to make matters worse—but there was no ignoring what beckoned you forth.

Joaquín called after you, shoving his way through a drunk crowd that barely noticed he was there. You could feel him at your heels, breath fighting its way into your lungs with each punctured gasp—a ragged need for something other than this heat.

His hand curled around your hip, nose buried at the base of your neck.

“Dance with me?” he mumbled.

You allowed your eyes to slip shut, breath spilling past parted lips as the taste of tequila permeated the tip of your tongue. “I hate you,” you sighed, fingers tangling with his.

“Lo se.”

“Then why did you come back?”

The sway of his body behind yours echoed with comfort—that night burned into the back of your mind. “You.”

He spoke with sincerity. A coveted admission he buried the day he wrote those words—his fate sealed with such a tiny stamp. The years may have dragged by, his head barely above water, but the truth still remained. The mere knowledge that you existed somewhere on this Earth—a piece of him left to drag yourself out of the hell he created—broke him little by little. Until he woke up one day, struggling to breathe.

Dancing with Joaquín felt natural. Years spent bar hopping and sneaking into club back entrances weren’t something you could forget with ease.

“It’s not that easy,” you retorted, voice thick and throat constricted. “You don’t just get to…”

“Mírame corazón.”

“No.” The gasp at his touch twirling you slowly in arms you once longed to feel around your waist said otherwise.

There was no fighting something your heart ached for, a pitiful longing you felt claw at the pit of your stomach. The closeness of it, the heat pouring off his body—his hands guiding your hips into a motion the both of you understood better than words spoken in anger. You wanted to hate him. Some parts of you did.

The razor thin line of hate and love blurred as he fit you against his body. A missing puzzle piece you’d been searching for.

He possessed your soul with each step, fingers tangling into his shirt to keep yourself upright. The awkward playfulness that arose like before was nowhere to be found. This time you knew the stakes. He understood the consequences that came with making his choice and he had to live with it every day of his life. Fixing what might forever remain broken would take more than a dance, but it was somewhere to start.

“I fucking missed you,” he whispered—throat tight, constricting his words. He wanted to say more than this, more than words that rang with a hollow truth you might never believe again.

What was stopping you from walking away and leaving him in your past?

What kept you in his arms, following the swivel of hips he craved to grip through the years?

“Joaquín,” you breathed, eyes half lidded and sweat glistening in the orange glow.

“Etérea.”

You pulled away, the hint of lips curled into a grin flashing in darkness he had to squint through. The memories were falling into place. Forgotten joy, carefree moments scattered across a life spent together. He trailed after you for years, determined to love you up to his final breath; if only you understood how quick he might have fulfilled that promise. The reason he crawled his way back—pain splintering along his spine, purple hued bruises now a soft yellow along paled skin.

Tugging you back with a chuckle, he felt the anger wash off your body as you collided with him. His chest snug against your arched back. This was his home. The one place he never dared tell another soul about—too afraid it might disappear.

The gasp you let out was ragged, marred by all the grief he put you through. “I…”

“Yeah?”

“I missed you too,” you relented, head falling back to his shoulder—the mouth you dreamed about finding purchase on your neck.

This felt like a betrayal of yourself. The past five years spent battling demons you never thought could exist in your life. He tore you to pieces with just a few words. Paragraphs of messy ink forever stained in the back of your mind. You could still feel the fucking paper under your fingers—splotches of tears discoloring the pen he used.

How could you allow him to drag you back? But you were tired of pretending to be okay. Exhausted by piteous smiles and pathetic excuses to bring you back to life.

You were stumbling down a dangerous path; his teeth digging softly into salt coated skin that haunted him in dreams. The prick of his incisors scraping along your vein jolted what little sense remained into place—your heart thundering an erratic beat in your chest. He still moved with you, hands securely placed on your hips, body molded to your back until you felt his jeans dig into you.

Waiting on a soldier like me shouldn’t be your future. So I’m doing what’s necessary.

“Stop-” Abruptly he stopped, his touch falling limp at his sides. “No I can’t… We can’t.”

“Joaquín!” Clara’s voice punctured through the thick atmosphere of lust—the wanton need for him washing away with each wave of pain. “You made it.”

“Excuse me,” you muttered, dragging in breath after breath until you lungs burned with the effort. The sting was good, it kept your head above water.

Ramming through the throngs of people you staggered towards the bathrooms. Everyone was far too preoccupied with dancing to crowd the bathrooms and your luck finally came to fruition when you saw an empty hallway. Half worded apologies spilled out of your mouth, tears burning your already hot cheeks as you moved fast enough to send a searing ache down one ankle.

Joaquín’s stomach lurched, his feet already moving before his body could catch up. Michael’s arm looping around his shoulder kept him where he stood, his eyes tracking your stumbling form until the crowd swallowed you whole. Leaving him to agonizingly swallow the stone now stuck at the top of his esophagus.

You were hurt—fighting five years of pain—and he was the one to cause it.

“How was the flight man?”

He snapped to attention, slapping a fake grin on his face he hoped would be enough to sell the lie. “Flight was good. Cramped with all the people.”

“What you didn’t get first class?” Clara teased. “I thought being an Avenger came with perks.”

“Not an Avenger. Well…not yet.”

“Gettin’ too busy for us New York folk huh,” Michael pressed.

Joaquín didn’t hear a word they said, too focused on where you went, what you were doing, how he could rectify his stupid fucking mistake. “Ya cállate hombre. I’m never too busy for you guys.”

“Could have fooled us.” Clara sipped at her drink, a brown lined mauve smile glinting with a voracious sneer he’d seen before. A look reserved for those who warranted such revenge. “I saw you two dancing.”

“Yeah…we were-”

“Too bad she’s already taken isn’t it?” she sighed, the saccharine pitch of her voice slowing the music as a low pitched buzz blaring in his ears.

“W-What?”

“She’s dating someone. A guy from her office. They met a year ago I think? Bueno, we’re thinking wedding bells soon. Since it’s been so long.”

Joaquín’s heart stuttered, mind blaring with a barrage of anger he shut away—self hatred he’d grown familiar with. Time came to a stop, the thumping music falling away, and suddenly he was back in the air. Falling to his death. Your face, your laugh, your voice, whispering in the back of his head—calling him to stay alive. Beckoning him home with wide eyes and forgiveness coated on your tongue.

You couldn’t be lost to him so soon. You were supposed to wait for him.

Only those were fictitious dreams procured in a fractured mind. You didn’t have to do anything. He let you go. And there was no fixing what he destroyed—a grave he dug for himself now lingering with the scent of your perfume, the ghost of your touch haunting him.

“But…” Struggling for air, he straightened his spine—heart twisting beneath the weight of his fuck up. “Wedding bells?”

Clara nodded. “She didn’t tell you?”

The anger was seething in his chest, scorching each vein, clamping around his lungs. “No. That wasn’t mentioned.”

“Pity,” she muttered. “Michael? Another drink mi amor?”

His feet were moving before she could finish her question, hands pushing past drunk people and sweaty bodies lost to the beat of the music. Somewhere in the club you were running to escape a future he now knew could never be. He knew being calm, level headed enough to push through this haze of red, was the only option at this point. But there was no reasoning in love, no sense to be had when you were so close.

Someone cussed at him in Spanish as he managed to make it to the hallway, pushing open the bathroom door without hesitation. You stood alone by the sink. Wiping at tears that refused to stop—your eyes tinged red with how rough you were on yourself. Only when the click of the lock echoed in the small space did you finally look up, finding his reflection in the mirror—your lips twisted into a frown.

“Occupied,” you spit out, yanking another towel from the dispenser.

“Corazón-”

“I don’t want to hear it Joaquín.”

“Five minutes.”

“No. What do you think I don’t want to hear it means? I’ve had enough of the fucking mind games for one night-”

“Escuchame.” The word bit out from the back of his throat, freezing you in place. “What do you want me to say huh? I’m sorry for being an asshole? I’m sorry for fucking up the best part of my life?”

“You were an asshole,” you retorted.

“I know that.” He took three steps, pinning you to the sink, a look you wanted to recognize but couldn’t painting his features. “I know I’m gonna spend every day of my existence apologizing for the shit that I pulled. But what I didn’t know was the truth.”

“What truth are you-”

“Marriage?” he growled like the word dripped with enough sin to kill him on the spot. “You’re practically engaged and chose to dance with me like that? Like I still had a chance?”

Your jaw hung open, mind reeling as the word hit you. “Marriage?” you exclaimed. “Who the fuck…”

“Clara practically jumped for joy with the news.” The laugh dripped with contempt, fingers curling into the edge of the sink as he moved close enough to smell the tequila on your tongue. “I can’t believe I was so fucking stupid.”

“I’m not getting married.”

“Mentirosa,” he huffed.

“Joaquín you’re being insane-”

“Am I?” he snapped. “You’ve driven me insane. Since I lost you I’ve felt pieces of myself disappear.” He dropped his forehead to yours, the warm wash of his breath brushing along your lips—begging for the oxygen you stole when he let you go. “You gotta tell me corazón. Tell me who he is.”

Believing that Clara wouldn’t get involved somehow was ignorance on your part, but some selfish part of you wanted to watch him suffer. To see him break as you did years ago.

Perhaps it was bad of you, a sinister part of your mind speaking, and yet you couldn’t let go of what Clara started. Marriage to a fictitious man—enough of a reality to prove that you were better. That you could live without Joaquín taking up space in your life.

“So you can confront him? I don’t think so.”

Words that only seemed to rile an unforgiving beast buried in the depths of a gentle man. “Someone has to tell him you’re mine.”

Your breath hitched, an all too familiar siren call dragging you to the bottom of an ocean you traversed long ago. “I’m not…”

“Sí lo eres.”

Yes. You were his.

There was no use denying what you could feel in a heart that would forever be carved with his initials. Sacred with its thorns and roots, it drew you to him, captured you with the vow of all he promised before shit fell apart. You were his. You couldn’t even fathom belonging to anyone else. And he knew it the moment your eyes flicked up to meet his—those brown irises you ached for.

“Yeah…” His hand cupped your chin, thumb pulling at a pliable bottom lip willing to fall open. “You know it don’t you bebita?”

“Joaquín-”

Music thumped with a bass loud enough to rattle the walls of this small bathroom, but you could barely hear it over the sound of his heavy exhale. His lips caught yours, hand tightening at the soft breath you pushed into his open mouth—tongue sliding along teeth and taste buds still coated in mezcal. Sucking in air you dug a hand into curls you tugged years ago; still the same man you loved, yet someone entirely different.

A person you longed to know.

You lost all sense when a hand tugged at the skirt of your dress, pushing it up past your hip with a muffled groan. The kisses burned you inside, curling a fist around an already bleeding heart. He devoured you, swallowed each sound and quick pant as you looped your arms around his neck to extinguish the space between your bodies. Fingers dipped beneath the elastic waistband of panties he’d admire later, too intent on the feel of your damp patch and pooling slick.

“Fuck I missed you,” he sighed, teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your throat, palm tipping your head back with a pleased hum. “So wet corazon.”

“I n-need-”

“I know.” Licking a line down your jugular you felt whatever anger still simmered beneath the surface vanish—wanton lust blinding you to the mess this would create. “I’ve been thinking about this. How you feel.”

You moaned, hips pushing into his touch. “Please. Touch me.”

“I am touching you,” he smiled, fingers sliding along your twitching clit with ease—able to rip sounds from you that had gone dormant the day he left. “That what you want? Need that pretty clit played with?”

Nodding frantically wasn’t good enough for a man who dreamed of this moment since departure. He gripped your cheeks, thumb running along a cheek decorated in soft gold glitter courtesy of Clara. A small showing of reverence for the man who toyed with your folds, dipping a finger into your slick and dragging it up slow enough to send shivers up your spine.

“I want words.”

“I-I want you to…”

“To what?” he asked far too smug in the way heat flooded your face, burning the tips of your ears and back of your neck.

Yanking at his curls, you watched in fascination when his head fell back, a groan bubbling past swollen lips. “I want you to make me cum on your fingers,” you breathed, lips pressed to a red flushed ear.

He smiled, dazed by the tight grip in which you held him. “As you wish.”

You should have seen it coming the second you released him, how his lips mashed to yours with a grunt, two fingers plunging into your dripping cunt down to his knuckles. Exactly what you asked for on his terms. You wanted to finish and Joaquín was nothing if not competent in that job. The order falling smooth from your mouth—his mind latching onto it with a desperation you’d never seen in him before.

The heel of his hand ground against your clit, trapping you on the edge of that all too familiar rush of bliss. You were right there. Chasing the edge of something mind numbing. By the hands of a man who ripped you apart, leaving you behind with nothing but blunt words and faded ink.

“That it?” Your body pitched forward, face burying into his shoulder when his fingers struck perfectly. “Yeah that’s it huh.”

“I’m gonna—fuck—g-gonna cum.”

He doubled down, practically ripping the high from you with a voracious need to see you break for him. To burn his name in the walls of your fluttering cunt that coated his palm in your slick. Even through the loud echo of music you could hear the wet squelch of his fingers pounding into you, possessing you in a way that was bound to leave you a shell of yourself.

“Soak my hand,” he breathed against the shell of your ear.

Your thighs trembled, clamping down around his wrist as it tore through you. A muffled shout pressed between teeth you sunk against his neck—marking him with the harsh lines of your canines. The music faded, everything else deafened by the ringing in your ears, the wash of bliss far too much for you to take. It wasn’t until your hand gripped his did he finally cease his movements, pulling away to give you a chance for fresh air not plagued by the scent of his cologne.

“W-Wait.”

“Take your time querida.”

“We shouldn’t…” Reality crashed onto your shores with a harsh sweep that nearly dragged you beneath darkened waves you couldn’t navigate alone.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not in the heat of passion with minds muddled by alcohol and adrenaline, not when he still refused to acknowledge that whatever occurred beforehand wasn’t for the best. You were lost, begging for him to lead you somewhere safe. To protect you against the darkness that ravaged your mind for five years. Instead he allowed jealousy to get the best of him.

You were his without question. But at what cost?

“I need some air,” you gasped, pushing him back until you could stand on shaky legs.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Everything. “I just need air.”

You needed far more than that. Something that would cure the agonizing pain coursing through your veins, the buzz of pleasure and alcohol barely making a dent. You cringed at the slick smearing along the crease of your thighs as you walked—the consistent throbbing where his fingers hooked into you drove your mind to the brink of something worse than madness. He owned you in a matter of minutes; reminded you exactly where you belonged.

“Stop fuckin’ running,” he called after you, pushing past the crowd.

Clara caught your gaze for a brief moment, concern flashing to the surface before you shook her off. Making a beeline for the only exit people practically poured out of. The air felt cold along your skin, drying the sweat along your arms and legs. And he rushed out after you, close on your heels—snapping at a chance to corner you.

To finally hash out what should have been said five years ago.

“Will you look at me?”

Sucking in a breath, you struggled to calm the overbearing rush in your ears. “Just…let me breathe please.”

“Mi vida-”

“No!” you snapped, whirling around to catch his stunned face. Everything unraveled faster than you could gather it in your shaky palms, slipping between spread fingers and raw nails that clung to peace. “You return after five years of silence and what? You expect me to forgive you? Just like that?”

The echo of your voice traveled down the street, attracting attention from whoever was closest, but you’d breached the point of complacent false smiles and sweet words void of feeling. He’d ripped you to shreds in mere sentences. Sliced through a lonely heart with something he knew would destroy what parts of your relationship held on despite the distance.

“I was willing to wait for years Joaquín,” you sobbed. “But you couldn’t even handle a few fucking months. You were too much a goddamn coward to break up with me the night you left.”

“Do you think I wanted to break up with you?” he snarled.

“Yes-”

“Me vuelves loco.” He’d been reduced to muttering under his breath, hands tugging at his hair as you wiped at the tears with sweaty palms. Love wasn’t supposed to be this. A knife neither of your held onto, plunging into wounds that never stopped bleeding. But he couldn’t stay away.

Who was he without you in his life?

“Maybe you just have to let me go-”

“Don’t you finish that fucking sentence,” he spit between clenched teeth. “You think I wanted to be without you for five years? That life was easy without hearing your voice or seeing your face? That you were alone because of the choice I made? I hate myself for destroying us! I can’t let you go because I’m desperately hopelessly in love with you. You can’t fix that corazón.”

Your breath hitched, familiar words spoken a lifetime ago here in this very spot. “It hurts Joaquín. Being near you is strangling me.”

“Then tell me what I can do. You have to tell me so I can fix it.”

“I don’t know if you can,” you whispered.

Taking the final few steps, he finally stood toe to toe with you—a calloused hand reaching for the curve of your cheek glistening with makeup and tears beneath the dim streetlight. “I’m nothing without you. I just existed for five years until I saw you again.”

His touch was warm, enticing in all the familiar ways that transformed the reasons you fell for him. Even as you shattered before him, there was still comfort to be found in his presence. He was the sunlight on a warm summer day. The reason you bloomed in the seasons of friendship and almosts and forgotten saccharine love. You couldn’t remain tied to the ground without him acting as gravity—twining himself around your broken form to keep you safe.

Even if he was the reason you bled along the cracked pavement below.

Perhaps it was a mistake, a memory you’d look back on in another five years. But he’d been your path since you found his eyes in a crowded classroom. His smile painted across cheeks that flushed red when you asked if he’d like to sit with you—if he’d take the first step in a thousand, start the story and watch it unfold before you.

“Okay,” you breathed, lost in the brown hue that still gleamed after all this time.

The apartment was stuffy after hours of relentless summer heat. A broken fan you never bothered to fix sat precariously on a stack of worn books picked up at the local thrift store. Joaquín thumbed through a familiar title he remembered snagging off your bookshelf in your old bedroom. The pages were yellowed, corners folded and re-straightened, but he could recall the story as if he was back in that old house listening to your family through the walls.

“How’d I know you pick that one,” you mused, discarding your purse onto a slightly messy kitchen table.

“Can’t help that I love it.”

You smiled. “Even though I never let you borrow it.”

“Never said I had to give it back,” he retorted, leaving it on the small wooden table by your counter, making a note to stick it in his back pocket when you weren’t looking. “The place looks…the same.”

“And that’s bad?” He snapped to attention, stomach jumping. Only to melt at the shining grin you gifted him in the yellow glow of your lamps. “Eres tan fácil.”

Laughter came easier the closer it got to midnight, the familiar warmth of your apartment echoing with memories he wouldn’t soon forget. “Mala.”

If he closed his eyes that night existed with a clarity that punched the air out of his chest. The quick pace you fell into one another—uncaring of what might come to pass. You were reckless in love, desperate to finally feel the touch held back for so long, the longing that was bound to snap. He could smell the perfume you wore, taste the drink you were nursing before Michael pushed him to dance with you. How you sounded beneath him, looked and tasted and touched after years of pure imagination.

Tonight sparked with a charged past ready to play out before your very eyes. A moment in time neither of you could ignore for much longer.

“Water?” you asked breaking the weighty silence.

He shook his head, eyes dark with a familiar need you’d seen once before. “I wanna talk. Like we used to.”

“Talk…” Sucking in a breath, you wiped at the sweat gathering along your chest. Joaquín followed the slow movement with rapt attention—his mouth dry and chest thundering with a restless heart. “What’s there to say? I already know what you’ve been up. Congrats by the way.”

The words were dry off your tongue. A silver tipped blade pressed to the base of his neck.

How could he blame you? When the reason he left you forged a direct path to who he became. The title he carried across his back as he struggled for air.

He wouldn’t be Falcon if he stayed. But he also might have been happy.

“You’re the first person I wanted to tell,” he said softly, admitting what he harbored in a cracked heart for years.

Your heart twisted, stomach fluttering in that old way it used to when you’d catch sight of him. Frustrating. Even as you relished in emotions you longed for after he left. Hope that this would turn into more—a future you could count on. Rather than a consequence you never asked for. Sleeping with him wasn’t the problem; neither was loving him. Even if he never returned you would regret making those choices, pieces of your life that set your heart on fire.

“You could have. If you stayed.”

Joaquín sighed, fingers curling into fists as he gnashed at his cheek. “I know. You never asked about me.”

“What,” you blurted out.

“Micheal knew where I was. He kept in touch. You could have asked him.”

You scoffed. “And who broke up with who again?”

“I wasn’t going to make you wait on me corazón. Being a ball and chain isn’t who I am and you know that. You had a whole life ahead of you. Things you planned to do before that night-”

“What life?” you exclaimed, voice pitched high enough to scratch an already raw throat. “I was broken for five years! Time I’ll never get back. All for what? So you could feel better about a decision you made on a whim? Without asking if that’s what I wanted.”

Ripping open yet another wound he felt his heart give out at the shine of tears on your face. Makeup smudged along the rim of your wet eyes, lips smeared with the remnants of a lipstick he knew was stained along his shirt. You were everything he wanted in life, the moonlight he basked in at the end of the day. The sirens song he crawled home to hear one last time, even as he drowned beneath a shattered love you might never reciprocate again.

He exhaled long and heavy, wiping at his eyes as he glanced around your darkened apartment. A couch he’d slept on was shoved near the window, a new T.V. mounted on the wall was turned off, and an old record player he helped you find now set on a rickety stand. Records piled on a coffee table he could remember eating off of before you found a kitchen table.

A home you built in the time he was gone. One that was always meant to be entwined with his possessions and memories.

Orange flowers sat in a familiar crystal vase his mother used to keep by the kitchen window. Always a new bouquet brought in from his father at the end of a long work week. Music flowing between the walls of a house he now stayed in as he fought to prove himself to you all over again. A past that you lingered in without knowing.

“Cempasúchil.”

You caught what he was fixed on—a small gathering of flowers from the corner you grabbed without thinking. A routine you’d grown to love even after years of his absence.

“For your pops. You said they were his favorite.”

His heart dropped. “You still bring him flowers?”

“I go every Friday with your mamá.”

Every Friday…

Five years of days spent with his family. Even after things fell apart.

He loved you.

He would love you til his last breath, the final beat of a heart that always belonged to him from the very first page. There was no denying a truth that couldn’t be buried in the depths of guilt and grief. Pain laced with memories that clung to apartment walls and city streets. You were his forever. His soul twisted around a body carved with your name.

“Siempre te amaré,” he whispered.

The gasp sounded sweet off lips he could still taste. “Joaquín-”

“I do,” he confessed. “There hasn’t been a day I haven’t loved you mi corazón.”

“You can’t just say that.”

“Why?” he demanded.

Slowly you lowered yourself into a chair that was once stuffed into the corner of his living room. “Because we still have to talk about what this is. What we’re gonna do to figure it out while you’re home.”

“What this is? I know what it is. I’ve known since you asked me to sit next to you. I’m yours. I’ve been yours all along.” He dropped to his knees quicker than either of you expected, his hands grasping the warmth of your thighs through sweat stained satin. “I got hurt mi vida.”

Your body stilled, hands cupping his cheeks as fear threaded between each rib and nerve. “What?”

“I…I was stupid and made a mistake and they had to stitch me back together. But I couldn’t care about any of it. Not the fucking pain, or surgery, or having to recover for months, because when I was falling out of the sky…all I could think about was you.”

How quickly you could have lost him and you never knew. You weren’t there when he was struggling to live. You weren’t there when he woke up. You…weren’t there.

“I-I’m sorry,” you choked out. “I didn’t know. I would have come to you-”

“No, no está bien. Yo estoy bien.”

“You almost died and you’re saying it’s okay?”

He smiled, forehead pressing to your stomach—fingers digging into what flesh he could hold as you clung to him. Some part of you sunk your teeth into the fear of losing him, dragging it close to swallow down that feeling. Every emotion, all the pain it kept you alive. It let you know he was there with you and for the first time in five years you held the choice of forever in your hands once more.

There he was offering you everything he was. All he could be, all you knew he was.

The man you were always destined to fall into.

“It is okay,” he murmured. “Because I’m here with you. And I didn’t think I’d get that again. I’m home.”

This is where belonged. The space that called him forward and you watched his eyes raise to find yours. Love shining in irises that haunted his waking life. Everywhere he went Joaquín saw you. In the midnight sky, in the summer days spent on a stuffy base somewhere, in the people he met and allies he formed. You existed in all that encompassed him—a soul he’d struggle to find and vow to keep.

“Rip me apart mi vida. Destroy me as many times as you want. I’ll do anything you want if it means stayin’ with you.”

“Mi amor,” you said beneath a soft breath and his heart mended itself with a shaky ragged gasp.

He rose to meet your lips as your fingers scrambled to find purchase in his jacket, tugging him close enough to nearly tip the chair back. If it fell he’d be there to catch you. Perhaps that’s what had your legs sliding up around his hips, a soft moan pressed to a tongue that slid along yours. The taste of you drove him off the brink of what kept him sane—all the attempted to stow inside an aching heart.

Licking into your mouth with a broken whimper, he dragged you to the edge of the chair, hands kneading at the top of your ass. You yelped into it with a smile, diving into the kiss with a fervor that had him leaking into his jeans. The heat from earlier pooled along his spine again and Joaquín knew he’d barely survive sinking into you; he could feel his cock twitch with every stroke of your tongue.

“Bedroom,” he gruffly got out, yanking you up onto wobbly legs. “‘M not fucking you in the kitchen. Not tonight.”

You grinned, tugging him down an all too familiar path. “There’s going to be more than one night?”

“If I have any say about it.”

“Eres bien creído.”

Hands ripped at your dress, pulling it up and off your body before he could even reach the bed slightly messy with rumpled covers. A staple he could always remember. It made him smile against your lips as you tugged at his clothes—those same warm hands sliding along bare skin. The jacket was left by the door, shirt tossed to the depths of your room and Joaquín placed you on the mattress before reaching for his belt.

Chills rippled along your back at the sound, heart hammering in your chest. He looked the same. Yet something older was housed in his stance, someone who was sure of himself in the way he pushed away the last of his clothes. A grin bloomed across swollen lips.

You admired him as much as you could. Dragging your eyes down to the red tip of his leaking cock and breathlessly finding his eyes in the dark of your bedroom. Last time neither of you got this chance. A moment of stillness before you collided. Silence thick with an electrifying tension you felt down to your toes.

Lifting a bare leg, you placed your foot on his stomach, dragging it down until his hand wrapped around an ankle—tugging you close with a harsh breath.

“Being a tease huh?” he mumbled, lips finding a home at the top of your thigh.

“Not my fault you’re easy to mess with.”

“Since when?”

You smiled, fingers curling around his mussed hair. “Since always.”

Words slipped to the back of a clouded mind when his hands tugged at the lace of your panties, sliding them off and marveling at the wet spot left behind. He could practically taste you on his tongue. The addicting tang of what he’d been craving since he left you at that airport. With a shuddered breath he slid a thumb along your folds, circling your clit hard as you writhed under his needy touch.

“W-Want you inside me,” you forced out, hips rolling into his hand.

Somehow through the haze of lust he made himself follow through with your plea. Hand positioning himself along the dripping hole he’d drink from later—his tongue swiping along his bottom lip. You were mewling for him, fingers twisting into the sheets and legs dropping open wide enough to accommodate his hips.

He slid along your cunt, grinning with unhinged glee at the loud moan ripped from your throat. You were unable to beg. Mouth barely forming coherent words as he toyed with your pulsing clit. Precum stained the pretty clean skin of your inner thigh, smearing a mess into the hair he was desperate to bury his nose in.

“Say it for me yeah?” he muttered, voice deep with gravel.

A gasping moan hit his ears, your chest heaving. “Please. Fuck me. Come in me. Just p-please do something-”

“Sh, sh. I know mi corazón. You’re empty without my cock huh?”

You nodded, yanking him close enough to feel his chest against yours. “Need it baby. Need you to stuff me full.”

“Mierda-” The near painful twitch of his cock had him burying his face into your neck, teeth scraping against the delicate chain of your necklace. Until he caught sight of silver tucked between your breasts, hidden by the black lace of your bra—a piece of himself he thought he’d never see again.

Only when he was ripping at your final item of clothing did you drag yourself through the thick fog. “W-What’s wrong-”

“You kept them,” he breathed, lips mashing to yours and hand roughly kneading your breast with a grunt. “Wore them the whole fuckin’ time tonight and I didn’t know.”

You wanted to explain that they were all you had left of him, a comfort after all this time. But his mouth closing around your nipple shut down everything but the sparks rushing along veins you didn’t know could exist. He sucked at your skin, teeth indenting into the softness of your breast. That desperate hunger shoving to the forefront—something you could feel wrap around the length of your spine.

He rutted into you, cock brushing where you needed him most, but you couldn’t let go of those words. There was no world where you wouldn’t love him.

No plane of existence you’d be where he wasn’t.

“They’re yours,” you gasped, grinding against him—head tipped back as his teeth scraped your throat. “I’ve always worn them. Since you—fuck baby—sent them to me.”

Whatever he could have said vanished, his mind going white at the thought of you wearing his dog tags from the very beginning. Five years of holding him over your heart. Time he believed to be filled with a cold resentment suddenly colored itself with a flushed pink haze—a dreamlike state he drowned in with a smile painted across his face. You loved him. Even through all this…it would always be him.

He sunk into you in one thrust and you cried out, clinging onto his shoulders at the sudden stretch, his hips meeting yours and head falling to your chest. A muffled fuck pressed between the curve of your breasts—tongue licking the bead of sweat along skin that glistened in the yellow haze of your bedroom. Breath twisted in your lungs, trapping what oxygen remained as he snapped his hips down into you again. Dragging out with slow cruel thrusts.

“So fuckin’ good,” he gasped, hand tangling with yours and pressing it into the plush comforter. “Gonna make me lose my damn mind.”

“Baby.” The word was a desperate whine on your lips, thighs wrapped tight around his hips—chest heaving for resuscitation from the plane of bliss he threw you into.

Without a map you feared you’d be lost to its depths. But his teeth digging into your lip kept you close, satiated the tremble going down your limbs.

There was no mercy in how he fucked you. No time for soft reverence and tender quiet moments. That would find its way to you later—when the moon began its descent along the horizon, time reaching far enough to still what small pleasures you could steal. He’d bring you back to life with a tongue buried in slick folds and fingers pumping deep.

Tonight he ravaged, took his fill of what you both craved as the night went on. Two souls verging together at last. Finally found after years of distance—entire galaxies spanning the years he spent away from your touch.

“Listen,” he breathed hotly into your mouth, lips quirking as the sound graced ears unable to discern his voice from the thundering of your own heart.

But he slowed his movements, plunging into you with a biting grunt you felt burn into your lungs. The loud wet squelch of your cunt bouncing off the walls of an apartment privy to this once before. Sinful in its agonizing beauty. He smiled, grinding his hips hard enough to drag a throaty moan from your chest—his lips there to swallow what you offered with glee. Heat burned beneath your cheeks, the tinge of shame digging between ribs and arteries.

Until he dropped to his elbow, your name encased in a high breath—his brows pulled together and teeth indenting the plush bottom lip you longed to suck on.

“S-Shit baby I’m not—fuck-” The word dragged between a clenched jaw as he rapidly pounded into you, the bed creaking from the force you felt with each stroke.

His cock struck against your walls, a creamy slick pouring out to drip down your ass, coating his balls as they slapped against skin he’d dig his teeth into later. A mess. He’d reduced the both of you to a fucking mess, unable to pick through a hazy mind. Each moan you let out grew higher, thighs shaking from the effort, and he ripped away from your touch before you could drag him close. Looping each limb over arms prominent with veins and familiar tattoos.

Mistakes made back in the youth of being nineteen. Time he spent wrapped in any part of you he could get. Even as something more simmered beneath a friendship always destined to change.

“Joaquín-” you sobbed, clutching at any part of him you could reach, his chest and shoulders red with marks from your nails. “I-I’m not engaged.”

He stilled, eyes wide and mouth parted as he panted for air. “You said-”

“I-I could never marry someone t-that wasn’t you.”

A strand finally snapped, edge reached long before you could ask him what created it in the first place. Brown suddenly bled into black and he now fucked you with everything in him. Lips sealed over yours, hand clenching tight around your hips—his coarse hair dragging along a throbbing clit that begged for more. Your walls fluttered around him, a shattered cry lost to his kiss, but nothing had felt so perfect.

“‘M gonna fuckin’ marry you,” he grunted, forehead resting against yours, bending you up and into his body—cock ramming right up into a spot that left you going blind with pleasure. “Make you mine.”

Everything you longed for—five years of love and grief—crashed at the shore of your body. Ripping the final pieces of your heart from the decay it lived with. You came with his name on your lips, back arching up into him hard enough to draw a flicker of pain down your spine—your eyes rolled back and fingers twisted into the fabric beneath you.

He collapsed over you with a choked shout, face buried into your neck as he coated your walls with that soft pool of warmth. A feeling you had forgotten about—bliss wrapped in the taut muscles of his arms, his body a heavy weight on yours. You were lost to it, drowning in his scent and taste, but his lips finding yours tied you back down to Earth. His hands sliding along your skin, tongue licking the pain off the back of your teeth.

Joaquín pieced you back together with a love that altered you entirely, shifted all that you were beneath the tidal waves of his heart. Peace settled in the base of a hammering heart—hope finding a home in the bottom of a fluttering stomach.

You loved him.

Eternally.

And that would forever be enough.

Sunlight danced along the bare skin of your back, face pressed into his chest—ear above a steady beating heart. It lulled you to sleep after hours of rekindling a flame that never went out. His hands a burn along your body, lips reacquainting with the dips and curves of your thighs. He sought you out in the early hours of dawn with a stiff cock and groggy pleas for your sweet essence.

Who were you to deny him?

He smiled pressing a kiss to your temple, fingers toying with your ring finger. If he narrowed his eyes in the afternoon light he could see a flash of yellow gold along skin he savored—a hand he clutched with promise. It wouldn’t be too big; nor small enough to hide from inquiring eyes. A perfect set of jewels adorned on a finger he kissed, the piece of you yet to hold his permanent promise.

Till death.

Till he found you in the next life.

Slipping from the tangle of your limbs, he relished the leap of his heart at the sight of you spread along the bed. Naked and at bliss, exhausted from his hunger. He stole another kiss along your spine, finding his way through the familiar path of the kitchen that still lingered with the laughter of memories that painted the walls. Times spent with friends—now turned family—moments he might one day have again.

A faded picture of two young kids at high school graduation was pinned to the fridge door, another of a night spent dancing at some shitty frat party—high off the freedom of adulthood. Two versions of a love he’d could pick out with his eyes shut tight.

Another would set nicely beside them. Of a wedding in a small backyard, an aisle scattered with orange petals and white daisies adorned to his tux—a veil dragging along the floor where you walked towards him. An image that would be placed on altars in memory, an offering set between the frame and candle as he clutched you tight even in the afterlife.

The coffee machine beeped, two mugs set on the counter as he poured, and that’s where you found him. Fussing with the bottle of cream and sugar packets damp from hot liquid. He wore his jeans low on hips you bit at some point in the night—the indent of your teeth marked into skin that would forever wear your mark. Even if you had to place it night after night.

Your arms looped around his waist, lips finding the warm skin of his back. “I wanted to wake up with you.”

He laughed, turning gently in your hold. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“You can still surprise me.”

“Yeah?” he grinned, eyes gleaming with a light that caught your breath in the base of your throat. “Got something in mind?”

Life suddenly held a different glow. Contentment filling veins with a something new. A piece that didn’t exist without him near—his love pressing deep and bright into a chest that burned hot. He left you breathless, begging for reprieve. Yet losing yourself to it all the same.

“So…about everything-” He cut you off with a kiss, hand dragging your left palm to his mouth. “Did you mean what you said last night?”

He smiled, at ease with the nerves he could feel beneath your wrist. “If I did?”

“I’d like that,” you breathed.

“Siempre estaras conmigo mi corazón?”

You nodded, heart singing beneath his love. “Si mi amor. I’ll be with you forever.”

©moonlight-prose do not feed my work into ai, do not steal my work, if you are a minor, spam like my fics, or are a blank blog you will be blocked.

[annie-ave]

t.w. sexual coercion/sexual content

for the TRA's stalking my blog rn)

i actually have slept with a transwoman before y'know.

it was summer after i got out of highschool, i was on dating apps screwing around trying to forget the female best friend i was in love with, hooking up with random men who were six years older than me in random parking lots. damaging myself emotionally basically, because that's what everyone else was doing.

it was consensual sex, although she did insist on not using a condom bc she "couldn't get me pregnant".

I found out later that the relatively short time she'd been on cross sex hormones meant she could, in fact, get me pregnant. I paid for the emergency contraception myself without even asking (even though i was broke af and had just been kicked out by my parents for fucking women) because I didn't want to risk hurting her feelings on her sex and causing dysphoria.

I was 18 and a massive TRA who cared about everyone's comfort but my own.

For years afterwards, i let her talk down to me about how i'm more clocky than she is as a teenager transitioner, what with my hairy arms, PCOS stubble, and stocky shoulders.

It bruised me a bit then, but I prided myself on being a good ally. I shut my mouth because I'd learned from all my liberal feminist instagram activism pages that trans women were the most vulnerable of ALL women, and that they needed to be protected.

Socialized female in a Catholic home with a stay-at-home mother who left a six-figure salary to stay at home and raise my dads children so he could further his career, i'd been brought up to believe that self-sacrifice in women is a heavenly-endowed virtue.

As an annoying lefty from a really early age (still am despite the amount of ppl who want to insist im not a socialist bc i dont believe female people have a dick and balls), I always really LOVED the self-sacrificial aspect of modern activism.

The idea that I could be alleviating some woman's pain by taking on some of it as mine, even if it meant biting my tongue, was legitimately appealing especially because i'd been brought up to believe this was a woman's role.

This transwoman regularly posted online about her extensive drug use and wanting to kill herself so she could be reborn as a woman (even AFTER bottom surgery). I sent her long voicemails consoling her, trying to convince her she looked perfectly feminine on the outside. More feminine than ME certainly!!

And I wasn't lying. She does, she's stunning. When I was a TRA I'd pull up her photos at the dinner table to show my parents how feminine she was.

"Can you really say she's a MAN!" I'd shout, perfectly unaware of the misogyny inherent in assuming "looking feminine" defines womanhood.

I'd find that out for when we attended a sex party together (I went wild and hedonistic after leaving my Catholic household for undergrad, and many of these stories are regrettable but instructive).

I attended with my lover at the time, a sweet butch who was nonbinary herself. there was already a little tension in her attendance. The transwoman i'd slept with confessed, as if this was some horrid secret, that she'd matched with my lover on tinder and was almost convinced she didnt want to slep with her her becasue she was a transwoman.

I knew for a fact my lover had was a lesbian who had trauma with dicks. I also thought it would have been perfectly alright if she just didn't want dick. I had an embryonic idea that it was pretty misogynistic gay men weren't expected to want vagina to the same extent.

But i didn't want to think about that. I KNEW genital preferences were a "TERF dogwhistle".

So when she started pouting at the party after being rejected by my lover. for the second time (talkig sadly to me about how my lover didnt even want to KISS her, and that kissing had nothing to do with her dick and how it was so sooooooo horribly unfair that she didn't have a vagina of her very own) I did feel bad for her. I did see she was in pain. I didn't want her to be in pain. I didn't want my lover to be pilloried for transphobia.

when she asked me if i'd kiss her instead, it didn't seem like a hard decision to let her, even though I had zero sexual interest in her after our first encounter.

i didn't say no- I let her grope me a bit without asking, and consented to touching her chest in return. I did refuse to go further.

it didn't matter. she accused my lover of being a TERF the next day. my lover who also identified as trans.

I still visited her in L.A. after her bottom surgery. This was when I was halfway through discovering radical feminism, and still feeling like a bigot for thinking that the research on children transitioning was actually pretty low quality. I internalized what all my friends told me about TERFS, but I'd also accepted I agreed with radfems. I confided in my partner about how evil I was, convinced i'd be single afterwards. My partner told me I would be ok, as long as I didn't start speaking up about it. how really everyone kind of had these feelings and its most important we let people make their own choices. So i decided to bite my tongue some more. and then she asked me to come see her in L.A.

When I saw her she was still in a lot of pain, especially when dilating (but very happy with her results on the whole). She wasn't well enough to go get food with me so I held her hand and got her water while she lay in her hotel room bed.

I've also seen her since I peaked fully, and despite what some of you might think, no dear reader I did not decide to be awful to her about her transition for no reason, use the "wrong" pronouns, say she looked manly (she doesn't), or tell her I was a radfem.

I didn't see a reason too.

Some part of me didn't want to hurt her, but it was also a pragmatic decision given the kind of online reach she has.

We happened to both be in the same city on vacation so we met for dinner. She regaled me with stories of the sex parties she's been participating in since I left for grad school, complaining that at a recent one only 4/10 of the girls there wanted to sleep with her even though she HAS a vagina now!

she didn't seem to think about the possibility that "a vagina" is not the sole determinant of whether a lesbian would want to sleep with you or not. i see her posting on instagram sometimes about how that hoagie murdereress is a victim of state violence.

i do still reach out to her when i see her struggling. i'm not heartless, but i fully confess to feeling differently when I see her featured as a transitioning success story in the news.

We come from a conservative state originally, and she really likes the camera.

i realize that at this point she can't go back even if she wanted too, and like many (if not most!) radfems i dont support banning HRT for adults partially because I worry about the health impacts of people who have gotten so many surgeries that their bodies physically are unable to create their natal hormones.

I don't want anyone to be hurt no matter how much you think I do. But I no longer believe that means I have to stay quiet and prostrate myself to the idea that humans can change sex.

and I want every female person reading this to know, you do NOT have to sleep with anyone you don't enthusiastically want to sleep with. Self sacrifice in women is NOT a unilateral virtue.

[howi99]

From the nest: Natural born genius vs hard work

Ruby: *being grabbed by her cloak, then slammed down on the ring to finally feel the ice cold touch of Augure on her neck* Urgh...

Glynda: Jaune Arc is declared winner!

Jaune: *sigh, sheathing back his sword* You good?

Ruby: *sitting up, looking ashamed* Yeah...

Jaune: *shake his head* Don't take it personal, Ruby. I'm just more experienced than you, that's all.

Ruby: But it doesn't make sense! I can beat everyone BUT you! And you have lost to both of our teammates but i still can't win! Why?

Jaune: *helping her up* Well, if i have to explain it in lame terms, it's because you are too good for your own good.

Ruby: ... What?

Jaune: *shrug* Like i said, i have far more experience than you. I've been fighting for my life since i was a kid. But you? You're already here, in Beacon, at the age of 15.

Ruby: What does it have to do with me being unable to beat you!? That should even be a point for me!

Jaune: *shake his head* Ruby, when you were in school, how many kids were as good as you?

Ruby: *smirk* I was the best, so nobody was-

Jaune: *cutting her off, poking her forehead* Exactly! *Crossing his arms, a little smile on his face* Meanwhile, i had to train with a girl that was far better than myself and a teacher who didn't know what "going easy" meant. *Sigh* I'm not as strong as Nora or Yang, not as Agile as Blake, Ren or Weiss, and i certainly don't have yours or Pyrrha's talent.

Ruby: *frown* Then what am i lacking!?

Jaune: *shrug* Danger awareness, mostly. *Flick her head* You never hit yourself on a wall before and now, you keep trying the same tactics that work on almost everyone else. *Chuckle* It just happens that my reflexes are fast enough to counter you even when you use your semblance.

Ruby: *rubbing her forehead, grimacing* So, what should i do then?

Jaune: I don't know, you tell me! You are your best teacher, after all. *Pensive* But... If i had to give you a hint, maybe going in melee against me is a bad idea?

Ruby: But bullets are almost useless on you! And i don't have an unlimited amount of ammo!

Jaune: *shrug* Maybe you don't use the right kind of ammunition at the right time? I'm not a teacher after all. *Pat her head, smiling* In any case, it's not as if going against you was easy either. *Chuckle* You do make me use Augure a lot, after all. *Grin, looking towards the other students, speaking a bit louder* Which is not something a lot of our class can do!

Ruby: *wincing at the death stares Jaune was getting from the other students* Maybe you shouldn't trigger them that much.

Jaune: *smirk* Eh, a bit of anger is always needed for some healthy competition. *Chuckle* And if they beat me, that will give them a lot of bragging rights!

[mononijikayu]

okay that i got some sleep and some time away from family, let me tell you about the background of this story. since i rarely get to do it anymore!!!

ive always been reflective of my own personal conflicts. at times, i have this thought to myself about the oblivion of my existence. im not ever going to be a permanent being. my being is only ever going to be minute in the span of human existence and time. but i also for a part of me, want to still know that there is something worth remembering, at least for a little while.

however, i have beef with the idea of that only being done through the process of continuing the bloodline like its a duty, like its the only permanence or chance to infamy any person would get, especially for women.

recently, ive been trying to discover my ancestors. ive been trying to find them in data bases. and i have been able to find some of them. but only because of records. but what frustrated me is how ive only found many of them because of someone's birth, someone's marriage. especially the women. and that made me feel so heartbroken.

what could they have been as people? they had lives too, they had genuine laughters moments of laughter, desires and dreams. and yet, they're summarized like that. not even through their own words. they're only known because they were someone's mother, someone's parent, someone's spouse.

and so i reflected a lot on that. and then it came to me. maybe that wasn't the point of it all. maybe, it didnt need to leave all these evidences. all these words and thoughts and memories for anyone else, for no one else. maybe that's the victory of a life well lived.

maybe a lifetime of desires, a lifetime of laughters and tears and wants and dreams and even of love never needed to leave evidence for anyone else because it already belonged to them and to them alone. maybe that's all there has to be.

there didn't need to be a record, there didnt need to be a letter or a sound or a picture with a written time and place. maybe it was enough that they existed and did all the things that made humans who they are in the past and who they are now.

thats how this was born. and i had forgotten all about it until i checked on the stuff i had written and never published. at the time, i didnt think it was that good of a story. and i didnt think it was something that was gonna see the light.

but here it is. and to see people have the reaction they have had and enjoyment and love for this little thing, it made me genuinely happy. thank you so much for the love you have shown this untitled piece, born from my own crisis and my rebirth to clarity. i love you all!!! 🫶

when you married nanami kento, you just knew that you wanted a life with him. but in that still, certain place deep in that chest of yours, you knew that you also wanted him to be the father of your children.

it wasn’t about legacy or expectation. no, if anything, you hated that about life. you didn't want his children because of that reason. there was something more important than that.

it was about how he existed in the world. he was gentle, principled, endlessly patient in the ways that truly mattered. he had a kind of strength that wasn’t loud, but lasting. he made things feel safe. not just for you, but for something larger, something future-shaped.

and that's what you believe would be so beautiful in the world. if someone as gentle and tender as him had something of him brought into the world to be just as gentle and tender. to be so loved by him, to be so loved by you.

you imagined it all so clearly in your head, if you were being honest. a child with his hands, his eyes, maybe even his brow when they got frustrated.

you pictured the quiet warmth of sundays, crayon drawings on the fridge, the sound of small feet padding across the floor, laughter tucked into corners of your home like sunlight.

he’d be a good father, you thought. the kind who teaches without raising his voice. the kind who holds everything steady when the world feels like it might tip over.

and so you tried. you both tried. with the kind of quiet hope people don’t always talk about. it wasn’t immediate, but you told yourself it was okay. these things took time. you had to be patient. patience wins in the end, you tell yourself.

soon enough, months passed. then more. the hope bent, thinned, but didn’t break. not at first. there were appointments. careful calendars. silence after the tests. reassurances. more silence.

until one day, the silence wasn’t a pause anymore. it was an answer.

you remember sitting in the bathroom, staring at the negative test like it had something more to say if you looked long enough. it didn’t. all it said was no. again. and again.

the grief came in waves, brutish ones that crash against the shore brutishly every single time. some days it was a sharp, bitter feeling. it was like a pang in your chest when you saw a family of three holding hands.

on the other days it was a soundless dullness in the boroughs of sorrow, like a blanket of fog you couldn’t shake off, a ghost that leads you to a bed of nothingness and tears.

you didn’t talk about it much at the time. and you can tell that neither did kento. not because you weren’t hurting. but because the hurt was so big, and you didn’t know where to begin. you didn't know how to grieve something you never had.

sometimes you caught him looking out the window, brow furrowed just slightly. quiet in a way that felt heavier than usual. and you knew. he felt it too. but he never blamed you. not once. you blamed yourself. he never did.

and then one night after a particularly hard week, when even your hope felt tired, you couldn't help but curl into bed beside him. you were unsure of what you were asking for when you reached for him.

he pulled you close without hesitation, without a second thought. held you like you were still whole, even if you didn’t feel like it anymore. your voice broke in the darkened room.

“what if it never happens? what if… it’s just us?”

and he was quiet for a long moment. but not the kind of quiet that avoids. the kind that holds. then he found himself speaking in reply, soft and low, the way he always spoke when something mattered.

“does a lifetime of love between us need to leave evidence?”

you didn’t answer. you just buried your face in his chest and cried. because that was him. kento, always seeing the heart of things. he wasn’t asking you to stop grieving. he wasn’t telling you not to want it.

instead, he was reminding you about all the things that mattered. gently, without pressure, that your love was not less because it had no name to pass on. no small voice to echo it. it was still here. still full. still real.

you and him. it was a whole universe, even without anyone else to witness it. that was more important to him. that was more precious to him. living a lifetime with you full of love was evidence enough.

and that night, something shifted. you still felt the ache sometimes blossoming in the bossom of your chest. many a times, you both did. but you know that it softened. you started noticing the life you’d built together more fully.

the slow mornings with coffee and tired eyes. the way his hand always found yours when you weren’t even looking. the quiet rituals of care. the laughter that still came, despite it all.

maybe your love didn’t need to leave evidence.

maybe your love was the evidence.

and maybe, just maybe, that was everything.

as you stare at kento's memorial image, you couldn't help but breathe and nod. tears flowing over and over again, until your eyes were red. until nothing could be done about it.

"you were right." you whispered to yourself, to him. to the nothingness. "it was more than enough for a lifetime....to love you."

[peachiejeongin]

Just found your blog and LOVE it!! And I have an idea for Changbin! How about one where he takes you to the gym for the first time and he's being nice and showing you how to use the equipment and you go along with it BUT THEN he turns around and sees you lifting a shit ton of weight and he's just like "how...what-I HOW?!?!"

Or one where you're a pole dancer (not self projecting) and he's watching you dance and then wants to try some inverts because he lifts and he doesn't understand that those muscle groups don't carry over and it's fluffy crack

💚💚💚

you lift me up (literally) | changbin

pairing: changbin x reader genre: fluff, crack warnings: mild swearing notice: hello, my love! thank you so much for your request! i decided to go with the first suggestion, and i am definitely considering the second as well! without further ado, enjoy the story! :)

word count: 1.3K

“Come on, babe! It’ll be fun!”

Those six words, spoke ever so enthusiastically by your boyfriend, were how you found yourself in this situation:

You were at the gym.

Otherwise known as Changbin’s second home.

Machines clanked, grunts echoed, and it reeked of protein powder, sweat, and body odor. 

Why did you agree to this?

‘Because your boyfriend is an absolute sweetheart, and if you said no to him, your heart would break in two pieces,’ you thought to yourself.

Still, you had not been to a weight room in years, so it felt like a completely foreign experience, though it most certainly was not.

Hell, as far as Changbin knew, you had not been here at all.

To your defense, he was so enthusiastic once you agreed to come, rambling on and on about everything you guys could work on together. You did not want to break his heart by saying you had already worked on pretty much every machine you could think of. Even now, he looked so excited to have you here with him, beaming from ear to ear at you.

“Are you ready, y/n?” Changbin asked, practically bouncing on his heels. His sleeveless top clung to his torso, his biceps basically bulging out of the sleeves.

“Totally,” you replied, faking a smile. “I’m so ready to embarrass myself in front of a bunch of gym buffs…one of those being my boyfriend!”

Changbin laughed, wrapping an arm around you and pressing a light kiss to your temple. 

“You’re gonna do great,” he told you, tone highly optimistic. “I’ll walk you through everything, don’t worry.”

You nodded, still feeling hesitant, but nevertheless letting him guide you to the dumbbell racks like some sort of muscly gymnasium tour guide.

“This is a dumbbell,” Changbin explained, completely seriously.

“Really?!” you questioned sarcastically. “I had no idea!”

Changbin shot you a playful glare before continuing.

“Anyways, it’s your best friend during workouts. We’ll start small.”

You quietly snorted but played along, letting Changbin show you how to do curls, shoulder presses, and how not to swing your body while lifting. He was attentive and sweet the entire time, never once teasing you—even when you exaggerated your struggle whilst lifting a 50-pound dumbbell for a little dramatic effect.

“While you’re lifting,” he advised, “keep your elbows tucked in—don’t let them loosely go everywhere. Try to keep your back straight, too. That way, you don’t drop the dumbbells on yourself.”

You nodded dutifully at his “lesson.”.

“Got it. Keep my elbows tucked, don’t arch my back, and don’t die.”

Changbin chuckled.

“Exactly. Ready to try some machines?”

Ten minutes later, you were pretending to listen as he explained how to use the leg press.

“This machine can be difficult,” Changbin warned. “A good tip I have for you is to start light. Try around 70-80 pounds at first just to get a feel for things.”

“Right,” you nodded once more. “‘Light.’”

As he was about to help you get started on the machine, he noticed one of his friends walking in.

“Hey, man!” he called out, turning back to you shortly after doing so. “I’m gonna go talk to him for a second. You got this?”

You gave Changbin a thumbs up and a smile in response with Changbin returning the latter; as soon as he walked away, you quietly stood up and adjusted the weights on the machine. A cheeky grin tugged at your lips.

Time to have some fun.

You loaded it up, not too dramatically, but enough to add a bit of a shock factor. You began to work the machine, pressing the added weight with ease.

To your luck, Changbin came back over just in time.

“Sorry about that baby! How are you doing?”

“Just fine!” you exclaimed, not even out of breath. Changbin smiled, proud that you had “caught on” quickly.

Then he noticed the weight on the machine.

His eyes widened, jaw dropping as he watched you effortlessly press nearly 250 pounds on the leg press.

The silence was loud, and Changbin was incredibly surprised, to say the least.

You stopped on the machine, smiling innocently as you looked at him.

“How’d I do?”

“You…What the…How the…How did you…” Changbin stumbled over his words, confusion sputtering out of him as he looked between you, the leg press, and the added weight.

You stood up from the machine, cracking your knuckles as you made your way over to Changbin.

“I thought you said this machine could be difficult?” you cheekily teased, poking at his chest; he just stared at you like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Babe.” He blinked. “That’s more than I can press! How do you even know how to use it??? I thought this was your first time at the gym???”

You just laughed.

“I never said that, Binnie!” you defended yourself. “But hey, you looked so happy talking about getting to teach me and stuff, so I wanted to keep up the act to make you even happier!”

Changbin let out a light chuckle out of pure disbelief.

“I’m still happy!” Changbin told you, excitedly. “Hell, I’m even happier than I was teaching you because you’re an absolute beast!”

You let out a string of light giggles.

“Guilty as charged,” you confessed.

“But wait,” Changbin paused. “How can you lift that much?”

You shrugged, tilting your head.

“High school,” you answered. “I was on the track team, and we weight-trained every week. I kinda miss it now that I’m thinking about it.”

Changbin gaped slightly, hands on his hips, eyes shifting from pure confusion.

“Seriously??? You never told me you did track in school!!” He shook his head, his brain trying to wrap itself around everything still. “Damn baby, you could’ve let me through a workout!”

“What can I say,” you chuckled. “I like watching you explain gym stuff to me, though. You get all serious and hot when you really get into it.”

He groaned, hiding his face in his hands from both incredulity and bashfulness.

“I just mansplained how to do a fucking curl-up to you, meanwhile you’re out here leg-pressing 250 pounds!”

You patted his back, unable to keep yourself from laughing uncontrollably.

“If it makes you feel any better,” you assured, “your form tips were really helpful. I actually didn’t know keeping your elbows tucked in helps with lifting.”

“Wow,” Changbin sighed. “I helped Miss Beastmode with her form. I feel special.” His tone was a mix of playful sarcasm and his usual teasing.

You looked at him, a cheeky glint present in your gaze.

“Well, I could always coach you on my form,” you suggested. “How I got to be able to lift and press as much as I do.”

Changbin narrowed his eyes at you.

“I’ll let you teach me on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“If you’re able to pick me up.”

“Changbin, what?!” Your eyes went wide and you began to chuckle. “Okay, I’m strong, but I haven’t been to a gym in years!”

“So what?!” Changbin playfully hollered. “You just leg-pressed 250 pounds like it was nothing, but you’re scared to pick me up?! I see how it is.”

“Arm strength is different from leg strength!” you fought back teasingly.

“No, no!” he sarcastically stated, dramatically turning away from you. “I get it! You don’t want to. You’re not strong enough to. Guess you won’t get to coach me!”

Changbin was only joking, but he worded it in a way that dared you to do so.

As such, you suddenly came closer to him, wrapping your arms around his waist—which caught him completely off guard—and picking him up. Turns out, even after a few years, your arm muscles did not betray you as you lifted him off of the ground with ease, nearly having him over your shoulder. To add even more hilarity, you began spinning around, causing Changbin and yourself to giggle continuously. 

“Okay, okay!” Changbin called out. “Point proven! Can I get down now?!”

You did as asked of you, setting Changbin down and stretching your arms lightly afterwards.

“So,” you began, smiling brightly. “Can I coach you now?”

Changbin rolled his eyes playfully.

“Only if I get to spot you.”

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀꜱ ʙʏ: @/hyuneskkami

🏷️@amararosesblog @velvetmoonlght (dm/inbox to be added!)

[ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ? ᴅʀᴏᴘ ᴀ ʟɪᴋᴇ, ᴀ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢ, ᴀɴᴅ/ᴏʀ ᴀ ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ!]

[hauchiko]

ive been thinking about bridget from guilty gear and some of the (dumb) criticisms ive seen to her coming out as trans. and the main one that stuck with me that i couldnt put my finger on why, was the idea of "but she was forced to be a girl, so what, her abusive village was right in the end?" because like. yeah, unfortunately.

the reason it stuck with me is because i went through the same thing. and so did a lot of other trans women. not the village but. not being the most masculine. being forced into and bullied into essentially the role of girl compared to all the guys. fighting it so hard. because "no im not a girl". when youre told and forced into being one role quite often you fight SO hard to go against it. and i did. played rough sports, tried to force myself to like shooter games, tried to get my dads approval, of course i hate pink im not a girl.

but then i moved away. went to uni. had none of those ingrained expectation from the people who knew me. go to explore, got to reinvent and figure out why i was so uncomfortable. and it turns out, my bullies, in a cruel twist of fate, were right. i was a girl. and im happier now. and in typical guilty gear larger than life fashion, bridgets story mirrors my own, at least to an extent or matching the themes. forced or pressured or bullied into a gender. fight against it. move away, explore self. and come back and claim it as your own.

i dont think the creators of guilty gear had this story or structure in mind 20 years ago. the interviews of her reveal say that her story was always meant to be trans and that they didnt think the world was ready. but she is trans. and her story matching mine even though im not even the biggest fan of guilty gear is something that is so so deeply special. we are allowed to be queer, and messy and make mistakes and go back.

[spookysanta]

Can u do a spin version of Lessons in Chivalry? Like reader has a hard time understanding as to why he wants to do all this things for even though she is pretty capable of doing all the things that Michael wants to do for her. She loves her independents and has self satisfaction when she can take care of herself without having to rely on a man even if he is being a gentleman.

I may be projecting but when I read this I was like would I let my man do this for me I don’t know. I would see myself sadly getting a little irritated by the fact I couldn’t spend my money and having to hear “you could have just used my card” well I don’t because I have my own money. U can just completely ignore this if you want.

No hate to the fic or you as a writer. Love the fics you make ❤️

Hi bby! Thank you for asking this. I think this is a great spin-off idea. Especially since a lot — not all — of us were ingrained with the idea that we had to do things ourselves, grow up quick, etc. So our hyperindependence is not something that we can just.. let go of. And I’m definitely in that category, too.

Here’s what I’m thinking about it.

His love language is acts of service, for sure. So it doesn’t always register to him that you’d want to do things on your own, for yourself.

And it would definitely be an argument, too. Because though you like that he loves you enough to literally uproot his entire day, just to make sure you’re taken care of, he doesn’t have to do that. You’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, and just because he’s come along, that doesn’t mean that he gets to swoop in and just… make your hard work up to now obsolete.

—

You stand at the kitchen counter, your fingers drumming a frustrated rhythm on the cool marble. The overhead light casts a soft glow, catching on the half-eaten takeout containers littering the sink, clear evidence of the kind of day it’s been. A headache throbs behind your eyes, and all you want is to sit down with a glass of wine and breathe.

But Michael’s voice cuts through the room, gentle but unrelenting. “Hey, I took care of the car today. Oil change, new wipers, and I paid the mechanic already.”

You blink, stunned for a moment. “You… what?”

He grins, like he’s done something wonderful. “Yeah. Thought I’d save you the trouble. They said it was overdue.”

You can feel your heart sink, like he’s cracked something open you’ve been holding together with spit and willpower. “Michael, I told you I was handling that.”

His brows draw together, his smile fading. “No I know, but I had time, and I figured—”

“No,” you interrupt, voice sharper than you intend. “You figured you could handle it better. Like I’m some little girl who can’t keep up with her own shit.”

His jaw tightens, his hands bracing against the counter. “That’s not what I meant. I was just trying to help.”

You feel the tears sting, but you refuse to let them fall. “It’s not helpful when you just — do it without asking me. I budgeted for that, Michael. I was gonna handle it. I like knowing I can take care of myself.”

He runs a hand over his face, that familiar furrow between his brows deepening. “I know you can. I know you don’t need me for everything.”

“Then why do you keep swooping in?” Your voice cracks, raw and trembling. “Why does it feel like you’re always fixing things before I even get a chance to try?”

His eyes meet yours, dark and soft and somehow so damn apologetic it makes your chest ache. “Because that’s how I show I care. That’s how I was raised, okay? You take care of the people you love. You take things off their plate so they can breathe.”

“But what if I want to handle my own plate, Michael?” You drop your gaze, shoulders heavy. “What if I need that to feel like myself?”

Silence stretches between you, thick and humming with unspoken things. He steps closer, his warmth wrapping around you even though he doesn’t touch you yet. “Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it like that. I see you running yourself ragged all the time, and it makes me want to help. I’ll ask next time, okay? I’ll let you do your thing.”

Your eyes lift, meeting his. You nod stiffly, slightly hating that this is the hill you’re choosing to die on. “I know. I don’t mind you trying to help, and most of the time it is helpful, even though it makes me feel weird.” You let out a heavy sigh, like you didn’t realize this was sitting so heavily on your shoulders. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m pushing you away, I just … need to feel like I can stand on my own two feet sometimes.”

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen. “And you do. Every day, you prove that to me. I just need to get better at proving to you that I see it.”

You lean into his touch, your anger fading as quickly as it came. “I love you.”

He smiles, soft and knowing. “I love you too. Even when you’re mad at me.”

—

I think overall there’d be a compromise. Like he wouldn’t cart you around everywhere as much, or he’d back off on the credit card thing — unless it’s for big purchases. He’s not budging on that.

And he’d also ease up on the lectures. I think part of the reason he used to be so adamant about it is because he’s seen your frustration and exhaustion as a result of overworking yourself and stressing about finances. Because when you first started dating, there’d be that clear discrepancy of yes, you’re capable of taking care of yourself, but obviously, he’s in a completely different tax bracket. 

So his perspective would be that, he’s in a position to allow you to relax and, in his mind, it’d be the perfect dynamic where he handles everything so that his pretty girl can just be … pretty. No money stress. No car stress. Nothing. But for you, that's just not reasonable (all the time).

The other thing that I think would have to ultimately be a mutual compromise, would be like what things do you handle on your own? I think for him, his biggest thing would be to make you feel like you’re able to maintain your independence but not fall into the trap of not asking for help when you actually need it.

So maybe he’d handle your car’s insurance and gas (he’s not budging on pumping your gas, either), while you handle maintenance. We know he loves to cook, so you might get groceries on your way home from yoga (both paid for with your own money), and he’ll cook for you.

But there are also some things that you’ll willingly let him handle because.. duh. Like personally, I don’t want to pay for my nails — all the shit I get done on my nails? shieeeet take this bill, pls (one of these days I’ll share a pic). 

Or my hair. 

Or a spa day.

Or trips. I want to glide when I travel. So in my head, that’d fully be on him.

Ultimately, his goal would be to prove to you that he’s all in. No holds barred, no questions about his commitment — just you. And because you’re his person, and more importantly, he’s your person, there’d have to be a rhythm that you find where there’s a balance between letting him have his moment, and him letting you have yours.

Hopefully that answers your question, my love! ❤️

[venigni]

Markiona

Ok so...NOT posting the vid bc I'm genuinely ashamed of my performance. Thought I would have fun posting those but nah. Next playthrough, for sure, though.

THOUGHTS BELOW THE CUT (spoilers, obv)

I want to preface this by saying I am not trying to gatekeep & I genuinely do not Give A Fuck what difficulty you play at, if you use specter, throwables, etc. At the end of the day, Lies of P is a video game and it should be FUN. So play however you find FUN.

That being said, I had to drop down the difficulty for her due to time, trying to get thru the story asap so to not get spoiled, and just needing to know wtf happens, but playing her at the lower difficulty was NOT fun for me. I get very little enjoyment out of it tbh. I want to be sweating and screaming and shaking as I play. Like, that's fun to me. And I feel really sad about it but I will get over it tomorrow, probably. I just don't want ppl to think I care about that, like u do u, just for me, I'm disappointed in myself, is all. (Again I'll get over it).

I honestly haven't been reading reviews/etc. as I'm trying to avoid all spoilers, so I only know what y'all tell me in the comments. I did find out via YouTube watching Markiona vids that game difficulty scales based on your NGs so I'm really curious to see how it is on other files eventually. My PC file is only on NG+ so it should be a little easier there for me, maybe?

Up until this point I honestly didn't feel like the game was too hard. Actually it was really fun and I liked the challenge the alligator gave me, even if I ended up cheesing him (which in itself was fun). Honestly, Markiona wasn't even like...HARD it's just. IDK if it's just my build (I tried some other ones but was struggling to adapt to diff stats), but even my heaviest hits were just the tiniest light taps to her health bar. She just felt. Like. A fucking. Sponge. I didn't like that. Is this our punishment for all the people who complained about LoP bosses always having two health bars? Just make one deplete at half the rate? Slkjfslkjfslj

I enjoyed the aesthetic, all the mechanics. It seemed pointless to learn perfect blocks in this fight so I mostly dodged, which I'm not used to doing. Maybe that's why this one had a bit more of a learning curve for me? But not too bad in the end.

What I really struggled with is the speed. This is where dropping down a difficulty level really helped. In LS, there was just...no time. For anything between attacks. Gap closing, charged attacks, Legion, it was really, really difficult, and I kept animation locking myself and then I'd get blown up. That was my #1 weakness. It improved when I learned their tells, but it was still really fucking difficult with my strat.

Which was: Using Falcon Eye to yeet the puppet to have a chance to get Markiona. Doing that twice, plus chipping away at her throughout the fight, you eventually win. But it's easier said than done bc in her second half she really goes bananas with her melee attacks, and it's harder to focus on the puppet...

I think one of my issues was trying to use the bow. Like, it really doesn't do much damage, but I tried several times to use close range melee weapons and I just. Couldn't make prog with those. There was too much going on at that range.

I really like the idea of a duo fight and the animations were all really gorgeous. I loved how the puppet moved and fought. Dodging all of her attacks was really satisfying. I think she was more of a standout than Markiona herself who I just thought was kind of annoying with her blue balls......

Anyway, even though I'm sad about how it ended, esp after how much time I poured into it, it actually isn't so bad, you just really, really need to endure and that's one of my weak spots (esp since I can't hold the controller for long) so I kept getting inpatient (and animation locking myself thus getting blown into oblivion).

Curious to hear all of your thoughts, so please don't hesitate to reply / reblog with them!!! Sorry this was long. 💔

[https-angel1c]

wolf hybrid!dante x reader who’s a little pervy.., just by a bit! maybe more than that,..,

// possible dub-con, tagging it to be safe

also fem!reader was in mind while writing this!!!

—

you thought it was a good idea to reside in some cozy cabin in the edge of the forest—so you’re not completely strayed away from civilization if anything goes wrong! but you weren’t prepared to face guests. guests from the forest. in your backyard.

its basic knowledge to know that a lot of weird things can happen in the forest. it’s secluded, animals roam free, basically a one way ticket to being a victim of all sorts of bizarre things. you simply had faith that you wouldn’t be so (un)lucky to come across anything of the sorts!

after living there for almost about a week or two already, you couldn’t help but notice the occasional figures that popped in and out of your backyard whether it was daytime or nighttime. you could’ve sworn you’ve seen a human figure behind some of the trees. though blamed it on your paranoia that comes with recently moving.

a couple more sightings made you confirm that there was definitely some sort of human wandering in and out of your property..,

so one night, you had the most genius idea of sitting outside to watch closely. not sure why you didn’t settle behind the safety of your windows, maybe the glass made you see things differently, who knows?

but there it was. or more like, there he was. a man—not just any ordinary man—but a man with.., ears and a tail?

he strides closer, not realizing that you were there. but once he got his eyes on you, he stopped in his tracks and blew out a low whistle, “what have we got here?”

“nothing for you.” you quipped back, arms crossed. he must’ve been intrigued with how those fluffy ears perked straight up.

“i don’t know, seems like there’s a lot here for me,” he hummed thoughtfully, giving you another once-over before offering a hand out, “name’s dante. thought it’d be nice to introduce myself since i plan to stick around for a bit.”

you left his handshake offer hanging. “what? no you’re not. this— this is my home.”

dante puts his hands up in the air as if surrendering, “hey, hey! don’t get your panties in a twist. i don’t plan on staying long.”

“you’re not staying at all.” you firmly stated.

“allow me to prove my worth?” he drawls. a hand came up to land on your shoulder. his hand was big and heavy. the damn thing nearly grounded you in place. but before you could deny him again, dante takes another step forward, now testing your personal space. “please?” he flashes his canines in that cocky grin.

but dante doesn’t wait for an answer, no.., big hands cupped the underside of your chest. one of them trailing down to feel the rest of your torso and lower. you made the move to push him away at first, but his arms had caged you against him.

you had to admit, he was fairly cozy for someone who just came from who-knows-where in the forest. dante noticed your lack of fight and nuzzled up against the side of your face. “just keep being good for me and this’ll feel even better.” he purred, tail wagging rapidly behind him.

—

LOL might continue it the last part feels so empty i had it saved in the drafts and worked on it bit by day but might’ve lost motivation by the end..,.

[balkanradfem]

So I wanted to play Infinity Nikki because it's beautiful, and aimed specifically at women, but it's an online game. So that was a no go.

Next best thing I could think of was to find a streamer who had uploaded the entire gameplay and to live vicariously trough them, so that's what I did. I downloaded 30hrs worth of gameplay and watched it offline at home, having a soothing time for my anxiety watching this adorable world where your only concern is finding resources for making clothing, and petting different animals. The woman streaming it was incredibly smart and insightful and I loved her, I got used to hearing her voice in my home. We also had exact same reactions to things! We both laughed at the same time and got to same conclusions.

Some evets in this game impressed me, for instance, the main character, who seems to be an 18yo girl, runs into a suspicions male who asks her to 'come with him so he could show her something', so both me and the streamer are yelling NO Nikki do not go with this m*n. I was afraid since it was a video game, that  Nikki would actually follow him, as it happened before in video games, and any anxiety she has about him would be dismissed as her being 'silly' and 'generalizing'. However our Nikki says 'No I have other stuff to do, I'm not following you' and I was Very Pleased. Thank you video game for saying 'that m*n has bad intentions and we don't have to pretend he doesn't.' He tries to kidnap her pet afterwards but she is saved by a cool woman who loves violence against males. I was very enchanted by the cool woman.

Another fun thing, the main character gets confronted with the idea of an object that can grant any wish you have, instantly. A villain proposes this to her, and sees a change in her face expression, so he goes 'You have one! What wish did you think of!' and she goes.. Nikki goes: 'I wish for all girls to never gets cramps again!' And I paused and gasped. The streamer and me were both stunned because never has a video game even brought this up! They were really catering to us! They knew what we wanted and they said our hero wants this for you! This won me over, even though the game has lots of drama and gambling elements, being catered to feels so good. If only the medical field would cater to us.

Later on, the streamer starts talking about her online experience, how much joy she had for streaming at first, and how later on it became a source of anxiety, due to the amount of harassment and criticism she would receive based on her looks and behaviour. She very insightfully concluded that it was the people talking the loudest who were there specifically to harass, and she probably had many lurkers who watched her content and liked it and just never said anything. I felt called out! That was me, just watching. I typed up a comment for her, thinking, hey, if all these males can harass her, then I can send an honest and appreciative comment to this woman.

So I told her how much she brightened my days with her commentary and streams, how long I've been watching and how much of a delight she was to listen to, and how we had the same reactions for most of events. I thanked her for going trough the trouble of making all these videos, despite the anxiety, because I enjoyed them so much, and appreciated her opening up about her experience. I sent this comment to an older video, which already had 430 comments, so I figured, okay, she's not gonna see this, it's a crowd in there, but I did my thing, I let her know.

2 days later I got a reply! She told me that my comment had made her cry, and thanked me so much and hoped we would have more common interests in the future. I'm beside myself, not only she saw it, she replied back. My comment made her cry? Lovely woman I've been listening for days interacted with me! I know I'm exposing myself for how lonely and parasocial I am, but today I'm really living my best life online. Women interacting positively with other women online wields positive results. Maybe I should comment more in general.

Also about Infinity Nikki, I had a funny idea. In this game you can get thousands of different clothing and accessories for Nikki, you can change her hair and eye color to anything, you can change her skin color, you can get butterflies flying around her ankles. But, she never has any body hair. What if we all joined up and started requesting that we get to choose for her body to be unshaved. As is normal and natural. If we harassed them into it. If we threw a tantrum about it. Do you think they'd do it. Do you think they'd cater to us to that amount. Or are there dreams that cannot be. I think it would be so funny if we did that. Can you imagine having a female video game protagonist with body hair. I want that.

[pushspacetocontinue]

"That's a way to see it I guess," Travis said, with a laugh, "I guess we do kind of carbonate ourselves by shaking ourselves up when you really think about it that way."

Russell was trying not to. But he supposed that it was a good point from the view of a blood drinker.

"So you told them to screw themselves so you could be yourselves and be together as family," Simon said, "I have to admire that, you know. It was probably hard, but it's sounded like it was worth it for all of you. Perhaps more than. Thank you. As callous as this might sound, our Ma was the biggest barrier for us to reconnect and now that she's gone..."

"Now that the nasty old hag is dead, we can hang out again," Travis said with a grin, as he then bashed up a few more things, "Heh, this is fun. It's like a rage room but we're doing something productive along with breaking stuff."

"Nice, not often I get to drive super fancy," Travis said, pocketing them for the moment, "Hopefully we can get that paperwork forged, give it a new paint job, new plates, that sort of thing, and it'll be fully ours. Hey, great idea, Erica, and hey, maybe it's still here. We could find it and drag it out with us."

Russell stopped for the moment and gave Lucien a little smile once more.

"I, I think, I think I, I feel a, a little better, do, do you?" Russell then asked. He still didn't up to talking much, but he wanted to make sure Lucien was doing all right.

"That's a great idea as well," Travis said, "I think I know where I'd know where to find a mannequin easily."

Bill really wished he could find some way to take that pain and exhaustion inside of Rook and somehow banish it, even if it meant taking it into himself. But that wasn't possible, so he just had to offer his support in another way.

"Well, you certainly haven't so far, despite what the asshole you call a birth dad might have said to you," Bill said, "But I do know that old mindsets die hard, and I can't fault you for that."

But Bill then returned the hug, gently resting his chin on the top of Rook's head for the time being.

"Well, now that you're with us, I'm going to make sure you hear it more often, from as many people as possible, because it's the truth."

Bill slowly let go then, and gave Rook a nod.

"My shadows will be holding onto you, even if I can't get too close myself," Bill said, as he allowed Rook to move., "And then we'll get going again as soon as you're ready."

It seemed that they had all come to the silent agreement that Frosty needed to be treated with just a bit more decorum. There was something more complicated about all of this, and not just physically, with the beating he had taken and whatever Five had put into his system.

Leofric nodded in some approval.

"You may use whatever you need to use, and I have found that combining our ingredients and methods has been beneficial, I don't see why it could not be done on this occasion."

Antonio stopped as soon as Frosty had gone back to sleep. Leofric moved so that he could carry Frosty as gently as he could without waking him up. As much as Antonio had told Frosty to sleep 'for as long as you need to', Leofric still felt the need to be careful and potentially cause any further injury or discomfort.

"Feel free to look through my grimoires as you need to as well," Leofric added, keeping his voice quiet.

"I think they're about finishing up in there from the sounds of it," Antonio said, an ear twitching as he peered back towards the inside, "So I don't think we'll be waiting all that long. I believe we've done rather well today, especially the little sisters."

"Cyclists are fizzy drinks." That made a lot of sense, actually. The information was dutifully filed away and gave Erica something else to think about while they continued with their looting. Catching a speeding cyclist would be a nice challenge.

That could be one way to test another one of her new tricks...

"Carthage didn't want us to be anything like what we are now. So you're both correct." Willow replied, "And I'm glad you were able to break away from that situation as I am that my own brothers were able to upgrade from being fugitives and partners in crime to being a happy family."

"Willow's brothers are nice!" Erica chimed in, "They're also Rook's bosses over here but way older than ours."

That made her wonder whether there were more Russells, Travis and maybe Simons out there. Though she made sure to keep her thoughts to herself. The brothers had their fair share of the esoteric already.

"Yeah, we don't know where they have been." Erica agreed, before offering Travis the key, "I can't drive. You can have it."

While she could have done without the noise of glass shattering, it was music to Lucien's ears. Fragments of Five's attack still disturbed his dreams, but perhaps they would cease now.

Lucien nodded. "Yes. Although, this would be even better if we could get our hands on that chair he was seemingly so fond of."

Rook would have loved setting it on fire, at least.

Erica grinned, then reached to take one of the tactical masks. "I'll keep one for target practice. You know, I'll put it on a mannequin, maybe add a clown nose so it looks more like Five before I flushed him. Something like that."

Rook let out another sigh. She was exhausted more than in a physical way, but she had to speak her mind there.

"I guess it has to do with all the things I got told growing up. A part of me thinks there's really something wrong with me and that I'm going to screw up." And for that, she only had to thank Rick. "I know it's not true, but it's hard to shut up that kinda thing. I haven't been doing it for that long."

She was making an effort to think positive and listen to whoever insisted she was good enough. It just took a while to get used to and she was also trying to come to terms with some changes her magic had prompted.

Someday she would open up about why she resented her wings so much, but for now Rook was content simply stealing another quick hug. The fluff of her mantel muffled her voice.

"I'm not the best at showing it but it means a lot to hear that. I didn't get to hear this kind of thing a lot."

Almost not at all, all things considered. Her failed father had always been stingy with compliments.

Rook then let go. "Well, I better get to the arson now..."

Veronica was glad to see they seemed to agreed on how to best treat Frosty. More than anything, she was glad all talk about petty pranks had stopped when it became clear a couple of bandaids and an energy drink wouldn't be enough to send the young mage on his way. The ghost lady could think of many reasons why he wouldn't be welcome home and too many of them could be the consequence of Five's direct interference.

In any case, the spray bottle wasn't necessary anymore, thus was stored back in her bag.

"Five's abilities are almost entirely new to me as well. While this isn't as severe as what he has used on Lucien, I feel we may be able to solve this by adapting one of your recipes again."

If it ain't broke and such. Veronica watched Antonio at work now that she finally had the chance to do so. It was fascinating but being a literal wandering soul, she made sure not to get lost in that swirling abyss.

Frosty would have done so as well if he hadn't reacted too slowly. The truth was he hardly needed to be persuaded to go back to sleep. Though now he too hoped it wouldn't be as bad of a time as earlier.

Veronica carefully checked his pulse, then nodded approvingly. "Very well. Let's take him to Erika. He can safely rest in the pocket while we go have a nice night out in the city."