#it’s the third time I’m trying to post this

[nanavn]

[ID: the first post has a nice fanfic-y script of what would be said in a movie of this moment. The third post has four screenshots of parts of the actual transcript from the link.

Headline:

Trump erupts when Zelenskyy suggests the U.S. might ‘feel it in the future’

Text:

Zelenskyy: “First of all, during the war, everybody has problems, even you. But you have nice ocean and don’t feel now. But you will feel it in the future. God bless –”

Trump: “You don’t know that. You don’t know that. Don’t tell us what we’re going to feel. We’re trying to solve a problem. Don’t tell us what we’re going to feel.”

Zelenskyy: “I’m not telling you. I am answering on these questions.”

Trump: “Because you’re in no position to dictate that.”

Vance: “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

Trump: “You are in no position to dictate what we’re going to feel. We’re going to feel very good.”

Zelenskyy: “You will feel influenced.”

Trump: “We are going to feel very good and very strong.”

Zelenskyy: “I am telling you. You will feel influenced.”

Trump: “You’re, right now, not in a very good position. You’ve allowed yourself to be in a very bad position –”

Zelenskyy: “From the very beginning of the war —”

Trump: “You’re not in a good position. You don’t have the cards right now. With us, you start having cards.”

Zelenskyy: “I’m not playing cards. I’m very serious, Mr. President. I’m very serious.”

Trump: “You’re playing cards. You’re gambling with the lives of millions of people. You’re gambling with World War III.”

Zelenskyy: “What are you speaking about?”

Trump: “You’re gambling with World War III. And what you’re doing is very disrespectful to the country, this country that’s backed you far more than a lot of people said they should have.”

Vance: “Have you said thank you once?”

Zelenskyy: “A lot of times. Even today.”

Vance: “No, in this entire meeting. You went to Pennsylvania and campaigned for the opposition in October.”

Zelenskyy: “No.”

Vance: “Offer some words of appreciation for the United States of America and the president who’s trying to save your country.”

Zelenskyy: “Please. You think that if you will speak very loudly about the war, you can –”

Trump: “He’s not speaking loudly. He’s not speaking loudly. Your country is in big trouble.”

Zelenskyy: “Can I answer —”

Trump: “No, no. You’ve done a lot of talking. Your country is in big trouble.”

Zelenskyy: “I know. I know.”

Trump: “You’re not winning. You’re not winning this. You have a damn good chance of coming out OK because of us.”

Zelenskyy: “Mr. President, we are staying in our country, staying strong. From the very beginning of the war, we’ve been alone. And we are thankful. I said thanks.”

End ID]

Text taken from link.

the transcript btw. It was hard to make it out on the video because of the blowhards yelling and me feeling incandescently blind and deaf with rage

oh, to have a leader with the moral fiber and strong backbone that Zelenskyy has

[missarchive]

motel six

spencer reid

cw; spencer reid x fem!reader, spencer gets caught jacking off, cowgirl, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, softdom!reader, sub!spencer, one bed troupe, oral (m. receiving), aftercare, unprotected p in v, spencer’s a little desperate and awkward (what’s new)

an; HIII ALLL!!! This is based on an ask I received earlier this month, but I have had a few similar ones so I finally made a fic for them. The truth is that I have been seeing a beautiful woman and she is taking up most of my time. BUT- I managed to sneak this one in. I will start posting more consistently again now that my writer’s block has finally disappeared. As always, please leave some feedback if you liked it (if you didn’t just know you’re stepping on my hopes and dreams). Love and miss u guys xoxo

wc; around 3k

Your stomach twists. A long day chasing leads and poring over case files has already left you drained, and now you have to share a room with someone? You glance around at your teammates, who are pairing off with little hesitation. Morgan claims a room with Rossi. Hotch and JJ take another. Emily and Garcia get the third. That leaves…

You turn your head just as Spencer Reid—resident genius, profiler extraordinaire, and your usual case partner—adjusts the strap of his bag with an unmistakable grimace. His hazel eyes dart to yours before flicking away, his jaw tightening.

Of course.

"Looks like it's you and me, Reid," you say, trying to keep your tone light.

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he nods stiffly and brushes past you toward the room number scribbled on the keycard sleeve. Your stomach sinks further, but you push down the unease and follow.

The room is as underwhelming as expected: beige walls, scratchy-looking blankets, and a single queen bed shoved against one side. A rickety wooden chair sits near the window, but otherwise, the space is cramped.

Spencer stops in the doorway, his whole body tensing. "You take the bed. I’ll sleep in the chair."

You frown. "Reid, that thing looks like it’ll collapse if you breathe on it too hard. We can just—"

"I said I’ll sleep in the chair," he snaps, dropping his go-bag by the door.

The sharpness in his voice catches you off guard. Spencer is always a little awkward, sometimes distant, but rarely outright rude. You watch as he rubs his temple, his jaw clenched so tightly you wonder if he might crack a tooth. He looks… angry. At you?

"Okay," you say slowly. "Did I do something?"

"No," he bites out. "Just drop it."

You exhale sharply, irritation flaring. "Spencer, we’re both exhausted. If something’s wrong, you can just—"

"Just leave it alone, Y/N."

His words are clipped, final. You stare at him for a moment, searching his face for an answer, but he won’t meet your gaze. The room suddenly feels suffocating.

Fine. If he wants to be an ass, let him.

"I’m going outside," you mutter, grabbing your jacket. "Maybe by the time I get back, you’ll have figured out how to use your words like an adult."

You don’t wait for a response before stepping out into the cool night air.

The motel parking lot is nearly empty, save for the team's vehicles and a couple of semi-trucks parked along the far end. You breathe in the crisp air, letting it wash away some of the frustration bubbling inside you.

Spencer’s behavior isn’t just annoying—it stings. You thought the two of you were friends. Sure, he can be awkward and distant, but he’s never been outright cruel before. Whatever is bothering him, he clearly doesn’t want to share it with you.

You wrap your arms around yourself, shivering as the cold seeps through your thin jacket. After a few minutes, your irritation starts to wane, replaced by exhaustion. You don’t have the energy to stay mad, and honestly, all you want is to collapse into bed and sleep for at least twelve hours.

With a sigh, you make your way back toward the room. The hallway is silent, the only sound your footsteps against the aging carpet. You reach for the door handle but freeze as a muffled noise seeps through the thin walls.

A low, breathy moan.

Your heart stutters.

You strain to listen, barely breathing as another quiet sound follows—one you recognize immediately.

A strangled gasp, unmistakably Spencer’s.

Heat rushes to your face as your brain supplies every possible explanation, each one more embarrassing than the last. You should walk away. You should turn around and pretend you never heard anything. But your hand stays frozen on the doorknob, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Another moan drifts through the door, this one louder. You swallow against the sudden lump in your throat.

"Fuck," Spencer gasps. "O-oh god— please."

His voice is low, rough. Desperate.

You grip the doorknob tighter, debating for what feels like an eternity. Should you walk away? Or—

You ease the door open, pressing your hand against it as if to stop yourself from charging forward. Spencer’s back is to you, his head thrown back as he works himself over, his hand moving in rapid strokes.

You can’t help it—you step further into the room, drinking in the sight of him.

He’s sprawled on the bed, shirtless and pale in the moonlight filtering through the blinds. His arm muscles are tense, sweat dripping down the side of his face. The blanket is thrown back, revealing his naked lower half: his long legs, his perfect hands—

His cock, thick and wet between his fingers.

You feel a rush of arousal at the sight, your blood pulsing hot. This is so wrong. So inappropriate. He’s your teammate, for god’s sake, and yet—

And yet, you can’t bring yourself to walk away.

Spencer's hips jerk upwards, his body shuddering with pleasure. "Y/N," he gasps again, his head falling back against the pillow. His eyelids flutter shut, his brows drawn together.

"Y/N, fuck, please—" His hand moves faster, stroking himself with a rough desperation that makes your breath hitch. You can’t look away as he thrusts against his grip, his hips writhing, his spine arched.

"Ah- fuck," he gasps, his body tensing, his fist tightening around himself. His mouth falls open, his eyes squeezing shut as he comes with a strangled moan.

You press your hand over your mouth, holding back a whimper of your own as you watch him.

Spencer sags against the mattress, his chest heaving. He's so fucking beautiful, and—

And you’re still standing here, watching him.

Your eyes dart to his face, and your stomach plummets as he turns his head.

He opens his eyes, and you meet his gaze across the room.

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

Then you both leap into action.

He scrambles upright, fumbling for the blanket to cover himself. You jump backward, tripping over the threshold and landing hard on your ass.

"Shit," you hiss, wincing at the pain that shoots up your tailbone. "Shit. I—fuck, I’m sorry. I should—"

"Y/N," Spencer says in a strangled voice. "I—I thought you were gone. I didn’t know you were—"

He trails off, looking anywhere but at you. You struggle to your feet, smoothing your clothes down self-consciously. This is awkward as hell.

"I thought you were asleep," you admit, wincing. "I didn’t mean to—"

Spencer draws his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. He looks so fucking embarrassed, and you can't blame him.

You should say something. Apologize. You should put him at ease—

But the sight of him still has your pulse hammering.

You clear your throat, trying to calm down your racing thoughts. "I’m sorry, Spencer. I really am. I don’t mean—this is just—"

He raises his head, his eyes searching your face. "What were you doing, standing there?" he asks softly.

You swallow against the lump in your throat. "I don’t know," you whisper. "It was wrong, what I did. I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have watched you. I’m sorry."

Spencer lowers his gaze, his face still flushed. "What if I wanted you to?" he mumbles.

Your heart jumps. "What?"

"I wanted you to watch me," he says louder, his eyes darting up to meet yours. "I’ve been wanting you to for weeks, ever since you asked me to take over the case files."

"What?" you repeat stupidly.

Spencer shifts, his cheeks flushing a deep red. "I started—I started thinking about you. Fantasizing about you. You touching me, kissing me— everything."

Oh.

You stare at him, trying to process. "Reid," you say softly. "I—"

"Don’t apologize," he says quickly. "It’s not your fault, I just—I wanted you. So fucking bad. I thought that sleeping next to you would be—"

"What?" you prompt gently.

He exhales sharply. "That it would be uncomfortable," he says in a rough whisper. "That it would drive me crazy. That maybe you’d—maybe you’d feel it too."

His gaze flicks up to yours again, full of hope.

Your heart races. "Is that what you want?" you ask, stepping forward.

Spencer's breath hitches, his fingers tightening around his knees. "Yes," he rasps. "Oh fuck, yes. If you—Y/N, I’ll do anything you want. Just—just don’t leave me alone again. Please."

His words send a surge of pleasure through your veins. The sight of him, desperate and pleading, is almost too much to bear.

"Spencer," you whisper, taking another step forward. "Come here."

He scrambles to his feet, rushing toward you. You meet him halfway, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him close. He melts against you, pressing his face into the curve of your neck with a sigh.

"I can’t believe you saw that," he murmurs into your skin.

"I can’t believe I did either," you admit with a chuckle. "But I’m glad I did."

Spencer raises his head, his hazel eyes searching yours. "You are?"

You nod, smiling softly. "Yes."

His face flushes. "Do—do you want to watch me again?"

You smile wider. "Maybe later," you tease. "Right now, I think it’s my turn."

Spencer's eyes widen as you press him backwards, onto the bed. "I thought you were tired," he murmurs, his voice already thickening with arousal.

"I am," you agree, smiling. "But this is more important." You drop your jacket onto the floor, pulling off your shirt and jeans in quick motions. Spencer's eyes dart down to take in the sight of your naked body, and you flush at his hungry gaze.

He groans, throwing his head back against the pillow as you climb on top of him.

It takes a lot to shock Spencer Reid. But you're definitely up for the challenge. The look on his face is priceless as you take his cock in your mouth, not wasting any more time. His hips buck against the mattress, his hands threading into your hair.

"Fuck," he gasps. "Oh my god. Y/N."

He tangles his fingers in your hair, urging you on as you work him over. He's so responsive, moaning and gasping and whining—fuck, it's a beautiful sound.

You work him deeper, taking

Spencer moans loudly as you take him deeper, his thighs trembling. "Y/N, oh fuck, I—fuck—"

You press one hand against his hip, holding him steady as you swirl your tongue over the underside of his cock. Spencer bucks against your grip, his fingers tightening in your hair. He's still so sensitive from his previous release, but he's still getting harder—thicker—by the second.

You run your tongue along the underside of his cock, teasing the spot behind the head.

"Oh fuck," Spencer gasps, his voice broken. "Y/N, please—please don’t stop. I’m going to— ah."

You press your other hand against his stomach, feeling the muscles contract. His whole body is straining upwards, his back arched and his eyes squeezed shut.

You take him all the way in, swallowing around his length as you work your lips over his shaft. Spencer comes with a cry, his hips jerking as he empties down your throat. You swallow every drop, holding his gaze as you slowly pull back.

"Touch," he rasps, his fingers searching for your own.

You swallow against the ache in your throat and smile up at him, lacing your fingers with his. "How are you feeling?" you ask, running your thumb over his hand, keeping your voice soft as to not disturb the air.

Spencer sighs, though not out of exhaustion, you assume he’s still taking everything in as you see his head rolling against the pillow. "It’s never felt like that before."

You grin. "Glad I could help."

He shifts, reaching for his discarded pants on the floor. "We should—we should clean up," he mumbles, his eyes darting to yours. He flushes when he sees your expression, and his face turns even redder as you realize what he’s doing.

"Reid," you laugh. "Are you really reaching for tissues right now?"

His ears turn bright red. "Well, what—what else am I supposed to do?"

You shift, straddling his hips as you lean down. "How about we do something else," you murmur. You kiss his jawline, working your way down his neck.

"Like what?" he asks in a breathy voice.

"Like this," you reply. You shift, taking his cock inside you. Spencer's breath hitches, and he groans at the feel of you surrounding him. You clasp his shoulders as you begin to move, his hands falling to your hips. He gasps with each thrust, his eyes falling shut as his head lolls back against the pillow.

"Y/N," he whimpers, his fingers digging into your skin. “I don’t know if I can-."

You ride him harder, sliding up and down his cock. “Yes you can, baby. I know you can give me one more,” Spencer's hips rock upwards to meet you, his breath coming in broken gasps.

His fingers tighten around your hips, holding you close as he thrusts upwards.

You’re both panting and gasping now as you chase the peak. You're so close. So fucking close.

"Please—" Spencer groans. "Y/N. I'm—fuck, I'm coming."

You feel him spasm inside you, his fingers tightening almost painfully around your hips. You groan, your movements slowing as you ride him through his orgasm. Spencer's eyes are closed, his mouth open as he gasps for air. His body trembles beneath you, and you feel a surge of satisfaction as you reach yours, too.

You slump forward, catching yourself on his shoulders as you press your forehead against his. He opens his eyes and smiles at you, a warm expression that makes your chest ache.

"Hi," he murmurs softly.

"Hi Spencer." You smile back.

You both lay there for a moment, enjoying the weight of each other’s bodies. Finally, you roll off him, stretching out next to him on the creaky motel bed.

You reach for him, pulling him into your arms as you smile. He nestles against you, his arm snaking around your waist as he presses his face against your chest.

You wrap your arm around him, whispering soft praise into his hair as you stroke his skin gently. He relaxes further, his body growing heavy with sleep.

The mattress is uncomfortable, the sheets too thin. But somehow, you feel more at ease than you have in weeks.

Spencer Reid is a brilliant man. But he’s also really fucking good at other things too. And you’re excited to find out what else he’s good at.

You smile to yourself, your chest warm with affection.

"Goodnight, Reid," you whisper into his hair.

He hums a soft reply, his breathing already slowing. You wrap your arm tighter around him, closing your eyes and letting yourself drift off into sleep. Tomorrow, the case will continue, and so will your job. But right now, you have Spencer in your arms.

And that’s more than enough. You smile again, feeling a sense of contentment wash over you as you drift off to sleep. This room might not be perfect. But it’s home for the moment, and that’s all you need. You drift off to sleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of Spencer's heartbeat against your chest.

[tosomeonessomeone]

there you are.

words•5.2k /pairings・Lee know x Solo mom reader / genres・fluff, humor / warnings・ MDI, intercourse

You shifted Rio’s warm weight on your hip, his little fingers crumpling the orange-cat drawing he’d clung to all morning. “Mama, *pleeeease* can we get one?” he whined, burying his face in your shoulder. His plea was sugar-coated, sticky as the juice stain on your sleeve from breakfast—the third shirt this week. At 30, solo motherhood meant your world spun to the rhythm of daycare alarms, client deadlines, and the perpetual tang of spilled apple sauce. But Rio’s eyes—wide as the cartoon kittens he’d scribbled—melted your resolve. “We’ll *look*,” you relented, steering the stroller toward *Whisker Haven*, its address hastily scribbled on a Post-it from your coworker. *Just looking*, you told yourself. *No commitments*.  

The shelter hummed like a living thing. Cedar chips and lavender cleaner mingled in the air, punctuated by trills and mews from wall-mounted cages. Rio squirmed free before you could unclip him, darting toward a sunlit playpen where a lanky volunteer knelt, tousled chestnut hair catching the light. His hands moved with practiced ease, flicking a feather toy just out of reach of a speckled kitten. “C’mon, little warrior,” he coaxed, voice low and playful. “Jump higher.”  

Rio crashed into the scene like a tiny tornado. “Hi!” he announced, planting himself beside the stranger. The man glanced up, and your breath hitched—not at his sharp jawline or the faint scar threading his brow, but at the way his smile transformed his face. Crow’s feet crinkled, warm as summer honey.  

“Hey there, adventurer,” he said, tilting his head to match Rio’s height. “I’m Minho. Wanna try?” He offered the feather wand, handle first. Rio seized it with a warrior’s cry, sending the kitten pouncing.  

Minho rose, brushing cat hair off his jeans. His gaze found yours, steady and curious. “He’s a natural,” he said, nodding toward Rio, who was now giggling as the kitten batted his shoelaces. There was no pity in his tone, no *single-mom radar* flicker—just genuine warmth. You tucked a stray hair behind your ear, suddenly aware of your faded jeans and the granola bar wrapper peeking out of your tote.  

“Thanks,” you said, softer than intended. “He’s been… obsessed.”  

Minho crouched again, steadying Rio’s grip on the toy. “Obsession’s good here,” he replied, glancing up through his lashes. “Means he’s got passion. And good taste.”  

The kitten leapt, landing in Rio’s lap. Your son’s squeal of delight echoed off the walls, and for the first time in weeks, you felt your shoulders relax. *Just looking*, you’d said. But as Minho’s laughter tangled with Rio’s, something fragile and hopeful stirred in your chest—a feeling you hadn’t dared name in years.  

Weekends bloomed into a rhythm of shelter visits, the three of you falling into a routine as comfortable as an old sweater. Minho became a fixture in your Saturdays, his patience with Rio as endless as his cat trivia. He taught your son to cradle kittens like clouds, guiding his small hands with a steadiness that made your throat tighten. “Support their paws, buddy—like they’re holding tiny secrets,” he’d say, and Rio would nod, solemn as a scholar.  

You learned Minho was 26, a grad student in animal behavior who spoke of feline body language like it was Shakespeare. “Cats arch their backs not just to scare foes, but to feel bigger when they’re scared,” he explained once, demonstrating with a theatrical curve of his spine that sent Rio into giggles. But it was the slow blinks that undid you—the way Minho would lock eyes with a wary cat, lids drifting shut in a languid Morse code. “They’re saying, ‘I trust you,’” he murmured to Rio during one lesson. Then, glancing at you across the playpen, he repeated the gesture, slow and deliberate. Your cheeks burned. *It’s just a demo*, you told yourself, even as your pulse skittered.  

One rainy afternoon, the shelter emptied early, the patter of droplets harmonizing with the kittens’ purrs. Rio dozed in his stroller, thumb tucked in his mouth, worn out from chasing a energetic tabby. Minho appeared beside you, two steaming mugs in hand. “Matcha latte,” he said, voice low to avoid waking Rio. “No sugar, just like you mentioned last week.”  

You blinked, startled he’d remembered your offhand comment about hating sweet drinks. His fingers grazed yours as you took the mug, calloused from scrubbing litter boxes yet impossibly gentle. The silence between you thickened, charged like the storm-heavy air.  

“He’s lucky,” Minho said suddenly, nodding at Rio. “Not every kid gets a mom who works two jobs *and* lets him turn her kitchen into a cat art gallery.”  

Your grip tightened on the mug. He knew. Of course he did—you’d confessed it weeks ago, that offhand moment when he’d asked about Rio’s father. But hearing him acknowledge it now, without a trace of pity, unraveled something in you.  

“Some days, it doesn’t feel like enough,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could cage them. “The deadlines, the daycare bills… What if I’m just—”  

“Enough.” Minho’s interruption was soft but firm. He stepped closer, the scent of matcha and cedar enveloping you. “You’re *everything* he needs.”  

Tears breached your lashes before you could stop them. You turned away, but Minho was already there, offering a tissue printed with a grinning cat and the pun *“Hang in there, paw-some human!”* A wet laugh escaped you. “Do you stock these for all the crying women who wander in?”  

“Just the ones who pretend they’ve got it all figured out.” His smile was tender, a silent invitation to lean in.  

Outside, rain drummed its approval. Rio sighed in his sleep, Tofu—the tabby he’d claimed as his soulmate—curled at his feet. And in that fragile, honeyed moment, you let yourself imagine: Minho’s hand brushing yours not by accident, his slow-blink smiles reserved just for you, weekends that stretched into years.  

The rain softens to a whisper as Minho leans against the adoption desk, his gaze steady on yours. *“You know,”* he begins, tracing the rim of his mug, *“I started volunteering here after my sister’s cat, Mochi, passed. She’d had him since we were kids.”* He pauses, a shadow flickering in his eyes. *“She’s in remission now, but back then… the shelter was the only place that didn’t feel heavy.”*  

Your breath catches. This is more than he’s ever shared—a fissure in his usual playful armor. *“Minho, I…”*  

He shakes his head, smiling faintly. *“Don’t. I’m not fishing for sympathy. Just… you should know I’ve seen how love can be a lifeline. Even the furry kind.”*  

The admission hangs between you, raw and real. You glance at Rio, his lashes fluttering in sleep, then back at Minho. *“After Rio’s dad left,”* you say, the words tasting less bitter than usual, *“I almost gave up freelancing. Too unstable. But then Rio drew his first cat—a scribbled blob with fangs—and I thought…* Okay. We’ll build a life where he gets to keep that joy.”  

Minho’s thumb brushes your wrist, fleeting. *“You did.”*  

A kitten mews from a nearby crate, breaking the tension. Minho chuckles, scooping up the bold calico intruder. *“This is Soybean. She’s a door-dasher—escapes every chance she gets.”*  

*“Like someone else I know,”* you tease, nodding at Rio, who’s begun snoring softly.  

Minho cradles Soybean against his chest, her purrs a rumbling echo of his next words. *“When I’m with you two… it feels like I’ve found something I didn’t know I was searching for.”*  

Your heart stammers. *“Minho—”*  

*“Not asking for labels,”* he interjects, setting Soybean down. *“Just… want you to see what I see. A woman who paints worlds for a living, raises a kind-hearted kid, and still makes time to laugh at my terrible cat puns.”* He gestures to the tissue still crumpled in your hand. *“That’s not surviving. That’s* thriving.”  

The shelter’s clock ticks, loud in the silence. You step closer, until the steam from your mug curls into his. *“What if I see you too?”* you whisper. *“The guy who teaches kittens—and single moms—how to trust again?”*  

His slow blink is answer enough.  

The adoption day arrives, and Tofu—now lord of Rio’s sock drawer and ruler of half-eaten goldfish crackers—officially becomes family. When Minho shows up at your apartment with a cat tree taller than Rio, your son erupts into a frenzy, launching himself at Minho’s legs. “Hyung! Tofu needs a *castle*!”  

Minho laughs, setting down the box with a thud. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms still scratched from last week’s kitten wrestling match. “Every queen deserves a throne,” he says, winking at you. You cross your arms, feigning suspicion. “And you just *happened* to have a cat tree lying around?”  

“I’m full of surprises,” he says, tossing Rio a package of felt mice to “test” for Tofu. For the next hour, you watch Minho assemble the tower with the precision of an engineer, indulging Rio’s demands to add “secret tunnels” (a cardboard tube) and a “treasure box” (your old sunglasses case). Tofu watches from the couch, her crooked tail flicking in approval.  

By sunset, the living room is a jungle of scratching posts and dangling toys. You order pizza, and Minho stays—not because you ask, but because Rio tugs him to the table with sauce-stained hands. “You *gotta* try the pepperoni, hyung! It’s Mama’s favorite.” Minho’s knee brushes yours under the table, lingering a beat too long.  

Later, after Rio’s bedtime stories (*“Again, Mama! The one with the space cat!”*), Minho hovers at the door, his usual confidence fraying. “The shelter’s fundraiser… I’d like you both there. With me.” He hesitates, fingers drumming his thigh. “Not as volunteers. As… my date.”  

Your pulse stutters. *Date*. The word feels too big, too bright for your cluttered life. But Minho’s gaze is steady, his vulnerability disarming. “Okay,” you whisper.  

The fundraiser glows with string lights and the murmur of well-dressed attendees. Rio, in a bow tie that keeps slipping sideways, drags you and Minho to a photo booth plastered with cat-ear headbands. “Family picture!” he declares, shoving a pair of cardboard whiskers at Minho. You freeze, but Minho just grins, clipping the whiskers to his hair. “Your majesty,” he says, bowing to Rio.  

The camera flashes: Minho’s arm around your waist, your head tilted toward him, Rio mid-laugh with frosting smeared on his chin. When the strip prints, Minho tucks it into his wallet, his ears pink. “For luck,” he mutters.  

You escape to the garden when the crowd swells, Rio asleep in your arms. Cherry blossoms drift around you like confetti. Minho brushes a petal from your hair, his voice soft. “I know I’m younger. I know your world is… *a lot*. But I’m not going anywhere.”  

Your throat tightens. “Why?”  

He steps closer, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Love isn’t about age,” he says, nuzzling your temple as Rio’s breath evens against your shoulder. “It’s about who stays.”  

The kiss is gentle. When you pull back, Minho’s forehead rests against yours. “I’m not asking for a spotlight,” he whispers. “Just a corner of your chaos.”  

You laugh, tearful, and his mouth finds yours again. *Chaos*, you think, as Rio snores and Tofu bats at a falling blossom. *Maybe chaos is where love grows best*. 

As you and Minho lingered under the cherry blossoms, Rio’s frosting-smeared face pressed against your shoulder, the night felt suspended in time—soft and hopeful. But then a voice cut through the quiet.  

“Minho! There you are!”  

A woman in a sleek black dress approached, her heels clicking sharply against the garden stones. She was familiar—a longtime donor, maybe, or a board member. Her gaze flickered to Rio, then to your intertwined fingers, before settling on Minho. “We need you inside. The press wants a quote about next year’s expansion.”  

Minho hesitated, his hand still warm on your waist. “Give me five minutes, Soojin.”  

Soojin’s smile tightened. “Now, Minho. This is the *real work*.” Her emphasis lingered, a blade thinly veiled.  

You stiffened, shifting Rio higher on your hip. “Go,” you said, too quickly. “We’re fine.”  

Minho searched your face. “I’ll be right back.”  

But he wasn’t.  

Minutes bled into an hour. Rio grew restless, tugging at his bow tie, while you paced the garden path. Laughter and clinking glasses spilled from the venue, a world away from the sticky reality of motherhood. When Minho finally reappeared, his tie loosened and hair ruffled, Soojin trailed behind him, her laugh sharp as champagne bubbles.  

“—such a *natural* with the donors,” she purred, patting his arm. “You’ll go far, if you stay focused.” Her eyes slid to you, polite but dismissive. “Goodnight.”  

Minho reached for you, but you stepped back. “You should get back,” you said, voice brittle. “The *real work*.”  

He flinched. “That’s not what I—”  

“It’s fine.” You adjusted Rio’s blanket, avoiding his gaze. “We’re used to being an afterthought.”  

The words hung between you, cruel and untrue, but fear had already coiled around your heart. Minho’s jaw tightened. “You think I’d choose *that* over you two?”  

You didn’t answer. Rio whimpered in his sleep, and you turned toward the exit.  

“Wait.” Minho caught your wrist, his voice raw. “I’m not him. I’m not going to vanish because something shinier comes along.”  

Tears blurred the fairy lights. “How do I know that?”  

He stepped closer, his thumb brushing your pulse point. “Because I’m asking you to trust me,” he whispered. “Even when it’s hard.”  

The gulf between you trembled, fragile as a spiderweb. Then Rio stirred, his small hand patting your cheek. “Mama, go home?”  

Minho released you, his eyes shadowed. “Let me drive you.”  

You shook your head. “We’ll take a taxi.”  

The ride home was silent, Rio’s head heavy on your shoulder. As you tucked him into bed, Tofu curled at his feet, your phone buzzed.  

**Minho:** *I’m here. However long it takes.*  

You didn’t reply. But you didn’t delete the message either.  

A week of silence. Seven days of Minho’s unanswered calls piling up like unread apologies, and Rio’s relentless questions chipping away at your resolve. *“Did Minho-hyung get lost? Is he mad at us?”* You’d deflected with hollow excuses—*“He’s just busy, sweetheart”*—but Rio’s crumpled frown mirrored the guilt gnawing at your ribs.  

On Saturday morning, you flee to the park, pushing Rio’s stroller through the fog-thick air. Tofu peers from the basket, her tail flicking like a metronome counting down your dread. The lake glimmers ahead, its surface still as held breath. Rio babbles to Tofu about turtles, unaware as you round the bend—and there he is.  

Minho slouches on a bench, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms still marked with fading kitten scratches. A paper cup sits abandoned beside him, steam long gone. His gaze is fixed on the water, shoulders hunched like he’s carrying the sky. You pivot sharply, but Tofu leaps from the stroller with a yowl, darting straight to him.  

“Y/N.”  

His voice is sandpaper-rough, and you flinch. Rio twists in his seat, squealing, *“Hyung! Mama, look—it’s Minho!”*  

You fumble for Tofu, but she’s already in his lap, kneading his thighs like dough. Traitor.  

“Hey, troublemaker,” Minho murmurs, scratching her chin. His eyes lock onto yours, shadowed and sleepless. “Missed you.”  

Rio tugs your sleeve, lower lip wobbling. “Mama, *please*.”  

You crouch, adjusting his scarf to avoid Minho’s stare. “Stay here with Tofu, okay? Just for a minute.”  

“But—”  

“*Please*, Rio.”  

He nods, solemn, and you rise on unsteady legs. Minho meets you halfway, the morning chill sharpening the lines of his face.  

“You’ve been ghosting me,” he says, voice low.  

“I’ve been… figuring things out.”  

“By shutting me out?” He steps closer, Tofu pressed to his chest like a shield. “Talk to me. *Please*.”  

The plea unravels you. “What’s there to say? You saw how Soojin looked at me—like I was a *distraction*. And I can’t—I won’t be the thing that holds you back from—”  

“From what? Schmoozing donors?” He laughs, bitter. “That’s not me, Y/N. Never was.”  

“But it’s part of your job! Your *future*—”  

“I quit.”  

The words hang between you, brittle as ice.  

“What?”  

“Donor relations. Events. All of it.” He sets Tofu down, his hands trembling. “I told them I’m sticking to the cats. And the kids. And… you.”  

Your breath hitches. “You didn’t have to do that.”  

“Yeah, I did.” He swipes a hand over his face. “Because I’d rather mop piss puddles every day than lose you two.”  

Rio’s laughter floats over, Tofu now chasing a leaf he’s waving. Minho’s gaze softens. “I’ve been here every morning. Hoping you’d come. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N.”  

Tears blur the fog-drenched trees. “I’m scared,” you whisper.  

He reaches for you, pausing just shy of your cheek. “Let me be scared with you. Let me *help*.”  

You lean into his touch, his palm warm against your skin. “What if I break?”  

“Then I’ll put you back together.” His thumb brushes away a tear. “However many times it takes.”  

Rio crashes into your legs, Tofu circling his ankles. “Group hug!” he demands, arms stretched wide.  

Minho scoops him up, your little trio—*family*—colliding in a tangle of limbs and purrs. The fog lifts, sunlight spilling gold across the path ahead.  

The click of Rio’s bedroom door echoes like a held breath. You retreat to the kitchen, hands trembling as you fill the kettle. Moonlight spills through the window, silvering the mugs you set out—the chipped one Rio painted with paw prints, and Minho’s favorite, striped like a tabby’s fur.  

Footsteps pad behind you.  

“Need help?” Minho leans against the doorway, sleeves rolled up, shadows pooling under his eyes.  

You shake your head, but he steps closer anyway, his warmth a quiet challenge to the distance you’ve carved. The kettle whistles, sharp and urgent.  

“Why’d you really quit donor work?” you ask, pouring hot water too fast. It sloshes, scalding your thumb.  

Minho catches your wrist, guiding the kettle down. “Because I finally figured out what matters.” His thumb brushes the burn, soothing. “Saw my dad chase promotions my whole childhood. Missed every school play, every birthday. I swore I’d never be that guy.”  

You stare at the steam curling between you. “And us? Are we just… another promise?”  

He turns your hand over, tracing the lines of your palm. “You’re the reason I keep them.”  

The confession hangs, fragile. You pull away, busying yourself with tea bags. Chamomile for him, earl grey for you—he’d remembered.  

“I keep waiting for you to realize this is too much,” you whisper. “A single mom, a chaotic kid, a cat who hates your shoes—”  

“Y/N.” He steps into your space, the counter’s edge pressing into your back. “You think I don’t know what I’m signing up for? I’ve seen your late-night panic over daycare bills. The way you cry when Rio draws family pictures with *three* people now. Hell, I’ve scrubbed puke off my favorite jeans thanks to Tofu’s hairballs.” His voice cracks. “I’m not here for *easy*. I’m here for *you*.”  

Tears blur the mugs. “What if I’m not enough?”  

He frames your face, calloused palms anchoring you. “You’re everything. The deadlines, the mess, the *fear*—it’s all part of you. And I want all of it.”  

Your breath hitches. “Even when I push you away?”  

“Especially then.” His forehead rests against yours, the tea forgotten. “You don’t have to be brave alone anymore.”  

The admission unravels you. “I don’t know how to do this,” you rasp. “To trust someone to… stay.”  

Minho’s thumb catches a tear. “Let me show you.”  

Outside, rain begins to fall, tapping a rhythm against the window. The first brush of Minho’s lips is tentative, a question whispered into the fragile space between your breaths. But when your fingers fist in his hoodie, tugging him closer, the hesitation shatters. His hands slide from your face to your waist, lifting you onto the counter with a ease that steals your breath. Tea mugs clatter forgotten as he steps between your knees, his mouth slanting over yours with a hunger that mirrors the storm outside.  

This isn’t the careful Minho who blinks slowly at skittish kittens. This is wildfire—calloused palms skimming your ribs, teeth grazing your lower lip, a groan rumbling deep in his chest when you arch against him. His hoodie smells like cedar and the faint musk of the shelter, a scent that’s become as familiar as your own chaos.  

“Minho—” you gasp, breaking the kiss, but his name is a plea, not a protest.  

He stills, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, but his thumb traces the hammering pulse at your neck, betraying his own unraveling.  

You don’t. Instead, you knot your hands in his hair, dragging him back. The counter digs into your thighs, the cold edge a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth. He kisses like he’s memorizing you—the sigh you stifle when his tongue flicks yours, the hitch in your breath as his hands slide under your shirt, branding your skin.  

Minho guides you through the darkened hallway, his steps careful and measured despite the desire thrumming through his veins. Your bare feet pad silently across the wooden floors, past Rio's room where soft snores filter through the crack under the door, and Tofu's favorite sleeping spot by the window.

His hands never leave your body - ghosting over your hip, tracing the small of your back, fingers intertwined with yours as he leads you to your bedroom. The door clicks shut behind you with barely a whisper, and suddenly the air feels charged, electric with anticipation.

Moonlight spills through your curtains, painting Minho's bare chest in silver shadows as he backs you toward the bed. His movements are controlled, deliberate - every touch calculated to keep quiet. When your knees hit the mattress, he catches you before you fall, lowering you to the sheets with such care that your heart swells.

"Shh," he breathes against your ear when the bed frame creaks slightly, his warm weight settling over you. His fingers trail down your sides, hooks in your belt loops. "We'll have to be very, very quiet."

The challenge in his whispered words sends a shiver down your spine, especially when his teeth graze your earlobe, testing just how silent you can stay.

Minho's fingers tremble slightly as they work at your jeans button, his usual confidence wavering as moonlight reveals the vulnerability in his eyes. When you reach to help, he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"Let me," he whispers, "I want to remember every second of this." His hands slide your jeans down with aching slowness, but you notice how he hesitates at the scars on your thighs, the stretch marks mapping your hips. Before self-consciousness can take root, he's tracing each mark with reverent fingers, then following with his lips.

"Beautiful," he breathes against your skin. When you start to protest, he silences you with a deep kiss. "Every inch of you."

You reach for his belt, but notice his own moment of hesitation as your fingers brush his stomach. This confident man who spends his days wrangling large dogs suddenly seems unsure, and you remember the burn scars he usually keeps hidden under long sleeves.

"You don't have to—" he starts, but you quiet him by pressing kisses along the scarred tissue of his right arm, feeling his breath catch. Your fingers work his belt open as your lips trace each mark, each imperfection that makes him perfectly him.

Soon you're both down to underwear, skin against skin, every touch electric yet tender. His fingers trace the curve of your breasts through your bra, while yours map the hard planes of his chest, both of you learning each other's bodies with wondering hands.

"You're sure?" he asks, thumbs hooked in your panties, waiting for permission despite the obvious desire straining against his boxers. His eyes hold yours, dark with want but soft with something deeper.

You nod, lifting your hips to help him slide your panties down your legs. His breath catches as he takes in your naked form, illuminated by moonlight. Your instinct is to cover yourself, but the raw adoration in his gaze holds you still.

Minho trails kisses up your inner thigh, his touch growing bolder as your breathing quickens. When his tongue finds your clit, you have to bite your lip to stay quiet. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he works you with his mouth, each stroke of his tongue deliberate and precise.

You reach down to tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. His responding groan vibrates against you, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. Your other hand fists in the sheets, trying to anchor yourself as the pressure builds.

"Minho," you gasp, barely a whisper, "I need you. Please."

He crawls up your body, kissing a path from your navel to your breasts, then capturing your lips. You can taste yourself on his tongue as he positions himself between your thighs, the hard length of his cock pressing against your entrance.

"I adore you," he breathes against your mouth as he slowly pushes inside, stretching you deliciously. "Gosh, I adore you so much."

Your bodies move together in the darkness, finding a rhythm as natural as breathing. Each thrust is measured, careful not to make the bed creak, but the restraint only makes it more intense. His forehead presses against yours, sharing each shaky breath as you climb toward ecstasy together.

Minho's thrusts grow deeper, more urgent as your walls clench around him. His cock fills you perfectly, hitting spots that make you see stars. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, changing the angle until he's grinding against your clit with each movement.

"Fuck," he pants against your neck, struggling to keep his voice down. "You feel amazing. So tight, so perfect."

Your nails dig into his back as the pressure builds, every nerve ending on fire. The familiar coil of heat in your belly winds tighter and tighter. Minho seems to sense how close you are - his fingers find your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me," he whispers, his voice rough with need. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

The combination of his words, his touch, and the delicious stretch of him inside you sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your pussy clenching rhythmically around him as you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cries.

The feeling of you coming undone triggers his own release. His hips stutter, losing their rhythm as he buries himself deep inside you with a muffled groan. You can feel his cock pulsing as he fills you, his whole body trembling with the intensity of his orgasm.

For several long moments, you lie there tangled together, hearts racing, bodies slick with sweat. Minho peppers soft kisses across your face - your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose - as if he can't bear to stop touching you.

Minho chuckles softly against your neck, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your hip. "You know," he murmurs with a playful nip at your earlobe, "if we keep this up, Rio might get that little sister he's been begging for."

Your laughter bubbles up, soft and intimate in the darkness. "Only you would think about making babies right after our first time," you tease, turning to face him with a grin. Your fingers trace the smile lines around his eyes, memorizing how he looks in this moment - hair mussed from your hands, lips swollen from kisses.

"Hey, I'm just being practical," he defends playfully, pulling you closer. "Rio's been asking for a playmate ever since he saw Mrs. Kim's new baby. And Tofu could use another human to train."

You snort, burying your face in his chest to muffle the sound. "Of course you'd bring the pets into this conversation," you whisper. "Such a typical shelter worker."

"Speaking of," he murmurs, his hand sliding down to cup your ass, "we should probably practice that baby-making technique a few more times. You know, for science."

Three years later, sunlight drips like honey through the windows of your shared home, gilding the mosaic of chaos and love that is your life. Minho stands at the stove, spatula in hand, crafting pancake dinosaurs with the precision of a man who’s learned to find art in the messy. His free hand rests on the curve of your belly, where your daughter kicks impatiently, as if already eager to join the fray. “Princess Appa’s practicing her roundhouse kicks,” he teases, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.  

Under the table, Rio—now six and savant of all things glitter and mischief—huddles with Tofu, their whispers punctuated by the crinkle of a manila folder. You bite your lip, heart swollen, as he peeks up at you. *“Now, Mama?”*  

You nod, tears already pricking your lashes.  

Rio scrambles out, folder clutched to his *Star Wars* pajamas, and tugs Minho’s apron with the gravity of a diplomat. “Appa! Father’s Day present!”  

Minho grins, flipping a T-Rex onto a plate. “Let’s see it, space ranger.”  

Rio thrusts the folder forward, its cover a masterpiece of sticker explosions: cats in rocket ships, a lopsided family portrait labeled *“ME, MAMA, MINHO, TOFU & BABY SIS,”* and a glitter-glue galaxy that glints in the light. Inside, the adoption papers gleam, their legalese softened by Rio’s crayon scrawl: *“PLEEZ BE MY REEL DAD”* looping across the top.  

Minho freezes. The spatula clatters to the floor.  

“Mama did the grown-up words,” Rio explains, bouncing on his toes, “but the *‘forever daddy’* part is *mine*! And Tofu helped!” He points to the corner, where a smudged paw print is stamped in purple ink.  

Minho sinks to his knees, the linoleum cool against his palms. He stares at the papers, then at Rio’s hopeful face—so like your own—then at you. “You… you’re sure?”  

You crouch beside him, Tofu weaving figure-eights around your ankles. “We’ve never been surer of anything.”  

A tear splashes onto the folder, blurring the “DAD” in Rio’s title. Another follows. Rio’s eyes widen. “Did I spell it wrong?!”  

Minho drags him into a hug, laughter and sobs tangled in his throat. “It’s perfect. *You’re* perfect.”  

Later, after pancake dinosaurs fossilize and the notary—a friend from the shelter who’d arrived with confetti and cat-shaped cookies—witnesses the signatures, Minho sits on the porch swing, Rio sprawled across his lap, sticky with syrup and dreams. Your daughter pirouettes beneath your skin, and Minho presses his palm to your belly, his thumb brushing the spot where her foot jabs. “Hey, little comet,” he murmurs. “Your brother’s already plotting your first mission to Mars.”  

You lean into him, the adoption papers now framed beside Rio’s first crayon cat drawing. Tofu’s paw print is immortalized in gold ink beneath your signatures—a family relic. “Think she’ll survive the chaos?”  

Minho’s slow blink is a language only you know. *I love you. I’m here. Always.* “She’ll be the chaos queen,” he says, grinning.  

And when she’s born—on a tempestuous night with Minho reciting cat facts as a breathing coach, Rio “assisting�� with a toy stethoscope, and Tofu yowling backup vocals—you’ll finally understand: family isn’t found in the quiet. It’s built in the storm, one paw print, one pancake, one *“forever daddy”* at a time.  

[saintvainglorious]

Fics I Enjoyed in February - DC Comics Fic Rec List Part 3

To the shock of precisely no one, I'm still in DC Comics hell. Enjoy the fruits of my labor (reading so so many fics)

Here's fic recs Part 1 and Part 2!

Individualized Education Plan by @cowboysorceror & @deadchannelradio (General Audiences, 7k, 2024) Dick goes to Damian's parent-teacher conference. Damian endures the consequences of Dick being an extraordinarily attractive man. Left me wheezing on my bus ride to work, this fic is hysterical.

“Richard,” he says, in tones of the deeply suffering, “this place is a hostile environment. I must be collected post-haste, as after this latest indignity I am dropping out. Come at once, or I may die here.”

In Service by @smilebackwards (Teen & Up, 13k, 2023) Bruce refuses to let Tim be Robin. Tim, still determined to help, asks Alfred to let him train to be Bruce's next butler. I could not stop squeeing as I read this, deeply wholesome and great worldbuilding to boot.

Tim rings the doorbell of Wayne Manor for the third time in as many days, and for the third time, Mr. Pennyworth opens the heavy oak door. He looks tired and careworn and Tim knows for certain that he’s choosing the right thing now. Mr. Wayne isn’t going to let him anywhere near the Robin suit, but maybe Tim doesn’t need it. There’s another tack he can try.

this year's love by @flybynightwing (Teen & Up, 20k, 2023) A thoughtful and tender exploration of how Dick and Kory might get back together post-Infinite Crisis, featuring Tim being a little troll, Dick & Kory having So Many Issues to work through, and Donna not getting paid enough to deal with this.

Dick and Kory get back together while on vacation. It goes beautifully. If only vacations could last forever.

descartes by @deadchannelradio (Teen & Up, 5k, 2024) Jason finds out how weird Slade acts towards Dick. Yet another fic by deadchannelradio that had me cackling out loud.

“I’m going to kill him,” Jason decides aloud. “Next time I see that man, I’m gonna kill him.” “No, Jason, do not,” Dick says in the same tone Jason uses to tell his dog not to chew on his boots.

The Threat by @jackhawksmoor (General Audiences, 2k, 2022) Damian has some pointed opinions about the way Bruce treats Dick. A gripping Damian POV fic - I love a Damian who expresses how much he cares by via emotional manipulation, and Bruce's reaction is equally tantalizing.

"What are you talking about?" His father sounded puzzled. He had that tone in his voice that Damian always hated to hear. That careless, American tone. His father had never needed to earn his place in a family, so the idea that someone could take it away from him if he wasn’t worthy of it hadn't even occurred to him. Not yet.

A Talon After My Own Heart by @wildsofmarch (Teen & Up, 13k, 2022) A surprisingly well-adjusted Talon!Dick goes on a mission for Slade. I rec the whole How to Train Your Talon series, but this one's my personal favorite. They're so damaged your honor it's great.

There’s a Talon lying on his floor, guzzling his good whisky, when Slade walks into his safe house in San Francisco. “What are you doing here?” he says as he draws his sidearm and slides the safety off. Robin — Dick, he reminds himself — showing up unannounced is never a good thing. “Relax. I’m not here to kill anyone,” says Dick.

Leap, Fall, Fly by @malcyon (Explicit, 15k, 2019) Post-Red Robin, Tim and Kon go on patrol together, and then they go home. This fic is 100% my headcanon for how Tim and Kon would get together if they didn't start dating while Tim was Robin. Gorgeous, peak, no notes.

He tries to use his voice, “You have one of my shirts?” Tim looks at him, amused. “Dude. I have, like, four.” Kon figures some stuff out. Tim helps.

Putting both hands over my mouth, I can only hope nothing's gonna come out by @hmslusitania (Teen & Up, 26k, 2024) Tim and Jon (now both in their 20s due to Jon's canon aging-up) pretend to date. Kon and Damian proceed to lose their minds. Funny, angsty, and ultimately really heartwarming.

“How unethical would it be to let him keep thinking we’re dating just to try and figure out what the hell is wrong with him?” “On a scale from ‘this is completely hinged behaviour and not weird at all’ to ‘cloning him unsuccessfully ninety-nine times’?” Tim nods. “I don’t know,” Jon says. He thinks about it. “Probably like a four.”

Shoulders by @bluegarners (General Audiences, 4k, 2024) Robin!Dick has a close call on patrol. Bruce is catastrophically bad at expressing love. I rotate Bruce's choices and dialogue from this fic around in my mind like a rotisserie chicken.

It’s as he’s assessing Goon #1’s shoulders that he hears it. Grhk. The sound of someone choking. (You are ten-years-old, and the world is wide open before you. You don't yet know how to worry for yourself. It is your father's job.)

Truth Serum is The Worst by @jackhawksmoor (General Audiences, 3k, 2022) Bruce is truth serum-ed and is very unwell about it. Nightwing!Dick is there to help. Bruce's stream-of-consciousness dialogue (and Dick's reactions) are totally engrossing; the love they have for each other looms large here.

Batman gets dosed with a truth serum and unexpectedly spends most of the time talking about how desperately he loves his children, how awesome they are, and how he wishes he was better at being a father.

i'll grab my light (and go with you) by @havenesc (General Audiences, 3k, 2024) Dick helps Robin!Jason after the kid gets into a fight at school. Sweet, spot-on-characterization for both of them.

“Come again?” “I…” Now, the tone is sullen, even in hesitation. “I got into a fight.” Dick glances at his far wall, still a little sleep-hazed as he puzzles together what exactly about a scrap requires a phone call. “With Bruce?” Dick asks tentatively. “At school,” Jason clarifies, and oh, yep, there’s the difference. That one’s a no-no.

the only people on a stranded boat by @unicorncoalition (Mature, 5k, 2023) It turns out that Dick will call Jason if he ever has to hide a body. I've reread this fic multiple times since first discovering it, it's a gem. The scenario is unhinged, the emotions are raw, and the dialogue is perfect.

When Dick contacts Jason in the early hours of the morning to ask for help, Jason is so thrown by the request that he drops everything and drives to Bludhaven. He is not expecting to find Dick dissociating next to the dead body of an unfamiliar man, nor is he ready for the revelations that follow.

i never noticed the clouds gather round (oh, how fast we fall, how slow we drown) by @this-world-of-beautiful-monsters (Teen & Up, 5k, 2022) Batman!Dick has a flashback, and Damian makes a deduction. I'm very picky with stories on Dick's family members finding out about Nightwing #93, and this one handles how Damian might react so flawlessly it hurts.

It's raining on a rooftop in Gotham and Batman isn't getting up. (Dick dissociates after a bad patrol and Damian comes up against the outline of something his mentor never wanted him to see.)

the higher fidelity by birdsofthesoul (Teen & Up, 3k, 2020) Bruce and Dick go on a road trip scavenger hunt to find a runaway Damian. Dick indirectly confronts Bruce with his questionable parenting decisions. The conversation they share in the diner lives rent free in my mind.

Bruce goes sheet-white, looking like Dick’s just cut him to the quick, and Dick can’t help but think they should have booked a flight, discretion be damned. This — this is why they don’t do road trips. Cars are like confessionals, cramped spaces built for coercing confessions, and neither of them are good with words.

O'er These Mountains I Would Fly by @lurkinglurkerwholurks (General Audiences, 2k, 2019) After saving an injured baby bird, Dick and Damian drive out to a wildlife rehabilitation center. A wonderful edition to the "Damian slowly learning to trust Dick early on in the Batman!Dick era" genre.

“Nervous?” Grayson asked. They had been driving for over half an hour, and this was only Grayson’s fifth attempt at conversation. It had been an unusually quiet ride.

and the shapes that you drew may change beneath a different light by @popsunner (Teen & Up, 5k, 2020) Post-Dick's death, Tim tries to be a brother to Damian. Featuring Tim's grieving headspace, his evolving relationship with his brothers, and his enduring status as the Emotional Support batkid.

Damian is around a lot more since Dick died, hovering like he’s looking for something that isn’t here anymore. It’s alright. Tim is used to playing the part of ghosts. Or: Dick is dead. Things change.

[nyxtickled]

Hey. I read your post about socal.

I have nothing more to say other than I'm proud to see you standing strong to that type of behavior and informing the community.

I, admittedly, grinned hard when you mentioned how he'll never have access to you again while on the plane with him. You are radiant, strong, and badass.

Keep being great, and I know everyone with some sense will stand with ya.

thank you so much friend 🥺💖 ya know, your third paragraph makes me realize there’s probably a lot of people who would love to have seen me say what really deserved to be said. so just for closure, below the cut is the last text i ever sent him :)

“you will never have access to me ever again.

and you should really know that i didn’t seek ANYONE out, although it’s useless to tell you that because you will say whatever you please. you did this to yourself. i provided nothing but honesty and receipts when i was approached. i made new friends, and you happened to tell a different story to every single one of them including myself. you’re pathological. i don’t know why anyone would do what you do or say what you say. it’s genuinely fucking terrifying.

all i wanted was to have all ties cut with you. finding out that you’ve compulsively created scenarios about all the women you were involved with, and for NO reason at all, while dragging each one along for a different motive and keeping each one under a different impression of how the other one felt? absolute fucking insanity.

you need to stop while you still can honestly. because everyone fucking knows that you’ve bullshitted every single one of us. T and Adi know that i have never once been jealous, vengeful, malicious, or insecure whatsoever about them. i now know that T was never trying to session with you due to being “jealous” over our tumblr videos. i also now know that it was you who pursued her for sessions time and time again. absolutely shameful that you’d describe her the way you did when she WAS always so sweet. you had me thinking she was some jealous competitive lee and she never once even cared what the fuck we were posting. oh, and Adi didn’t either, surprise surprise!

the mysterious event you supposedly played hooky from with T, to session with me at the casino? the reason why you asked me not to post content saying we played the previous night? insane behavior. there was never any fucking event. that’s LUNACY. oh, and you think i’m enjoying my “revenge tour,” yeah? just like you said about [lee 1]? just like you said about [lee 2]? what a magnificent phenomenon that everyone who ever finds you out for the narrative-twisting fantasy fiction author that you are is actually just being *vengeful* and trying to *ruin what means most to you.* you don’t see the common denominator here? you think WE wouldn’t see it?! are you really that vapid? you couldn’t be. i really didn’t think so.

aaaand yet, here you are. reading text messages from me out loud to Adi while you try to control the narrative there too, but leaving out the part where i wrote what you didn’t want to admit to. telling me whatever you thought i’d want to hear to keep me around for fucking tumblr views and fake vetting purposes, knowing damn well you don’t possess a FRACTION of the emotional responsibility that is actually required in a D/s dynamic with a “primary lee” that you offered me. a dynamic i didn’t even ask for by the fucking way. smoke and fuckin mirrors and too coward to just admit that you’re simply not interested. or is it because you actually just don’t have what it takes and that’s what you’re too afraid to admit?

this shit is fucking sociopathy and that barely scratches the surface. you will NEVER have access to me again and i don’t give a fuck what you say to anyone about me because i have nothing to hide. the truth is very easy to remember. i never have to defend myself to anyone. you know why? because i don’t lie, manipulate or coalesce for the sake of nothing more than my embarrassingly fragile ego. you fucked this up, not me.”

[jade4956]

Gracefully as ever

(The 22-23 team photo)

The sun was shining, the Stamford Bridge pitch was pristine, and the Chelsea Women’s squad was dressed in their fresh blue kits, ready for their official team photo.

Everything was going smoothly.

Well … almost.

Tahlia Bliss had been strategically placed on a bench in the middle row, just behind the front row of seated players and in front of the standing ones. It was the kind of placement that made her nervous, not quite grounded, but not fully secure either.

“Everyone look sharp,” the photographer instructed. “We’ll take a few test shots before the real ones.”

The players adjusted their poses, some cracking last-minute jokes, but overall, they looked as professional as ever.

Then, disaster struck.

Out of nowhere, a shadow passed over them.

Tahlia’s stomach dropped.

She barely had time to think before she heard the flap of wings above her.

A bird.

A huge one.

Flying directly overhead.

Tahlia’s entire body reacted before her brain could even process it.

With a yelp, she instinctively ducked, trying to avoid what she was 100% sure was about to be a full-scale bird attack. But in doing so, she completely lost her balance.

One second, she was on the bench. The next?

Gone.

She stacked it.

Spectacularly.

It all happened in slow motion.

Her foot slipped. Her arms flailed. She tried to grab onto something, anything, to stop herself from going down.

No luck.

Instead, she tumbled off the bench, barely missed Magdalena Eriksson’s shoulder, and landed with a thud on the pitch, sprawled out on her back, staring up at the sky. She basically did an unwanted front flip off of the bench.

Silence.

And then—

Complete and utter chaos.

The Chelsea squad lost it.

Erin Cuthbert? Already on the ground, clutching her stomach from laughing too hard.

Sam Kerr? Hands on her knees, wheezing.

Jess Carter? Crying. Actually crying.

Niamh Charles? Trying to help but laughing so much she’s useless.

Millie Bright? Clapping like a seal and gasping for air.

Even Emma Hayes, who was normally the one to keep them in check had to turn away for a moment to compose herself.

Tahlia just laid there, stunned.

The bird? Long gone.

The damage? Already done.

She groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Did anyone at least get that on camera?”

Erin, still gasping for air, pointed toward the photographers. “Mate… they got everything.”

Tahlia closed her eyes. Of course they did.

After about ten minutes of everyone trying to check if she was okay while still laughing uncontrollably, they finally pulled themselves together and took the proper team photo.

And, miraculously, it turned out perfect.

Everyone looked sharp, professional, and completely unbothered by the chaos that had unfolded just minutes earlier.

But then, because Chelsea’s social media team lived for the drama, they also posted something else.

Chelsea FC Twitter: “A solid team. A serious team. A fearless team… Well, almost.”

Attached?

A series of photos showing Tahlia’s complete downfall in perfect HD quality.

First frame: Tahlia spotting the bird, her face frozen in sheer terror.

Second frame: Tahlia ducking in panic, already losing balance.

Third frame: Tahlia mid-air, flailing, pure chaos.

Final frame: Tahlia on the ground, looking absolutely defeated, while the entire team is crying with laughter around her.

The internet went feral.

Chelsea fans:

“NAH, THEY DID HER DIRTY.”

“THIS IS THE FUNNIEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN.”

“The third picture is a work of ART.”

“Tahlia vs. a bird… and the bird won.”

Tahlia, of course, had to respond.

Tahlia Bliss: “My legacy at Chelsea will not be my goals, assists, or trophies. It will be this moment. I hope you’re all happy.”

Millie Bright responded with a crying-laughing emoji.

Erin Cuthbert replied: “Not gonna lie, I’m framing this for my house.”

And Sam Kerr?

She simply posted a zoomed-in version of Tahlia mid-fall, captioned:

“Gracefully as ever.”

Tahlia would never, ever live this down.

————————————————————————

I had to write this the second I saw the request so I hope you like it and requests and asks are open

[pascalitobarnes]

pregnancy wish - javier peña

Summary: A cozy little adventure when going to the kitchen to devour an ice cream in the middle of the night and Javier being extremely patient.

Tw: None, just a couple being cute.

Word count: 3,074k

Author's notes: This is the first narrative I post in English, it's not my native language so please forgive me for any mistakes. I hope you like it.

Life in Laredo is peaceful but terribly hot all the time, being pregnant seems to have only increased my sensitivity to such conditions.

So today is another one of those early mornings when I feel uncomfortable and don't even want to think about when I have a big belly.

Javier, my husband, is in the third level of sleep, sleeping deeply, on his back, his torso bare, one arm resting on his belly while the other was above his head. Even sleeping he was exaggeratedly spacious.

I sit up in bed trying not to wake him, I stretch my arms lazily before standing up, it's two thirty in the morning but my mind only asks for one thing: ice cream with hazelnut cream.

I leave the room, walk down the short hallway, go down the stairs and go straight to the kitchen, crossing the living room, guided by the light coming from the windows, the night lights from the street and the moonlight.

I'm wearing an exaggeratedly short and low-cut outfit but it makes me very comfortable to sleep in.

I take the vanilla ice cream with cookie pieces from the fridge and then the hazelnut cream. I take a spoon from the drawer, all this with the night lighting that reflects the large kitchen window giving me a view.

I sit on the marble counter of the island, opening both containers and mixing the ice cream with the cream. The first spoonful that I take in my mouth practically makes me moan with satisfaction.

My mind is in pure pleasure, worried about nothing else but the sensations, my legs dangling absentmindedly in the air.

I don't know how long I stay there, until I see that the light in the space that connects the living room with the kitchen has been turned on and soon Javier's figure appears, entering the same place I am.

"What are you doing?" He asks me, I think he's still sleepy.

"Ice cream," I answer.

"Cariño, what did the doctor say about…" he begins to say as he approaches my body, standing between my legs, his strong arms surrounding me as they lean on the counter. He was interrupted because I ran the spoon full of ice cream over his cheek. I laugh at the expression of shock when I feel the cold temperature on his skin.

“Funny” he comments sarcastically.

To complement my action, I grab his hand before he can wipe his face with it and I lick where I shamelessly spread the ice cream.

“You ate almost all the ice cream,” he says when he notices the pot.

“It’s really good, I’m really hot, I couldn’t sleep,” I justify.

“Hot, is it?” He says provocatively.

I put the pot aside along with the spoon and now put my hands on the broad neck of the man in front of me. His hands are on my hips, I bring my face closer to his, the tip of my nose brushing against his. Our eyes fixed on each other.

“I love you,” I say practically in a whisper, as if it were a secret only ours.

“I love you too,” he says in the same tone.

With that, I press my lips against his in a loving kiss and Javier simply responds.

It doesn't take long for my lips to warm up, as does my tongue.

[slum-eater03]

DESTIEL FANFIC RECS NOBODY ASKED FOR BECAUSE WHY NOT😍😝

let’s just right into this, for number one, with zero regrets, is Exodus 3:2 by Stayawake (i’m placing links at the bottom of this post dw😘)

this is a very well written fanfic, like beautifully done. i love Deans relationship between Cas and i love how the author wrote his and John’s dynamic, same as Deans and Sam’s and plenty of other characters mentioned.

Cas is written pretty close to canon, i enjoy him in this fic just as much as i do in the show.

it’s pretty much abt Cas moving into a small town and being a pastor there (Dean’s POV of written in third POV) Dean is a hardworking 23 year old who��s trying to keep food on his and his schizophrenic dad’s plates.

the two hang out together and generally, i love every interaction i’ve gotten from the two.

there’s smut but it’s not shown all the way through the whole process, but build up is written very well. over all score, 10/10 i wasn’t able to look away until i finished it.

number two on my list is taken by a 8 chapter fanfic, whom i am proud to present on my list, Damn good times (all the people applaud).

this one, out of all my recs, has the best and most realistic writing. the author put much time into this eight chapter series, and i’m feeling a little guilty this master piece only places second. (again, the link is at the bottom of this post😔).

this beautifully written fanfic is abt just graduated Castiel and Dean (whom are best friends) decide to go on a trip before heading to college. this, just like the other, is only in Dean point of view but also 3rd POV.

Dean is shown in a more realistic way, him being homophobic but also growing. this fanfic shows character growth, and this almost pains me to say, but, “i wish you were a girl”.

the ending is happy and i almost sobbed with joy at the very end scene. this fic is also a 10/10 and the only reason it’s placed second is because i like ranking systems😔 (don’t blame a girl for autism) also there is heavy smut, only in the last chapter tho, i love the build up tho😝 i lied, there’s a joinking scene in like chapter 7?? still peak tho.

and for third and with the same author as seconds place, i proudly present, Roshambo.

i love this fic, it’s, again, realistically written and is written so very well. this one is a one shot, unlike the other two, but this one also has almost 20k words. i enjoy this one a lot because, unlike the other two, this one is based in the OG universe.

i like this one sm, it gets me giddy just thinking of it now.

this one is multi-POV, the POV still in 3rd but this time being of Sam, Dean, and Cas. i especially love Sam’s POV, it’s written amazingly for him (i’m just a angst addict and they added angst into his even tho the main focus of the fic is Destiel).

this one is pretty much one bed trope as a whole ass fanfic. still amazing. i love it.

it’s showing different POV’s, Cas’ being how he likes sleeping next to Dean, Dean being frustrated with his feelings, and Sam being happy for Dean for finally getting a lover.

this one is honestly my favorite Destiel one shot, and, just like the other two, a straight (more like gay🤭) 10/10 fanfic. def recommend.

FANFICTION LINKS😍😍

exodus 3:2

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62725417

damn good times (all of the people applaud)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/38426173

rashambo

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41591274

don’t be shy, comment yours😍 (pls i’m desperate😀)

[patowardd]

@.patriciooward Front row Saturday

[loyallieutenant]

Every city’s got a graveyard [x]

[lochlot]

i haven’t finished the show yet but they totally are gay and run away together and live happily ever after right? guys ? right? guys?

[jellyvibes710]

How is it April already?? My birthday is in 3 days- how?

And l'm sick 🫠

I figured for the days before my birthday l'll do an asks sort of thing? It can be about little baby blue, it can be about last hope, side projects, and about me? I suppose haha,

Little baby blue consists of 5 chapters and last hope so far has 3 l've built up.

if you want a spoiler for future parts let's go ahead and set it up as chapter # [script, meaningful character line, WIP animation draft, main focus]

If you want to get to know more about the characters and their personalities in this au put [leo, Donnie, Mikey, Raph, splinter, ect.] fun fact, fears, backstory, how certain things will effect them, or just anything you can think of haha, same thing can go for wanting to know what characters will be in both stories

Ive put a ton of thought into the stories and characteristics

There's just a lot :]

Till then, I'll be perishing

{same thing can go for the meaning behind some drawings and how it'll effect the story]

[ffishstick]

Gravity something

[loderlied]

ok i cannot find the original post/deleted the reblog i need for context so. doing with an old screenshot ig (cw for talk of sa)

so like. y’know how there are men who assault women they aren’t even attracted to, women they see as beneath them and this assault as a reinforcement of that status and nothing more, or especially like. military/war situations. defeating/destroying your enemy. that’s what i mean w the degrading & hurting thing in the tags

post linked in the og

[distantsolarsystemsandsnails]

last christmas as in THE LAST CHRISTMAS WE’RE GONNA HAVE IN THIS HOUSE I’M SO SAD

[m4ndysk4nkovich]

no fucking way did it take this guy ive been talking to go from “you’re the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen” to “you’re a stupid white trash hoe” in like four days