#panic and malaise

[magnificentmicrowave]

What would Panic and Malaise's song themes be?

Like one for each, and one for their "bond".

i thought about htis one for WAY too long

for panic im choosing luv(sic) pt 2 by nujabes, i think it reflects their more "naive" demeanor, as well as some of the lyrical content

less sex by daughters for malaise, bc they take themself way too seriously..... and also the codependency vibes

for their "bond" im picking my buried child by swans. bc it hits. also lyrical content

[themarenyearly]

introduction!

( i would like to start of by saying that this is an rp blog! i'm not impersonating maren or her character at all & that this is all for fun ^_^ ) 𝜗𝜚 - maren yearly 𝜗𝜚 - 18 𝜗𝜚 - she ; her 𝜗𝜚 - a strange girl with even stranger urges 𝜗𝜚 - sort of new to being an eater? its complicated. 𝜗𝜚 - lee's slightly questionable gf 𝜗𝜚 - just a girl who loves her books nd her bf 𝜗𝜚 - somewhere in maryland... 🗺 rules; feel free to send me asks about pretty much anything or interact in any way! i would love to talk to you guys!! dont be too weird or nsfw, nd keep in mind that i have a life outside of this blog!

[the-real-raeeee]

@magnificentmicrowave panic and malaise

If you want you can tear me apart for your sick enjoyment (flirting)

[ourseasone]

CHAPTER 001 ✽ 404 : LIFE NOT FOUND

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You have absolutely no idea what to do with yourself anymore.

Not in a dramatic, life-crisis sort of way (okay, maybe just a little bit) but more in the way someone feels when they’ve just finished the last episode of something they’ve been waiting for what feels like forever to come back.

After nearly three agonizing years, season two of Weak Hero Class, the gritty, beautifully tragic drama you’ve been obsessed with for years, finally dropped. Naturally, you did what any self-respecting, chronically online fan would do — you devoured all eight episodes in one single night like a man possessed. It didn’t matter that it was four in the morning. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t eaten a proper meal since noon. And it definitely didn’t matter that you had promised yourself you would savor it slowly this time. That lie lasted maybe twenty minutes.

Which brings us to now.

You’re lying flat on your back, sprawled out across your bed in a perfect starfish formation, eyes blankly glued to the ceiling like you’re expecting it to whisper life advice to you. It’s been at least twenty minutes of pure post-binge malaise. The high from the finale has already worn off, and in its place, an aching void has taken root — one only a maybe completed series can leave behind.

What the hell are you supposed to do now?

With a groan that would make a dying animal proud, you lazily roll onto your stomach. You blindly grope around the covers for your phone, fingers brushing over crumpled sheets and yesterday’s snack wrappers until they finally close around it. You don’t even lift your head. Just unlock the screen with muscle memory alone and launch the app you always turn to in moments like this; the rabbit hole of character edits and fan-made montages. It’s your new ritual.

Because while the show might be over, your obsession sure as hell isn’t.

Time becomes a blur. One edit turns into five, then ten. Clips of the characters (well, mostly Seongje) throwing punches in slow motion, overlaid with melancholic and dramatic lighting effects, play on a loop. It’s dramatic. It’s unnecessary. It’s absolutely perfect. You fall deeper into the void, eyes glazed, brain fried, fingers still scrolling.

One hour passes. Then another. And another.

And still, you watch.

The outside world becomes irrelevant. The room is dark, lit only by the soft flicker of your screen. You don’t even realize how much time has passed until your phone screen dims and flashes the dreaded red battery icon — 1%.

“Oh, come on,” you mutter, finally peeling your eyes away from a slow-motion Seongje edit.

The panic is immediate, but also extremely preventable, given that your phone had kindly informed you about the battery dying an hour ago. Naturally, you ignored it like any responsible adult who absolutely refuses to move an inch more than necessary.

Now, however, the stakes are real.

With the urgency of someone rescuing a loved one, you force yourself upright. It’s a struggle. You let out a noise that’s half groan, half dramatic sigh, and swing your legs off the bed. Barefoot and blinking against the sudden motion, you trudge toward the end of the bed where your charger should be — where it always is. Sure enough, there it is, plugged into the overloaded power strip beside the nightstand, tangled slightly behind a precarious tower of unread manga and old trophies.

The charger cable, naturally, is just barely too short to reach you comfortably from the bed, and you have to lean over awkwardly to plug your phone in. Still half-distracted by the edit playing in your hand, you don’t notice the t-shirt on the floor beneath you until it’s far too late.

And that’s when it happens.

Your foot slides. Your balance shifts. And time slows.

“Shit—!” you gasp, just before gravity claims you.

You go down painfully hard. The side of your head smacks against the sharp corner of your nightstand with a sickening crack, and you immediately crumple to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut.

The phone slips from your fingers and lands beside you with a soft thud, screen still glowing. Seongje’s face continues to flicker on the display, paired with a melancholic guitar riff that now sounds oddly distant. Everything sounds distant. The room, the cold floorboards beneath your cheek, even your own breathing.

You try to blink, to move, to fight the haze creeping in around the edges of your vision, but your eyelids feel like lead. Your head is spinning, and a warm trickle down the side of your face confirms what your foggy brain already suspects; you’re bleeding. Badly. You’re on the floor, facedown, limbs awkwardly sprawled, and everything hurts in a distant, muffled way. The pain at your temple pulses like a drumbeat. Your eyelids flutter. Your breathing slows.

It’s like your whole body just… gives up.

And as weird as it sounds, this is the moment you realize something terrifying and oddly cinematic; when people say your life flashes before your eyes before you die?

Yeah, turns out that’s not just poetic bullshit.

Memories surge forward, blurring past like a fast-forwarded movie. Your childhood. The laughter of your parents. Your first bicycle. Childhood birthdays. The time you broke your arm trying to impress your middle school crush with a backflip. Your high school years, filled with half-hearted attempts at passing grades and hallway fights. Laughing with your friends over cheap snacks. Running until your lungs burned during school track meets. Every moment you lived, and every opportunity you let slip away. Every time you told yourself ‘next time’ and never followed through.

You see it all.

And it hits you then — how painfully average your life was. No real achievements to brag about.

Academics? A disaster. You were a terrible student, constantly in trouble, barely passed most of your classes, always skimming by with the minimum required effort. Teachers hated you, or pitied you, but also appreciated you, mostly for your personality. You never really knew what you wanted to be when you grew up, and you never really figured it out. But sports — that was the one thing you were good at. Any game, any ball, any competition you dominated. At least you had those trophies collecting dust somewhere in the living room.

Something to prove you were worth something.

Your thoughts turn to your parents. Your chest tightens.

Mom, Dad…

They really were good people. Way a lot too good. Always patient. Always supportive. Always loving, even when you didn’t deserve it.

And now they’re going to find you tomorrow, facedown and cold on the bedroom floor, blood pooling beneath you. You imagine your mother’s scream, your father’s tears. The horror of it all. The absurd, humiliating detail that will haunt them; you died tripping over a t-shirt while watching fan edits.

They didn’t deserve this. Nobody did.

“What a fucking ridiculous way to die,” you breathe, your voice barely more than air.

It’s the last thing you say.

And then, everything fades. You die in your room, completely alone, your only witness a 12-second edit of Seongje’s smirking face on a cracked phone screen. The music keeps playing.

And that’s it.

That’s how it ends — for a boy with no grand ambitions, but a heart full of feelings, a messy room, and a charger that never quite reached far enough.

Your last thought? This goddamn Seongje edit.

When you open your eyes, the first thing you notice is… absolutely nothing.

There’s no light, no color, no texture — just an infinite blackness stretching out in every direction. It isn’t just dark. It’s complete darkness. The kind that swallows you whole. You blink a few times, thinking maybe your eyes just need to adjust, but no — the void remains. There’s no ceiling. No floor. No sound. Not even the soft hum of ambient noise you’re used to hearing in the background of everyday life.

It’s like the universe pressed pause. And one thing’s for sure: you’re definitely not in your room anymore.

You’re not even sure you’re anywhere at all.

“…What the hell?” you mutter, your voice sounding oddly muffled, like it’s been wrapped in cotton and pushed underwater. Even speaking feels distant. Detached.

Out of instinct, you lift your hand to touch the side of your head — the spot where you smacked into the nightstand just moments before. Or was it minutes ago? Hours? Time already feels blurry. But when your fingers reach your temple, there’s nothing there. No bump, no blood, no ache. In fact, there’s no sensation at all. You move your limbs, watch them respond, but there’s a disconnect — like watching someone else control a body that looks like yours.

You know you’re moving. But you can’t feel yourself move.

It should be terrifying. But weirdly, it’s not.

You feel… fine. More than fine, actually. There’s something eerily peaceful about it — like floating in the warm middle of a dream where none of the usual rules apply.

“Okay,” you mutter, glancing around even though there’s nothing to see. “Definitely a dream. Has to be.”

A lucid dream, probably. You’ve heard of those before — the kind of dream where you know you’re dreaming and can control what happens. It kinda makes sense. This place, this feeling… it’s too surreal to be anything else.

With no real plan, you start walking. Or at least, you think you’re walking. Your legs move, but there’s no floor beneath you. No resistance. No sound of footsteps. Just the strange sensation of motion without movement, like walking through a screensaver. You walk for what could be minutes, or maybe centuries. In this black void, time has no shape. It slips through your fingers like water.

Eventually — though you couldn’t say why — you stop.

Nothing around you has changed. Still the same endless black. But something inside you shifts. A kind of internal nudge. Like a voice whispering, Here. This is the place.

And then, without warning, a sudden, blinding light bursts into existence. You immediately flinch, shielding your eyes with both arms. After so long in total darkness, the light feels almost too violent for your eyes. Your heart lurches. You half-expect to be sucked into some vortex or wake up back in your bed, maybe with a killer headache.

But instead, you hear something.

Not with your ears, but with your mind.

A voice, vast and impossible, echoing from somewhere deep inside your skull, so calm yet a bit commanding;

HOW STRONG DO YOU WANT TO BE?

You crack one eye open cautiously.

The light is gone — just as quickly as it appeared. In its place is a glowing, semi-transparent screen hovering a few inches in front of your face. It’s rectangular, pulsing faintly white, like some sort of high-tech hologram ripped straight out of a science fiction movie.

“…This dream is getting weirder by the second,” you mutter under your breath.

On the screen are some numbers — large, bold, and golden digits running from 1 to 10, clean and crisp against the glowing surface.

The voice repeats, loud and unmistakable;

HOW STRONG DO YOU WANT TO BE?

This time, the screen gently expands, as if encouraging you to answer. You tilt your head, squinting slightly.

“Do I… have to pick one?” you ask aloud, although no one is around to answer.

You stare at the golden numbers a moment, trying to figure out what it all means or what this dream is aiming for. You’re not sure why you have to answer, or what these choices will change, but… well, it’s happening. So you play along.

“Well… why not?”

Without hesitation, you tap the number 10.

No idea what it will do, or if it even matters. The whole thing feels like one of those manhwa plots you love — where the hero wakes up in a whole new world and gets to choose their stats. But this? This is just a dream, right?

No way this is real.

The screen fades briefly, then returns with a new question, just as loud and just as clear inside your head ;

HOW RICH DO YOU WANT TO BE?

The voice returns, echoing deep inside your mind like a strange command. The translucent screen flickers back to life, once again displaying the familiar row of golden numbers, 1 through 10. You let out a breathy laugh.

“How rich do I want to be?” you repeat aloud, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Easy.”

You don’t even pause this time.

“Ten. Duh,” you say with a grin. “Go big or wake up.”

Without hesitation again, you tap the number 10.

Just like before, the display refreshes with a quiet shimmer, like the soft ring of crystal glasses clinking together. It feels oddly satisfying, like hitting the perfect combo in a video game.

HOW RESPECTED DO YOU WANT TO BE?

You blink, expression tightening.

“…Okay, what kind of vague-ass question is that?”

You drag a hand through your hair, frowning at the screen. This one’s trickier than the last. Respect is complicated. Are we talking about fear-respect? Admiration? Public respect? Private? At school? In life?

The screen offers no clues.

You stare at the numbers for a while, brow furrowed. You bite your lip, then shrug it off with a sigh.

“Whatever. This is just a dumb dream anyway,” you mutter, pressing 8. It feels like a safe bet — enough respect to matter, but not so much that it’d make life complicated.

Besides, you don’t want to be too respected. That just sounds like pressure.

HOW INTELLIGENT DO YOU WANT TO BE?

You let out a dry laugh the second the next question pops up.

“Oh finally, something I actually need.”

You don’t hesitate this time — not even for a second. Your finger immediately taps 10, as if it were the most obvious choice in the world.

“Let’s see what being smart feels like for once,” you say with a smirk. “Maybe I’ll actually pass math without cheating. That’d be a nice change.”

You imagine your parents’ faces, proud and beaming for once over something other than sports trophies. You wonder what it would be like to walk into a classroom and know you’re the smartest one there. No pressure. No flukes. Just confidence. That sounds… kind of amazing.

“Too bad it’s all fake,” you add with a sigh. “I’d kill for this in real life.”

HOW INDISPENSABLE DO YOU WANT TO BE?

You exhale a long, weary sigh.

“How many more of these questions am I supposed to answer?” you mutter, frustration creeping into your voice.

This whole thing is starting to feel like some endless, annoying exam. And you hate tests — whether in school or in a dream. You’re already bored out of your mind.

You glance again at the question;

How indispensable do I want to be…?

The weight of the question surprises you. It’s not so straightforward this time.

Being indispensable — being the person everyone needs — sounds tempting, sure. People paying attention, relying on you, wanting you around. But on the other hand, being too indispensable could become a real headache. Expectations piling up, pressure mounting, people clinging to you like a lifeline. That kind of weight might just crush you.

But not being indispensable at all? That’s a worse fate, maybe. Invisible, forgettable, easily replaced.

You tap your chin thoughtfully, chewing over the idea. You like the attention — enough to feel seen — but not so much that you become a prisoner to everyone else’s needs.

“Alright, alright,” you grumble, voice half amused. “Option ten is probably way too much, and anything below five isn’t enough. So…”

With a quick flick of your finger, you choose 7.

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

You shrug. It’s just a dream, after all. What’s the worst that could happen?

[ … ]

ARE YOU SURE OF YOUR CHOICES?

Two new words now glow on the screen; YES and NO, both shimmering gold like the rest.

You groan, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

“God, it’s like being in a video game with too many dialogue trees,” you mumble. “Yeah, yeah. I’m sure. Let’s get this over with.”

You slam your finger on YES without giving it another thought.

The moment you do, the screen begins to dissolve — not like turning off, but more like burning away into ash, scattered by an invisible wind. And suddenly, the black space is back. Completely cold, empty and painfully quiet.

You cross your arms.

“That’s it? All that setup for some cosmic BuzzFeed quiz?” you mutter, scowling into the void. “What a fucking shitty dre—”

You don’t get to finish.

Out of nowhere, a white-hot spike of pain tears through your skull — brutal and blinding, radiating from your temple like fire laced with electricity.

“—GHHk—!”

Your knees buckle. You crash to the ground, hands flying to your head as the agony intensifies. It feels like your brain is swelling inside your skull, like it’s trying to burst out.

No sound escapes your lips, even as your mouth opens in a silent scream. Your vision starts to splinter. Your limbs go numb. Your body shakes violently as wave after wave of unbearable pain crushes down on you. The void itself seems to warp and twist with the force of it — reality folding in on itself.

What the hell is happening?!

Just as suddenly as it started, your strength gives out. Your arms slump to your sides. Your vision fades into static. Your thoughts unravel, scattered like paper in a storm.

And then, for the second time that day, you collapse.

Falling backward, swallowed once again by the dark.

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note ∘ ∘ ∘ the first chapter of this fanfic is finally out and the reader is already dead lmao ( •̯́ ₃ •̯̀) i really hope this chapter didn't confuse you too much because i know there's a lot going on right away lmao but as you know, it's necessary for the plot!

taglist ∘ ∘ ∘ @suunani @slovesyouuu @starrykie @pedifero @iluvkyo @yuuuumii @naelvze @chaotic-world-if-the-j @leftpoetrymoon @aple-piie @exodiam @odevote118 @dumbisme @daichiwkmi @killerd1 @nxxav3rs3 @yourfavoritefreakyhan (let me know if you wanna be added!)

[il-predestinato]

hello beautiful elle

since it is going to be a long 3 months without our boys could you please recommend some fics that you liked? cause i really like your writings and how realistic they are and i wanted to get some of you suggestions for the break!

love you loads

Thank you, lovely anon, for your very kind message! 🥺 I must admit I have fallen behind in reading fics. I am sure I am forgetting some excellent Lestappen fics/writers, but these are some of my all-time favourites!

Lestappen Fic Recs:

And in the end I will seek you out amongst the stars by mandzilkos (@geeeooorrrge) - rating: G, 22k words

Soulmate AU where you see in black and white until you meet your soulmate, and the world goes back to black and white after your soulmate dies. This is ALWAYS the first Lestappen fic that comes to mind whenever anyone asks for a recommendation, and it is probably my all-time favourite. The fic that inspired me to write Lestappen, if I'm honest.

getting half of you just ain't enough by shybear_styles - rating: E, 20k words

The friends with benefits story that spans the 2019 season. The only thing better than amazing smut is amazing smut with feels. For sure a top 5 fic in the Lestappen fandom for me. Also, this author is simply amazing in general and you should read all of her fics! I haven't given up hope that she will return one day and write more Lestappen. 🤧

you feel the mornin' feel by shybear_styles - rating: M, 3.3k words

Remember that time Sebastian Vettel asked Charles, "Is he [Max] pretty?" And we never got an answer because Charles descended into gay panic? Well, worry not! We get an answer in this fic.

Monaco Malaise by ProngsfootxJily (@cupidskissx) - rating: E, 8k words

Rivals with benefits, takes place after the 2021 Monaco Grand Prix. Yes, this one is delicious smut but also a character study. Both of them are written so well, and it leaves you begging for more. Don't forget to check out the equally amazing sequel! (Don't worry, I have been relentlessly harassing her to write the sequel's sequel.)

algorithm by Anney (@badboy-george) - rating: M, 17k words

In a world where F1 uses simulation-based compatibility tests, five times Max doesn't find the right partner and the one time he does. Black Mirror ("San Junipero" and "Hang the DJ") vibes in the best way. Another one of my absolute favourite fics. If you've read any Lestappen fics, you've probably read "Every Other Sunday." This one is simply a masterpiece by the immensely talented Anney; definitely check out her other fics!

panem et circenses by Anney - rating: E, 13.2k words

Wow - simply devastating, haunting, an ode to these two as drivers, set in a dystopian future AU. The world building is absolutely incredible, but at its heart is such a beautiful story of love and hope. This one doesn't get enough recognition. (TW: implied non-con, not between Lestappen.)

Unlearn by wantinghopingwriting (Tazza1993) (@lightsoutfullhearts) - NR, 45k words

This is another all-time favourite, a must-read. Fake/pretend relationship to lovers multi-chapter story that is ever so satisfying; both of them are so well characterized. Set in a parallel-ish 2022 season. I really cannot recommend this one enough.

the edge of what can be loved by Ledger_m (@the-last-jedis) - rating: T, 13k words

The third wheel fic from the perspective of Max and Charles' various "Steves." It's funny, heartwarming, and everyone on the grid is nosy as fuck.

Charles Leclerc vs Red Bull caps by Ledger_m - rating: T, 6.4k words

Charles is the hero we all need, as he goes on a mission to get rid of all of Max's stupid Red Bull caps. This is REQUIRED reading! Kami is a genius. Go read all of her fics.

If You Don't Play, You'll Never Win by antimonyandthyme (@antimonyandthyme) - rating: T, 4.1k

Post 2021 Monaco Grand Prix. Max wants to take their relationship further; Charles... doesn't. Oh my God, where do I begin to describe how much I love this fic. The language is beautiful, both of them are so well-written, and I feel punched in the gut over and over again in the best way. The ending (well, the whole thing) is so damn satisfying.

all's well that ends well (to end up with you) by stylestappen (@stylestappen) - rating: G, 3k words

Max has a meltdown in the cereal aisle (yes, the cereal aisle) at 3 am when he realizes he is in love with Charles despite the latter's questionable taste in cereal. Dani has an absolutely wicked sense of humour! (Although I don't understand what she has against cocoa puffs 😭.) She also wrote a banger of a Lestappen soon-to-be teammates fic, so make sure to check out her profile.

Max Verstappen: Spotify Extraordinaire by frnndtorres - rating: G, 26k words

Max makes Spotify playlists for the grid. Fluffy, funny, care-free, liberal use of nicknames, with a healthy dose of feels between Max and Charles. A really fun read.

i love the way your green eyes mix with that malibu indigo by altissimozucca (@altisssimozucca) - rating: G, 11k words

Max and Charles spend summer of 2020 together in Malibu and try not to fall in love. Spoiler alert: they fall in love. I feel the urge to explain something: When I first started reading Lestappen, there were less than 250 fics in their entire tag (yeah I know, we are currently close to 3000 fics, which is insane). From 2019-2021, we truly lived off crumbs. So trust me when I say that we owe so much to altissimozucca, who wrote something like 40% of the fics in the Lestappen tag and nearly single-handedly kept us fed in those days. It's so hard to pick one of her fics to recommend, so make sure you check out her profile for more!

#803442 by altissimozucca - rating: M, 1k words

Max and Charles celebrate the end of the 2019 season in a hotel room. So soft, so fluffy, so satisfying.

Bruises by eefiplier - rating: E, 5.1k words

I think of this one as THE Lestappen smut fic. Oh my God, it's 5k words of amazing established relationship smut with all the feels. A classic. I can read this one over and over again.

outside the box by playclock (@endowataru) - rating: M, 6.1k words

Max falls in love with Charles' driving... oh and Charles himself too. They are ultra competitive idiots who are madly in love. There aren't enough established relationship fics out there, but this one is simply amazing. And don't forget to check out this author's profile for additional Lestappen fics. I promise every single one is a banger!

i made it link by link by purpleglasseswrites (@f-ferrari-forever) - rating: M, 4.2k words

Charles and Max try to be kinky, but who are they kidding - they are far too vanilla for that stuff. 🤣 This one is so sweet, and don't forget to read the sequel!

One man's trash, another man's treasure by AzziNow (@track-terror-apologist) - rating: T, 4.2k words

Charles turns into a raccoon and terrorizes everyone except Max. (Well, he terrorizes Max too... slightly.)

Call it madness, call it love… by AzziNow - rating: M, 3.5k words

Ferrari auctions off Charles for charity. No angst, just fluff. Alpha!Max/Alpha!Charles. So I confess that I never read A/B/O fics. There's nothing wrong with it - just not my cup of tea. But I really enjoyed this one. Al has such a chaotic sense of humour.

it all reminds me of you by grandprix (@grandprix-ao3) - rating: E, 3k words

Secret relationship Lestappen with flashbacks. Oh the yearning, the desire, the smut - incredibly satisfying. I must put a plug-in for this author's other Lestappen fics as well. Never misses - make sure to check them out!

burning you into my mind by thightattoos - rating: E, 4.1k words

Porn with feels and possessiveness. You cannot ask for anything more. I must have read this one a dozen times.

an evil plan or two by witchee_writer - rating: T, 5.2k words

Max and Charles are roped into a plan to get Brocedes back together; they come to a few realizations along the way. The only thing better than a Lestappen fic? A Lestappen AND Brocedes fic!

Fine Line by empireoffclouds - rating: NR, 7k words

One of the more light-hearted enemies to friends to lovers fics. I absolutely adore their dynamic here - it's snarky, warm, but also so them. The incomplete sequel is also a super fun read.

Into Darkness Of Thought by flamingosarepink - rating: T, 1k words

After the 2019 Japanese Grand Prix, Charles thinks Max isn't coming back to their shared space.

steal softly under castle walls by untouchableocean - rating: G, 521 words

Max gets home late from Milton Keynes and Charles has already fallen asleep. Short, tooth-rooting fluff of the best kind.

Zoomies by greeny1710 (@maxlambiase) - rating: E, 2.2k words

This one is just hilarious. A (mostly) naked Max walks into Charles' team Zoom call during the COVID lockdown.

...and many, many more that I'm sure I have forgotten! 🙈 You can also check out my AO3 bookmarks (the first few pages are pretty much all Lestappen fics).

Please remember to leave kudos and comments for these amazing writers. The talent in this fandom is absolutely incredible. They all deserve so much recognition. Happy reading!

[stardustrebels]

More of You- Chapter 9

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader WC: 6.6k Rating: E / 18+ MDNI Series Masterlist | Blog Masterlist Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Tags: No outbreak!AU, fluff, romance, Joel-typical pet names (darlin’, sugar, sweetheart, baby), soft!Joel, fingering, protected PIV, no use of Y/N, minimal descriptions of reader. She has hair long enough to tie back, wears dresses and heels and wears makeup.

A/N: Who has two thumbs, was going to post this on Valentine’s day and then decided to re-write the entire thing at the last second? This guy! So apologies if you’ve been waiting for it, but it’s finally here and I so hope it was worth the wait! The slow part of the burn is officially over by the end of this chapter.  Also, I’ll be honest with you, I’m a little blown away by the response to the Joel Miller one shot fics I posted pre- V day, and I’m so, so happy that people are enjoying them. It’s giving me the motivation to write more, challenge myself and take little steps outside my comfort zone. I’ve only been publishing my fanfic since December 2024, and I’m just so grateful to have been welcomed by such an amazing community of people who love these characters as much as I do. You’re all so wonderful and deserve all the love <3 Now, without further ado, I hope you enjoy!

The weather that morning earned an involuntary noise of disgust when you pulled back the curtains; big grey clouds and heavy rain. You dressed and shuffled through to the kitchen before the temptation to climb back in to bed won you over. 

Your laptop was on the table, still open after a late night of playing catch-up on projects with deadlines looming, the backlog since your trip almost cleared. The only thing left in your diary for the week was a momentous client meeting scheduled for Friday morning. Seeing the calendar entry staring back at you from the screen made your stomach swoop. 

It was the kind of opportunity you would have given your left arm for six months ago, when you had thrown all caution to the wind in a moment of madness and quit your job to become a freelancer, armed only with a handful of loyal clients and sheer, grief-ridden determination. The kind of opportunity that had stayed present in your mind’s eye when the late nights had started to become all too much but you still took on new work to add to your portfolio, desperate to scratch out a place for yourself amidst a horrendously competitive industry. If you were being honest, you knew that it was a better opportunity than you would have ever had with the firm you left in New York, and it felt like everything that you’d poured in to your career over the last ten or so years had led to this. 

You exhaled, closing the laptop with a quiet click. No pressure. 

The remaining few pieces of work could wait until the afternoon. Spending the last couple of mornings with Joel had thrown off your self-imposed work routine, forcing you to work later than you usually did, but you didn’t mind.  

The buzz of your phone ringing knocked you out of any daydream you were about to have about Joel. Your stomach lurched at the thought of a call at such an unsocial hour, but you huffed a laugh when you checked the screen, panic dissipating as soon as you answered.  

“Please tell me this is not you phoning before you go to bed,” you said, balancing the phone between your chin and shoulder while you reached up to pull a cereal box out of the cupboard. 

Summer groaned down the phone at you. “I wish!”

Her usual bright voice was dulled with tiredness as she told you she was on her way to a job interview and had forgotten her coffee, and that it was now your job to keep her awake while she drove there. You couldn’t help but giggle at her uncharacteristic malaise as you pulled a bowl from the cabinet.

“You’re a different person this early in the morning, Summer,” you said, sniffing the milk before you poured it over your cereal. You switched your phone to speaker to save her the noise of up-close crunching. 

“And you’re somehow happier this early in the morning than you are the rest of the time,” She retorted. You were glad she couldn’t see the burning blush on your face when you admitted that you were meeting Joel that morning, and that it might have been adding to your good mood. After she’d let out a squeal, Summer seemed a lot more awake, demanding all of the details. You told her between mouthfuls of cereal vague details about New York, about how you finally got his number, about your walk with him in the park, finding out about his kid, holding hands and then finally, that he’d kissed you. 

“Oh, this is all so cute, I can’t handle it!” Summer squeaked. 

“It is kinda cute,” you admitted, swiping through your phone to look at the picture of the invitation Joel had sent over the day before, accompanied by a message telling you he’d made a dinner reservation, signed off with a couple of x’s, which had made your stomach squiggly. “We’re going on a date tomorrow night. He’s taking me to dinner and then an art gallery opening.” 

“Oh my god,” Summer said with a laugh, “And to think you needed a push to actually talk to this guy. You’re welcome, by the way.”  “Yes, alright, thank you,” you said dryly, shaking your head as you scrolled back up through Joel’s messages, smiling fondly down at your screen. “He is pretty great, Summer. I’m just not-”

“You’re just not nothin’!” She said, cutting through a yawn, “You’re having a good time and that’s all that matters.” 

“I think you just want to live vicariously through me,” you said with a grin.

“Obviously,” she said, “I need to know every detail about this date. I’m talking everything- what you wear, what he wears, what you order, how you stare at each other over a candlelit dinner, how he won’t be able to keep his hands off you, how you’re totally going to invite him back to your place afterwards and-”

“Jesus, Sum,” you muttered, pulling on your shoes, hoping she didn’t hear the excitement laced through your half-hearted rebuke.

“Oh come on,” she whined. “He’s taking you to see art. You can’t tell me that man doesn’t have you weak in the knees already.”

She wasn’t wrong. 

As you’d fallen asleep last night it had struck you that no one had ever looked at you like Joel did- the deep admiration present in those beautiful brown eyes was so intense that it stole your breath and sent tingles down to your fingertips. Spending time with him filled you with a funny feeling- like someone had shaken a bee hive and shoved it right in your chest cavity- the relentless buzz only increased the closer you were to seeing him again. It wasn’t just your knees that were weak, but you weren’t going to admit that to anyone. 

“You still there?” 

You cleared your throat, “Yeah, I’m here. Listen, are you sure you should be focussing on my love life instead of your interview?”

“Rude,” Summer said, and you could practically feel the playful swat to the arm she’d have dished out had she been there in person. “But fine. I’ll have you know I’m here anyway, so you’re off the hook.” 

“Good luck,” you said, glancing at the the clock on your stove. You needed to get moving if you wanted to get to Harrison’s on time. “Let me know how it goes.” 

“Thanks, I will. And hey- have fun with your man today!” 

“He’s not my man,” you said, knowing you’d lost that argument before you even spoke. 

“Mhm. Keep telling yourself that.” 

With a final knowing giggle, Summer hung up.  

The lingering heat and morning rain had left everything damp and heavy, including you. By the time you made it to Harrison’s, Joel was already at your usual table, looking just as soaked- but unfairly good - his shirt clinging to his broad shoulders and damp curls sticking out at odd angles. He stood to greet you with a kiss to your cheek, murmuring his usual “hey, darlin’” before you settled across from him, still catching your breath. 

You mentioned you wouldn’t be able to meet the next morning, and Joel’s concern sent a pang of guilt through you. You explained it was for an exciting work opportunity and his worry softened in to relief and then in to a proud grin as he listened, squeezing your hand in reassurance. 

“Ain’t no way you won’t do great, sugar,” he said, thumb grazing over your knuckles. “Then we’ll have another reason to celebrate tomorrow night.” 

You tried prying for details about your dinner plans, but he only smirked.“You’ve got enough goin’ on tomorrow. All you gotta do is give me your address and be ready for six, everythin’ else is taken care of.”

You woke up two hours before your alarm on Friday morning, powerless to do anything other than stare at the ceiling as you tried to breath through the churning in your stomach. By the time you could have easily drifted off again it was time to get up. Typical. 

Joel had sent messages for you to wake up to, wishing you good luck and reiterating that he couldn’t wait to take you out that night. You glanced at them periodically as you got ready for your meeting, and each time you did a pleasant fuzziness washed over you, sending a warmth rolling through your limbs, a calming sensation that you wished you could bottle.  

Before you parted ways the day before, it had seemed that Joel had been unable to take his hands off of you for more than a minute, like if he let you go you’d float off in to the ether and never be seen again. And you had welcomed it every time. Each touch from him left you needing more, like a craving you would never quite be able to satisfy. When he’d kissed you on that corner again he’d seemed more reluctant than ever to leave you behind, pressing gentle lingering kisses to your lips, one hand grasping your hip and the fingers of the other cupping the nape of your neck, his calloused fingertips bushing over your skin with a tenderness that sent a slow, searing heat pulsing through you- twisting at the base of your spine and down your legs. Every time you’d thought about it since, the memory of it morphed in to a sensation within you that was utterly sinful. 

You wanted him to know the effect he had on you, what his touch and kisses did to you and what they made you want to do to him. Instead you settled for  texting back ‘Thank you, handsome. Can’t wait to see you later xx’. You wondered if he could sense that it was the understatement of the century. You just had to make it through the next couple of hours, and then Joel would have your undivided attention for the rest of the day. 

The client meeting turned out to be a different beast than you’d expected. Of course you had joined the call prepared to discuss your work, processes and newly developed ideas for their branding, but almost immediately after introductions had been made it started to feel much more like a job interview and less like the semi-informal chat that you had anticipated. Their questions were pointed and detailed and you scrambled internally for what felt like an age to meet the tone whilst trying to keep a light and friendly attitude. It took a hot minute, but you adjusted and adapted, slipping in to a corporate headspace easier than you thought you could, as if the ability had been lying dormant all these months.

As the meeting went on and you began to share your portfolio with them, explaining past briefs and projects, some of the tension in your shoulders dissipated and you realised that you were more than holding your own. By the time the call ended, the knot in your stomach had loosened and been replaced with something unfamiliar but not unpleasant. You would hear at some point that afternoon whether the client had chosen to work with you, and you closed your laptop with an air of finality, knowing that whatever the outcome, you had done your best. 

You could finally let yourself get excited about your date with Joel. 

You had picked out what to wear for that evening on the same day as he had asked you out, and it had hung on the back of your bedroom door ever since; a simple black dress with thin spaghetti straps and a tiny embroidered detail around the hem that came to sit mid-thigh. You’d had to fish a pair of heels out of one of the unpacked boxes in your closet, and it took you longer to find your jewellery than it did for you to do your hair and makeup. When you were finally ready and looked at yourself in the mirror, there was a curious difference to you that you couldn’t name. 

Your phone pinged, pulling you from your thoughts and you checked it with hands that were only trembling a little. You had to read the email three or four times before the words sank in: you’d landed the client.  

By the time your buzzer sounded that evening, you had practically paced a hole in the floor. Joel arrived just before six, and you threw open the door to him as soon as he knocked. 

The sight in front of you made your brain short-circuit for a beat before you remembered to smile. Joel didn’t seem to notice because it looked like he was having the same experience. He’d traded his usual worn flannel and faded denim for a smart tailored jacket atop a button down, dark wash jeans and shiny leather boots. His curls were pushed back, tamed and slick. You knew he cleaned up well, but you hadn’t expected this. He was clutching a bouquet of white roses and you saw the way his fingers gripped them tighter as his eyes fell over you. 

You broke the silence first. “Looking sharp, Miller!”

He found his composure just long enough to chuckle and hold out a hand to gesture toward you. “And you-” he struggled for a moment to complete the sentence, shaking his head with wide eyes. “You look so beautiful, sweetheart.” 

You stepped closer, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, but even the briefest touch caused the cascade of a molten desire from your chest to the pit of your stomach. His breath hitched-just barely- but you felt it. The scent of his cologne, sweet and woodsy, hit you and made it difficult not to linger against him even longer in the hope that it might transfer on to your skin so you could smell him even when he wasn’t near you. When you pulled back, his fingers brushed over yours as he handed you the bouquet. You thanked him, voice softer now, invited him in and turned toward the kitchen to find a vase, acutely aware of the weight of his gaze following you. 

As you arranged the roses you were struck with the realisation that Joel was the only person who’d stepped foot in your apartment that wasn’t you. You bit your lip as you watched him look around from your spot in the kitchen, a lopsided grin on his face as he took in your space with quiet consideration. You’d cleaned before he’d arrived so that it looked its best, but having someone else there, examining the artwork on the walls and the trinkets on your shelves pried open a sliver of vulnerability you hadn’t expected. 

“I like your place.” Joel said, stepping toward you again, having done a reasonably thorough tour of the living space in a couple of strides. 

You grinned up at him, placing the filled vase in the center of your kitchen table. “Thanks. It’s cozy, but it’s home.” 

He tapped his knuckle against a small photo booth strip pinned near the corner of your fridge. “That your friend from the coffee shop?” 

You glanced over at it- you and Summer from her birthday party- her grinning wide, you mid-laugh, heads tipped toward each other. “Yeah, that’s Summer.” 

Joel hummed, mouth twitching in to a grin as he leaned against the counter. “You know the day she was there I’d finally worked up the nerve to talk to you,” he said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Had it all planned out: was gonna come over and ask you somethin’ corny and lame. Right as I was about to…” he gestured toward the photo with a coy smile.

You laughed, shaking your head. “If it makes you feel any better, she spent the next ten minutes before you left that day trying to get me to go over and talk to you. She’s very invested in the development of the time we’ve been spending together.” 

Joel’s eyebrows lifted at that. “Oh yeah?”

You caught yourself and a heat crept up the back of your neck. “Don’t we have a dinner reservation to make?” You said, plucking your bag from the back of a chair and heading for the door. 

Joel stepped ahead of you to open the door to his truck for you to climb in. Being in a space that was so uniquely his felt more intimate than it should have. The truck suited him- an older model Chevy, immaculately kept. The interior was spotless save for a pack of gum and a couple of coins in the center console and it smelled like fresh linen. You absently wondered if he cleaned it especially for you or if it always looked like this.

When Joel climbed in a moment later and you asked him where you were headed to, he only winked at you. Laughter bubbled up in your chest before you could help it, and he set off looking rather pleased with himself. 

The restaurant wasn’t far, and as soon as Joel pulled up outside, you realised you knew about it through a recommendation from Summer. It was nice. You grinned at him as he rounded the front of the truck to open the door for you again. His hand came to rest at the small of your back and the weight of it sent a lick of fire curling up your spine. You resisted the urge to fidget as you were shown to your table, loathe to lose the warmth seeping through the fabric of your dress from Joel’s palm. 

As you waited for your food, you considered that you didn’t think you’d ever met someone as outwardly comforting as Joel- his presence was like a warm hug, even from across the table and he didn’t even seem aware of it. You were enjoying the opportunity to openly admire him. His resting facial expression leaned toward a frown, you’d learned. It accounted for the deep lines that appeared, etched in to his brow easily as he talked, an expression that was clearly familiar to his face. It was his eyes that really spoke to his true personality- warm and open when he looked at you, young and boyish when they glinted mischievously as they were now. You were drawn to it- the paradox of this man. You came to the conclusion that he’d probably spent years curating a stand-offish reputation, but had failed to realise that his aura couldn’t be altered. 

The candlelight added hazy flickers of light across you both. It glimmered in Joel’s eyes as he listened to you tell him about the outcome of the client meeting that morning, your own joy reflected back at you by him- the beauty of it made the world slow and allowed you to really take in the sight of him, like a memory you were aware was being stored, a saved snippet of time that you already knew would be something fond to look back on. When he raised his glass to toast your success, it broke the magic of the moment, but you didn’t have a second to mourn it. The clink of the glasses was soft, but the look Joel gave you after, over his glass, held an intensity that made it hard to keep your eyes on his, the low light now accentuating a hunger within them that made your pulse spike. 

For a second, you wondered if you could end the night right there, drag him back to your apartment and lose yourself in the heat curling against your insides when he looked at you like that. You pressed your thighs together and shifted in your seat, eyes unable to hold his gaze any longer. He cleared his throat and when you looked back at him, any hint of the hunger had been masked by sweetness again. 

Dinner was over in the blink of an eye. The food was tasty, although you barely noticed what you were even eating- too focussed on Joel, searching his face for any sign of the hint of lust you’d seen from him before, but it didn’t show again. He insisted on settling the bill after a short not-quite-argument with you about splitting it. “My treat, sugar,” he’d said in a tone that made it obvious you were never going to change his mind. 

The gallery wasn’t far, but Joel insisted on driving there to save you walking in your heels, and his consideration for you made the heat building inside you whip around like a wild thing, impossible to ignore. 

The sun was beginning to set, and it bathed everything in a lovely orange glow that was doing nothing to dispel the dreamlike haze that had settled over your evening. You turned your face toward it and basked in its warmth while Joel drove the few blocks to the gallery.

The entrance was marked by red velvet ropes and a matching carpet that stretched up to tall glass doors, and Joel’s hand tensed in yours as you approached them.

“You alright?” You asked, stopping him with a gentle tug when he didn’t reply, eyes searching his for an answer.

His gaze flicked past you and over the well-dressed guests milling around the entrance. “I’m just- this ain’t exactly my scene.” 

You squeezed his hand and offered him a lopsided grin. “Just look serious and nod, remember?” 

He gave you a sidelong glance and a smirk. “That’s… what I usually do anyway.” 

“Then you’re already a natural,” you teased, brushing your thumb over his knuckles and leading him toward the door. 

The hum of conversation inside overlapped and bounced off the modern concrete interior in a way that was mildly overwhelming. You were greeted by a well-dressed man at a makeshift reception desk, who exchanged Joel’s invitation for a gallery guide, which was immediately passed over to you. You let go of his hand to flick through it, happily soaking up the atmosphere as you suggested what to look at first. 

You led Joel through the crowd at the entrance to find a quieter spot. The art you passed to get there was stunning, and you made a note to come back and look at those later. You ambled around a smaller gallery and Joel’s eyes flicked over each piece as you read mumbled excerpts from the guide aloud and added your own thoughts. You weren’t quite sure if the furrow of his brow was deliberate or not. 

“You okay if I get us a drink?” He murmured, resting a hand against your back as he leaned in. 

You gave him a reassuring smile and a nod, “Yeah, go ahead. I’ll be here.” 

You watched as he disappeared toward the bar, briefly admiring the fit of his jeans before you turned back to the artwork, allowing yourself the opportunity now to fully take it in. The contemporary pieces that lined the walls were bold and chaotic, all by the same artist. One particular piece caught your attention: a canvas streaked with jagged lines of charcoal against an expanse of pale grey. In the corner there was one tiny circle of orange, painted to look as if it was burning white hot, its rings of light radiating and mixing with the drab background. You took a step closer and tilted your head to examine it. The sensation that it pulled from you was not unlike a sense of hope. 

You startled, breath catching when a hand clutching a champagne flute appeared in front of you and let out a breathy laugh when you realised it was Joel standing behind you. You took the glass from him and he leaned in close over your shoulder. 

“Fascinating use of negative space.” He said, agonisingly close to your ear. You exhaled loudly what you hoped sounded like a laugh and not a barely contained moan.

Your eyelids fluttered shut briefly as you leaned in to him. His hand gripped your waist in response and held you steady, body pressing against yours in a way that stole the air from your lungs. Certain that he was about to pepper experimentally bold kisses against your neck, you shifted under his touch in a silent invitation. 

The titter of polite laughter echoing from across the gallery interrupted the moment and brought you both back to your senses. Joel moved to stand by your side, but his hand stayed firmly on your waist as you continued your tour of the artwork. You glanced up at him and caught the tick of his jaw before he managed to hide it with a smile. 

You made it to the third room before Joel was intercepted by someone he knew. You were introduced to the project management team that oversaw the work undertaken by Joel’s firm, and didn’t miss the way his fingers flexed by his side when one of the team paid you a compliment and leaned in to peck a kiss against your cheek, totally ignoring the hand you’d offered him to shake and leaving you with nothing left to do but meet him in an awkward half-hug. As soon as he’d stepped away, you inched closer to Joel as the conversation moved on, leaning against him gratefully when his hand found the small of your back again. 

The team introduced you both to some of the artists and soon enough you were separated, pulled in to different conversations until you were at opposite ends of the room, sparing glances through the crowd until you lost sight of each other completely. 

Taking advantage of a lull in conversation with a very enthusiastic art collector, you managed to pull away and head back to the first gallery you’d entered. You’d long-since lost your guidebook and your glass of wine, placed down on a cocktail table and left behind at some point over the course of your conversations, but you knew you wanted to look at one piece again before you started your search for Joel. 

You crossed your arms this time as you viewed it, standing closer and then further away, eyes fixed on the tiny orange glow in the bottom corner. It’d be easy to miss if you weren’t examining the piece, lost in the void of grey and black jagged lines. You only realised when you changed your viewing angle, that they were formed with paint into raised craggy bumps. You bent down to inspect the glowing orange dot and realised that the burning white centre of it was actually a hole in the canvas, made deliberately and then worked around.  You stood and walked back to the middle to view it in its entirety one last time before you moved on, but you were interrupted by the sound of soft footsteps walking toward you. You glanced round to see Joel, watching you with a tilt to his head and a grin on his face. 

“Hey, darlin’. You alright?” 

You nodded and reached for his hand when he was close enough. 

“I think this one is my favourite,” you murmured. You leaned your head against his shoulder as you both viewed it. Joel stood quietly beside you, frowning at the painting as if he was really looking this time. He let out a low hum as he traced circles against the back of your hand. 

“I think it suits you,” he said, voice rumbling through the top of your head. 

You turned to glance up at him. “Oh yeah? How come?” 

Joel fixed you with a look that was so warm you almost melted. “‘Cause you’re a little ray of sunshine, darlin’. You’re as bright as that dot there, and you don’t even seem to realise it.” 

There wasn’t even time to take a breath before your lips were on his. He froze for a second before he exhaled sharply through his nose and kissed you back, smiling against your mouth. It drove you wild. You had never wanted anyone as much as you wanted him right now. 

Cradling his face with both hands, you pulled back just enough to mumble, “You wanna get out of here, handsome?” 

You don’t remember if Joel even said anything before you were walking out the door and back toward his truck. 

By the time you made it back to your apartment, nothing could have stopped what was in motion. Joel had hardly taken his hands off of you since you left the gallery, apparently intent on driving you absolutely feral. He was starting to learn what types of touches affected you the most and was using his newfound knowledge to be an absolute menace. You’d barely made it in the door before his mouth was on yours again. His hands were everywhere, pressing you against him like he was starved and you were the only thing that would sate him. You pushed his jacket from his shoulders and started to fumble with the buttons on his shirt as his fingers mapped out your curves, like he was hell-bent on memorising every inch of you. 

You pushed against him, gently guiding him backwards to your bedroom door and he let you take the lead. You kicked off your shoes, discarding them as your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, unwilling to let go of him for even a second. Your breathing quickened as the heat between you grew unbearable. 

Joel backed up step by step until the back of his knees hit the edge of your bed. He paused, your face between his hands, his breathing matching pace with yours. When he spoke his voice was low, thick with restraint.

“You sure, darlin’?” 

“Fuck yeah,” you breathed. “I’m sure.” 

He lowered himself back on to the mattress with a grunt and his palms slid up your thighs instinctively as you climbed on to his lap. He began to press his kisses along the curve of your collarbone and up the column of your neck, dragging breathy gasps from you with each one. 

His breath was hot, ghosting your neck as he murmured against your skin. “Wanted to do this all goddamn night.” 

You barely managed to whine in response before his mouth was back on you, kissing over your jaw toward your lips. A shudder rolled through you and you rocked your hips, desperate for friction. He groaned against you and the sound poured gasoline on the fire that he had stoked since you left the gallery. 

You wanted more. You needed more. 

Your fingers rose to the zipper at the side of your dress and tugged it down. Joel’s hands stilled and his chest rose and fell with measured breaths, jaw tensing as you lifted the dress off over your head and unclasped your bra before throwing both pieces of clothing haphazardly across the room.

“Jesus,” he muttered, fingers twitching against your thighs as he drank you in. 

You smiled, emboldened by his reaction and shifted your hips just enough to pull a groan from him when he didn’t move. 

“You gonna just stare, Miller?” 

Joel blinked twice before his lips parted with a groan. Your goading snapped him in to action and he flipped your positions in a blur of limbs, pressing you down in to the mattress with a kiss. 

He stood and pulled his wallet from the pocket of his jeans, throwing it on to the edge of the bed. You watched him, biting your lip as he shrugged off his shirt, unbuckled his belt and pulled off his jeans and boxers, his hard length springing back up to hit the skin of his stomach. He knelt at the edge of the bed and traced his hands up your legs, ghosted past your thighs and curled his fingers round the waistband of your underwear, sliding them down with a reverence that made you whine. 

He positioned himself back on top of you, retracing the movement with his fingers, inching toward your centre with maddening, teasing touches. 

Your hands flailed around you for purchase in the sheets and your hips bucked up toward his hand. You whimpered- a plea for him to move his fingers where you wanted them most. 

“It’s alright, darlin’,” he drawled, “You’ll get what you need.” 

A moan broke from your throat with a jolt when he finally brushed his fingers gently through your folds.

He caught your lips in a kiss as he stroked up again and again, pressing featherlight touches to your clit with every one. A familiar tightness began to coil within you and your breaths quickened. Joel hummed in approval and brushed against your clit one last time before his fingers parted your folds and slid in to you. He curled them experimentally, pulling back to watch your face as he did. 

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmured, his eyes blown with lust as he took in your changing expressions at the pleasure building inside you. You clenched down and he pressed steadily against the same point with his fingers curled inside you. You were so close, and Joel knew it. 

“Come on, baby,” he said, voice absolutely wrecked, “I’ve got you, come f’me.”

It was all it took to push you over the edge. Your release surged through you so fiercely that your entire body tensed before the flame curling against your spine sparked and sent molten hot tingles through your core and in to your limbs. A sharp gasp tore from your lips, followed by loud, unrestrained moans as you came undone for him. Your back arched as Joel continued, his fingers unrelenting as he guided you through every pulsing aftershock. You realised that he was speaking as your breaths returned to normal, murmuring praise against your temple, the sound his voice mingling with the thrum of your heartbeat. 

You let out a soft groan as he traced slow circles over your clit with his thumb, stretching out the rolling pleasure of your orgasm until every last shuddering, breathless moan had been drawn from you. He finally slipped his fingers from you with one last pulse from your oversensitive nerves, and you whined in protest at the loss. 

“You alright, darlin’?,” he asked, brushing his fingertips along your thigh. You offered him a hum in response, too dazed to string words together. 

He smiled down at you, fingers tracing up your arm and along your collarbone before dancing light touches toward your nipple and you arched up in to his strokes with a breathy moan. 

He shifted to kiss you, pressing his body against yours. His cock sat hard and heavy against your thigh and when you shifted against him he let out a sound so raw it made your stomach flip. You reached down, wrapping your fingers gently around his length.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, hips bucking in to your hand. 

You stroked him slowly, and he tensed under your touch, flexing his hands against your hips with trembling fingers.

Joel reached for your wrist with a breathy chuckle, stilling your movements. “You keep that up, darlin’, and this’ll be over before we even get started.”

He pulled back to reach for his wallet and slid a condom from it. Mirroring your knowing smile with one of his own, he rolled it on with ease, and positioned himself at your entrance, waiting for a signal from you before going any further. You arched your body toward his in anticipation and after letting out a long, shaky breath. he slid in to you. Your moans mingled together as he filled you completely. Your nails dug in to his shoulders as the overwhelming fulness sparked a fresh flicker of heat low in your stomach. 

“Christ, baby,” he murmured, shuddering above you. “You feel so fuckin’ good.” 

You couldn’t muster the breath to respond, lost in the way he fit against you. Instead, you rolled your hips, coaxing a strangled moan from him. 

That was all it took. 

With a deep, throaty sound, Joel pulled back and thrust in to you again, dragging gasped moans from you with every grind of his hips. Slow and deep, he managed to hit a point within you with every thrust that sent white hot sparks flying through you. His breath came in uneven pants against your skin as he pressed closer, forearms braced on either side of your head. 

“God, you’re so perfect. So fuckin’ perfect,” he growled, sliding a hand to the back of your head, threading his fingers through your hair and pressing his forehead to yours with care that would have made you sob had you been able to focus on anything. Each slow roll of his hips made you quiver, nudging you to the edge with every measured stroke. Joel hissed through gritted teeth at the sensation, his fingers tightening their grip in your hair. 

“That’s my girl. That’s it, c’mon- let me feel it.” 

His girl. 

The words caused aching pleasure to crest over you like a tide, warm and all-consuming. You clung to him as it crashed against your core, almost taking everything inside you with it. The cry that broke from your throat was muffled by a high pitched ringing in your ears and for a second all you could see were bright white flashes, strobing over your vision so intensely you had to close your eyes against them. 

You heard Joel’s groan, giving way to a string of hissed curses as he felt you tighten around him, his movements stuttering. He let out a choked cry as he dropped his head to your shoulder, the last of his control unravelling. His thrusts grew erratic and with a final shuddering breath, he followed you over the edge, his grip on you tightening as he let himself fall. 

For a moment, neither of you moved. You didn’t know which way was up- you might as well have been catapulted off in to the stratosphere with how weightless your limbs felt. Joel’s lips brushed against your temple as he moved his hand to touch your cheek with slow, lazy movements. You opened your eyes to find his staring back at you and you let out a huff of disbelief before your face broke in to a wide smile.  

“Holy shit,” you said as Joel let out a soft chuckle of his own in agreement. 

You only moved when your limbs started to tingle with the threat of pins and needles. Joel disappeared momentarily to the bathroom before padding through and sliding back in to bed beside you. You curled in to him, peppering kisses over the freckles on his shoulder as he brushed lazy strokes up and down the curve of your waist. 

“Will you stay the night?” You half-whispered against his skin. The words came out before you could really think about them, needier than you intended.

“‘Course I will, darlin’,” he breathed back. Even as he fought off sleep, his tone made you realise he hadn’t even considered the alternative.

The residual desire pulsing through you parted to make way for a curious sensation that swirled its way in to your chest. It dripped through the edge of your consciousness, building to a trickle, settling like a balm over the lingering pain there. Pain caused by the shards of your broken heart left to scrape away at your insides for months. 

Joel pressed the gentlest of kisses to the top of your head and pulled you in to his chest. You sank in to him, listening as his breaths turned to tiny snores, and wondered as you drifted off alongside him whether he would ever know that he was the one who put the first tiny piece of your heart back together.

Next Chapter

[themarenyearly]

he sang to me in that truck!

BONES AND ALL (2022) dir. Luca Guadagnino

[ddarker-dreams]

Unique Burdens.

Enver Gortash x F Reader.

Warnings: Dark themes™, unhealthy relationships, implied kidnapping and major power imbalances. Word count: 1k.

Where there are sparks, there can be fire. 

Concentrate. Hone your thoughts. Refine them, sifting through any impurities. Ichor is woven into your flesh like threads through a hallowed loom. These threads contain arcane energy that some spend lifetimes pursuing, their noses buried in esoteric tomes. 

For you are a scion of a being most high — the Lady of Love’s darling daughter. 

Sune’s always had a soft spot for you, fickle as her favor may be. Whispers carried by the wind offered encouragement at the beauty your artistry brought into the world. Your mother may be distant, but so is the sun, both of which provide satisfactory warmth regardless. This distance never bothered you. So long as you were free to wield a quill, lyre, or rapier, you were content. 

Indeed, her distance never bothered you, until you realized that just like the sun, celestial bodies must give way to the night. 

Focus, focus, focus.

The faintest hum of the Weave resonates within. It reaches out to you, incorporeal hands longing to touch. This is it. Your chance. Your spark. It’s tentative at first, a shy reunion— 

—And then it’s gone. Silenced. 

Extinguished. 

Your shoulders droop as yet another failure joins your ever-growing resume. 

Your shoulders droop as yet another failure is jotted down.

“I never took you for a masochist,” tyranny incarnate muses from behind. “That must be it. Why else would you torture yourself so?”

“I’m no more a masochist than you are a worthy ruler.” 

You try to keep your tone steady and indifferent. Regrettably, of all your artistic talents, acting is not among them. The bitterness seeps out like blood through thin gauze. He must’ve sensed a fluctuation in the ‘connection’ you share. You thought yourself subtle with your tampering, but your sentimentality betrayed you. 

“Ah. That’s where you’re mistaken. There are no ‘worthy rulers,’ only rulers who make their reign worthwhile.” 

“That’s your intention?” 

“That’s my intention,” he mimics your cadence. 

Unwilling to withstand further provocation, you whirl around, ready to slink off. Your abrupt motion proves to be a mistake. The world loses its sharpness, the outline of every object smearing together as your balance falters. A wicked throb blasts through your skull — your reward for this little rebellion. The black fabric fastened around your throat greedily swallows the meal you just offered. 

Its creator steadies your body as if he isn’t the source of your malaise. His hands, covered in golden gauntlets, slither around your bicep. You’re vaguely aware of the short journey to an outdoor table set. Water rushes from the garden’s ivory fountain, the sound crescendoing into something unbearable. The evening sun feels too hot, the summer air, too humid; and the deceptively delicate-looking choker around your neck too tight. 

Gortash barks out orders toward the maids here to serve ‘you.’ They scurry about, their hurried gait like that of a discovered rat colony. You sit at his behest. Commanding others is second nature to him, he enunciates every syllable with the confidence of a man who knows he won’t be challenged. No good comes from fighting it. You panic, you struggle, and then finally, you sink, succumbing to a riptide you never had a chance against. 

He holds a crystal vial to your lips, which you part without prompting. It’s syrupy on your tongue, an artificial sweetness intended to make the tonic more tolerable, owing to your many complaints. Whether he adjusted the formula for your sake or his, you can’t say. 

The viscous liquid stubbornly sticks to your esophagus. Eventually, you force it down. 

Gortash’s elixir circulates throughout your body and soothes the tempest you incited. There’s little you know about the magic that siphons your divinity, but you do know it’s volatile. The insidious inventor sat aside his pride to explain that much. He foresaw that you wouldn’t sit pretty while he sapped your celestial power. An accurate estimate, considering your current predicament.  

He recognizes your lucidity returning before you do. 

“Foolish girl,” Gortash sneers. He takes your chin in his hand, forcing eye contact. The bags beneath his eyes appear darker than when you first met. You suppose you’re to blame for that. “Are you so eager to undermine that you’ll put yourself at risk?”

“What does it matter,” you reply, your glare communicating what your weary voice cannot. “Pain is all I know around you.” 

Gortash releases you as if your skin scalded him.

“Pain? This? You know nothing of pain, aasimar. The word is lost on you.” 

Righteous fury churns your stomach in on itself. 

“Then show me!” You demand. “Show me, if that’s what it takes for you to stop flaunting your godsforsaken ‘benevolence.’ A benevolent warden! Can those two roles coexist? Or are you the one ignorant of words and their meanings?” 

You fight for each breath. It’s been some time since you’ve snapped at him like this. For good reason, you think, noting the murky abyss in his eyes. Lord Enver Gortash isn’t to be spoken to in such a discourteous manner. People have had lips sewn shut and fingers unnaturally contorted for less. His cruelty isn’t random, there’s a methodology behind each stitch and snap. 

Yet here you sit. Physically unharmed, adorned in fine garments, aureate bracelets, onyx earrings, and his favorite shade of rouge upon your lips. You don’t know what to make of this, you didn’t want to know for the longest time either. Should he confirm what you dread, well… at least you’ll have clarity amidst the revulsion. 

He studies you like he would a defective construct he’s one adjustment away to fixing. You loathe how vulnerable you feel beneath his scrutinizing stare, that he has the means to take you apart and piece you back together. 

An eternity passes before Gortash speaks again. 

“... You’re frightened,” he surmises. “Frightened over what it means to be the subject of my affection.” 

Your pulse quickens as the cool metal of his gauntlets brush against your hand. 

“You want my wrath. The sting of a riding crop, the indignation from the welt it forms.”

The gauntlet’s tips dig into your flesh. It almost hurts, until he lessens the intensity of his grip. He’s mastered applying just the right amount of pressure to leave indents behind without breaking skin. He could break you, but he wants you whole, as proof he could conquer you at your best. 

“Keep wanting, you won’t ever receive it. No,” Gortash smiles, the skin beneath his eyes crinkling from mirth. “Endure what it means to have earned my affection instead.” 

[opencommunion]

"While largely toothless as a democratic body—shorn of true legislative capacities and having never developed a genuine transnational dynamic—the European Parliament is nonetheless an important bellwether to track the continent’s political winds. As the results of the parliament’s June 6-9 elections confirm, those winds are blowing in a bleakly reactionary direction.

... There are two principal causes for this. First, the fact that for many decades now European national governments and federal European institutions have legitimized — through emergency measures, moral panics and murderous border policies that have led to thousands of migrant deaths in the Mediterranean — the far Right’s defining claim that migration threatens the material and cultural survival of white European civilization. The far Right’s obsessive talk of borders and births, and its promotion of the myth of the Great Replacement, were enabled by the EU’s political center. Governments across the continent advanced anti-migrant policies on the grounds that stricter regulations would sap the foundations of extremism. But it turns out voters often prefer the original brand, choosing bellicose nativism over technocratic repression when it comes to the ​'migration crisis.'

The second engine of Europe’s turn towards authoritarianism is the EU’s promotion of fiscal austerity policies that have particularly impacted Southern Europe and Ireland, but which have led to welfare state retrenchment across the board. Beyond eroding livelihoods and exacerbating inequality, austerity also led to the rise of multiple movements to reclaim national sovereignty, almost all of which (after the punishment and capitulation of Syriza’s left-wing government in Greece) are now monopolized by reactionaries. While all of Europe’s far-right parties have played on this supposedly populist register, none have challenged the hegemony of markets and the rating agencies that dictate cuts to social programs. ... The real social malaise that plagues so much of Europe — overburdened and privatized healthcare, labor precarity, anemic social security, accelerating climate-related emergencies — is projected onto the far Right’s favorite scapegoats: primarily migrants, but also ​'gender ideology' and its alleged assault on the family as Europe’s moral and material core."

[magnificentmicrowave]

I NEED YOU TO BE PRESENT

FOR WHAT I AM GOING TO DO NEXT

[chocodile]

Some new OCs with cars to complete the set I made in 2019!

Explanations under the cut.

Young Hyden - 1975 Lamborghini Countach

He would want some sort of luxury sports car. I mean, he'd have to have one. What else could he possibly drive but something loud, flashy, expensive, and oozing with ego and sex appeal?

He couldn't decide between "Cocaine Binge" orange or "Satanic Panic" black so he bought one of each. He alternates between them while the other is in the shop due to either the consequences of his own bad driving or general luxury car malaise.

Unfortunately, the Countach is three and a half feet tall while Hyden is just over seven feet tall. Even with custom seats to accommodate his height, it's not a comfortable driving experience. Luckily for him, the choice to give up his stupid sports cars to spare his aching knees is made for him when he totals one of them in a particularly bad accident and gets his license suspended.

Old Hyden - 1994 Bentley Dominator

It's now the mid 90s and Hyden is older, fatter, and more arthritic. Pickings are pretty slim for a rich man who simply does not fit in a small vehicle. I mean, there are options, but not a lot among the luxury brands, which means those options might as well not exist at all. The SUV boom was still in its infancy and the Bentley Bentayga and Rolls-Royce Cullinan, two other cars I considered for him, would not exist for another decade or a few.

In 1994, in the real world, Bentley made six huge gas-guzzling bricks for the Sultan of Brunei. These luxury car-slabs cost £3,000,000 a pop. In my fictional OC world, Hyden has #7. Or at least would have a similar custom luxury SUV with a similar price tag.

He no longer drives, citing his growing list of illnesses as the reason (No mention of his suspended license). Other drivers on the road breathe a sigh of relief. Of course, that's what chauffeurs are for.

Alternate car: This funny little bunny car toy I bought. Isn't it great?

Alex & Ridge - 1996 Ural Tourist

Instead of a car, Alex gets a motorcycle to symbolize her death wish… and also for other reasons, but that's the main reason.

A practical old thing. It's broken down a million times but she and Ridge always manage to revive it. She appreciates its ability to determinedly haul ass through rugged terrain and the fact that she can carry stuff using the sidecar. Ridge appreciates that sometimes he is the thing that gets carried around in the side car. He is also responsible for the shark face on it. :o)

…He drives it too, of course. He's a perfectly good, reasonable driver. Alex is just kind of a control freak about it. She is one of those people who grits her teeth and presses her foot into the passenger seat floor any time she's riding shotgun. It's easier to just let her be the driver.

They bought it together and drive it all over Europe doing whatever odd shady jobs they do in a modern setting. Alex craves one of those snazzy hyper-durable Japanese motorcycles, but cannot afford one. Maybe someday… Ridge isn't so sure about that kind of change. The bike still works as long as you fix it constantly, so what’s the problem? Plus, he'd be sad to see the shark face go.

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

The Grand A-Z List of Whump 2/3

This list contains ~174 items listed I to Q

As always, I heavily encourage people to research topics thoroughly when writing as it is important to avoid stereotypes/misinformation. This list's intention is not to glorify/romanticise sensitive topics in any way.

This is a comprehensive list of injuries, Illnesses and tropes - including those from the Whumptober 2023 trope vote!

All submissions are listed in italics, and those who wanted to be tagged will be included at the end. If you have any more submissions: please send them via DM/my ask box.

[A-H] [R-Z] [NSFW List]

List below the cut:

I

ICU

Identity reveal

Ignorance is Bliss

Ignoring an Injury

Immersion foot syndromes (Prolonged exposure to damp and cold)

Immobilization

Immortal healed wrong

Immunodeficiency

Impalement

Improvised medicine/treatment

Indigestion

Infected (Blood, Wound, Tattoo etc)

Infested

Injured caretaker carrying an even more injured whumpee.

Injured whumpee instructs caretaker how to treat them.

Injury Discovery

Injury Revelation

Insecurity

Insomnia

Insults

Internal Bleeding

Interrogation

Interventions

Intimate whumper

Intubation

Involuntary whumper

Isolation

Isolation/Quarantine

Itching

J

Jailed

Jamais vu (The experience of being unfamiliar with a person or situation that is actually very familiar.)

Jealousy

Jet Lag

Jumping (to safety, forced to jump)

Just dying in general.

K

Keeping quiet because the enemy is nearby

Keeping the whumpee awake

Ketosis (body burning fat for energy)

Kidnapped by the opposing team

Kidnapping

Kidney Stones

Killed! (Again and again and again for the lovely immortal whumpees&lt;;3)

Kneeling

Knife through hand and into wall/floor

Knocked Out

L

Lab Rat

Laryngitis

Late realisation

Left for dead

Leprosy

Lichenberg scars/Lightning strike

Limited Medical Supplies

Live-Streamed/Broadcast torture

Lobotomy

Locked Up and Left Behind

Losing a Bet

Loss of appetite

Loss of reality

Lost (In the woods, city etc)

Lost voice

Low Blood Pressure

Lumbago (lower back pain)

Lupus

Lured into a trap

Lying

Lyme's disease

Lymphoma

M

Magical exhaustion

Magical healing

Magic whump (using spells to harm someone)

Manhandling

Major Character Death

Makeshift Splints

Malaria

Malnutrition

Manhandling

Mauled

Measles

Medical trauma

Medieval Torture

Memory Loss

Meningitis

Menstrual Cramps

Mental illness after being kidnapping (and addressing it)

Migraine

Military lovers

Military whump

Mind control/Manipulation

Miscommunication

Missing

Missing Person

Mistaken Identity

Misunderstanding

Mono

Mopping a sweaty brow with a cool cloth

Mudslides

Muffled Scream

Mugging

Multiple Sclerosis

Multiple Whumpees

Multiple Whumpers

Mumps

Muscular Atrophy

Mute

Muzzled

N

Nailed to a wall or floor

Nails digging into palms

Nail marks left in the whumpees skin

Natural Disasters

Nausea

Near-Death Experience

Necrosis

Neglect

Nerve damage

Nerve pain

Nightmares

No anesthesia

No goodbyes

Non-responsiveness

Nonhuman whumpee

Not allowed to die

Not Realizing They’re Injured

Nowhere else to go

Noxious (gas/fumes)

Numb

Numbness/Paralysis

O

Obsession (with finishing the mission, the whumper obsessed with the whumpee etc)

Open Fracture

Orthostatic hypotension (low blood pressure when standing)

Osteogenesis Imperfecta (brittle bone disease)

Outnumbered

Overdose

Overworked

Oxygen Deprivation

Oxygen Mask

P

Packing a wound

Panic attacks

Paralysis (this could be temporary or permanent)

Paranoia

Parent caring for sick child

Parkinson's

Passing out from pain

Passing out in arms

Permanent injuries that affect them long term

Phantom pain

Phobias (could lead to character stumbling and hurting themselves in an attempt to escape their fear)

Photographs/Polaroids ( Especially if they're of the kidnapped whumpee)

Physical Therapy

Piercing ripped out

Pinched nerve

Pinned Down/To The Wall

Plague

PMS

Pneumonia

Pneumothorax

Poisoning

Polio

Possession/possession recovery

Post-exertional malaise

Post-ictal confusion/any other symptoms (after a seizure)

POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome)

Power Fatigue

Praise (especially if it's from the whumper)

Pregnancy (morning sickness, self-conscious, hot flushes, tired and sleepy, general malaise, swollen feet, weird cravings...)

Presumed dead

Prisoner Exchange

Protecting friend from the whumpees own team (bonus points if doing it while injured)

Psychological Torture

Psychological Whump

Psychosis

PTSD

Pulled Muscles

Puncture Wounds

Q

Q-Fever

TAG LIST: Thank you very much to the following people for submitting ideas! (I apologise if some tags did not work, I'm not sure why tumblrs not letting me tag you!)

@I-eat-worlds | @greygullhaven | @letsgowhump | @cyberwhumper @firapolemos05 | @originaldeerhottub | @whumpilicious | @drawing-dinos82 | @carenrose | @stellarinuscronicles | @gottheseasonalblues | @marvelflame2010 | @sowhumpful | @avamcu | @courtneygacha | @lordofthewhumps | @autismmydearwatson | @kuddelmuddell | @the-most-handsome-ginger | @whirls-and-swirls | @painsandconfusion

[en-la-casademiamor]

How to return from savagery and the omens of death

The refrains of love and instructions of how to love abound, but I do not want to love in doctrine.

Love is a pathless newfangled road–the undiscovered region of bliss that remains as elusive as the crocus of late February.

When I was four, love was the comforting sound of ocean water. It was a sand dune to sit upon, the call of gulls and the scent of vanilla.

But by the age of fourteen, love transformed from years of being bereft and mistreated.

An ongoing struggle became a war that had no ceasefire. The constant entrenchment of a child’s willful struggle against fear was all I had to go on.

I learned to need love in this way, but not to understand what love was or should be.

At forty, I believed I began to grow closer to the face of love’s actuality, but love then became another ongoing malaise–parsimonious– detached.

I became stricken: a casement window with perpetually drawn drapes.

After having scaled the unforgiving landscape of this love, I encountered my brokenness; the recognizable fractures that never seem to mend.

My despair turned to panic: the fatality of being savagely torn by another’s failure displaced all subsequent seasons within me.

I drew toward the haze like a ghost. I made home in the thickets, where the distinctive chirps of morning birdsong could not filter into my heart.

I do not think I know what love is, and in the not knowing, I fall prey to omens of death. In this capacity, I now recognize my father in me.

He was such a lonely victim. One that grew feral from the lack of love; from the loss of touch: from the incessant want of imbibing it.

Is this what awaits me?

It’s this last question that has hastened sorrow from my eyes.

[magnificentmicrowave]

yayayayayayayayay!!!! theyr so normal

@magnificentmicrowave 's Panic and Malaise! I'd been meaning to draw these two for a while, thanks for the perfect excuse to finally do so ('‿')b

[cupid-http]

new years eve prayer - written by jeff buckley

────────୨୧────────

you, my love, are allowed to forget about the christmas you just spent stressed out in your parents’ house.

you, my love, are allowed to shed the weight of all the years before,

like bad disco clothes,

save them for a night of dancing, stoned with your lover.

you, my love, are allowed to let yourself drown every night in bottomless wild and naked symbolic dreams.

you, my love, in sleep can unlock your youth and your most terrifying magic;

and dreamings for the courageous.

you, my love, are allowed to grab my guitar and sing me idiot love songs if you lost your ability to speak.

keep it down to two minutes.

you, my love, are allowed to rot and to die

and to live again,

more alive and incandescent than before.

you, my love, are allowed to beat the shit out of your television,

choke its thoughts and corrupt its mind.

kill! kill! kill! kill the mother fucker

before the song of the zombified pain

and panic and malaise

and its narrow right-winged vision

and its cheap commercial gang rape

becomes the white noise of the world.

turn about is fair play.

you, my love, are allowed to forgive and love your television.

you, my love, are allowed to speak in kisses to those around you

and those up in heaven.

you, my love, are allowed to show your babies how to dance full bodied,

starry eyed, audacious, supernatural, and glorified.

you, my love, are allowed to suck in every single endeavor.

you, my love, are allowed to be soaked like a lover’s blanket

in the New York summertime

with the wonder of your own special gift.

you, my love, are allowed to receive praise.

you, my love, are allowed to have time.

you, my love, are allowed to understand.

you, my love, are allowed to love.

women disobey, when little men believe;

that you, my love, are Rebellion.

[sirfrogsworth]

Froggie's (Almost) Very Productive Day

I try to fit as many out-and-about chores as possible into a single day so I only have one set of post-exertional malaise consequences instead of consequences after each day of doing a thing. So any time I decide to drive, I try to find several tasks to accomplish all at once.

My first stop was the Family Services Division in the hopes of getting some help with grocery bills. I am making ends meet, but it seems to be getting harder each month. And maybe I could have skipped my trip to Florida and saved that money, but if I don't do something drastic for my mental health, I fear this first holiday season without a parent could send me into the darkness.

I needed to do an interview to finish applying for SNAP. I wanted to do a phone interview, but the next appointment was in January. So I went to social services where they allow walk-in appointments. I waited in a tiny plastic chair for several hours until they called my name. She yelled out "Benjamin" because when most people see "Grelle" they aren't really sure how to say it. (Rhymes with belly.)

She started my interview and it was going swimmingly at first. But then she started asking questions about the house and my inheritance and my trust. I had no idea what to tell her. It feels like a mistake now, but I have had pretty much no involvement in that process. I have no idea how it works. And I started to panic because she was acting like I was committing fraud or something by not mentioning the trust. But the entire point of the trust was to protect my benefits. Nothing is mine. I own nothing. I have no access. But I had no idea how to explain that.

Maybe my lawyer can help me apply, but I did not want them investigating everything and screwing things up before we even have the estate through probate. We specifically hired a lawyer and went through this convoluted process to make sure everything was on the up and up. But she really made me feel like I was doing something wrong. And that made me panic, which probably made me look even more guilty of something. So I just canceled everything and left.

After a few hours in a crowded government office, I decided to head to a different crowded government office.

I know I didn't need it until 2025, but I decided to go ahead and get my Real ID thingie before my first flight. I was kind of hoping they'd retake my picture because my current driver's license is... well...

And I'm so glad they took my big terrible picture and made it into a smaller, more terrible picture.

People complain about the DMV, but the one near me runs like a machine. It was filled with people and I still only had a 10 minute wait time.

I'm starting to wonder if all of those 80s comedians who were all, "What's the deal with the DMV?" were exaggerating.

Good stuff, Jerry.

I head up to the counter and ask for a Real ID. She asks for two pieces of mail and my birth certificate.

And this disappointed me a little bit.

I did my research. I went to the Real ID website and used their interactive guide to figure out exactly which documents I would need. They gave me this entire checklist and I printed it out and went through all my records and mail trying to find everything.

I had to wait a week for my internet bill to come because it's the only thing I forgot to change to paperless. This took a lot of effort and I was ready to be validated for being so prepared.

And she asks for two pieces of mail.

Any mail.

So I was off to get new tires.

Driving around on 8 year old bald tires was giving me anxiety. I didn't have the money for new tires, but I remember the guy saying they had financing. Recently several of my past debts went past the statute of limitations, and so my credit score lifted itself out of the pits of "poor" and into the realm of "fair." So I decided to take a chance and apply for a Discount Tire credit card. It's a 6 month payment plan with no interest, so that didn't feel as predatory as all the credit card offers I get in the mail with 8000% interest.

We started going through the approval process and I was answering all of the questions and then I saw the name of the bank offering the credit. It was the same bank that tried to sue me and also the bank that can longer collect due to the statute. I was worried they put me on some sort of list and would deny me. But, to my surprise, they approved me instantly. And wouldn't you know it, they gave me almost exactly the amount needed for a new set of tires.

I'm hoping we'll be doing another auction of the house stuff soon, so I plan to pay off the card and then cancel it, but this was the only solution I could come up with to drive safely until then.

I was having a weird day where photos of crusty rich wide dudes followed me everywhere I went. Here is my good ol' boy governor at the entrance to social services.

And at the tire place, I noticed this fella...

Why does every rich CEO think they are a font of wisdom capable of creating compelling quotes?

Does he think no one has ever said "work hard" and "have fun"? And after he said this was he like...

"That's gold, put that in *every* store."

"Oh, and use that picture of me where it looks like a handsome gal just grabbed my undercarriage."

He probably thinks, "Well, no one has put these specific generic platitudes together into a single mega-platitude. I am a genius."

"Be honest, work hard, have fun, be grateful, pay it forward" sounds like he had a bunch of motivational posters on his wall and started reading them all at once.

Like, every line could have a picture of an eagle above it.

In any case, the guy at the tire store, Dakota, was really nice. He made the experience very low anxiety. And he really liked my Thor's Hammer keychain with built in fidget spinner.

He went around showing it to all his coworkers. "Look, it even spins!" And they were like, "Dude, where did you get that??" And I was like, "Amazon." Now I'm just imagining 10 dudes at a tire store all fidgeting their hammers.

As nice as he was, Dakota was still a salesman and had a job to do. He gave me two tire options and tried to upsell me. The cheapest tires had a "1" rating for winter. He said they get "super hard" in the cold... I tried not to giggle. But I explained I drive about twice a month and mostly to the grocery store. If it is a bad winter day, I'll just wait or get delivery. He understood and set me up with the cheaper tires.

He then checked out my car and noticed my tire pressure sensors were dying. I keep getting a warning light on my dash. Apparently they all have tiny batteries in them that die after 7 years. And you can't just replace the batteries so you have to install brand new sensors.

And this is where my social anxiety got me into trouble.

I don't actually need these sensors. They are usually inaccurate. I prefer to test my tires with an actual gauge. But I got so caught up in his sales pitch that I agreed to replace them... at $60 each. For that I could have gotten the fancier tires. I really don't care if an orange light shows up on my dash. And I looked up the price online and a pack of 4 is $30. Though that is without installation.

But still... I wasn't thinking and he was so nice that I was just like, "I want to please Dakota. Saying no might make Dakota sad." Dakota's job is selling me but that doesn't mean I have to buy anything. He would live if I had said "no thanks."

To make my blunder more blunderous, when they finished the tires he asked for my key fob. And it decided that was the time for the battery to die. And in order to reset the system for the new tire pressure sensors, you have to press two buttons on the fob for 7 seconds. Thankfully I had a spare fob at home, but if I want my fancy new $240 sensors to work, I have to return to Dakota and have him initialize them.

I really hope these are the Cadillac of sensors.

Or, like, the ones they use on Cadillacs?

They better be accurate, is what I'm saying.

I do feel safer with new tires. So I am glad I did that. And I gave them a good obligatory kick and felt the tread. They seem nice enough even if they get boners in the winter. It's crazy how bald my other tires were in comparison. Like, I can fit half my finger down into the tread on the new ones—which did not get them super hard.

The way I drive, I probably won't wear them down. They'll probably start to rot before I do.

Before I do, meaning before I wear them down.

Not before I rot.

I am not in a rotting competition with my tires.

I was then off to Sam's. I decided all of my hard work accomplishing 2 out of 3 goals deserved some sushi. So I grabbed some California Rolls and headed home. On my way out, a Hummer and a Porsche nearly collided in the parking lot. And they sort of got stuck facing each other. One of them needed to back up and they both signaled at each other like "You back up, I'm not backing up." And it was just this weird standoff between the two douchiest looking cars you could imagine.

I mean, you have to be a douche to drive a Hummer.

I still remember the mystery Hummer dialysis patient from when my dad was going 3 time per week. We could never figure out who owned the Hummer, but we knew it was not the underpaid nurses and techs. So it had to be one of the patients. And none of them seemed the type. We never solved that mystery.

That hummer started off a delightful safety yellow. (Elon would cry.)

They decided this wasn't extra enough... so they did this...

Katrina and I could never decide... are these cow spots or the world's least effective camoflauge?

There was another patient who drove this old beater...

And I loved seeing this car because we had the same one when I was a little kid. I'm afraid the aesthetics of the 1980s Caprice Classic did not stand the test of time, but it had great sentimental appeal for me.

But this maroon beast that squeaked and sputtered its way from here to there belonged to a very sweet older gentleman. Sometimes he and my dad would be dialysis buddies—sitting next to each other in the recliners. And the worst thing about dialysis was the boredom. All you have to do is watch broadcast TV with 4 channels.

All of the TVs require headphones. They give you your own set of super cheap headphones in the dialysis welcome bag. They were very uncomfortable so I ordered my dad better ones with cushioned ear cups.

His dialysis buddy noticed them and thought they looked nice. And then he revealed that his free headphones broke and he didn't know how to get new ones. He had been watching TV with no sound for weeks. So, I bought another pair with the soft ear cups and my dad gave them to his friend. And it just made me happy imagining the two of them watching The Price is Right in matching headphones.

I do have to make fun of this sweet old man a little bit. When I walked passed his car I noticed he implemented the world's most effective anti-theft device ever created.

That's right... The Club™.

If someone decides they have to have a 40 year old car with an engine that sounds like a dying hyena and a hubcap missing... they are out of luck.

But hey, you gotta protect what is important to you. And if I needed a getaway car and my choices were between his beater and the Cow Hummer, I'd take his ride for sure.

Well, I'd try... and then get arrested because The Club™ is undefeatable.

Do NOT look that up on YouTube. It's 100% true. (And the Lock Picking Lawyer doesn't count due to him being able to break into Fort Knox with a paperclip and then doing it again to make sure it isn't a fluke.)

The dialysis center is in the same complex as my local Tolerable Schnucks and I still see that maroon boat of a car every once in a while. I always smile whenever it is there because it lets me know he is hanging in there and hopefully still has sound for his TV.

Wow, I went off on a mega-tangent.

I didn't even finish talking about my day. Where was I? Oh, the douche standoff finally ended. The Porsche Douche capitulated and backed up. Probably due to the fact the Hummer Douche has 0 visibility behind him.

When I got home I started devouring my sushi. I finally heard back from my lawyer. He submitted the last of the evidence for my appeal. And I was finally able to confirm he got the records of my ECT treatments from 20 years ago. I worked so hard to get those. At first, they forgot to send all records before 2011. I had to call back and figure that out. They shipped them and they didn't arrive until a week before we had to file. Everything was so last minute and my anxiety has been... palpable. It felt like when I did my science fair project on Sunday night.

He's hoping to get a decision at the beginning of next year. He warned me that these appeals are usually rejected. And that the most effective method of approval was a hearing in front of an administrative law judge. But that could be delayed by up to a year. So I might need to figure out how to survive until 2025. As long as my brother does what he is legally required to do, I should be okay. But counting on that also gives me palpable anxiety.

And that was my day.

Every time I go out is always an adventure.

But remember...

BE NICE. EAT YOUR VEGGIES. PET CUTE DOGS. DREAM BIG. KEEP YOUR TIRES WARM... FOR REASONS. 5 LIFE LESSONS -Froggie, Mildly Famous Internet Person