#presented without any context lol

[wildflower-otome]

[wonder-worker]

A.J Pollard’s biography on Edward IV was so cringe lol (generic; minor but frustrating inaccuracies; intensely judgmental at times and oddly dismissive at others while never considering the broader context; entirely diminished and trivialized Elizabeth Woodville as both queen and wife of his main subject in the name of "defending" her; created a false dichotomy between Edward and Henry VII’s styles of ruling and lauded the latter at the former’s expense even though Henry literally followed Edward’s example for the very things Pollard was criticizing Edward for; had a downright nonsensical and thoroughly misleading conclusion about Edward’s legacy & Richard’s usurpation that was based entirely on hindsight, Pollard's own assumptions, and the complete downplaying Richard’s agency and actions to emphasize what Pollard wrongly and misleadingly claimed were Edward's so-called 'failings', etc, etc)

I wanted to buy his book on Henry V but after reading this shitshow and the synopsis of that book, im guessing it's going to be 10x worse, so...no thanks

[yes-no-maybe-soo]

I miss main story Sylus so much (;_;)

Don't get me wrong I adore memory Sylus. Soft!Sylus is everything to me. But I have to admit that I really want to see more of the other equally valid and real side of him as well. That being the rough, morally grey crimelord we see during Long Awaited Revelry and in his Anecdote. Apart from Sylus on the job being hot as hell, there is so much about him and his motivations that we don't know yet and that I'm dying to find out.

I will also freely admit that a huge part of the reason for why I fell for Sylus and why he still has me in a chokehold is his complexity, his duality. I like that he is neither devil nor saint. Neither black nor white. Neither red flag nor forest full of green. He is so much more multifaceted and layered. He has real tangible flaws, and is certainly not a harmless cinnamon roll. He is a loverboy, yes, but equally a dangerous criminal whose hands have and will continue to kill others. And this duality is what makes him a great character in my eyes.

Hell, as much as it hurts me to witness, I like that he monumentally fucked up his initial meeting with present MC. And the narrative is very clear on this — his actions towards MC were wrong. He was forceful. He was cruel. Let's not sugarcoat this. Sure, us players know why he went about doing it the way he did and we feel bad for him as a consequence, but that doesn't make what he did in any way right or justifiable. MC was right to feel fear and disgust, and she would've been fully justified in never forgiving him imo. And honestly, I think Sylus would agree. He realizes just how badly he screwed things up, even if it took the harsh but true wake-up call from the shopkeeper to bring him to this realization. And it's a hugely important moment, both for him as a character and for his relationship with MC. Afterwards, he puts in the conscious effort to do better. To be better for her. To make things right. To me, this decision and commitment of his wouldn't have hit nearly as hard or been as meaningful if his prior actions hadn't been what they were. They proved that he is capable of real self reflection and growth. It's a massively important moment in their relationship.

The rocky start to their relationship also makes cards like Razor's Dance so impactful. Same with Goodcat Code and some phone calls and interactions where Sylus' fears and insecurities regarding MC's feelings toward him shine through. With the context of his behavior in LAR, it's completely understandable for him to have these fears. He knows he fucked up. Had he been a cinnamon roll made up of purely green flags, neither his feelings nor MC's would have made sense. Nor would MC's eventual forgiveness, and ability to once more see in him what others cannot, be near as powerful.

I don't know, am I making any sense with this or am I just rambling lol 😅

My point is that I love and appreciate all sides of Sylus. Both good and bad. It's what makes him him. And I would no more want to trade or give up main story Sylus than I would memory Sylus. I want big bad ruthless boss of Onychinus just as much as I want soft loverboy Sylus. They are equally important to Sylus' character. He wouldn't be himself without either. It's a package deal.

Perfect/flawless characters bore me. If Sylus were simply soft and green through and through, I would've lost interest. Honestly, I most likely wouldn't have downloaded the game to begin with. It was the danger mixed in with the comfort that drew me in.

It's like a friend and I have discussed many times — the fact that the hands that have wrought violence and death upon countless people are the very same ones that touch his beloved with such reverence and tenderness, is incredibly hot. Duality ftw.

So needless to say I am waiting with baited breath for the day when we will finally see main story Sylus again. Or for that matter, just a memory of Sylus in boss of Onychinus mode.

🐉❤️ 🐦‍⬛

[cannedbananabread]

Nobody Does it Better- Bruno Bucciarati x Reader

Word Count: 12.1k - I need psychiatric help

CW: smut (of course), kinda rough sex, some violence, mafia treachery, religious symbolism (presented in the context of art)

Can also be read on ao3 (probably easier given how long this is)

A/N: From an ao3 request for capo Bruno paired with a fellow capo reader. Keep in mind that I have never been to Italy so any information about the setting comes from google and my brain lol. Also, while I'm pretty sure the design on Bruno's chest is supposed to be a lacy undershirt in the manga, it definitely looks like a tattoo in the anime and I think it's a bit more scandalous if it's a tattoo, so it's a tattoo here. Regardless, I hope you enjoy, I'm hoping to get through more requests sooooon!! Hopefully not quite so long as this one oops!

Rising to the rank of capo in Passione was no small feat, but you had done so in just a handful of years. Your home life had been one of dissonance and so it wasn’t any wonder that you had gone the unfortunate way of many of your peers, scrounging for survival in the streets.   Starving and alone, you were entirely out of options that night several years ago when a plucky little boy around your age had found you, sick and shivering in a filthy, damp alleyway.  

Delirious from fever, you were met with the impression that an angel had fallen to earth and rescued you from ruin, but reality had not been quite as kind.  The boy offered you solace in the dusky hotel where he resided and saw to it that you were fed and taken care of.  In the morning, with your lucidity having returned to you, it was quite apparent that the boy who had come to your rescue was a member of Passione and the very thought left you reproachful of even his most genuine assistance.  

The extent of the power Passione had over Italy could not be overestimated. You knew that the shadow of that treacherous organization extended far beyond the edges of the little city you called home. You had known better than to involve yourself with something so unsavory; however hard up you were, you were not going to trade your life away just to end up the beast of burden to a faceless, unknowable entity who viewed you more as a number than a human. 

The boy who had acted as your savior approached you with a stoic expression that made him appear far wiser than his meager years would’ve suggested but you only glared back at him with contempt burning in your eyes. You knew a debt to Passione was not one you could easily be free of, so before you even properly met the boy, you loathed him with all the fire in your soul.  He tentatively handed you a glass of water which you accepted, only to promptly splash in his face. “Puttana, what did you do that for?” 

“I know what you are,” you spat, rage bubbling in your chest until you reached your fatal boiling point, “goddamn mafioso, the world would be a better place without the likes of you in it.  Whatever you brought me here for, I won’t do it!”

“You would be dead in the gutter if I hadn’t helped you stronza!”

“Bruno…” a deep, almost metallic-sounding voice bellowed, reverberating off the walls of the hotel room, “what did I tell you about bringing another ruffian into my home?” 

“Polpo, sir, I—”

“Oh, a girl, Bruno, you dog you.” 

“It’s not like that!” The boy shouted in vehement protest before shrinking back in fear of impending punishment for having spoken out of turn, “and besides, she was just leaving.” 

You nodded silently to affirm his claim and made a quick, darting movement to escape. Polpo’s reputation preceded him; he was a cruel and cold capo who seized what he wanted through whatever means necessary and wherever he went, he was undoubtedly treated like a king but in practice, he was more akin to a tyrant.  In the far recesses of your heart, you felt a pang of guilt for the boy; a mafioso he may be, but he had still come to your rescue without the hope of selfish gain. You bowed humbly to show your gratitude for the sanctuary you had been provided the night before, hoping the gesture would be enough to placate some of the man’s ire towards his subordinate, then you made another hasty attempt to make your exit, but your arm was caught in the capo’s massive, swollen hand.  “And where is it that you are so eager to run off to, it’s clear that such a sickly thing has no home waiting for her, why not join me?  It’s a generous offer, you would have food, shelter, and above all else, my protection, all I ask is that you pass one simple test.” 

His booming voice struck something deeply within you, as though he had tapped into the very wiring of your brain and pulled something loose. Before him, you felt entirely powerless and it required all of your strength just to remain on your feet as he forced you to look into the black depths of his soulless eyes.  “A-and if I were to refuse?” You stuttered, unable to hide the irresolution that quaked your entire frame. 

“Hmm?  Well, in that case, I suppose you would be of no use to me,” he said, forcing aloofness as he glanced over his fingernails.  “Quite a shame too, I can’t say things tend to bode well for those who cross me.”

Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach as he uttered such a thinly veiled threat, you were foolish to even tenuously believe that he would let you walk free without the demand of some kind of restitution, in the face of him, you were left utterly bereft of words, so shaken that you couldn’t see beyond the immediate terror that drowned out any of your better senses.

“Think it over, someone like you could be quite an asset to this organization.” 

“S-someone like me?” You asked and a dim hope arose that he might look favorably upon you and that you might find your freedom yet.

“Yes, someone that no one would ever come looking for, someone with nothing to lose and everything to gain. Someone expendable.”

There it was, your worst fears laid out before you as if by the wave of a hand, you had been stripped of all your resolve, forced to relinquish the last vestiges of personhood you had clung to so fiercely. “What do I have to do?”

A wicked sneer crawled across the corpulent man’s face and though you could not see what happened next, the ominous aura caused every inch of your skin to prickle with goosebumps and the acute sensation that followed was enough to make your body go limp. After that, the next thing you were able to recall was waking up in a warm bed feeling rather worse for wear, but the pin on your bedside table let you know that your initiation into Passione had been a success.  

And so swore fealty to Passione, from then on your future was set in stone, you would not know any other life that wasn’t one of carnage and bloodshed. After a while, it became normal, more than that, you began to revel in it. What had once been stomach-churning acts of violence soon left you aglow with pride, you ruthlessly pursued anything you wanted, no sacrifice was too great, “all for the good of the organization,” you said as you rose effortlessly through the ranks, paying little heed to those you had stepped on to reach for higher and heights. Was it any wonder that you’d become a capo in only a few short years?  Certainly not, and you were as respected by your subordinates as you were feared and in truth, any of you considered even your darkest of deeds to be worth the price now that you lived a life of luxury.

As the years passed, any thoughts of the boy that had come to your rescue had receded to only a dim recollection your mind could only laboriously conjure up, though your connection to him was not one you could so easily forget and every time you heard his name in passing, you were catapulted back in time, struck by a vision of tan skin, dark hair, and deep blue sunken eyes that looked upon you with violent contempt.   

Bruno Bucciarati; you had not seen him in years and perhaps that was for the best, he had not been shy about his acrimonious feelings towards you and even though there was a part of you, deep in the reservoir of your cold, cold heart that still looked favorably upon him, you did not think the possibility of amends would be worth the risk of altercation.

But then, on a perfectly common day at the end of March, came the instructions for your latest assignment, direct from the hands of Percilo himself. You had been requested to undertake a special mission with the newly appointed capo with one clear goal in mind: eliminate the leader of the hitman team, Risotto Nero. So you were left with no other choice but to follow the orders that had been handed down to you, you could never violate a direct order from the Boss and live to tell about it. Armed with the knowledge that Bruno would be less than enthused by your presence, you arranged your travel plans and made a reservation under a false name at that little restaurant Bruno was so terribly fond of and planned to enter unannounced before he had a chance to deny you entry.

Seated at one of the quaint tables, you observed as a group of well-dressed civilians was led to their reserved table nearby which provided you with the perfect opportunity to ask the maitre-d’ if he could send for Bucciarati.  While he complied graciously and assured you that he was in, instead of Bucciarati, a trio of vibrantly dressed, obstreperous youths emerged from the back of the restaurant and crowded your table. 

“Are you the one who’s been asking for—” the blond dressed in a green suit asked before being interrupted by one of his friends.

“Who are you and why do you want to see Bucciarati?” 

“Narancia, cool it, that’s not the way you talk to a guest.  You gotta ask nicely and if they don’t comply, then, well, we have other means.” The third man said as he glanced at the purple handle of a pistol that stuck out of his waistband. 

“Are you threatening me?” You asked, feigning an affectation of coyness as you looked up innocently from your menu. 

“A threat?  No, no, I like to think of this as more of a suggestion if anything.” 

“And if I choose not to take your suggestion?” 

“Well, you don’t have to, but I can’t say I’d be so eager to throw my life away,” he said with a shrug, letting his fingers over just over the handle, baiting you to continue your defiance. 

“Aw, you think you could kill me? That’s adorable. Where did Bruno pick you up?” You simpered, folding your hands together in an offhand gesture to emphasize the meaninglessness of his threats.

“Listen, lady, just tell us what you want with Bucciarati, we’re not gonna fight you if we don’t have to,” he said at last, planting his hands firmly on the table, having given up any pretense towards a gunfight in the middle of the restaurant. 

“I will only talk to Bruno, not whatever help he’s pulled together.”

“And what makes you think we’ll let you?”

“Oh, you will,” you said, standing up with a crazed look in your eye, ready to fight if necessary, but you reined in your temper just enough to keep the upper hand, “after all, he and I are old friends.”

“Doubt it,” the blond cut in, matching his tone to yours, “Bucciarati told us about the kinds of friends he had before and none of them are welcome here.” 

“Well, that’s quite a shame then, because—” you began, but were cut off by a familiar voice slicing through the ensuing quarrel.

“What is going on out here? Mista, Narancia, Fugo, when I sent you to see who was asking for me, I explicitly told you to do so without disturbing the other guests!” Bucciarati shouted, a pair of other men flanking him as they entered the scene, the man to his left had silver hair and wore a long, dark coat, and to his right was a young blond with his hair tied back into a braid, dressed in a lurid pink suit.

“My, my, Bruno Bucciarati, as I live and breathe,” you said, a sly, coquettish titter to your voice as you collected yourself, he was certainly just as handsome as you remembered him, “can’t say I thought I’d ever see the day where they’d let you make capo, the Boss must really be desperate after what happened to ole Polpo.”

“You… I thought you knew better than to ever show your face around me again,” he sneered, several vulgar interjections from his colorful subordinates followed his declaration.  

“Now, now, is that any way to treat a lady?” You asked, abandoning the table entirely and sauntering over to where he stood with the letter in hand.  “And besides, I’m here because of my orders alone and these have been handed down from the top, if you care to have a look.”

He snatched the paper from your hand and read it over carefully. It was legit. Only a select few had ever been chosen directly by the Boss himself, but all were rewarded handsomely in both monetary compensation and under the banner of greater trust. As much Bruno did not want to tangle himself with any of the unsavory business you often dealt with, that added trust alone could prove essential to the long-term goals he and his newfound friend were aiming towards, “one last mission and then we go back to being strangers. I mean it, I don’t ever want to hear from you again, are we clear?”

“Crystal.” 

The details were dealt with accordingly and you returned to your hotel to bide your time until your departure the following day. Meanwhile, Bucciarati discussed the matter in depth with his team, though all the while, a flurry of unwelcome emotions stewed relentlessly through his mind, as vivid and intolerable as the last time he laid eyes on you.

“Bucciarati, I think you should seriously reconsider accepting this mission, something about it seems strange,” Giorno said as he looked over the fragment of the letter you left in their care.

“You can’t be serious, stronzo! Bucciarati can’t just ignore a direct order from the Boss!” Abbacchio exclaimed, slamming his fist on the table with such ferocity it caused the dishes to rattle in their places. 

“Listen, Giorno, I know you’re new here, but the Boss doesn’t hand out missions like this to just anyone,” Fugo said, more calmly than his cohort, but still in vehement opposition to anything that may create conflict between them and the Boss. And rightfully so, it would be a foolish endeavor to even think one stood a chance against such a fearsome adversary.  

“Yes, they’re right Giorno, disagreeable as they are, orders are orders and I am determined to see this through.” 

Giorno sighed and mulled over the arrangement before drawing his own conclusion and covertly hiding something in Bucciarati’s pocket. “Giorno, what is—”

“Take it for luck. It’s… insurance.” Bucciarati did not need to ask questions to understand where Giorno’s intentions lay, but he could not afford to disclose any further information and jeopardize the safety of his team.

“Come Bucciarati, the instructions say to meet at Napoli Centrale, I’ll drive you.” 

“That won’t be necessary Fugo, I promised my old friend that I would meet her at her hotel.” 

“Is it wise to disobey orders like that?” 

“Perhaps not wise, but I doubt any harm will come of it. The Boss must be well aware of our history or else he would not have specifically paired us to work together.” 

“Well, alright, you would know best, just promise that you’ll be safe… for all of us, we need you as our leader.”

“Thank you, Fugo, I will make it back from this, you have my word,” Bruno declared, his resolve was evident in the deep tone of his voice. One more mission, that’s all it would be. He would earn the Boss’s trust and then you would be out of his life for good.

It was early the next morning when there came three rapid knocks on the door of your hotel room and with all the swiftness of a cat, you glided to the door and pulled the chain through the lock so that you could open the door just enough to make sure your visitor had been invited.  “So you came after all, Bruno, but really, how could you stay away?” You purred as you undid the chain and bade him inside with far greater amiability than he was likely to offer you. 

“You know very well that I had no choice in the matter,” he spat, trying desperately to avoid eye contact with you… those damn eyes of yours, like sparkling jewels, they always hypnotized him. 

“Come now Bruno, that hurts my feelings, and after all the things we’ve been through together, it’s quite a shame, I remember when you used to be so terribly fond of me.” You purred, dragging your index finger tediously down his exposed chest. 

With an abruptness that startled you out of your cavalier disposition, he harshly gripped your wrist to stop the salacious pursuit of your hand. “You know very well that any fondness I once had for you died a long time ago.” 

“Are you quite certain about that? I saw the way you were looking at me at the restaurant, I think there’s a part of you that still wants me like you did all those years ago.” 

His brows furrowed together and, with the same suddenness with which he had grabbed your wrist, he pushed it away and took several steps away from you. 

“Aw, Bruno, haven’t you realized that you shouldn't show your hand so early?” You snickered, drifting slowly over to him, your hips swaying with each purposeful step.

“Well, it’s not as though you ever made it a challenge.”  He snapped, unamused by your performance.

“If that’s the case, then how come you were never able to seal the deal? We both know how desperately you wanted to.” 

“It is very like you to think more highly of yourself than you deserve, but you must be misremembering.” 

“Oh, am I misremembering the compromising position that Polpo caught us in that Easter?”

“That was before Milan.” 

“Don’t tell me you aren’t even the least bit curious about what would have happened if Polpo hadn’t come back early,” you said, pressing your chin to his shoulder and whispering softly into his ear.

“Hmm,” he mused carefully, drawing back from you and finally securing a seat in one of the finely quilted chairs, “even back then you tasted like a liar.”  If looks could kill, you would have been dead, face down on the floor after the way he looked at you, full of hate, ire, and a deep desire for vengeance.  And yet even for all the malice in his stare, it tickled you to know you still affected him so strongly.  Had he truly cut you from his life with the same knife you had used to stab him in the back, he would not have been driven to such brutish, adolescent insults.  

You smoothed out the skirt of your dress and sat in the chair opposite from him, quickly, but not without a degree of ceremony, you unfolded the remaining pages of the letter and spread them out in order upon the coffee table, “I suppose we should get down to business then, shall we?”

He made no reply but began to sift through the separate papers to familiarize himself with the administered task.  A look of confusion sprung across his face when he reached the final sheet, “this can’t be all you were given.”

“For now, yeah, the rest of the mission will be waiting in an envelope behind The Birth of Venus then we just go from there.” 

“You act like it’s that simple, thousands of people go to the Uffizi Gallery every single day!”

“And we will be among them, just leave everything up to me, I have a plan.” 

“I will certainly not trust you with my life, not after last time, you will tell me exactly what you have devised and then we can decide what the best course of action is as a team.” 

“A team? Well, in that case, perhaps I can accept those conditions.” You simpered, crossing one leg over the other, knowing full well it offered him a titillating view of your upper thigh.  “Truth be told, Risotto and I were once… friends. I have some apprehensions about targeting him and his team, especially after what happened to Sorbetto and Gelato.” 

“This is precisely why they tell you not to mix business with pleasure, though I was certain you’d learned that lesson a long time ago.” 

“Hm, I don’t recall you being the jealous type, Bruno, perhaps you have changed.” 

“And unfortunately for us both, it appears that you have not.”

That cut a bit deeper than his previous affronts and you felt a bit of your playfulness recede, “I’m merely saying that while Risotto was an irrevocable fool for believing he stood a chance against the Boss, I think his motives are understandable, after what happened to Sorbetto and Gelato, but they should have known better than to go poking around into the Boss’s identity.”

Bruno sat pensively as he considered the circumstances, “far be it from me to question the Boss’s absolute authority, but isn’t it a bit odd that he sent us to do a hitman’s job, that really isn’t either of our specialties.”

“Well, La Squadra was in charge of assassinations, I’m not sure he could get any one of them to defect from their leader. I suppose he trusts us more at any rate.” 

“I’m sure he has plenty of other skilled assassins that would be better suited for the job than us if this job is really so important.”

“Well, you can consider it your initiation.  Prove your loyalty now that you’re a capo.”

“Then why you?”

“Because of my relationship to Risotto of course.  Listen, I know you aren’t fond of me, at least not anymore, but you know there isn’t a better person you could have been paired with for this mission.  I know Risotto like the back of my hand, I’m wise to his tricks, I know how he thinks, and I’ve seen his Stand. I know all of his strengths and weaknesses, like it or not, you need me for this.”

“Fine then, but my previous request still stands, once this is over, you and I are strangers once again.” 

“I agreed before, didn’t I?” You asked, resting your head on your folded hand to eye his movements more keenly.  The stern, unwavering look on his face remained, as such you were forced to resort to far more efficacious means to restore the upper hand you so desired.  

Without a word, you moved across the room with the same rhythmic sway of your hips that always seemed to catch Bruno’s eye and situated yourself before the only mirror your hotel room offered. 

“What on earth are you doing?” He asked, aghast as he watched your dress flutter to the ground and pool around your feet.

“Don’t act as though it’s something you haven’t seen before,” you groaned, rummaging through the mess of your suitcase for the necessary garment until, at last,  you found what you needed, an expensive sundress covered in a vibrant pattern of flowers and citrus fruits. 

“And your previous attire was unsuitable?” He asked, that unflappable aplomb had been utterly laid to waste once he got a glimpse of your body.

“Naturally, we will be going to Florence, what better way to blend in than as tourists? Every member of La Squadra is a thoroughly trained assassin, this way we can hide amongst the throngs of couples on holiday and they will be none the wiser,” you explained as you stepped into the dress. “Now then, zip me up?” 

“I never imagined you’d be capable of appearing so docile,” he mused, tugging the zipper up the length of your spine to where the hem of your dress sat between your shoulder blades. 

“Don’t look so smug, I brought something for you to wear as well,” you said and handed him a tidy garment bag.

“You can’t expect me to wear this…” he said, recoiling as he unzipped the bag and caught sight of its sickeningly pastel colored contents.

“I do indeed, and as sexy as that suit is on you, we are aiming to be as inconspicuous as possible, so get changed, I promise you’ll look just as dashing in this little costume I’ve picked for you. Now hop to it.” 

With disguises set and travel plans arranged, you boarded the train for Florence. The journey was long, several hours at least, but the journey across the Italian landscape was beautiful. Perhaps, had it not been for your addled mind, you would have been able to enjoy it more. Instead, you leaned your head against the window in your private car and watched as Bruno slept in the seat beside you. The tan suit and pale blue shirt suited him perfectly, in fact to any unknowing passerby, the two of you could have easily been mistaken for a young couple on a scenic ride through the countryside. 

Baring that thought in mind, you felt nothing but contempt for the dismal shell of a life you had been living. Briefly, you wondered what might have been if young Bruno had been your savior all those years ago, but you couldn’t see past the immediate severity of what you had been rescued from. Even so, you never wanted this, but for all your dangerous desires, all the money and power you had amassed in so young a life, you knew that you could never be anything else but what you had already become. You were a murderer and no matter how you tried to couch it in the insistence of necessity, that it was a matter of your life or theirs, that they were no better than you, but no matter how you dressed it up, a murderer you would always be. Even if by some stroke of luck you managed to escape the grasp of Passione, you could never escape all you had done. Years of miserable deeds and back alley deals; it would all have to be paid for in time.

You gazed upon Bruno’s gentle face, his soft features and the glow of his tan skin always seemed somehow angelic especially in the warm light of the late morning sun, even when you had been young you’d always been struck by his appearance, he was beautiful and even beyond on that, you found him admirable, he was loyal and disciplined and merciful, all of the things you were not and it drew you to him like a moth to a flame. You wondered if he ever felt the same, dissatisfied, downcast, and disillusioned. You could recall all the nights you’d spent looking into his eyes as though you’d been twins, cut from the same cloth and doomed to the same forsaken end, but now you were not so sure. In spite of your unfathomable success, Bruno had eclipsed you somewhere in the years between. He had built a life for himself, one surrounded by friends who truly cared for him, seeing that ragtag group he’d assembled at his restaurant, you knew that he had found something that you had never been able to and you were then rendered certain that you could never again be equals. It was an appalling realization to face while stuck within the cramped walls of a train car when all you could do was stew in your dismay. Whatever you were to become, you could never be all that you wanted.  

Florence, known as the birthplace of the Renaissance, has been home to many notable figures including authors Niccolo Machiavelli and Dante Alighieri as well as Renaissance masters such as Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and Sandro Botticelli. In part due to the extensive commissions made by the eminent Medici family, it has been a thriving centre for history, art, and culture ever since.  Many of the world’s seminal works of Italian art remain today in the many museums and chapels that line the streets, but none more recognizable than the great duomo of Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore, which prominently holds its place in the skyline, ever looming over the city like the crown marking a bygone dynasty. 

And still, the city teems with life, attracting tourists from all walks of life, and that is precisely how you found yourself when the train rolled into the station on that bright afternoon. 

Staying at one of the many charming little hotels, you unpacked your things and set up a makeshift base of operations where Bruno made you tediously go over the plans you had set ad nauseam; he wanted to hear every detail laid out for him in the exact order you intended for the umpteenth time, “again,” he said, the velvety timbre of his voice that you normally would have found dangerously alluring only grated on your nerves. 

“We are going to the Uffizi Gallery as tourists, we will arrive just after one, when it should be the most crowded that way we can blend in seamlessly, then we will nonchalantly peruse the museum for several minutes so we don’t raise suspicion, finally, on my mark, you are going to position yourself at The Birth of Venus while I go across the hall and trip the security system, once the guards have rushed over to me, you grab the envelope and use your stand to make a swift exit.  We reconvene here to figure out what needs to be done next, got it?” 

“I am still finding it rather difficult to believe that you would willingly put yourself in the position to get caught, that is not how I remember you operating,” he said, though his words had been unabashedly smug, his tone was thoughtful as if he were sincerely trying to piece together the path your life had taken since you parted ways.

“Well, I just know that you are far better suited to retrieve the envelope than I am, plus, as pretty as you are, I’m sure I can do a better job of seducing the guards if need be.” 

“And if the guard is a woman?” 

“Ha! You act as though that would make a difference.” 

“Your modesty has been dearly missed,” he said, rolling his eyes, though there was playfulness in his chides that had not been there the afternoon before.

“You know as well as anyone that my claims are not without merit.”

He let out a discontented sigh before he could manage a response, certainly, there was an inkling of truth, but did you always have to tout your wiles so audaciously? “ I was young and dumb then, I would not fall for your same tricks again.” 

“Who said my tricks are the same? I have refined my craft since last we met, you could be falling for me as we speak, you might not even know it.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.” He muttered before rising to his feet and tossing the sheets of paper containing your instructions onto the fire, “there, now that that’s done, we had better be off.” 

So you walked, arm I’m arm through the piazza and made your way up the steps of the gallery where you seamlessly wove into the colorful menagerie of attendees that dispersed through the halls. Falling into an old routine, you walked up to a painting across the room and looked up at it with a thoughtful expression, “The Annunciation by Leonardo da Vinci,” you said, leaning closer to trace the intricate details of the diaphanous veil with you eyes, “imagine being so skilled that you can paint something sheer and gauzy like that.” 

Bruno gave a little nod and followed the line of your gaze, “hm, I’ve never had the opportunity to see this one in person, quite impressive, far different from The Last Supper.”

“Now that’s one I’ve never seen in person.”

“That’s because you absconded Milan before we had the chance,” he said with that same grave intonation that he always summoned when he made reference to your duplicity. 

“Not here,” you whispered tersely, giving his upper arm an emphatic squeeze, “here we are civilians and it’s imperative that we remain so. Now, let’s go.” 

You left brusquely and escaped around the corner, forcing him to quicken his pace to follow after you.  You continued through the bustling halls of the museum in silence, a jarring difference from the myriad of conversations from the other patrons that echoed liltingly through your ears as you wandered into each of the different rooms, passing the target of your mission several times and taking careful stock of the artwork that lined the accompanying walls. 

“Don’t you think you’re taking your role as a tourist a bit too seriously?” He asked before glancing inconspicuously around the room.

“Hey, I paid for these tickets, I’m going to get my money’s worth and see the art!  Won’t you indulge me a little bit, it’s not often I get to do things like this.”

“Well—”

“And think of it this way, if we do a sweep of the entire place, we can be sure no one from La Squadra is lying in wait for us.” 

“Well, in that case, I suppose we can waste a few more minutes. Come along now,” he said, there was something suave about his voice as his strong hand found the small of your back as he effortlessly jockeyed you through the crowd. You felt your mind relinquish long-held apprehensions under the gentle force of his palm. So easy it was to let him take control, to let him handle you as though you were his own. Contentedly you accepted this subtle comfort as you soaked in the remaining minutes of quiet bliss.

“Hm, you know, I always preferred Primavera to The Birth of Venus.” You mused, staring up at the painting, your eyes flitted between the various allegorical figures 

“Oh, is that so?”

“Definitely, the colors, the dresses, the setting, there’s something very idyllic about it; pleasant and  dreamy, something that makes me feel like there’s still beauty in the world,” you quickly ceased your wistful longings, realizing you had spoken far too honestly than the moment called for, you quickly tried to divert the conversation elsewhere, “did you know the orange grove was meant to symbolize the Medici family?”

“That’s very interesting, I had no idea you were so well-versed in art.”

“Well, maybe you don’t know as much about me as you’d like to think you do.”

“Maybe so,” he murmured, twining his fingers with yours leading you to the stairs. 

And so you meandered through the various rooms, hand in hadn’t while you prattled on about art and for one brief moment, you felt as though your life was normal, you felt, through all the depths of your desperation, that maybe, if your mission went well, that you could take whatever funds you acquired and run as far away from Italy as you were able, start over and never look back. Build the life you wanted from the rubble yours had crumbled into.

“You know, sometimes I feel like that,” Bruno said as you both looked at Caravaggio’s The Sacrifice of Isaac.

“Abraham or Isaac?” 

The question went unanswered and you both stood in silence, staring at the scene brought to life by dramatically staged lighting that was so characteristic of Caravaggio’s works, feeling the moments tick away like grains of sand in an hourglass. “Now then, I believe it’s time for us to take our positions.” Bruno declared before taking his leave of you.  It was a curious feeling, the way that his hand slipped from yours, the way the touch of his fingers lingered in the moments after as you walked in the opposite direction, ultimately landing yourself face to face with another recognizable painting.  Judith Slaying Holofernes.  Gentileschi’s gruesome and dynamic depiction left you to ponder how deep your resolution ran. If it came to it, could you ever posit yourself as Judith? It concerned you even further to realize that you did not know if you could.

Without any other time to think, you made your way across the room where The Birth of Venus housed and with Bruno already in place, you positioned yourself far enough away from him so that when the alarms went off, he could secure the envelope unnoticed.  It was a simple task, some may say foolproof, all you had to do was reach across the threshold of the protective railing… all the world around you appeared to move in slow motion, all except for your racing heart, hammering hard against the walls of your chest.  It was such an easy task, you had done far worse and yet, you hesitated. Quaking in your resolve, you made a move to look back at Bruno but before you could turn your head, someone knocked into you and sent you careening past the protective bar. 

All at once, the alarm sounded, piercing the reticence of the serene gallery and then every guard in the vicinity was upon you.  A swarm of quick steps and terse exchanges could be heard throughout the whole room as civilians began to gather around you to catch a glimpse of the commotion. Out of the corner of your eye, as you were assisted to your feet and escorted away via museum security, you were certain you saw Bruno quickly disappearing beyond the farthest wall, from there, you were able to breathe easy. 

Bruno had made it back to the hotel with ease, your little spectacle had proved more than sufficient for him to make off with the next set of instructions unnoticed. So by the time you were released by security and made the journey back to the hotel, Bruno had already thoroughly read through the instructions and drawn several conclusions of his own.  As you sheepishly slinked through the door, you found him seated in one of the comfortable chairs with his elbows resting lackadaisically against his knees. 

“So it seems they let you go free without much trouble,” he drawled, straightening his posture and crossing one leg over the other. 

“I told you that I can be very persuasive, did I not?” You said, muster greater confidence than you actually felt. He looked back at you without speaking, as if he were trying to reduce the veracity of your claims hidden in your shaky inflection. “So… what’s the next step, I assume you’ve read it without me.” 

“I have and… here, see for yourself,” he shoved the folded sheets in your direction and watched keenly as you read through them.

“The duomo, huh?  Can’t say I expected the likes of Risotto to be holed up in an ancient Cathedral, but I guess I can give him points for style,” you said, trying to disregard any apprehensions with a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders. 

“That is precisely what I thought… a very peculiar location for a safe house.”

“Regardless, I suppose we should devise a plan, it’ll be dark soon.”

“Listen to me, you said yourself that Risotto is a skilled assassin, why would he choose to hide himself in the most recognizable building in the entire city?”

“As you said, he’s incredibly skilled, he doesn’t need to be discreet.”

“That sounds ridiculous, even by your standards!”

“Everything else worked out, didn’t it?  You’re just going to have to trust me.”

“I will not blindly trust you, I’m telling you that there is something wrong with this entire mission.”

“That isn’t for us to decide, we shut up and we do our jobs, that’s all!”

“No, you aren’t understanding, don’t you think it’s a little odd that we spent the entire afternoon in public and not a single member of La Squadra came after us?”

“Yes, but—”

“You feel it too, I know you do.  Just think for a moment, you have always been shrewd, you know that something here isn’t right!” He shouted, his hands grabbed harshly to your shoulders, holding you in place, so close to him that you could feel the heat radiating off of his impassioned frame. 

“No!  No, I won’t even consider it.  We have to do this, this is what we do, this is what we signed up for when we became mafiosi. We have to see the mission through, we don’t have a choice!” You screamed, violently breaking yourself free of his restraint.

“You’re wrong, we always have a choice, we can walk away from this.”

“You’re far too naive, Bruno, you can’t possibly believe that, if we don’t go through with this, the full wrath of Passione will be after us, we wouldn’t even make it out of Italy before they had us killed or worse...” 

“Why must you always be so damn stubborn?”

“Why must you always act like you know better than I do?”

“Because I do,” he said, a coolness to his voice that left you both standing frozen in place as if noncommittal in the face of what you both knew would follow.

Propelled by some invisible force far beyond the realm of your control, your lips crashed against each other, gnashing brutally in a battle for dominance that neither of you would concede so readily. 

With ease not suggested by his lithe figure, he lifted you off the ground and pinned you securely against the nearest wall with such force that it caused the decorative print to rattle against the plaster. As if on command, your legs wrapped around his slender waist to draw him closer. With sufficient stability acquired, his hands were able to roam up your thighs, enough to hike your dress up past your hips. Your skin prickled with goosebumps under the urgency of his touches and a breathy whine caught in your throat and came out as a feeble squeak which in turn, only heightened his desire and the thin lace of your panties did not help matters either, “look at you…” he murmured, his cool façade hardly concealed the ardor that had stirred his disposition. Pulling your panties to the side, his fingers were able to explore between your folds, “you’re so wet,” 

“What’re you gonna do about it?” You purred, back arching against the wall when you felt his fingers slipping into you. 

“I’m going to fuck you,” he said, pupils blown wide as saucers as he glared at you with a menacing, hungry look. Your plush walls clenched around his fingers, fuck, the way he looked at you, like he hated you, like he needed you, as if you were the only person in the world that could quell the raging fire within him— it was as though several years of unmet desires had unfolded right in front of you. 

Not a sound of protest was made towards his brazen declaration and it took no more than an instant for him to throw you onto the tiny hotel bed.  Before he could climb on top of you, you managed to shimmy out of your dress and toss the garishly colored fabric to the floor so that you were left in nothing but your lingerie as you lay back on the velvety comforter and watched as Bruno quickly undressed at the foot of the bed. Each discarded layer revealed more of his brilliant, tan skin, ever so lightly flushed from the ardent rush of your previous actions

Once his shirt had been cast away your eyes were able to trace the intricate line work of his tattoo down his chest to where it culminated in the outline of a heart just above his navel. The precarious position urged your eyes to wander lower as his hands moved pants to undo the button of his pants. The newfound freedom offered you an excellent view of his cock, which stood erect, firmly pressed to his abdomen. You sat up on your knees with hands folded between your legs and mouth slightly agape as you tried your best to comprehend the perfection that stood before you, there was something elegantly baroque in the man that stood before you, like a mixture of gold and marble, his statuesque frame, his svelte waist, the tantalizing taper of his long, curved cock.  You traced the fine slope until you reached the pinnacle of his flared, swollen head which eagerly dripped glossy pearls of precum as he held firmly to the base of his shaft. 

“On your back,” he commanded, then, before you even had a chance to comply, he climbed over you and pinned you flush against the mattress. You let out a shrill gasp of surprise when you felt his hard length rubbing against your aching sex, the thin, damp fabric of your panties was the only impedance between your two bodies. 

Harsh and indelicate, he lifted your back to unclasp your bra, without much care or effort the scanty garment was tossed away and Bruno seized the opportunity to quickly explore the newly exposed skin.  His teeth rasped against the swell of your breasts, leaving behind a pattern of oblong crimson marks. “Bruno,” you moaned, craning your neck back before hurriedly biting your lip to stop the indecent squeals as his lips close around your nipple, god, he hadn’t even fucked you yet, how could he have managed to unravel you so fast? 

Without warning, the sensation stopped and you were left panting nearly delirious from even such paltry stimulation. Through your heavy-lidded gaze, you watched as Bruno repositioned himself at the foot of the bed, from where you lay, you could easily guess his next play and that assurance was enough to restore a bit of your confidence, “How long have you been dreaming about this moment?” You taunted, doing your best to maintain a semblance of control as he fluidly pulled you to the edge of the bed by your ankle. 

“Were you not just moaning my name a minute ago?” He scolded, roughly pulling your legs apart and immediately hooking a finger under the lace band of your panties and rolling the sullied fabric down your legs. You gave a soft, approving mewl at the feeling of his warm breath against your cunt. In spite of your lewd appearance, there was something undeniably pretty about having you there in the position he had so many times imagined you in.

“Just fucking do it already!” You growled, teeth clenched to maintain an illusion of aplomb, but the frenzied look in your eyes betrayed you egregiously. 

“Typical. Something doesn’t go your way so you behave like a brat, is that how you expect to be rewarded?” He teased, his mouth hovering millimeters above your throbbing pussy, so tantalizingly close, but never close enough to give in to the pleasure you wanted. 

“For fuck’s sake, will you stop talking?”

“So demanding,” he purred, licking one long, arduous stripe along the entire length of your sex.

“Fuck,” you breathed, the meager sensation was enough to send a chill down your spine and leave you all but begging for more. He had intended to carry on teasing you for far longer, but the moment your honeyed taste filled his mouth, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to deny himself any longer. 

He abandoned the façade of bravado in one heedless action and began frantically lashing his tongue over your cunt, drinking in the heavenly juices that poured for you all too freely with each of his reckless ministrations. The wet sounds that emanated from you were nothing short of vulgar as his skilled tongue easily parted your folds and dipped into your dripping cunt just enough to make you squirm in place, but her certainly wasn’t done with you. Once he had thoroughly enjoyed your taste, he quickly turned all of his attention to your neglected clit. The sensitive bud was hot and tender with need and even a perfunctory flick of his tongue is enough to send a jolt of electricity surging through you that only intensified when he began fervently lapping at your clit, drawing hasty, swirling patterns that made your head spin and your vision bleary. Shit, you should not have been as sensitive as you were, not that soon, but if he continued like that, you knew that you wouldn’t be able to last much longer. 

“Tell me Bruno, do I still taste like a liar?” You asked through a slew of uninhibited groans that certainly made the question feel less mordant than you had intended it to be.

“A horrid, filthy, little liar,” he sneered, his lips forming the words against your needy cunt, even for all the malice he spoke, it only served to arouse your further, causing your hips to roll listlessly into his face, “an awful little liar.” 

“Bruno… fuck!” You moaned, knitting your fingers into his silky black hair and tugging with such vehemence that you dislodged one of his hair clips.

He let out an inadvertent groan, either brought on by your taste alone or the strength of your grip on his hair, but that too only further drove you towards your inevitable peak.  His tongue continued its relentless pursuit, maintaining the same diligent rhythm that had already rendered you delirious and you were no longer able to stifle any of the sultry moans that spilled from you, “Bruno, I’m— fuck, so close!” 

Your hips sputter out, indecorously writhing to a hectic rhythm that made it difficult for him to maintain the consistent pace he had devised, but the sweet sounds of your pleasure were more than enough reinforcement for him to forge ahead. One hand spread across your pelvis in an attempt to quell your incessant thrashing.  The restraint only caused the pressure to build until it became unsustainable, heat rushed to your core and the sensation you’d only tenuously been staving off snapped within you, leaving you awash with the brilliant glow of orgasm. 

Satisfaction dripped off Bruno’s face as he cleaned your excess arousal off his lips, leering up at you, content to take in the vision of your panting form, only brought to such an agreeable state through his efforts. “I wasn’t expecting you to be so submissive,” he said as he pulled himself on top of you, the swollen top of his cock prodding shallowly into your entrance. 

“Sh-shut up,” you whimpered, damn near docile as he sunk into you.  Given how amply prepared you were, it only took one effortless glide for him to be fully buried within you. You let out a shaky whine against his neck when he bottomed out, a response he couldn’t help but feel was incongruously cute compared to your typically ruthless demeanor. 

It was not long before he had established a steady rhythm. He had not allowed you any time to recover from your previous release and the sensation of him savagely fucking you quickly thrust you into overstimulation. In such a state, all you could do was scream out his name between an array of curses, all of which only urged him to continue more brutally, the strength of his grip was nearly bruising as he held your hips in place to keep you from wildly bucking beneath him. He pounded into you with such ferocity that it caused the headboard to clatter against the plaster wall. Your back arched, meeting him mid-thrust to pull him back down, your tight walls sucking him in so luxuriously that he could help but let out a choky moan into the crook of your neck. Fucking you, claiming you, ruining you, reality had eclipsed anything he had ever imagined when he would violently fuck his hand to the thought of you. The silky mewls and shrill screams you made each time he drove into you rendered him certain that your neighbors and very likely every patron on the entire floor knew how much you were enjoying his cock. 

Overstimulated to the point of babbling, each thrust added a new sensation you were certain you could not handle. Lost in a haze of bliss, the line between pleasure and pain had blurred beyond comprehension and you were not sure if you couldn’t cum anymore or if you simply hadn’t stopped cumming. 

Your nails scratched viciously into his back, leaving behind jagged claw marks that would last more than just the evening and serve as a reminder of the amorous affair. Bruno let out a hiss and dug his teeth into the supple skin of your shoulder. 

In a quick, ungainly action, he pulled out of you, the sudden emptiness caused you to let out a dejected whine for want of further stimulation, but he only knelt above you, frantically stroking the tip of his cock until he’d decorated your abdomen with sticky ribbons of cum then collapsed on the bed beside you, both more fucked out than either of you could remember. 

The afterglow hung heavy in the air, lingering silently between you as reality flowed back in along with the unsettling feeling of irresolution. After you’d cleaned up the mess that had been left, You returned to the bed and covered your body with the blanket to placate the meekness that left you dithering over what needed to be said. From the window, you could see the outline of the great duomo, only faintly illuminated against the darkened sky, its imposing shadow loomed ominously over the streets, as though it were itself some great beast that would swallow you up if you dared tread further. 

But before you could voice any apprehension, Bruno had left the bed and begun dressing, “well then, shouldn’t you be getting ready?” Something in the way he spoke seemed to banish all doubt from your mind, or at least enough to restore your confidence. 

“Oh, I thought you were determined to abandon the mission?”

“I have my concerns, but you were right, we need to see this through to the end, whatever that may be.”

“Well, it’s nice to see you’ve finally admitted who’s really in charge here.” You simpered, padding over to him with a characteristically feline strut.

Bruno caught you mid-step and drew your body firmly against his chest so that he was able to whisper directly into your ear, “oh cara mia, we both know it certainly wasn’t you,” he said, drawing out his words far more seductively than you could handle at present and punctuating the sentiment by nipping along your earlobe, “now, don’t dawdle, we have business to attend to.”

It had been far easier to access the duomo than you would have thought, even so late into the night you would have imagined a perpetual presence of security to make sure ne’er do wells, such as yourselves, did not get up to any chicanery on the premises, but that was not the case. It merely required the picking of a cheap lock on one if the auxiliary entrances and you were in. 

The air hung every in the dark halls, but even so, there was something reverent about the hallowed halls of the imposing structure. A feeling of peril caused your stomach to churn violently, it wasn’t merely the sanctity of the space that filled you with an acute sense of danger, but the sudden realization that you were not alone in the darkened chamber.  You made a quick motion to turn and alert Bruno, but before you could make a sound, a large hand was clamped over your mouth and you felt your strength give out under whatever force had apprehended you 

When next you awoke, you found yourself in a windowless room, tied with your back to Bruno in metal chairs that had been affixed to the ground with heavy bolts to ensure no means of escape.  “Bruno…” you whispered meekly, hardly able to muster the resolve to speak in such a dismal position, “Bruno, are you alright?” 

“I believe so… but I’m afraid that… from the start… this whole mission was a setup.” 

“I know, I— fuck, I should’ve listened, I just didn’t want to believe that…”

“Oh, isn’t that precious, our little saboteurs are awake,” an unfamiliar voice broke through the emptiness of the room and an odd-looking man dressed in a long white coat with emerald green hair that appeared almost harlequin alongside his makeup emerged from the darkness, flanked by his even stranger looking companion who walked threateningly on all fours. 

“So, I take it the Boss sent you to get rid of us,” Bruno said, managing a far more assertive tone than you would have been able to muster.

“You could say that… you see, Passione is like a living organism, all the parts must function together to keep it alive, and much like our bodies have an immune system as a failsafe to fight off any unwanted pathogens, so must our little organization. You may consider me as such.” The green-haired man mused, partly to you, partly to his associate who looked upon him with awe as he spoke, as though his words contained some kind of sacred divination. “That’s why I’ve brought you here, to test a little invention of mine… you know, when here in Florence, I can’t help but recall Leonardo, he was more than just an artist, like me, he also dabbled in many inventions himself. I was always struck by his proclivity towards water, the water wheel, hydraulics… perhaps he would find some of my research… fascinating,” he gave another wicked grin, eyes dancing with delight at the thought of his malevolent intentions.

“What are you getting at?” Bruno demanded, breaking the man free from his wistful daydreams. 

“All in due time,” he said, never wavering from that malicious grin that made your heart go cold with fear.

“You know, they say drowning is one of the most painful ways to die, I must say, I’m very excited to see for myself,” he declared boldly and burst into an uncontrollable fit of cackles and anticipatory groans, “Secco! Is the camera set up yet?”

The man sat up on his hind legs and gave a series of garbled hoops and excited cries as he thrashed to and fro in wild, ungainly gestures.

“Good boy, Secco, good boy! Now how about a treat?” He groped for something in his pocket as his strange companion eagerly lashed his long, serpentine tongue around his mouth, then darted with expert precision after what had been tossed his way.  So nimble, he almost defied gravity as he snatched the sugar cubes out of the air and began to gnaw on them like a rabid animal. 

“You’re sick,” you spat, brows furrowed with disgust and indignation.

A dreadful, malignant smirk settled across the green-haired man’s face as he knelt down to your level.  A skilled hand dragged across your cheek, unexpectedly tender as he caressed your smooth skin, “is that what you think?” He asked, baring his teeth as he roughly grabbed your chin and forced you to look at him, “on the contrary, dear girl, I am free. The same cannot be said for a weak little traitor such as yourself.”

You clamped your eyes shut, frantically shaking your head to dislodge his grip but to no avail, all of your efforts only earned you a forceful slap across your face that caused your cheek to burn, swollen and red from his violence. “You know, It’s useless to struggle, but then again, it’s so deliciously fun to watch you try!”

“Why not just use your Stand to kill us?”

“Oh you pretty little thing, that’s the best part! I don’t have to.” 

You swallowed thickly, unable to summon any kind of response, before a man as cruel and sadistic as he, you were utterly helpless. 

“And Bucciarati, I can see the gears turning in that head if yours, ‘once they leave, I’ll use my Stand to get us out of this,’ and while I admit that your Stand in particular is a bit of a nuisance, I would strongly advise against taking such a measure, you see, even with whatever evasive maneuvers you may attempt, we have ways assuring you do not get far.” 

The quadrupedal man let out a series of gleeful howls as if to affirm his companion’s threats. 

“Now, what will happen?  Hmm, decisions, decisions. Will you lie down and die like the good dogs you are? Ah, or maybe perhaps you will pull one another down like crabs in a bucket.  Or maybe one of the lovers will make a desperate attempt to save the other.  Hmm… which will it be? I can’t endeavor to say.”

“Have you been watching us…?” 

“Oh, my dear girl, our eyes haven’t left you since you departed from Napoli, any secrets you might’ve thought you had… well, rest assured that I have them very well kept,” he said, falling into a menacing laugh as he patted the handheld camera. 

“Fucking sicko,” you snapped, indignantly writhing in your bindings in a futile attempt to free yourself. 

“Aw, poor little puppy, all bark and no bite,” Cioccolata sneered, eyes darting for you over to Bruno, “She’s in love with you, you know?”

Violently, you bit your lip, how could you even begin to formulate a response? “Oh, by the looks of it I guess you didn’t know, well, it’s no matter.” He said, crossing the room and pulling a heavy lever. The loud, mechanical noise of machinery engaging could be heard through the ancient stone, “I look forward to the show, please do remember to smile for the camera.”

With that, both he and his companion took their leave through the only exit, a heavily barred metal door that you knew you wouldn’t have a chance of breaking through. And then you heard it, faint at first, but the distinct sound of running water caught your attention, open pipes on either side of the room flowed freely, splashing violently against the floor, faster and faster with each second that passed and only then did you fully understand the meaning of your captor’s threats. There were no exits, no windows, no vents, nothing to let the water out, you were trapped and the flow of the water only seemed to quicken as the flood reached your feet.

“Is this really how it all ends?” You asked, a vehement lamentation to no one in particular as you struggled restlessly in your bindings. 

“It should be a few hours before it’s over our heads, maybe we can think of something in that time.” 

“No, don’t you see that it’s hopeless, they must’ve had this planned for weeks, the only way out is through that door and they’re on the other side.  They’re going to kill us one way or another… we lost.” You sank into silence and let the sound of the water drown out your other senses. It was sick indeed to force you to sit and contemplate your death for hours before it arrived, even sicker to derive some twisted satisfaction from it all. You were bested and there was nothing for you to do but wait for death to come and hope for your sake that it would come swiftly. 

“He called you a traitor… what did you do?” Bruno asked, breaking the silence as the water crept up past your knees. 

“How should I know, he’s obviously fucking crazy, he called you one too and I know for a fact that Bruno Bucciarati, Polpo’s finest little soldier, would never betray the big bad Boss.”

Bruno sat silent for a long time, he hadn’t planned on telling you the extent of his perfidy, but if you both were going to die anyway, it would be almost an act of confession. “He wasn’t lying…”

“Bruno… you didn’t…”

“Not me, Giorno.”

“ That little blond with the baby face? No, I can’t believe that.”

“I don’t know how he did it, but he did.  He went to see Polpo in prison and the next I heard, the man was dead.  I believe he intended to use my newfound privileges as capo to help me unmask the Boss, I guess it is all for nought now.” 

“Why Bruno, you knew that would be a death sentence… why?”

“Because I’m sick and tired of seeing people… of seeing kids end up on the street, addicted to drugs… the same goddamn drugs the Boss sells, the same goddamn drugs my father was killed for and for what? Money, power? As if the Boss doesn’t already have more than enough of either.  Those are people, good people, my people and they’re suffering and they’re dying and it’s my fault because I answer to the same power that signs their death warrants. I have to do something, I have to make things better, it’s my responsibility.”

“Bruno, you know that’s a damn pipe dream, you know you can’t take on the Boss!”

“I knew the risk when I took it, but I believe in Giorno, if there’s anyone out there that can usurp the Boss, it’s Giorno Giovanna!”

“How can you have such faith in someone you just met?” 

“Because I have seen what he’s capable of, I’ve witnessed his brilliant determination, I believe that he will accomplish all he sets out to do, with or without me.”

You pondered his words carefully, had the sentiment not been so foolish, it would have been touching, but regardless, you felt it was too late for secrets as you felt the water rise past your abdomen. 

“I’m the one who told Sorbetto and Gelato where they could find information about the Boss’s identity, I’m the reason they were killed.”

“That’s rich after all waxing on about the folly it would be to take him on. Tell me, how did you even come by such privileged information?”

“Last summer, I met a man on the French Riviera who told me that he knew the Boss’s identity, somehow he fought him and survived and… he wanted me to help him take out the Boss, I turned him down, told him no one could withstand the full force of Passione’s wrath. I guess I was right.”

“But you had no problem selling that information to Sorbetto and Gelato,” he said callously, adding insult to injury.

“Listen, what they do is their business, not mine, I have to look out for myself above anyone else.”

“Just as you always have,” he spat, vitriol spilling off his tongue with each pointed word, like a poisoned dagger to the heart.

“I… I didn’t want it to end like this… I thought… I thought if there was anyone who stood a chance against Diavolo, it would have been La Squadra. I only told them how they could get in contact with my informant, that was all.  I thought they’d concoct a better plan, I thought maybe Risotto…”

“Diavolo… so that’s his name, huh? I guess it doesn’t matter now, poetic really, that I finally learn his identity, but I’m going to die before it can be of any use.” 

Conversation ceased as you both fell silent, the soft hiss of the water filling the room was the only sound that could be heard, endlessly jeering at your helplessness.  You glanced around the room in the hope that you could locate some weak point that could serve as an exit, but your search proved fruitless, and with the water already up to your chest, there seemed no other possibility than to accept your dismal defeat, certain that from wherever he watched, your captor took sadistic satisfaction in your inevitable surrender. 

“Bruno…” you said, at last breaking the silence, though your voice was stifled and words had been muddled by your tears, “Bruno, it was my fault… in Milan, it was all my fault.  It was a stupid risk to take and I almost got us both killed and then… and then I left you with the mess.  I— Bruno, I’m so sorry, it was such a selfish thing to do, do you think you could ever forgive me?” 

“If we make it out of here alive, you may consider yourself forgiven.” 

You mustered a feeble sound of thanks through your sobs but any intelligent words had been long abandoned. 

The water had risen to your neck, it would not take much longer for you to be swallowed up, perhaps Bruno could last a few extra minutes but what did it matter in the end?  Your thoughts grew fuzzy from the great strain it was to keep your head above water. It wouldn’t be long, only a minute more and your head would be underwater.

It was then, at the moment when you were sure all hope had been dashed, when you had resigned yourself to the inevitability of your death, that a muffled clamor rose beyond the thick stone walls of your would-be tomb. 

“How’s it going Narancia, we have to find Bucciarati and fast!”

“W-what’s going on?” You mumbled, struggling to make sense of the noises in your listless state.

“Got it! There should be two people in the next room!” 

“Giorno! He must’ve been tracking us this whole time.” The thought had not occurred to Bucciarati until just then, but he had wisely held onto Giorno’s parting gift throughout the entire mission.  It seemed like it had brought good luck after all. 

“Stand aside, leave the rest to me,” the sound of crumbling masonry echoed loud across the receding water and the light that filtered in when the wall had been breached seemed almost blinding to your eyes.  There, standing framed in a golden mandorla of new dawn light, was Giorno Giovanna, regal and determined as the dust settled around him, “Bucciarati, are you alright?”

What happened next was a blur, but someone pulled you from the water as Giorno gave Bruno a complete rundown of the situation, how Giorno had been able to track your location with the ladybug his Stand had imbued with life, how they had managed to kill the two men that held you captive, and their tentative plan to proceed now that they had fully defied the Boss.  Of course, Bruno was all too eager to inform Giorno of all you had told him, the Boss’s identity, your secret informant, the inevitable defection of La Squadra. With everything looked at together, it was as though each piece of the puzzle had fallen perfectly into place and Giorno rejoiced in the miracle of timing. 

It did not take long for a plan to be devised and with the added strength of La Squadra and the help of one eager Frenchman, it was only a matter of time before Diavolo was defeated and Giorno assumed his rightful position as the head of Passione. 

“Tell me,” he said one average day only a few months after all had been said and done, “what is it that you truly want?”

“I want out of this life for good,” you answered readily, it was the truth after all.

“Is that all?” He asked, the drawl of his voice as sweet and commanding as it always was. 

“Well, I suppose… I’d like to go to Milan,” you said, a curious diffidence had arisen in your voice as you stated your request.

“Then so it shall be,” he said with the gentlest of smiles that made him appear more like an angel than any man you’d ever seen before. 

And as he ordained it, so it was. 

“Well, is it everything you thought it would be?” Bruno asked, his hand in yours as you stood before The Last Supper.

“No— I mean yes… it’s marvelous, it’s incomprehensible… thank you for taking me.” 

He gave a salacious purr as he kissed the back of your hand, “I couldn’t think of anyone better to accompany me.” 

“It’s a little nostalgic being back here, don’t you think?”

“Well amore mio, for what it’s worth,” he began, moving his arm around your waist as you exited the church and began the walk back to that little hotel you stayed in what felt like a lifetime ago, “I have always loved Milan.” 

[icys-junkyard]

Unova Battle Subway maps

My personal preferred map of the railways (one with blue markers, one with color coded markers)

An alternate map, taking the in-game subway map slightly more literally. (Bonus map with a few non-canon markers I added purely to help myself make sense of the seemingly pointless shapes of some of the routes)

Bonus extra map of the routes taken by Ingo, Emmet, or both of them, for those who want a more specific visual of those routes on their own. (Of course Emmet's line goes through the Pokémon World Tournament lmao)

Misc notes/thoughts under the cut

I'm not a train person, take all these musings with a grain of salt lol

Canon map note: I imagine this map only shows the large, intercity railways. Cities like Nimbasa, Castelia, etc likely have smaller, more complex subway lines all over the city like we tend to see IRL.

Canon map note 2: In an IRL setting, these rail lines are likely far less straight and angular than on these maps and could probably make a lot more sense if drawn with a freer hand and consideration for the landscape, but I tried sticking somewhat close to how it's presented in the game.

International (wi-fi) line: In the game it's the wi-fi line. In a non-game context I imagine this line is one that actually leaves Unova and goes to a neighboring region.

Subwayness: While not all of these lines are 100% underground like they might be in the cities, I like to think quite a few of them are partially or primarily in tunnels. Many lines go across water without a major bridge* on the map, or straight through harsh environments like mountains or deserts, some of which may be more convenient long term to go under rather than through. With the technology of the Pokémon universe, I imagine large stretches of underground train tunnels are entirely possible. (*Maybe there's smaller unshown bridges for the trains, but at least the line that goes right through Castelia's port to an island I'd like to believe could be underground under water)

Battle Subway: The Battle Subway itself likely only runs on these intercity lines.Assuming IRL distances rather than in game walking distances, depending on the length of the line, a lap or two could be a full days work for the bosses. Non-battle trains likely use these same tracks.

Anville Town: The branching path on the Anville line is strange, as it doesn't seem to point toward any known location. It could be pointing toward some unlabelled town or landmark, though I've seen some people posit that it stops at the Celestial or Dragonspiral towers (though they seem too far away for me to agree). My personal headcanon is that rather than the large branch shown on the original map, it's actually two branches going to Anville Town; a large alternate rail to help with rotating/moving trains going in and out of the rail yard there.

Pokémon World Tournament: Located in or very near Driftveil City, it was added in BW2 by Driftveil gym leader Clay. Considering Driftveil is a city, it could have multiple subway stations, one of which just happens to be close to the PWT. Alternatively, it could be a bit of a distance away and thus have it's own station.

PokéStar Studios: Located in or very near Virbank City. As the major intercity lines don't quite hit Virbank itself, I imagine Virbank only has one intercity station near the studio if it's within Virbank itself. That, or it has no intercity stations and one must travel the distance between Virbank and the studio to travel further.

Unity Tower: Literally this train goes through a port and right into the ocean to reach an island. This island is only accessible by boat. I'm convinced this train goes under the seafloor. That or it has a super cool Marine Tube situation where it's a subway tunnel, but the tunnel is transparent and the ocean and water pokémon can be seen out the train windows.

[sweetkpopmusings]

hongjoong coworker headcanons <3

a/n: a whole bunch of people got laid off at my company today, so it only seems right that i cope by escaping into thoughts of coworker!ateez <3 please enjoy the precious gem that is coworker!hongjoong :,-) pics not mine~

content: fluff, nonidol!au | wc: 1k | warnings: none really! one mention of food | pairing: coworker!hongjoong x gn!reader | requests: open

everyone, and i mean absolutely everyone, wants to be mentored by hongjoong

they don’t care if they aren’t even in the same department as hongjoong

they just KNOW that he is the best ally and support system to have in the office

everyone also says his face is a workplace perk most people are too scared to say thing within earshot of hongjoong lmao

hongjoong knows everything people say about him, but he doesn’t let on

instead, he simply does his job and minds his business

things change when you start working at the company

you were hired in not only the same department, but same team as hongjoong

so your supervisor assigned hongjoong as your mentor

hongjoong, ever the professional, happily accepts and promises to train you well, so you can succeed in your new role

this all happens before you have a chance to learn hongjoong’s lore at the office

so you are wildly confused by the shocked and jealous stares from your coworkers as hongjoong walks you to your desk

it also feels suspicious that seemingly everybody is walking by your desk while hongjoong gives you a brief introduction to workflows, programs, etc.

but you, like hongjoong, are just trying to mind your business and do your job

which is actually super easy because hongjoong knows every single hack, automation, etc that means you can get your work done without being slowed down by tedious tasks

he’s a genius but so casual about it that you’re just sitting there like :-0 ??? how does he know everything ???

he chuckles when he sees your face and assures you that it’s just because he’s been there for ages and that soon enough you’ll be exactly the same way

you doubt it but appreciate his confidence in you LOL

at the end of your first week, hongjoong offers to take you to lunch

he says your boss is paying for it because it is “team bonding” so you agree 

what you didn’t know was that this team bonding would include hongjoong spilling ALL the tea in the office

he wasn’t gossiping in a cruel way, but he felt it was his duty, as your mentor, to give context on all the looks you were receiving

hongjoong finds it hilarious and adorable when you look at him with an absolutely shocked face

he just sits back while it sinks in for you, and, based on your reaction, hongjoong knows for sure that he finally has a friend in the office

he can tell that you won’t treat him like he’s different, which is a massive relief for him

so, from that day on, he makes it his mission to be both an amazing mentor AND a good friend

he stops by your desk for little check-ins and spends his breaks with you, whether sipping on coffee or walking around outside

hongjoong remembers everything you tell him about your life like he’s an incredible listener

you joke that it’s creepy he pays SO much attention to every detail you share and he says his resume didn’t say “detailed-oriented” for nothing

that is the moment you realize he is a complete dork LOL

speaking of dorky hongjoong

whenever he offers you a “cheer up!” or “you’ve got this!” it feels so much like a proud parent cheering on their child

he complains when you say this because “at least i should be an older brother but a DAD?!?!”

hongjoong is sulky but that goes away as soon as you buy him his favorite drink

you also changed his contact to “dad” but he doesn’t need to know that <3

he isn’t beating the dad/older brother allegations any time soon because he nags you once he gets comfortable with you 

it’s always with a smile on his face and full of care

but he will nag you about keeping your desk clean, using better handwriting, making your presentations more stylistic, etc

like sorry when did he become a judge instead of a mentor ???

it’s okay though because he lets you return the favor by nagging him constantly <3

hongjoong pretends not to like it when you nag him, but it fills his heart because that means you’re comfortable with him too :,-)

it also adds to everyone’s jealousy because you two are CLEARLY close and hongjoong finds their envy ridiculous and hilarious 

he definitely brags about how close you two are like he thinks you’re incredible and that everyone should be jealous they don’t know you like he does

somehow dating rumors start of course and when asked about it, you and hongjoong always reply with “wouldn’t you like to know”

hongjoong made you promise to give that answer because he thinks it’s fun to mess with everyone LMAO

he has so much fun with you that, to show his appreciation, hongjoong gets you a gift for your one-year anniversary at the company, including a handwritten note

he makes you promise not to open it while he’s with you because he doesn’t want either of you to feel awkward

later, once you read the note, you understand exactly why he requested this

the note starts with him praising your work ethic and improvement because he’s a proud mentor :,-)

at the end, he confesses that, before you started working there, he felt pretty isolated

it was like he was on an island or in a fish bowl, being watched from afar by everyone else

after that first lunch, and the many, many conversations you shared afterward, hongjoong finally felt like he belonged there

you made hongjoong feel like he belonged

that was something he was immensely grateful for, so he promised to pay you back by supporting you as a coworker and person, so you never felt like you were alone or an outsider

hongjoong tries to play it off the next time he sees you, but the sparkle in his eye when you thank him for being such a good colleague and friend reveals just how much he cherishes you in the workplace and beyond <333

[transmutationisms]

I'm very sorry if this violates the "I don't give advice" rule but I've been following you for some months reading down your tags and posts about medicine / psychiatry / addiction models and I agree & I've been taking notes of the resources you recommended and want to learn more. I will however be starting med school next year and want to specialize in neurologic surgery if possible. I know that you can't change the system from the inside or anything and that modern medicine requires you take every information it presents within its context of capitalist order and capitalist research funding and there is an inherent power imbalance to patient - doctor interactions. But is there anything I can do to be more on the look out to the information presented in medical school and not be super shitty to patients?

honestly i think it's missing the point to focus on med school itself here. doctors don't subscribe to various -isms because they were involuntarily indoctrinated into them at the age of 22, they think those things for the same reasons everyone else does, namely that these are ideologies that serve specific classes & class interests, & that in various ways govern any career or profession in a capitalist society. it is entirely possible to go through medical school without passively absorbing or repeating these ideas because you are a person capable of independent thought & critical evaluation of what's placed in front of you.

from a patient ethics perspective i think the thing a prospective physician actually needs to be thinking about is the fact that your entire medical career after school is meant to take place in a professional environment that is ideologically & structurally committed to paternalism, flouting patient autonomy, & enforcing standards of 'normal' (=ideal) bodily functioning in order to maintain a productive workforce. it's all well and good to say you don't want to be a cog in that machine, but you need to be real with yourself that doctors who refuse to participate in this system simply get washed out or fired. there are no magic tips for how to defy your professional superiors when they mistreat your patients, because you're not meant to be doing that in the first place. when it comes down to it, what are you going to do when your options are to behave in the professionally normal ways or to get sanctioned & cut?

i'm genuinely not saying this to discourage you becoming a doctor or to cast moral aspersions on that desire. i think healthcare is necessary lol & i don't think doctor shortages are good, any more than shortages of grocery store workers or housing. i don't know you so i'm just going to assume your motives are good ones here: wanting to provide critical care for people is a positive thing. but you do need to understand the system in which that job exists is not a benevolent one, any more than any other job in conditions of capitalism. there's no amount of correct thinking you as an individual can do to override that & in some ways it's really irrelevant to the provisioning of patient care in the existing clinical system.

[crazzzycomet]

Dried Roses

joel miller x fem!reader

“Goddamn, sweetheart. You are fuckin’ relentless.”

A beat of silence. 

And then—

“Thought I finally fucked that outta you.” 

Tags: 18+, MDNI, au no outbreak, age gap, one night stand, smut, sassy!joel, mentions of death and grief, porn + plot, joel is clearly pining for you lol, angst, lots n lots of tension, flashbacks of drunk sex, he loves pushing it, teasing, praise kink, oral sex, denial of feelings, admitting feelings?, joel can't take it anymore

this is chapter 4 of dried roses - there are currently 6 chapters uploaded on ao3 <3

chapter 1 link

chapter 2 link

chapter 3 link

a/n: i highly recommend reading the first three chapters for lots and lots context and tension building reasons, but feel free to do whatever you like! thank u for reading 💫

--

“What?”

“Huh? You need my help? What’re you—“ 

“The lightbulb in the laundry room fucking blew up!” 

You give a thorough presentation of what you'd just witnessed - complete with gestures, wide eyes, and the brand new bulb still clutched tightly in hand. 

“Are you hurt?” He grabs your jaw, holding it in both hands as he inspects your face in the soft glow of the porch light. 

Fragile little moths vie for space in the luminescence, transfixed and disoriented. Their itty-bitty brains, failing to recollect what it is they do without the sweet seduction of artificial light. 

“I'm fine."

He immediately starts looking over the rest of your body, as if he didn’t hear you. That, or he doesn’t believe you. 

“Joel - I’m fine. I just need your help replacing it. I can’t reach.” 

He gets on one knee, focused, scanning your bare legs for any nicks.

The crisp night air bites at your exposed skin. Goosebumps rise where his warm, rough fingertips brush against your smooth legs. The juxtaposition makes your ears hot.

“I’m okay, Joel. Really.” 

He looks up from where he’s bent, his features softer than before. Relief, maybe.

A familiar ache materializes between your legs at the sight of him on his knees, his weary eyes fixed on yours. 

There it is. 

The reason you’d been avoiding him - the way he draws you in an instant. Beguiles you. Makes you dumb. 

Like those idiot moths with their pinheaded brains, casting shadows with their paper wings in that charming, charming light.

“Nice shirt.” He nods at the flannel you’re wearing, hands still gripping your left leg.   

You look down at your shirt - his shirt. 

“I was cold,” you mutter, a little too defensively.  

A whisper of a smirk pulls at the corners of his mouth as a dark shade of pink seeps into your cheeks. 

“Cold,” he echoes. “Poor girl. Gettin’ chillier at night, huh?”

He tugs at the hem of your skimpy sleep shorts.

“That why you’re wearin’ these? Put ‘em on to keep ya nice ’n warm?” 

You bat his hand away, cursing at him under your breath. 

“Scuse me if I wasn’t expecting to be on my porch talking to you...At night...In the freezing cold.”

“Well. Show me to the laundry room - ‘fore ya freeze to death.” The lines surrounding his sleep-worn eyes crease with a grin. “Since my flannel ’n those teeny little shorts ain’t cuttin’ it.” 

He grunts, knees cracking as he rises.

“Such an old man,” you tease, hoping it'll piss him off enough to keep the heat off you and your choice in sleepwear.  

“Such a fuckin’ brat,” he grumbles under his breath, following you through the doorway. 

Success...But at what cost, if it has your stomach is doing somersaults? 

You lead him to the glass-covered room, halting at its threshold.

“Wait—” 

You grab his arm. 

“—there’s still glass on the floor.” 

He glances down at the lightbulb in your hand, then back at you. The line between his brows deepens with a scowl. 

“Kid, don’t tell me you tried changin’ that all by yourself with glass coverin' the damn floor.”

“Um…” 

He heaves a defeated sigh.

“Christ.” He pinches at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “You didn’t even think to put on slippers first?” 

You look down at your pedicured toes. You let Sarah pick the color when you took her and Romy to the nail salon last Tuesday. 

“I was careful,” you mumble, focus still remaining on your shiny toes. 

“Baby…” 

“What?” Your eyes snap back to him, something like concern painting his features. “I almost had it before you knocked on the door."

“Yeah? How were ya reachin’ the light?”

“I, uh…” 

You should lie. 

"Don't go lyin’ to me, either." 

Can he read your goddamn mind now?  

"I was standing on the washing machine. Reaching out - um - reaching as far as I could.”

He scoffs, hands on his hips. 

"Now, why am I gonna tell you that was a bad idea?"

"Lots 'a reasons," you answer with a shrug.

"Lots 'n lots." He shakes his head.

“I almost had it, I swear,” you say, with convincing, wide eyes. “But then you knocked like a maniac on my front door. Scared the shit outta me.“

He scratches at the scruff on his jaw. It looks more grown out than the last time you’d seen him. 

“Shit, sweetheart," he chuckles. "Here I was, thinkin’ I shouldn’t be worryin’ about ya as much as I do.” 

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry. 

“Okay - can we stop making fun of me and get this over with, please?” you ask, trying to ignore the fact that he sits at home thinking about you enough to draw worry. 

Thinking about you - not just how wet you get for him.

“Sure, darlin’. Since y’asked nicely.” 

You roll your eyes and pass him the lightbulb. 

“Wrong wattage,” he says as soon as he inspects it. 

“What? How did you—“

“Got the same fixture at my house. Uses 60 watt. This is 100. S'why the last one blew.” 

“Oh,” you say sheepishly, hugging at your torso. 

How can you be responsible for three kids if you have can’t even change a fucking lightbulb?

“S’okay, honey. Happens all the time.” He squeezes your shoulder. “Go get somethin’ on your feet so you can sweep this mess up. I’ll run back to my house ’n grab the right bulb.” 

“You don’t have to—“

“You asked for my help. Ain't a problem. You ever need anything—“

He pauses. Clears his throat.

“—S'no problem.” 

“Thanks, Joel.” You offer him a slight smile. 

“I’ll be quick. Don’t go tryin’ anything while I’m gone.”

You smirk, raising a brow - mischief written all over your face. 

“Don’t,” he repeats, all strict and rigid this time.

”You’re no fun."

“You’ll break a damn bone,” he mutters on his way out. 

You bolt towards your bathroom as soon as the front door squeaks shut. A flustered expression stares back at you in the mirror.

Your cheeks and the tip of your nose are flushed, your hair is still wet, your pupils are blown wide as if you’d just snorted a fucking line, and you can barely see the hem of your shorts beneath the flannel.

This stupid-ass flannel. 

You should burn it. 

“Fuck,” your breath fogs your reflection.

Nothing you can do now - he’s already seen you.

You can’t change. Can’t put on pants or a new shirt. He’ll just make fun of you. Make you blush worse than you already are.

You’d just be giving him what he wants - to see you fold at the hands of his little games and southern charm. 

You pull on some wool socks and slip into a pair of plush, tan slippers, promptly getting to work on clearing the glass shards scattering the floor. 

You’re throwing the remains of the dead bulb away when you hear the creak of the front door, followed by Joel’s heavy footsteps. 

“Maybe I’ll fix that damn door next,” he snaps, a little white box in hand. “You got a step-stool?"

“No.”

“A ladder?” 

You shake your head.

“Your daddy ain’t got a ladder lyin’ around here somewhere?”

You choke on nothing, as if he'd siphoned all the air from your lungs.

You honestly thought he’d have figured it out by now - your parents’ out of town jaunt had gone on suspiciously long. You thought Sarah would’ve told him they were dead, or that Ro would’ve joked about it, like she does a little too often. 

You’d meant to tell him, obviously. You’ve just been a little too masterful at avoiding him recently. 

Tonight, you think. You'll tell him tonight. 

You caused this mess, you’ll clean it up. Just like the damn lightbulb. 

You clear your throat inconspicuously. Or at least you hope it’s inconspicuous with the way he’s looking at you side-ways. 

“He’s, uh - he’s not really all that...handy.” 

Not anymore, at least.

“Alright. Well.” He looks beyond you. Nods. “Let’s get you up on that counter, then.” 

You glance over your shoulder at the island behind you. 

“Huh?” 

The last time you and him were anywhere near that counter—

“Get up on that counter so I can put you on my shoulders. Ain’t no other way 'a doin' this. ‘Less you got a better idea.” 

“I can’t—“

“C’mon, scaredy-cat,” he teases, leading you to the edge of the counter with his hand on the back of your neck. “Better than breakin’ an arm, fallin’ off that damn washin’ machine."

“Only almost broke my arm ‘cause of you,” you mumble.

“Uh-huh,” he hums. “You’re real good at lyin’ to yourself, honey.” 

You kick off your slippers and hoist yourself up on the counter, cautiously straightening your legs as you stand.  

“Oh, god,” you say, horrified. 

“Y’alright, sweetheart?” Joel asks, lining himself up in front of you.

“Yeah - I just really need to clean the top of the fridge. Sick,” you cringe.

“Christ. Hop on, already.” 

You squat, wrapping one leg over his shoulder, then the other, while he stabilizes you with one hand on your thigh and the other on your lower-back.

His hands are big. Warm. And it makes your head swim, the way his calloused fingers spread over your thigh, digging into you the plush skin there. You could fucking scream. 

Dumb little moth.

You can already feel a damp spot forming at your core through the thin fabric of your shorts. Your cheeks burn, hoping Joel can't feel his effect on you against the back of his neck.

A quiet snicker coming from below tells you otherwise. 

“Ah - fuck,” you yelp when he begins to move. You grab onto his arm for stability. 

“I gotch’a, sweet girl. Ain’t gonna let ya fall,” he squeezes your thigh and reinforces his hand on the small of your back.  

You nod as if he can see you, tucking your feet on either side of his torso while he makes his way to the threshold of the laundry room. 

He waits to walk through until you lower yourself into him, your nose buried into his messy curls. He smells like sawdust, sweat, and the faintest acrid tinge of cigarettes. 

“You smoke?” you ask, regaining your balance as you straighten your torso. 

Your breath catches when slides his hand from your back, placing it on your other thigh. 

“No - not since Sarah. Think that stops my brother from smokin’ around me all goddamn day on the job?"

You inhale, about to take a wild guess. 

"No," he answers for you. "Ain't nothin' I can say that'll get 'im to quit."

“Oh. What’s your brother’s—“

“Did you unscrew the base ‘a the other bulb before ya tried switchin’ it out?” he interrupts again. 

“No.” 

“Coulda done it yourself though, huh? 'f I didn’t go knockin’ on that door?” 

“Shut up,” you swat the top of his head. 

"Easy," he huffs a laugh.

You reach up towards the fixture, stalling at the sound of his voice.

“Careful, baby - could still have some glass stuck to it.” 

“I got it, Joel. Calm down, before your old heart gives out.”

“Watch it, smartass.” 

You giggle to yourself, carefully unscrewing the base of the bulb. It's glassless.  

“Come to think of it,” you continue, handing him the remains of the dead bulb, “what’re you doing here so late, again? Isn’t it, like, way past your bedtime?” 

“Ain’t that old,” he spits, fishing the white box from his shirt pocket and passing it up to you. 

“Whatever you say, Mr. Miller."

His fingertips dig into your skin. 

"Grumpy, old Mr. Miller," you mock. "You ask anyone to get off your lawn yet?"

He grumbles something you can't hear over the sound of your continued giggling. 

You unbox the new bulb and crane your neck, looking for the socket with the crumb of light the hallway has to offer.

“What does that make you then, huh?" He squeezes at your thigh. "Beggin’ an old guy to fuck you twice now.” 

Jesus Christ. 

The giggling ceases when your jaw drops, thankful he's unable to witness the look on your face. 

It takes you a second to pull it together, but you do. You always do. 

“Makes me an innocent victim of whatever mid-life crisis you’re dealing with.” 

“Good to know that mouth 'a yours hasn't gotten any better," he chides. 

You snicker, reaching for the light fixture. 

“Weird,” he starts. “Y’were real polite the last time I saw ya. Sayin’ please ‘n thank you like such a good girl.”

Your smile evaporates and your hand jerks, slipping the bulb out of the socket you’d just found.

You shouldn’t have started with him. Shouldn’t have tried to get the last word. 

What you should’ve done, is wear underwear. The wetness pooling between your legs has you squirming on his shoulders. He presses your thighs down in an attempt to keep you still. 

You reach for the fixture in silence - jaw tight, heart pounding in your throat - once again happy he can’t see you, considering your cheeks might stain with whatever shade of blush he’s carefully picked out for you this time. 

“Awe, ’s ’a matter, darlin’?” he coos. “Nothin’ to say? Y’always got somethin’ for me.”

Your chest tightens and you try to ignore the way his neck is pressing against your wet cunt. 

“Don’t have anything nice you say,” you answer coolly, “and my dad always taught me to respect my elders.” 

He doesn't miss a fucking beat. 

“So you thought you’d - what? Fuck one? I’m thinkin’ that ain’t what your daddy meant by 'respect', pretty girl.”  

You raise a brow. 

“No,” you reply quickly. “But I felt bad for you - sitting there all scowly and pissed off on your birthday. Thought I’d just give you something to remember since you won’t be able to get it up in a couple years.”

You feel his shoulders bounce as he pushes out a breathless, shocked laugh.

“Goddamn, sweetheart. You are fuckin’ relentless.”

A beat of silence. 

And then—

“Thought I finally fucked that outta you.” 

Alright. Fuck this.  

The heartbeat in your ears sounds like a goddamn drum line.  

You fight every urge to say something back, chewing so hard at your bottom lip, you're sure it'll bruise.  

Whatever you want to say back, he’ll just come back with something that’ll piss you off more. Something that’ll go straight to your core - make you ache with desire and frustration and the need to hear his smug fucking drawl in your ear while he stretches you out.

You lose. Whatever. 

“You gonna get this done anytime soon? Ain’t got all night, sweetheart," he adds, just to push you over the edge. 

“Stop distracting me then, asshole.” 

He laughs in response, which irritates you more than it should.

“What’re you even doing here so late, anyways? You that desperate for company?” 

"Like I said - came to grab Sarah’s backpack.” 

You finally catch your breath enough to find the damned light socket, pushing the base of the lightbulb in before pausing to look down at his curls and the slope of his nose. 

“Y’know, Ro coulda just brought it with her to school tomorrow. Didn’t have to come over.”

“Sure. But you’d be layin’ in a pile ‘a glass if I didn’t.”

You exhale sharply - the ache between your legs, begging you to wrap this up.

“Wouldn’t get to ask why you been avoidin’ me, either.” 

Your stomach sinks like rock in a pond, your wrist locking mid-twist. 

“I-I wasn’t - I haven’t been - I’m not.” 

“Sweetheart, you’re a god awful liar. Thought I already told you that.” 

You sigh through your nose. 

No avoiding him now. Not when you’re trapped - held captive on his broad-ass shoulders.

“I - fine,” you rasp. “I’ve dodged you a few times.” 

“You gonna tell me why?” 

“Because. It’s just—“

There's a million and one things you could say - excuses you could make. But the real reason was one Maya had so lovingly pointed out that one Sunday at the café. You were scared shitless.  

“—Did you have to wait til I was six feet in the air to bring this up?” 

“No. But this works even better.” You can hear his smug grin. “Ain’t nowhere for you run off to.” 

"Mm," you hum, twisting at the lightbulb. 

Right-tighty, you mutter to yourself. 

“So? What is it?” he presses.

You think of the kids. Your parents. The sick feeling that forms in your stomach when you daydream about what it would be like to have Joel take you on a date - to feel more than just lust. 

“Like I told you before, Joel. It’s complicated.” 

“Think it’s a little more than complicated,” he mutters below you. 

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” you bite, a final twist of your wrist finally locking the bulb in place. 

He walks over to test the light switch. 

“Attagirl,” he says when light fills the room. “Think there’s somethin’ you ain’t tellin’ me,” he continues “,runnin’ off like a goddamn schoolgirl all week instead.” 

That strikes a nerve. You feel it in the stinging warmth of your ears. 

Your head feels numb, along with your thighs, which Joel still grips onto with his big, stupid, warm, rough fucking hands. 

You want to deflect - say something that’ll cut him just as deep - but instead, you just ask him to let you down. 

You scale down his body - with his guidance - carefully placing one foot on the floor, followed by the other. 

He turns to face you, leaning against the dryer while you stand there, cloaked in his flannel and crimson cheeks. 

“Thanks for helping, Joel, but it’s getting late—” 

“Don’t think you meant what you said the other day." His drawl is deep and gruff and low.

“What? When?” 

“In the kitchen. You said it was a mistake - what we did. Don’t think ya meant it.” 

You toy with excess fabric of your sleeve, bunching it into your fist, like a make-shift stress ball. 

“What d’you care what I meant?” 

“Think you liked it too damn much for it to be a mistake. Think you loved it.”

“That’s not - you know, you’re really - it doesn’t...Did you just come here to interrogate me?” You cross your arms. 

“I fuckin’ knew it,” he laughs. The type of smug laugh comes out of him when he’s caught you in something. 

“Knew what?” You squeeze at the ball of plaid in your hand. 

“After the bar...” he trails off, pointing in the direction in your room. “And in the kitchen. It felt different for you, too.”

Too?

You open your mouth, about to say something. You're not even sure what. 

“Don’t even try, darlin’,” he snaps. It’s like he can see the wheels turning in your head - struggling to find a way to deflect your way out of this. 

“Fine,” you admit. “It felt different. Both times it was - it felt - different. There you go,” your eyes fixate on a scuff mark scarring the tile. “Happy?”

You hear footsteps nearing. His boots come into view. The culprits of the scuff mark. 

"And?"

"What do you want me to say, Joel?" Your eyes flit up, locking on his for a split second before they're back on his work-worn boots. 

"Want you to tell me what the hell's goin' on with you, so I can get some goddamn sleep for once. Want you to tell me to stay the hell away, ‘f that’s what ya want. Tired ‘a tossin’ ’n fuckin’ turnin’, wonderin’ either way.” 

“Alright," you hiss. "Okay. I didn't mean what I said before in the kitchen. It wasn’t - I didn't think it was a mistake. You were right, okay?" 

“What else, baby?”

His low drawl goes straight to your core, making your knees feel wobbly.

“It doesn’t matter.” The fabric in your hand grows warm as your palms start to sweat. 

“Yeah?” he presses. 

He lifts your jaw with his finger and thumb, forcing you to meet his sullen gaze.

“That why y’can’t even look at me?” 

You grab his wrist, his brown eyes shifting between yours.

Maya's words hang in your head like a haunted oil painted. 

You have feelings for him. Tell him, or you'll end up alone. Tell him, or you'll end up like Wes. Alone forever, teeth stained with hazelnut latte and fingers with ink from the obituary section of the Sunday paper. 

"S'okay, babygirl. You can tell me."

He traces his thumb over your bottom lip, stirring something in your tummy. 

“I—“

Your eyes dart to his lips, then his neck, then back to his eyes - darkening by the second. 

Tell him. Tell him. Tell him. 

“I have, um,” you stutter. 

The little hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention as he pushes a strand of loose hair behind your ear.

“It’s just that - there’s some things that I—“

Fucking tell him, dumbass. 

“I have - I want—“ 

A muscle feathers in his jaw.  

“I want you to fuck me.” 

Close enough.

You grab at his shirt, crashing your lips into his, leaning your full body-weight against him. 

He backs you both up against the washer, parting his lips for you - your tongues intertwining, along with frantic, subdued moans. 

He tastes like he did the night after the bar.

Whiskey and lust. 

He runs his hands over the curves of your body, slipping one underneath your shirt. He cups your breast, pinching lightly at your nipple until it pebbles between his fingers, eliciting a pathetic whine from you - stifled by the way he sucks on your tongue. 

“Christ,” he grits. “Fuckin’ perfect.” 

You’re overwhelmed and overstimulated, your mind only focused on one thing.

Dumb, dumb, dumb little moth. 

“Fuck me, Joel,” you sigh into his open mouth. “Please.” 

“Ain’t gonna fuck ya, darlin’.” 

You freeze, pulling back from his lips.

“What?” you pant, eyes pitiful with need as you wipe at your mouth.

“‘M not gonna fuck you. Didn’t see ya damn near two weeks after the last time.” 

You clench your jaw, brows pinched, biting at the inside of your cheek. 

He slides his hand out from underneath your shirt, cradling your cheeks in both palms. 

“Oh, don’t at me like that, angel. Can’t fuck ya ‘f you’re gonna be hidin' from me after.” 

Your eyes flit down to his belt, then snap back to his sullen gaze. 

That’s when it clicks for you - Joel may actually have feelings. And you think you might’ve hurt them. 

You break free from his hands on your face and reach for his belt buckle. 

The metal jingles, filling your determined silence as you work quickly to unlatch it. Then the button of his jeans. Then his zipper. 

He says your name. Stern. Gruff. Like a warning.

You get on your knees in front of him. The cold tile kisses your aching kneecaps as you slide his jeans down his thighs, his boxers following suit. 

His cock springs free, sitting right in front of your lips. 

“The hell d’you think you’re doin’?”

He’s big. Bigger than you remember him being in your tequila-fueled haze. It has you questioning the logistics of how the hell he had ever fit inside of you. 

“You hearin’ me? What d’you think you're doin'?“

You look up at him with glossed eyes. 

“Apologizing.”  

You take the tip of his length, collecting a bead of precum with a swirl of your tongue - a quiet grunt falling from his lips as steadies himself against the washer. 

“Fuck," he rasps. 

You part your lips - grab at his thighs - pushing him further and further into your mouth, until your cheeks hollow and you’ve reached the coarse, peppered hair at the base of his cock.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls, gathering your damp hair in his fist, drawing a small whimper from the back of your throat. 

You pull back, slowly licking up his shaft, while he whispers praises that aren't doing anything to ease the ache that's pent up in your core.

You take him deeper, deeper, until you gag, tears stinging at your eyes as you back off, releasing his dick with a *pop*.

You pant, wiping at a tear that’s escaped without your permission.

“Oh, I know, sweet girl. I know,” he coos. “’S a lot to take, huh? Too much for ya?” 

You hold up a hand - telling him without words to fuck off — relaxing your jaw and taking a deep breath through your nose, picking right back up where you left off. 

Just to spite him. 

Your fingers dig into his skin as you pick up the pace, your head bobbing, knee caps groaning in harmony with Joel. 

“Good fuckin’ girl." He grasps tighter at the base of your hair. “This all I had to do to fix that damn mouth ‘a yours? Stuff it full ‘a my cock?”

You want to call him an asshole. Tell him to kiss your ass.

You try, but it just comes out as a slurred hum round his shaft. 

You take note of the way it makes Joel's cock twitch on your tongue. The way it makes him swear under his breath and tighten his grip in your hair. 

Slowly, slowly you push, until you reach the base once more, drawing a moan from the back of your throat, willing yourself not to choke. 

“Jesus fuckin' Christ," he snarls, drawing you off with a tug of your hair - taking his time - watching the length of him slide out from your swollen lips. “Up. Off your knees, pretty girl.” 

You listen, rising on trembling legs to meet his fucked-out gaze. 

He wipes the spit off your chin with his thumb. 

“I forgive you.” He grabs at your frame, flipping you around so you face the washer. "I forgive you, angel." 

He wraps one arm around you, pulling you flush against his chest before slipping a hand underneath the waistband of your shorts - his hard cock pressed firmly against your ass.

You’re dizzy with it all. The taste of him on your tongue. Your body wrapped in his. His honeyed drawl in your ear. 

You gasp, his name tumbling out of your mouth in a quiet yelp when he finds your poor, neglected clit - aching since the moment you’d seen him at your front door. 

“Dirty fuckin’ girl.” His voice is low and rough against your ear. “Knew ya weren’t wearin’ any panties. Think I couldn’t feel how fuckin’ wet you were on my shoulders?” 

You reach behind, fingers tangling through his curls as he traces steadied circles on your clit, his stubble scraping against your skin while places gentle kisses along the shape of your jaw.

Your breath hitches when his other hand snakes up, spreading his fingers lightly around your neck.

“Fuck me, Joel,” you plead breathlessly. 

“I know, baby." He tightens his grip around your neck. “Been ready for it all night, huh? Soaked through your pretty lil’ shorts ’n everything.” 

You answer with a broken moan, choking on the pleasure he’s building in your core. 

“Joel,” you whine, “I’ll stop - stop avoiding you. I won’t do it anymore. I - fuck - I promise. Please. Just fuck me. Please, I need you to—“

The Universe is fucking with you. It has to be. Because just for fun, it provides you its cruelest form of déjà vu in the form of footsteps echoing down the stairs. 

The sound of Romy calling out your name prompts you to rip Joel’s hand from your neck and shove him backward - gathering yourself while you hear the sound of his zipper and the clanking of his belt. 

You take a deep breath, trying to slow your pulse thrumming in your wrists. 

Joel rubs at his forehead, a deep, frustrated sigh tumbling out of him.  

“Hello?” Romy’s grumbly voice filters down the hall. 

“In here,” you try to hide the apprehension in your tone. 

Joel draws distance between you two as Romy’s shadow slowly approaches. 

“I just had the worst fucking dream - oh—“ she starts when she sees Joel, standing there with his arms crossed “—um - sorry Mr. Miller, I didn’t know…What are you doing here? Isn’t it, like, late?” 

“Yes,” you say before Joel has a chance to speak. “He came to grab Sarah’s backpack."

“Why are you both in here?” She raises a brow. 

“The lightbulb,” you and Joel answer in unison, pointing up towards the glowing 60 watt. 

“O…kay,” she says warily. 

“The backpack," Joel interjects. “Any idea where I can find it?” 

“Thought she asked me to just to bring it to school tomorrow.” 

“Thought I’d just grab it tonight. Make it easier on ya.” He scratches at his neck. 

“Um, okay. It’s on one of the barstools in the kitchen, I think.” 

You both follow her into the kitchen like lost ducklings, and sure enough - Sarah’s backpack. 

Romy pours herself a glass of water while Joel zips Sarah’s backpack closed, making sure everything’s situated. 

“Alright, well. I should get back. Gettin’ late.” 

“Thank you for your help,” you offer, the frog in your throat struggling to escape. 

“Anytime, darlin’. Y’all have a good night.” 

“Goodnight, Mr. Miller,” Romy says sleepily.

Just before he’s almost out of the kitchen, he pivots. 

“Before I forget - I got an extra ladder your dad can have.” 

The blood stills in your veins.

Your eyes dart over to Romy, who’s choking on a sip of water. 

“It’s old, but it’ll do the job. Lemme know when your parents get back. I’ll come drop it off for ‘im.” 

Fuck.

“Ro, you should get back to bed—“

“What?” she asks Joel with a slight tilt of her head.

“Your parents? Should be gettin’ back soon, right? Been gone awhile.” 

Romy stares at him vacantly.

Your mouth gapes, trying to get words out. Any words at all. 

You finally know what those stupid fucking deer feel like when they trot right in front of a moving car. 

You lock eyes with Joel, begging him silently to shut the hell up. 

You see the moment it clicks for him. The way his body language shifts. 

Romy points at you meekly. Then at Joel. Then back at you.

“What’s he talking about?”

“I - uh,” your voice breaks. 

“You know what, kiddo,” Joel starts, “I must be mistaken—“

“Did you tell him Mom and Dad were out of town?”

“Ro,” you plead softly. “Please, just go back to bed.” 

“Why?” She glowers. You can hear the lump in her throat. 

“It’s - I didn’t think that - I was going to—“

“Didn’t think that...What? I could stay friends with someone long enough for you to have to break the news?” 

Not exactly. But you couldn’t tell her that you lied, thinking you’d never see Mr. Miller again the morning after you’d fucked him. 

“It’s complicated,” you strain. Your eyes sting as pressure starts to build behind them.

Complicated. The word is starting to lose all meaning. 

“It’s not complicated.” The exasperation in her tone slices into you like a dagger.

“Romy,” you warn. “Please.” 

“They’re not on vacation,” she spits with thick, stinging venom. 

She locks eyes with Joel, who looks just as horrified as you. 

“They’re dead.” 

--

ao3 link: crazycomet 💫

[cherrari]

As someone who has tried to get into F1 but couldn't. I always go to your blog just to see what has happened in F1. It seems so much fun to watch but I can't seem to find a team or driver to root for. Maybe that's why I don't get too invested🥲 Do you have any suggestions on how to get into f1

the f1 yt channel has a lot of videos like "best of..." and "top 10 moments" that i think are fun! i find f1 fans (wrongly) look down on them since they're presented without context for non-fans and not so much existing ones, but imho they're good for understanding the actual sport better or learning about iconic moments without having to watch full races for them. the grill the grid videos (miniseries where they play quiz games) are good for getting to know the drivers. and then there are some race recaps i think are interesting to watch even if you don't watch the full season.

actually i have a list of all of the above from last year when i was trying to get my friends into f1 lol...

yt compilations: top 10 safety cars, top 10 sportsmanship, top 10 cooldown rooms, top 10 tearjerkers, top 10 presscons, historical memes -> here's the full playlist from the official channel, there's a LOT

grill the grids: name every champion, a-z race winners, youngest to oldest challenge, driver heights -> full playlist

race recaps (short): 2021 baku, 1996 monaco, 2017 baku, 2021 silverstone, 2020 turkey, 2024 brazil

race recaps (docu-style): 2024 monza, 2012 brazil, 2018 germany, 2020 sakhir, 2024 jeddah

also this 2 hour video on the 2016 season is very good

[jellyfemmedyke]

I'm starting to consider "just go read Whipping Girl" to be a transandrophobic microaggression at this point. Especially given how the author admitted openly that she was intentionally ignoring the perspectives of anyone who isn't a binary fem-presenting white trans women. Feels like being told to read an instructional book on playing the drums to learn to play the piano when you already know how to play the piano and were doing so correctly before someone interrupted you to yell at you about how you're doing it wrong and won't be able to do it right until you read this book about drums that specifically says on the first page "this book is not about pianos" I mean how else are we meant to take that other than a bigoted thought terminating cliche employed specifically to silence oppressed people who are just trying to talk about their problems.

(And it's really funny for that person to come on to someone else's post to explain their own oppression to them only to go "just read whipping girl I don't have time for this" the second they get any push back. Tell me you don't have any understanding of your own beliefs and just parrot what a book from 2007 says anytime anyone doesn't immediately agree with you without telling me that.)

that''s such a good analogy too though, tbh I don't think that most people who say "go read whipping girl" have actually read whipping girl. I think they're getting quotes from the book and nodding they're head vigorously because it confirms their biases. Like a good chunk of the book is literally her loudly making assumptions about other trans people in relation to her own experiences, that are just provably false. The only parts that are any good are the ones where she talks about trans women only and specifically, where she is not trying to compare our oppression, or paint everyone else as having it better.

I 100% consider "Just read whipping girl" to be a dismissive microaggression in this context. It only seems to be used when someone is trying to silence trans men or non binary people who are not a specific kind of trans women. It's even used to try and silence trans women who support trans men too. Also I don't think that person was expecting the kind of pushback that he was getting lol. I noticed that's when ppl start whipping out the whipping girl the most

[kenzan-brainrot-mp4]

Hello! The twist ending of PYIH kind of shocked me. 'Twas really foolish of me for thinking that for the entirety of Kiryu's saga, Majima has just that twisted obsession with Kiryu, being a "Mad Dog" and all. I came across your PYIH analysis the other day and it really brought home what they were conveying with the ending.

I'm still having trouble wrapping my head around the premise of PYIH. Is the sole purpose of Majima's "filming/documentary(?)" is to rehearse telling it to Kiryu? Because if it had been, that would be even crazier.

Oh, and at this point, is it even reasonable right now to interpret their relationship as platonic or brotherly? What do you think?

YEAHHHHH imo I think yakuza kenzan yakuza 3 (rooftop scene) is where we first truly starting seeing a glimpse of a deeper dynamic between Majima and Kiryu that goes beyond the "weird twisted obsession" reading, and we see more examples of it later as the series goes on (gestures at yakuza 5 and IW) but moments like those were decently subtle/blink-and-you'll-miss-it (not to mention they lessen in frequency also probably in part to Majima's lessening screentime throughout the series), but pyih's ending really goes out of its way to ensure that you actually Know how deep and genuine Majima's feelings are, which I am both extremely appreciative of and Kinda Crazy about

I think the whole documentary thing is interesting. Given the fact that they went out of their way to get the equipment/crew/etc. for the "film version", I would say that the Majima's retelling of his story at the studio and at Kiryu's bedside serve different purposes, and that him telling the story on set was not specifically for Kiryu (what Majima plans to do with the "film version" I'm not completely sure, but I guess for now we can assume it's just a project Majima wanted to do while getting Majima Construction back off the ground?) I'd say the premise of pyih is both to retell Majima's story as he presents it to the "general audience" And Kiryu, hence why the game starts with one and ends with the other. It's the same story to everyone, for the mostpart, and the main difference between the two 'versions' is How he presents it (to the cameras/the players/main audience he puts on the fuckass pirate costume and the theatrics, to Kiryu he tells it to him straight, without the extra show stuff for the cameras. We can Assume the story he tells to each audience is practically identical, considering that the cutscene of him telling it to us in the beginning of the game and him telling it to KIryu at the end of the game use identical lines (cough cough in the Japanese audio), but his tone of voice between the two are notably very different)

Uhhhh shoot I don't know if any of that made sense 💀 Point is I think Majima telling the story of pyih is, in fact, meant for Everyone, it's just that Kiryu gets a sort of special, more authentically told version of it if you will (After all, Majima could've just shown Kiryu the film when it was finally done, but instead he went out of his way to tell it to him personally)

As for the question of "is kazumaji canon now", WOO boy. First of all I actually lowkey want to thank you for asking that question, I've been wanting to post about it for a while now but kept putting it off lol. I mulled over this exact question quite a bit during the week-or-so long time period that I was writing most of my analysis after finishing the game, and, despite the fact that I myself am very vocal about liking kazumaji in a romantic scenario/context, I would not personally call it canon, and I say it is still absolutely reasonable to interpret them as platonic.

While many of the aspects we see in their relationship (especially on Majima's end) such as obsession, devotion, etc. etc. are often associated with romantic interest (Especially in fandom spaces), I don't think they have to be considered specifically romantic. People who have read through my posts may remember a while back that I did an analysis of The Sun at 36.5 wondering if the song was written with the intent to represent Majima's feelings towards Kiryu (for the record this was incorrect and the meaning behind it goes past the scope of the game) and I was going pretty insane about it lol. That's because, had the song been written with that in mind, it would've meant with almost 100% certainly that they would be, in fact, canon, and that would've been Insane. However, this is not the case, and other than that theory I had there's nothing else in the games that would specifically state that either one has Explicitly Romantic feelings towards the other. Do they have a very deep and complex relationship, the likes of which they don't share with many other characters? Definitely. Is it explicitly romantic? I wouldn't say so

The main example I would like to bring up to argue against it would be minedai (*cough* my second favorite yakuza ship I fucking Love Mine Yoshitaka so much he's one of my favorites). I'll link this amazing post with all the examples but essentially, while minedai and kazumaji share many of the same themes in their relationship/dynamic (again, obsession, devotion, you get the drill (can you tell Majima and Mine are two of my favorite characters yet LOL)) the main difference between them is that, with minedai, it is basically outright said Multiple Times in Multiple Sources outside of even Yakuza 3 itself that Mine loved Daigo, with words used Specifically to convey strong romantic connotations, a choice rgg went out of their way to make every single time they wrote about them together. Kazumaji, on the other hand, does not use these kinds of words to describe each other, whether it be in words coming from Kiryu and Majima themselves, or official relationship charts, descriptions, etc.

Can feelings including romance be heavily implied without needing to be explicitly stated? Absolutely, but with the way rgg tends to Very Obviously and Explicitly state when characters Are romantically interested in each other, and also simply because there is still (imo) plenty of room to read kazumaji as Not romantic, I wouldn't say it's canon. And for the record, I wanna reiterate that this is coming from someone who is personally very enthusiastic about kazumaji as a ship, so I'm trying to be purely objective here, and that is my verdict (Also this is just a random aside, but I really don't agree with the people who are (unironically) labelling Kiryu and Majima's relationship as "queerbaiting". but that's a whole other discussion entirely)

Thank you for shooting an ask !!

[wolsalwastaken]

I know i always post art content, but I've just gotten some incredible new life stuff happening and I wanted to share it with the internet because, well, it's really cool!

A few content warnings for snakes, as well as mentions of animal breeding (in a scientific context).

OK with that out of the way, l (as some of you may already be aware) absolutely love snakes, l've wanted to be a snake breeder since I was 5 years old. It's essentially my life goal. I especially love hognose snakes, they're easily one of my favorite species! I've had a big female hog named Petunia for a few years now, and every year she lays an infertile clutch of eggs. I haven't been ready to breed her in previous years for a variety of reasons.

This year however, I noticed during the winter she was staying on the cold end of her tank, sleeping the whole time, refusing food. She had brumated herself without prompting! This was interesting enough as is, but once she woke up a few weeks ago for the spring, I noticed she was... weirdly restless. Constantly surfing glass, exploring every inch of her tank 24/7, just frankly very odd behavior. I checked her temperature, all good. Humidity, all good. She eats great so I know it wasn't a hunger thing.

Then I realized- there wasn't anything wrong with her. She was looking for a male snake for mating season! (Pictured below is her watching me after a meal since she wanted more food... lol)

The problem? I didn't have a male hognose of breeding age + size for her. So she'd spend another year without a boy.

Usually, this would be where this story ends. Uneventful.

But, as you can guess that's not where it ends.

A few days ago, I happened upon an ad of someone rehoming their reptile collection. In that collection was a healthy adult male hognose who had just woken up from his brumation cycle...

He was reasonably priced so l just decided "fuck it" and reached out. I was driving to pick him up that same day!

Enter: Borat, the male Hognose. First step was to weigh him in to make sure he was big enough to breed. He was 2 years old, 1 year past the minimum breeding age, so I placed him on my kitchen scale… fingers crossed…

65 grams! He was breeding size!

Usually I’d wait about a week before even attempting to feed a new addition to my collection. However, given the ticking timer and the fact I was informed he was an amazing eater, I just decided to try feeding him the next day. Just to see.

He took his meal instantly! Great!

So, the next step was to introduce the 2. The most nerve wracking part of this whole process… snakes are territorial and fighting can occur. Cannibalism is also a rare, yet present threat. Or simply disinterest in one another. This could make or break this pair. So, the day after their meals after having time to digest, I put Borat in with Petunia, holding my breath as I watched them meet…

It went great! They took to each other near immediately, Petunia doing the breeding twitch and Borat smelling and following her. Now I just had to wait until I saw the first lock, probably a few days…

Well, that’s what I would’ve said if they didn’t start locking and mating within 30 minutes of their first meeting.

Some educational photos of what a Hognose snake lock looks like!

That was about 24 hours ago. They mated for 6 hours and are still housed together, and will be until I can confirm at least 2 more locks.

So, that’s my little life update! I’m currently prepping for eggs and getting ready to care for a clutch of baby hognoses. I’ll try to post updates as this story progresses!

(And, to quell any worries, no he is not too small for her. Male hognoses are, on average, anywhere from 1/2 to 1/3 the size of a female hognose. Since she has acknowledged him as a sire, she will not attack or eat him.)

Some bonus pics of Petunia and Borat snuggling under their heat lamp in their cork tube as a thank-you for reading this far down! Because you know what’s cuter than 1 hognose? 2 hognoses! Cuddling!

(Yes I know that they’re just kleptotherming but yk what it’s still cute)

[liesineyes]

The amount of people I see saying Charlie has no right to be angry or upset at Babe because apparently, he also lied to Babe in the past, faked his death - while completely forgetting the different contexts of both the situations.

It is one thing to side with one character or to not understand nuance but the other to villainize one character while forgetting canon completely.

The amount of people who treat Charlie's lies and faking his death as simply unwanted, completely ignoring what would have happened to Babe if not for Charlie there, is simply - I don't know what to say.

It is like I watched a different show than them where they even like Way more than Charlie.

The fact that people refuse to understand something so simple - that you don't have to choose right or wrong. You can find both people wrong, or both people right at the same time as well is so weird to me.

Holding Babe accountable for his plan is not equal to hating him or accusing him for the sexual assault? Where did this idea come from just because in the past Charlie lied to him, faked his death, Babe can do whatever he wants and Charlie is just supposed to suck it up? I can't be the only one who thinks this take is problematic and biased as hell.

Would you not be angry if your boyfriend hid things from you, went after a guy who had repeatedly crossed boundaries (I want to emphasize how Babe knew Willy was romantically interested in him and kept harassing him and still went with his plan), removed his couple ring and presented himself as available? I think a normal person would be angry, and even a not normal, traumatised person will be angry too.

Regarding traumas, Babe has trauma, there's no doubt but do people forget Charlie is the product of the same house, lived under the same adoptive father? Tony may have different uses of them, but in the end, they were all there for something or the other thing. Not to forget, do people forget Charlie is getting experimented on regularly and we all know this drug is what causes his memory loss, so do you not think it also affects his emotions or whatever it is?

Tbh, I get angry too when people say things like 'Babe doesn't deserve Charlie' or 'Charlie deserves better' but again, people love to take sides rather than understand the nuance. Babe was wrong for making that plan without including Charlie and no matter how many lies Charlie fed him in season one, it doesn't erase the consequences of Babe's actions.

I find it rather funny that it is the first time Charlie got angry with Babe and everyone pulls up the 'hypocrite, you lied too, faked your death too, how dare you get angry at Babe' which is just.. lol.

Trauma is very valid, it can be the reason behind someone's actions, it can to some degree give the traumatic person a leverage because the other person is supposed to take their trauma in account but trauma, in no way can excuse or justify someone's actions.

If a traumatic person punches someone when triggered, it can be said they didn't mean it, they didn't want to punch, they just didn't realise it happened and the other person can say it is fine, I know you didn't mean it but does it erase the consequences of the punch? Does it heal the bruising the punch left? Or does it make the pain felt by that punch disappear?

But in the end, this is just my opinion. I would love to hear more, if anyone has any different opinion but I do want to make it clear, I don't hate either Babe or Charlie. For me they are both traumatic people and their relationship is far from being healthy. It has been toxic from day one (can you all forget Charlie was Babe's stalker and Babe let him fuck him? The X Hunter team made bets on Charlie's face for how many days he will last as Babe's fuck boy? All this is not normal.) and it is still toxic but what else do you expect in an Omegaverse racing bl with a breeding plot and human trafficking. It is to be expected I guess... 🤷🏼‍♀️

[ssmhhh]

🚨TUA RANT🚨

hey so ummm idk if anyone out there knows this but in case some ppl are confused, the realism that mise en scène works to construct in the process of filmmaking isn’t actually real and storytelling through visual media is a whole industrial complex and professional actors are literally just workers who, in order to do their job professionally, do not feel any certain type of way about what that job entails based on your weird personal morality metrics when acting in service of the story being told.

like are any of you at all cognizant of the fact that when you see an actor portraying a character on screen it’s literally their job to not exist as that actor or the person that they are in their personal lives but instead embody the character for which they auditioned, knowing full well what that might entail? in this case having not only read the source material but already being a huge fan of it, fully aware of the nuanced, grey nature of it all??

like forgive me but if they are actually good at their job (which in this case they absolutely are) an actor shouldn’t even cross your mind as a person that exists outside of the narrative when you are watching their performance.

and are you in any way aware of the fact that with the (now very rare) exception of clearly defined lines set out by legal teams and intimacy coordinators and agents and HR being inappropriately crossed without swift repercussions, if an actor actually felt uncomfortable doing something at their job it absolutely would not go down in this day and age? and that an extremely vanilla kiss scene is not worth any semblance of hysterical hand-wringing over?

do you even realize how ridiculous it sounds when you chimp out about the fact that steve blackman has openly ‘admitted’ (as if that’s not a totally normal fucking statement to make and in no way weird or shameful or gross) that he waited until aidan was an adult with agency to give his character (who is a fucking senior citizen btw) a romantic storyline with the only character it made complete narrative sense to give him one with? this is not a “gotcha” argument it’s literally just the standard respectful thing to do… and miss me with your pearl clutching about the character’s physical age lol he’s physically like 25 by the time anything happens between them in the greenhouse.

technically the age gap goes the other way here, and honestly everyone with more than two brain cells knew the potential for this kind of thing happening given the complicated dilemmas of the character’s age. it was always going to be morally grey no matter what, and frankly, that’s what makes it compelling.

and btw, just fyi— a head writer of a multi-season tv show taking on the responsibility of planning out narrative arcs for fictional characters in very specific contexts does not, in fact, constitute what some of ya’ll so hyperbolically refer to as “fantasizing” about a fully consenting paid actor potentially being assigned a tastefully portrayed romantic storyline with another fully consenting paid ADULT actor who happened to be a ‘physical minor’ 15 years younger than them at the time (many years prior) that both parties were hired for the job, which they individually pursued with enthusiasm to obtain.

i’m sorry but there is nothing being logically presented by anyone whining about this that adequately proves there is anything wrong with it other than a personally biased laundry list of wildly reaching assumptions with zero concrete evidence and a whole lot of baseless projections.

like…you people do understand that all of these actors are doing their jobs and it’s not that deep right?? kissing, especially to the mild extent that was depicted in tua s4e5, is just like any other task in an actor’s job description, and all they are worried about is doing it in a way that best represents the characters in the context of the story that they are being paid quite handsomely to portray, which they contractually agreed upon and willingly consented to do.

not to mention the fact that if you would just take several deep breaths and get your head out of the ass of your moral high-horse for five minutes, you would notice that these actors did an absolutely phenomenal job at selling every single minute aspect of this storyline despite the fact that the amount of work they put in was drastically cut down to literal shreds by the final edit.

but no, y’all judgemental creeps rly out here having the audacity to disrespect the blood, sweat, and tears of the labour they put into it…which they have gone on record saying they are extremely proud of btw:

claiming concern for the wellbeing of people you don’t even know through deluded, sanctimonious takedowns of their hard work that they are (rightfully) proud of is absolutely wild to me… it’s giving vipers dressed in empath’s clothing lmao be so fucking for real please.

there is zero real harm to anyone actually occurring here, so pls stop pretending like your paternalistic moral panic is protecting anything other than your idealistic fantasy of how everything you consume should cater to your specific preferences, remain unchanging and safely free from the discomforts of growth, and never challenge your naïve perception of reality or your disney-ass assumptions that all media should exist as a utopian escape from it.

children… i beg you to put the ipads down and run your needlessly worried fingers through some actual physical grass i am so fucking serious. please grow the fuck up—for your own mental peace but also out of respect for the peace of those around you.

and to all you cyberbullying weirdos out there—fivela enjoyers auto-block hysterical commenters like these not out of cowardice but out of having the maturity to know when to pick your battles, and the unfortunate knowledge that attempting to reason with a certain level of reactionary willful ignorance is a waste of ones precious time and energy.

i have (probably foolishly) made an exception in this instance, bc for better or for worse, i felt that there are simply too many extremely loud voices out here who could do with being told to pipe the fuck down for 5 seconds.

it costs literally $0.00 to mind your goddamn business, stay in your lane, and focus on you and what makes you happy. if you feel the need to define yourself based on what you hate more than what you love, then i would highly suggest having a long eye-opening convo with yourself about why that is. let people enjoy things that nobody is forcing you to enjoy along with them. filter functions exist for this very reason.

it is nobody’s fault but your own if your media illiterate asses completely misunderstood the assignment and utterly failed to read the room here. like i’m sorry you put your rose-tinted hopes and dreams into something that never pretended to be anything but what it was and not what your narcissistic projections wanted it to be. tough shit. step into the daylight and let it go babes.

i didn’t want to do this but i got fucking fed up and needed to clock the tea one time. i will never speak on this again here but i’m sorry it needed to be said.

i wish a very get well soon 💖 to you all and to all a girl, bye.

[chthonic-sorcery]

Direct Vision Spell for an Oracle 𓂀

A 2000 year old Greco-Egyptian magic spell

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[PGM V 54 – 69]

So sick of all these fake bs Tumblr and Pinterest spells-

"what color candle means what lol" with zero cultural or historical significance, it's like they just pulled things out of their ass.

So, here is a real 2000 year old Greek and Egyptian syncretic spell from Thebes to receive a direct vision from the beyond....WITH cultural and historical context.

Because, yes, history is important, and anyone giving you "spell tips" without telling you where the fuck they're from or what they mean is bullshitting you.

Ancient Greek oracular spells were rituals and invocations performed to gain insights or predictions from the gods, the Theoi, as well as Daemons and the Dead, particularly through seers known as oracles.

The Spell: PGM V 54 – 69 from the Greek Magical Papyri

Context of the Spell:

This spell is an interesting blend of Egyptian and Greek oracular practice: the use of Coptic or Egyptian eyepaint, kohl, here is interesting– as well as it's mixture with water from a sunken ship. Water from such locations are normally reserved for love spells, as we see previously in the PGM. The relationship or correspondence between a literal sunken vessel and sinking into the throes of passion. However, here, with its use in an oracular spell, it seems to correspond more to the chthonic or otherworldly realm, giving te wearer the ability to see past the normal, mundane world; past the ‘veil’ so to speak and into the beyond.

The use of the magical mystery word or voces magicae “Akrammachamarei” here is also notable; it is quite often seen throughout the PGM, and is associated with the God/Daemon/Archon of both Gnostic (Jewish-Egyptian) as well as Greek origin, Abrasax.

In spell PGM V. 96-172, Abrasax is identified as part of the "true name which has been transmitted to the prophets of Israel" of the "Headless One, (also known as the Egyptian god Bês) who created heaven and earth, who created night and day ... Osoronnophris whom none has ever seen ... awesome and invisible god with an empty spirit"; the name also includes Iaō and Adōnai, the ineffablenames of the Jewish god. "Osoronnophris" represents Egyptian Wsir Wn-nfr, or "Osiris the Perfect Being.” Another identification with Osiris is made in PGM VII. 643-51: "you are not wine, but the guts of Osiris, the guts of ... Ablanathanalba Akrammachamarei Eee, who has been stationed over necessity, Iakoub Ia Iaō Sabaōth Adōnai Abrasax."

Instructions:

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

After you have purified yourself (through ritual bathing and declarations) you must put on your clean linen robes and sandals of Papyrus.

Then, taking a purified bronze censer, place the laurel leaves inside and light them until the smoke fills the room. Walk clockwise around the room, and your workspace, Chanting the Ephesia Grammata:

ΑΣΚΙ(ΟΝ) ΚΑΤΑΣΚΙ(ΟΝ) ΛΙΞ ΤΕΤΡΑΞ ΔΑΜΝΑΜΕΝΕΥΣ ΑΙΣΙΟΝ (or ΑΙΣΙΑ)

“askion kataskion lix tetrax damnameneus aision”

Then, taking the olive oil, pour it into the waiting bronze dish.

With your right hand, anoint your right eye with the prepared water from a shipwreck.

With your left hand, mix 1 part kohl with 1 part water until it is a viscous paint, from the same dish, and anoint your left eye so that it is completely surrounded by the paint.

Then, pronounce the incantations:

"EEIM TO EIM ALALĒP BARBARIATH / MENEBREIO ARBATHIAÔTH IOUĒL IAĒL OUĒNĒIIE MESOMMIAS,

let the god who prophesics to me come and let him not go away until I dismiss him,

OURNAOUR SOUL ZASOUL / OUGOT NOOUMBIAOU THABRAT BERIAOU ACHTHIRI MARAI ELPHEŌN TABAŌTH KIRASINA LAMPSOURĒ IABOE ABLAMATHANALBA AKRAMMACHAMAREI.”

Once the incantations are finished, present any offerings and ask over the prepared olive oil dish what your question(s) are. Stare into the oil, lit only by candle or oil lamp light, and you will receive a direct vision.

─── ⋆⋅𓂀⋅⋆ ──

For more information & how to pronounce the incantations, check here.

[yamisnuffles]

DATV Spoiler Free Review

I beat Veilguard a couple days ago and have had some time to let it settle in my brain. So, without getting into the nitty gritty and more spoilery things, here are my overall feelings on the game.

The Great:

The world itself. The scenery. It was really gorgeous and felt fully alive in a way that none of the previous games have quite managed. Since it wasn't as open world as DAI nor as narrow in scope as DA2 (nor as old as DAO lol), it felt more vital. Definitely a place where the advances in graphics helped, I'm sure.

The Good:

The companions. I wouldn't say any of them blew me away but they all at least ranged from enjoyable to very good. I definitely had my quibbles here and there but I think they were all pretty solid. As such, though I've only done one romance, I'll suppose they're all good. A bit... sparse in my experience and from what I've been hearing, but nice enough.

Overall, I also think the story was pretty good. Like much in this game, nothing that blew me away, but solidly compelling.

Also, mechanically, the gameplay and the glamour system. It still doesn't feel like DA to me but it was enjoyable once I got used to it. It works well with how I play games. And it was nice to just set looks for myself and my companions and not worry about stats vs appearance.

Rook. I have some definite Complaints, and so this point is probably closer to the good to mid range, but they did a pretty good job with letting you pull in your faction stuff. I'm prevented from saying great because it feels like, even with what are supposed to be rougher dialogue choices, you're limited to being mildly pleasant.

The Mid:

The music. This is tragic to me because every previous game had some really standout songs and DAI especially was such a solid soundtrack. I love soundtrack music. Also because Hans Zimmer! I love Hans Zimmer. But the entire thing felt very generic epic fantasy to me. It wasn't bad but it didn't feel good. The only times I ended up moved by the music was when they lifted DAI songs.

The lack of imports. It wasn't the end of the world but did make some cameos feel really off. And for all the talk of making what few things were imported matter, that really didn't feel like the case at all (unless you were in a specific subset of players). I didn't care too much, but it was just enough to make things feel weird, especially with characters like Harding who are so attached to previous stuff.

The Bad:

The world felt so sanitized. I have no issue getting rid of real life bigotry that makes so sense in the context of the world. For example, the sexism in DAO especially made no sense. That said, there was a lot of in world nastiness that is just... gone. The game does a lot of telling us the elves have it bad but doesn't show it. No one bats an eye at a Tevinter mage running about outside of Tevinter. No one cares about a Qunari in occupied Treviso. I suppose it's not the worst thing in the world but it feels weird, especially when it's so central to Solas' motivations.

This sanitization carried on through pretty much everything. All of the factions are presented as good and heroic, even the ones that are historically pretty shady. Your companions are all pleasant and palatable. They have the occasional minor squabble but even when they almost have actual beef, it's solved super easily. You might get some disapproval for decisions but companions never seem to much care or hold it against you, even on really big things. I don't need DA2 levels of interparty drama but, boy did I want a bit more tooth sometimes.

The Awful:

I can't get into it without spoilers but it did a Thing that Bioware sometimes likes to do that I absolutely loathe. This is definitely personal but it ruined some of my desire to replay.

Overall:

I'd give the game a 7/10 or maybe 6/10, depending on how I'm feeling. It was enjoyable for the most part but it had so many things that felt like splinters. Lots of little things that stuck under my skin and bothered me. Would I recommend it? Genuinely depends on the person.