#thank fuck I decided not to become a psychologist

[solidagofvckr]

oh me? i was diagnosed with thoughts feelings and emotions. theyre giving me meth for it

[piplupod]

ignore this i just need to be insane for a second

[thebeesareback]

Fuck it, let's talk about Littlefinger

(the ASOIAF character, not just fingers in general. Also, I've said "Brandon Stark" for Ned's brother, and "Bran Stark" for Ned's son)

Trigger warning: rape and forced abortion

So one of the things I've said before is that I love ASOIAF for many reasons, including the complexities and backstories of all the characters. I suppose that's why there's a bazillion characters and the books are so long.

Anyway, one interesting example of narrative framing is the perspective we get on Littlefinger. He's (arguably) the main antagonist in the first book and is responsible for everything from Jon Arryn and Ned's death to the Tyrell marriage to Joffrey's assassination. We see him as a scheming villain, determined to harm our saintly Starks.

Littlefinger was born as a second-generation immigrant and heir to a minor lordship. Thanks to his parents' relationship with fuckhead Hoster Tully, he got to foster at Riverrun, where he befriended Cat, Lysa and Edmure. The books are interested in the "outsider" perspective on power status, hence Jon Snow's POV, and arguably Theon and Arya, too. They live in the home, they're part of the family... kinda. Sansa always thinks of Jon as her "bastard half-brother", Theon knows that Ned might have to kill him, and Arya doesn't fit neatly into her assigned gender role. They see Rob and Sansa and want that, kind of, but know they'll never get it.

Therefore, in his youth, Littlefinger knew that he was smart, knew that he wanted power, yet was keenly aware that it was almost impossible for him to socially climb. He does -- we'll get to that in a bit -- but as a child, he knows it's unlikely. Think of Rob and Jon playing in Winterfell and Jon yelling "I'm the Lord of Winterfell" and Rob just returning "no, my mother says you won't be". It's a horrible situation to be in. We don't get Littlefinger's POV, but if we did, I think there's a good chance he would remember a similar scenario.

Then there's Littlefinger's relationship to Catlyn and Lysa. Little boys often have crushes on little girls, and it's usually pretty sweet and can sometimes become a nice romance or just fade away. We hear that Catlyn is intelligent and beautiful as an adult, so it's easy to see the appeal, and Catlyn also has status through her Tully blood and an understanding of Machiavellian power plays because her father raised her as his heir until Edmure was born. One could easily see Littlefinger's desire for Catlyn being a desire for power and status, as well as her own merits.

Lysa had a crush on Littlefinger, creating the incesty love triangle that GRRM loves so much. I can't imagine playing kissing games with a foster brother and a sister, tbh. Littlefinger himself seems to only see Lysa as a pawn, and uses her feelings to get her to do what she wants. The narrative suggests that, for a time, there's Catlyn, mourning her mother; Lysa, mourning her mother and interested in a boy who doesn't really care about her; Edmure, just being a baby; and Littlefinger, caught up in rules and restrictions: allowed to be close to what he wants, but never truly part of the team.

Events start to occur. Fuckhead Hoster Tully decides to set up marriage alliances for Catlyn and Lysa. Lysa meets Jamie Lannister, who barely pays her any attention (he's distracted by the presence of his hero, Brynden "Blackfish" Tully). Catlyn meets Brandon Stark, who has power, status, a noble house, physical prowess -- everything Littlefinger wants. On the night the Stark-Tully engagement is arranged, Littlefinger gets drunk. He can't cope with the years of complicated class dynamics, he's heartbroken, and he's what, 14? He's immature and acts like it. Then Lysa rapes him.

I'm not a psychologist so I can't comment on the impact of sexual violence, especially when gender and power play into the situation in this way. However, Lysa did an unforgivable thing, and there was nobody Littlefinger could turn to. That's horrifying. I also think that more should be made about Littlefinger's comments about shutting your eyes and getting it over with in relation to being in bed with "an ugly woman".

Soon after, he challenges Brandon Stark to a duel for Catlyn's hand. Catlyn "betrays" him (in Littlefinger's mind) by giving Brandon her favour, Edmure "betrays" him by "squiring" for Brandon, and then Brandon nearly kills him. So we have a teenager who is 1) in huge amounts of physical pain, 2) without friends or allies, 3) was recently raped and 4) considered unimportant and insignificant. Then, Lysa rapes him again. The fact that this poor child didn't have a full mental breakdown is genuinely suprising.

We don't know if Littlefinger knew about Lysa's pregnancy at the time. What Hoster did to her was also unforgivable -- violence begets violence, and Lysa and Hoster's relationship is full of toxicity and harm. Hoster is also just generally monstrous. If Littlefinger did know, that's another layer of complexity where his foster father aborts Littlefinger's baby, a physical reminder of the sexual violence Littlefinger endured.

A few years later Lysa convinces her then-husband, Jon Arryn, to bring Littlefinger to King's Landing. He is traumatised, he is resentful, and he is cunning. He works hard to enter the places he was once barred from, like the court, the Red Keep and the small council. Now he can take his revenge on everyone who hurt him.

GRRM often talks about the futility of revenge. House Martell is the most obvious example of this, and the speech Elaria gives is beautiful and poignient. Littlefinger doesn't get revenge on Hoster or Brandon Stark. He does kill Lysa, but that's more to shut her up. In a story with a different perspective -- and a few characters kept alive -- we could see Littlefinger as a Kill Bill style avenger, ruining the lives and families of all of those who harmed him. It could be easy to root for him, not against him as the narrative sets up.

Revenge isn't simple, and that's why Littlefinger doesn't succed and isn't an inspirational character. He never confronts anyone on what happened to him -- he's too psychologically damaged -- so instead he kills Ned and Jon Arryn, two people who had nothing to do with his traumatic experiences at Riverrun, and then he hyperfixates on poor Sansa, who looks like Catlyn in his memory. He's immature and stunted in his mid-teens. I wonder if Littlefinger and Sansa lived for another 10/20 years he'd find himself losing interest because she moved on and he can't.

Littlefinger will likely die because of Sansa, and nobody will miss him. He's not a good person. He's groomed and lied and manipulated her, and the horrors he inflicted on Jeyne Poole, supposedly her best friend, are even worse. I don't see his future death as triumphant, though, in an unbiased overview kind of way. The Starks will celebrate, because he killed their dad. No one else will really care. The Lords Declarant have got rid of an annoyance, and he wasn't really working with King Tommen or the Small Council any more.

I think there is some sadness, though, for the child who wanted to be included, wanted to be loved, and who was instead hated, abused, ignored and scarred. RIP Littlefinger, a victim of the patriachy and the class structure.

[blorbocedes]

inspired by @sionisjaune's tags and THIS nico in glasses art by the incredibly talented @movieboyfriend

Becoming a sports psychologist had been easier than Nico expected. 

All he needed was a bachelor's, which he already had, and a Masters' degree which took 18 months and submitting a paper on eating disorders to achieve. Board certification was annoying, Nico just doesn't have that kind of time, but the workaround was simply calling himself a 'performance enchancing counselor.' A corner office in Monaco, a shiny plaque with his name on it, and a star studded roster of athletes and C-list celebrities he'd hosted parties for during his influencer days for potential clientele, he was all set.

F1 hadn't been the goal but at the same time... who better than Nico, who knew exactly how motorsport could chew you out? His karting dreams were long over, but the smell of gasoline and burnt tyres and the roar of the crowd is still his forte. It just so happened Formula One decided mental health awareness was totally in style now, and one of their main sponsors held an event on mindfulness and how it can be achieved drinking more Heineken. Having a father for a World Champion is helpful, when it means one has lifetime passes, and this had been a prime networking goldmine; not for the drivers themselves and their fragile egos at the implication of psychological help -- but sliding his practice's embossed gold card in the suit jacket of one Toto Wolff.

Lewis saw therapy as something good and necessary, but ultimately for other people. And then Abu Dhabi happened. And then the W-13. And Toto had mentioned what Keke Rosberg's son was up to, how it could possibly help him out of his slump, and hearing that name after so long made Lewis' usual 'thanks but not for me' die at the tip of his tongue.

"I'm not going to imply whether all your issues stem from trying to make your father proud or ask you about your childhood. I would remember. I was there." Nico had smiled over his thin-rimmed circular glasses, with that knowing sparkle during their first unofficial session and Lewis was sold.

"As long as you don't expect me to call you 'doctor,' man. Jeez, who would've thought? Dr. Nico Rosberg."

After that, every week unless he's in LA, Lewis finds himself in Nico's chic Monaco office. It's not stuffy like a therapist's office; a turquoise wall and Nico's dad's helmet is on a shelf display, a German national Team jersey hanging on the wall, there's even a YouTube million subscribers golden plate. Lewis is sprawled on the bean bag, the sunlight from the floor to ceiling windows hitting in beams, and not for the first time Lewis has to reconcile the kid he knew has grown up into the adult in distinguished glasses and same golden blonde hair in front of him. Nico dresses like he's about to give a TedTalk, in his monochrome tee and blazer combo, and that somehow puts Lewis more at ease.

"The car's been so fucking shit. I'm not here to fight for, what, p10? That's not me. And the team..." Lewis rants, and it's so freeing to be able to call the car shit without adding in how they're improving bit by bit and other optimistic platitudes that don't mean shit in terms of the championship.

"And the team's been prioritizing Russell over you, I can see how that can be a source of frustration." Nico finishes.

"What? No. He's not -- the team's not. I'm saying, it's annoying enough the car isn't where we were promised it was gonna be, and now every week I'm getting asked if I want to retire, like what's this all for?" Lewis is momentarily taken aback by Nico's claim. Is that what people think? The team... well, George has adapted to the car easier and has been finishing above him but he hadn't felt any particular favouritism from the team... Although he's been the one running experimental setups and helping the team collect data while his teammate gets dubbed Mr. Saturday. The seed of doubt towards the team makes him frown.

"You don't want to retire. Not until the 8th." Nico points out decisively, getting up from his armchair to walk behind Lewis where his plants are.

"I don't. Even if no one believes me, apparently." Lewis rolls his eyes, hearing as Nico spritzes his plants. He could've sworn they were fake.

Lewis feels a hand on his shoulder, surprising him. "You're just going to have to prove them wrong. Like you always do." Nico smiles down at him with absolute conviction, squeezing it once, and then the weight is gone; Nico moving back to his chair.

The gesture was friendly, but it makes something flare inside Lewis. Something about Nico, maybe the fact he can open up to him the way he can't even with the team; maybe because Nico knew him before seven titles, before he was anyone, makes Lewis instinctively trust him in a way he rarely does with new people. But Nico isn't new, even if the glasses are. Lewis finds himself wanting to know more, wanting to fill the gap between the years.

"Now, let's go over your daily mindfulness affirmations..."

[swansstuff]

Uhhhh

OK so I haven't posted a chapter of my fic for a while so have some ramblings about fankids (anyone remember those fandom trends?) and other silliness <3 some I have thought about more than others but enjoy a tasty little morsel until I can actually produce something of substance lmao

Steph and Pete: get engaged when they graduate college in 2023. Get married when they both have steady income in 2026. Have Owen in October 2029. Have Amy in December 2034. Owen starts highschool in 2044. Amy skips 4th grade, starts highschool in 2047.

Pete: becomes a highschool physics teacher at hfh. Grows a moustache, sometimes double takes that he looks like Ted in the mirror. Takes Steph’s name.

Steph: becomes a 3rd grade teacher.

Owen: got the combo of autism and adhd, thanks mom and dad, had a 1:1 in elementary school (Mrs Keane). Art kid. May or may not be in love with his best friend (Will Green). Could be mistaken for Pete on a bad hair day. Inherited the Spankoffski family watch. Favourite colour is blue.

Amy: only got the autism but it's the freaky smart kind. Loves space, obsessed with planets. Probably also in love with her best friend (Elsie Chasity). Absolutely knows more than she should about the LiBs. Favourite colour is yellow.

Skrzynka: (Box in Polish) this fucked up, mixed breed cat that wandered into their backyard at some point. May or may not be a Tinky vessel

Grace and Ruth: get engaged in 2024. Get married in 2026. Have Joseph in 2031. Have Elsie in 2034. Have Abe in 2038.

Grace: criminal psychologist. (Major true crime fan)

Ruth: musical writer and director.

Joseph: quiet nerd kid, but has the same weird, threatening aura as Grace does. Into some real left field shit. Will debate the extended family on religion, one of those smarmy reddit atheists.

Elsie: non-verbal until like 7, Amy helped her communicate at school. Autism. Gentle, sweetheart. Creative girly, into her art, will forget to move until her piece is done.

Abe: nightmare toddler, Grace and Ruth regret having a third. Hair untamable.

Watson: ratty ass Irish wolfhound. Ruth had her childhood dog called Sherlock who passed so decided to get a puppy when Joseph was 3. They are inseperable.

Max and Richie: get engaged in 2024. Get married in 2028 once Max's dad finally fucking dies. Have Marie in 2033.

Richie: film critic (specifically horror movies)

Max: park ranger and highschool football coach

Marie: her middle name is Asuka, Richie had to be restrained and this was the compromise. She fucking hates this. Mini goth kid but also quite athletic, more into running than football. Did not inherit Richie's asthma but did inherit his insomnia.

Totoro: Named by Richie. Marie calls him Toto. Golden retriever.

Oscar: Named by Max. German Shepherd.

Suzie: Named by Marie after Suzie and the banshees. Rescue.

Lex and Ethan: get engaged in 2021, get married in 2026 once everything settles down. Have William in 2029.

Lex: actor at the Starlight

Ethan: runs his dad's garage

William: Will. Sort of takes after his dad, perceived as a bad kid but just likes sticking up for people. Quite creative as well, but more on the music side. Plays the piano and the violin, doesn't own either but plays at the highschool. Also very much in love with his best friend. Also raging adhd.

Hannah and Daniel: get married in 2040, have Meghan in 2043.

Hannah: guidance councillor

Daniel: ccrp worker

Meghan: can speak, doesn't until she's about 5. Her first word is Webby. This doesn't worry anyone at all. She may genuinely be a Webby conduit.

Emma and Paul: get married in 2022, have the twins in 2024. Have Jane in 2029.

Paul: this poor man will be with ccrp until the day he dies

Emma: "plant biologist"

Henry: yes he was named after hidgens. like a slightly more outgoing Paul, does end up working at Beanie's during his highschool years. Bit of a nerd for sci-fi thrillers. Has strong opinions on Working Boys.

Penny: named after Richie’s late mom, ie Paul's older sister. Manic anxious energy, doing everything all of the time, bit like cousin Tim. Has a Ted like sense of humor, Paul regrets letting him babysit.

Jane: named after Emma's older sister. Couldn't be more different. Absolute mess, reminds Emma of a younger her. Persued musical theatre in highschool and drove Paul fucking nuts.

[capnsaveahoe]

Thoughts on TO S1/EP1

So, I finally went down the rabbit hole and decided to watch The Originals. Pray for me. 😂

Here are my thoughts:

Magical Baby Plot:

This is literally a forced loophole—thanks, but no thanks. 🙅🏻‍♀️ Klaus being lured back to NOLA with the news that Hayley is pregnant with his magical baby. Is just not the biz. While the baby plot is obviously a significant driving force for the narrative, it seems implausible that Klaus, a vampire for over 1000 years, could father a child. Fuck outta here with that shit.

Klaus:

Will forever be my baby. There's no if's, and's or but's. He's still his little villainous self, and I'm here for it. This will NEVER change.

Elijah:

This man will obviously go through hell and highwater for his brother, but he needs to know when to give up. Elijah searching for his 1000+ year old baby brother will never not be funny to me. He’s the Steve Harrington of the TVDU (fight me on it). We all know that his ass will be daggered in the next episode without fail. He obviously can't seem to comprehend that while Klaus loves his family he also sees them as a weakness, and he would rather put his bro to sleep than lose him to a dumb baby plot twist.

Rebekah:

My girl Beks is currently angry at Klaus and refuses to help Elijah find him, which in all honesty, her ire is well deserved. She's been treated like shit for ages. It was about time she stood up for herself. 👏👏👏

Marcel:

I love that they gave Klaus a long lost adopted son! Now THIS is a plot twist. He was believed to be dead and rotting somewhere, but my man is now the king of NOLA and rules the city with an iron fist who has total control over every supernatural creature within it. He’s shaping up to be my favorite out of all the new characters introduced so far.  He’s also fineeeeee as fuck! 😋

Quarter Witches:

They’re okay so far, but honestly, they could have gotten pretty far if they had just let Klaus and Elijah kill Marcel/Hayley right off the bat. Instead of following a bunch of idiotic rules. It was smart of them to link Sophie and Hayley, though. It gave them leverage with The Originals, which is what they wanted. Still deciding if I like them or not.

Camille:

I’m trying to give her a chance, but it’s a feat let me tell you. I didn’t think she would break out the psychology card so quickly, tbh. I’ll look past it, for now. I can say that she does have a teeny bit of chemistry with Elijah…I really liked their 1st scene together. It looks like they'd be a good match.

Quick question: I thought Camille was still studying to become a psychologist? But, she mentions that she already has a grad degree in this episode. Can someone clear this up for me?

Davina: 

Seems pretty cool. I want to learn more about her and what she can do. Let's see where they take her character. Since we all know that having strong female characters on these shows is not something that the writers really like. 

Overall, given Klaus' brutal and decisive nature, it's surprising that he didn't eliminate all threats immediately to take control of the city. But, I can also see why he wouldn't as he sees the potential the city he once lived in still has. Moreover, I'm a little annoyed at Elijah during this episode. In all honesty, it's Elijah's fault that they ended up in the mess that follows. Elijah sees the baby as a way to redeem Klaus, but it feels unrealistic to force Klaus into a role he’s never desired. Klaus has always craved power, loyalty, and family, but not necessarily a baby. This dream seems more in line with Elijah’s personality, who has always exhibited gentlemanly and family-oriented behavior. Though I still love Elijah, he really irked my nerves in this first episode. I will say that I'm loving the more in-depth look into the complex sibling relationships that we didn’t get enough of on TVD. On another note, I think it would have been a good plot twist to try and lure Klaus to NOLA by using Marcel as a pawn somehow instead of a baby. You can clearly see that he still cares for him in his own twisted way. I hope we get to see more of their dynamic as the show goes on.

[acorpsecalledcorva]

It's actually harder to find a psychologist or philosopher that views the self as a singular completely unified and cohesive being than all the ones who recognise and acknowledge that the human Psyche is inherently multiple in nature. In fact we likely couldn't develop DID if it wasn't.

Whether it's the ID ego and super ego, the conscious unconscious and the archetypes of the collective unconscious, bundle theory of the self, internal family systems, transactional analysis, all these concepts and ideas explore the fractal nature of the human brain to compartmentalise differentiated (and often conflicting) aspects of ourselves and call upon them when needed. Fuck, if you wanna get all Descartes about it then the fact that you can have conflicting thoughts and feelings about something demonstrates that it's actually "we think therefore we are and we're gonna have a fight about it".

What makes a CDD brain different is Dissociative barriers. It's like having a room full of people all screaming "I'm Spartacus!", they've all been working together and communicated together to agree that they're all Spartacus. If you start putting walls up between them so they can't coordinate their efforts then some aren't going to know that they're Spartacus, they might start yelling that they're actually Caesar, or Brutus. It's these walls in the way that lead to disorder and dysfunction because consensus can never be reached, they can't even argue about it they just know what they have available to them. That's why communication is such an important early step in recovery. Eventually you bring down the walls, get everyone working in sync, and if they want to they can start calling themselves Spartacus again. They're still separate people but now they fight under a single banner.

Even for someone without those walls though it's very common to have factions and groupings and teams to emerge leading to internal conflict. There's nothing stopping those factions from choosing another identity for themselves. In fact it's incredibly common for them to do so. The characters you meet in dreams are you, they're part of you, they're just temporarily taking up a different identity and personality to act out a training simulation to help you process information and at the end those parts are reintegrated back into being you and calling themselves Spartacus again. Well what if they decide not to? What if they do it while you're awake? What's actually stopping them? The lack of walls between them doesn't force them to be a single identity, the presence of walls just prevents CDD parts from becoming a single identity due to a lack of access to the rest of the brain.

It really is just a societal thing that puts far too much significance on external appearance as being indicative in any way on the inner experience. Just because I look like one person on the outside doesn't mean I'm one person on the inside. Just because I look like a guy on the outside doesn't mean I'm a guy on the inside. Just because I look like a 20(ish) person on the outside doesn't mean I'm 20(ish) on the inside (or actually 20(ish) thank you estrogen)

P.S. obviously this isn't a comprehensive or universal understanding of the selves in the plural community, if anyone perceives themselves as working differently to this then that's totally valid and I'd love to hear how you experience yourself as I just think this is all really interesting

[airasora]

It's now been 48 hours since Sweeney, my bird, died.

I am in a better place. I still cry every now and then if I let myself think about him. So, frankly, I do my best not to.

I've reached out to a psychologist who specializes in animal loss. I did that just 10 minutes ago, even though my friend sent me a link to them only an hour after I told them in a group message that Sweeney was gone.

My friends, my mother and you guys have been immensely supportive. Thank you to those of you who reached out with kind and comforting words.

Oh, and fuck you to the person who decided to make a joke out of it by commenting "F". But also thank you, cause it stopped me from being sad for a moment because I got furious instead.

As a sidenote, I will most likely be finishing and posting my audition for MxDisney in a few days or so. I've been dealing with my grief by essentially just... keeping myself busy. And spend extra time cuddling with my other birds. And I've been avoiding sleeping cause, frankly, I'm afraid to do so because last time I woke up, I woke up to Sweeney dead at the bottom of his case. I know it's an irrational fear and I'll have to sleep some time, but until it becomes completely necessary, I'll keep myself busy instead.

And a shoutout to the poor man who saw me run out of my house, screaming and sobbing with Sweeney in my arms. He most likely lives in my area and we might meet again. Lowkey hoping he won't recognize me... xD And also to the two very sweet cab drivers who drove me to and from the hospital who offered comfort to the best of their abilities as well. And of course, to the wonderful staff who were subjected to my bawling and complete incomprehensible explanation of what had happened. Especially the woman who patiently waited for me to finally give her Sweeney when I was as ready as I'd ever be to let go of him.

Sweeney, I miss you more than I can explain. Your presence always brought joy to those around you with the little pitter-patter of your feet while you were scurrying around, your cute little kakariki noises and how you were so welcoming to all the birds who came after you. You were the big brother in the group despite being the smallest in size.

I love you and miss you, my little smiling avocado.

[sibbun]

!! BETTER READING EXPERIENCE ON AO3!!

Unprofessional Affairs

Chapters: 1/?

Wordcount: 2,114

Rating: Explicit

Categories: F/M

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen

Relationships: Toji Fushiguro/Reader

Nanami Kento/Reader

Summary: Your father, Yaga, has been a doctor with his own practice for years now. You studied to become a surgical nurse and recently graduated. You all grew out of the scope the practice was able to handle so you're expanding to a bigger hospital where you will work under Toji Fushiguro, a surgeon. However, in a moment of drunkness you confess you used to have a massive crush on Toji, your father's best friend. You end up having some fun together and have to cope with the reality of fucking your boss and the complexities of those types of relationships. It gets even more complicated when you meet Kento Nanami, the psychologist who has a fondness for you.

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Power Imbalance, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Kissing, Daddy Issues, Mommy Issues, NSFW, Everyone Is An Adult, Possessive Fushiguro Toji, reader has a life and personality, Love Triangles, non canon character dynamics, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Chapter 1

“It has been an absolute honor to have been by Doctor Yaga Masamishi’s side for the nearly 20 years he has been at the head of this ship now, and I couldn’t be more thrilled to announce that Yaga and I have decided that we will be moving to a bigger hospital after New Years!” The crowd cheers. Toji raises his glass of iced tea with a smile as he looks at Yaga.

Yaga gets the clue to add onto the speech and raises his glass of champagne as he continues. “Thank you so much Toji! I want to dedicate my toast to my daughter who keeps me sane and who I am oh so proud of for graduating and being a fully fledged surgical nurse now!”

You smile warmly at your father. You raise your glass and turn around to face the crowd after mouthing a ‘thank you’ to your father. “Thank you all so much for your patience with me throughout the years! I am so excited that we have grown so much together and that we can continue to flourish in the big city!”

Yaga laughs heartily. “Well said, my dear! Cheers everyone!” And with that, everyone celebrates the massive win

After the speech people dissipated and conversations turned more intimate. Toji walks up to you and your father, patting him on his back as he has the biggest smile on his face. “It has been great working together for so long, and I’m kind of sad to see this place go, but I’m so delighted that we are expanding.”

Your father laughs and pulls Toji into a hug. “To think we went from cramming our exams together to where we are now!” He looks at Toji as he pulls out of the hug “It is honestly a miracle.”

Toji looks back at his friend and laughs “We truly were terrible! It was already a miracle that we passed our exams back in the day.”

You smile. It’s truly adorable to see these two childhood best friends be unashamedly close. “Hah! Don’t be ridiculous! Dad told me you two graduated top of your class.”

Your dad grins as he looks at Toji. “Oh, but we got into some real trouble together, didn’t we, my partner in crime?”

“But you!” Toji says as he turns to you in an attempt to change the subject from them to you, unwilling to talk about what they got up to when they were your age, “I heard you graduated with high grades as well. I cannot wait to have you work by my side.” He smiles and rubs your back between your shoulder blades kindly. You look up to him and smile “Neither can I!”

In the meantime Yaga had already been whisked away to engage in other conversations, and shortly thereafter Toji as well. Your father was a busy man, always had been. You decided to engage in small talk while having a few drinks. The party was going splendidly and you were having plenty of fun, but after a while you were quite tired and honestly, a little too tipsy to keep proper professional composure in front of everyone, so you decided to get away from the crowd and retreated into one of the many rooms.

You rested your cup on the windowsill before opening the window. You stuck your head out. The moon shone on your face and the breeze kissed your flushed cheeks. The music could not be shut out entirely by the door, but it was enough to make you feel at peace. The alcohol in your system made every sensation more intense. You closed your eyes and soaked the night into your skin. You smiled. You really had come far, and a beautiful night like this was the best present you could have gotten.

Suddenly, a hand touches the small of your back and you get violently shook out of your bliss. In your jerked movement your cup spills out of the window.

A familiar voice speaks up. “Ah, that’s all alcohol is good for anyways.”

You turn around and are faced with Toji, kind smile on his face. You smile as you ease up again. “You scared me, Toji.”

He chuckles, crows feet wrinkling at the side of his eyes. “I’m sorry about that. I came to check up on you.”

You smile and sit down on the counter. “I’m alright, just a little warm. I wanted to get away for a little.” You reach for your bag and take out a cigarette and light it. you lean your head back and take a drag as you close your eyes. You exhale the smoke slowly.

Toji leans against the counter, standing quite near to you. He takes the cigarette out of your hand and takes a drag. “I didn’t know you smoked. You really did grow into a full adult right before my eyes.”

You look at the gruff man as he takes another drag, this time longer. His dark green eyes look at you through half lidded eyelids. You can’t help but appreciate the way his lips rest on the cigarette. The scar on his lips a beautiful imperfection to break his handsome physique ever so slightly. “I didn’t know you smoked.” you say.

“I used to.” He says before giving you your now half smoked cigarette back. “But that was long ago.”

“Why did you quit?”

He chuckles and sits up on the counter next to you, his right leg touching yours. “After your mom passed away Yaga was a mess.” He pauses, thinking about how much he was willing to share. “I guess I mellowed out a little after that.”

Your mother’s passing was a taboo that no one liked talking about, so you decided to not press further. You knew you should probably quit smoking soon. It’s unprofessional for someone in your field, but alcohol and a cigarette truly hits different, so you cut yourself some slack this time. You take another drag before passing it to Toji who finishes it. He puts it out on the outside sill and flicks it outside. “I do miss it though, the smoking.” He says before leaning into your neck and taking a small whiff. “The combination of smoke trying to hide behind perfume is such a delightful smell.” You could feel his breath on your neck, making you shudder with a surprising delight. You hoped he didn’t notice that, but before you realized, you had already said it out loud.

“I used to have a massive crush on you, you know. It would have been easier if you had dated someone when I was younger so I could have moved on.” You chuckle to hide your nervousness. You fidget with your hands, avoiding Toji’s gaze you could feel on yourself. The silence was deafening, your cheeks growing more red with each millisecond that passed.

Toji was stunned. He would be remiss to not have noticed how you had grown into such a capable woman over the years- and a beautiful one at that. You looked a lot like your mother, after all. Toji did have relationships throughout the years, they just weren’t very serious. He’d often go from woman to woman, but he was never able to work anything out long term, so he kept all of that to himself.

You could feel tears well up in your eyes. The stress of his silence too much to take. You build up the courage and look at him and stand up to walk away. “I’m sorry I said that. Forget it, it’s fine. I’m going to get a new drink.”

Before you can take more than two paces away, Toji stands up and grabs your wrist and pulls you towards himself. “Don’t go.” he says softly. There was undeniable vulnerability in his voice. You look up at him. You just know you look a little pathetic.

Toji turns the two of you around and lifts you on top of the counter again. He wipes away your welled up tears with his thumb as his other hand rests on your thigh. As much as either of you want to speak up, neither of you really know what to say. You lean your cheek into his hand. It was big and warm and familiar, but it felt different. Your eyes flickered between one another. You could feel his eyes drag over your lips before shooting back up to your eyes as thoughts flooded his mind. Before he could act on any of them, you leaned in, and he met you halfway.

His lips were soft. It started as an unfamiliar peck, unsure of the sensation and the baggage that came with the two of you sharing a kiss. When you looked in his eyes you saw a shift. As if a fire had started ignited slowly. Unspoken, the both of you leaned in again, this time more sure. You put your hands on his cheeks, and his went from a faint touch of your thigh, up to your hips as he pulled you closer to the edge of the counter.

Quick pecs became heavier as the distance between the two of you closed. Before you knew it you were completely at his mercy. Something had switched in you as well. Hungry, touch starved kisses lead to your tiny moans in between kisses blessing Toji’s ears. You could feel him press against you, and you grind against him.

“Toji please- I need you..” you say, coming completely undone under his touch. You had been dreaming about this for years at night by yourself, and to have it become a reality was a dream come true. Your body was reacting way too well to Toji’s touch.

Toji’s hungry eyes met yours, his breath heavy. You did not need to repeat yourself. His fingers dug into your hips as he grinds himself against you, earning a soft humm from you. His lips trail from your mouth to your cheek to your jaw, placing slow small kisses at each spot. You wrap your arms around his neck as he wraps one arm around your waist, the other grabbing the back of your neck. His lips trail further, now buried deep into your neck. He gives you a small bite. “You feel so good, darling..” he coos. “You’re driving me crazy.”

You stroke his hair back, strands falling onto his forehead from between your fingers. His eyes locked with yours. You always liked them older. “Please..” You begged, unsure of what you were begging for exactly. You rested your hands on each side of his jaw and pulled him in for another kiss, tongues intertwining.

You were rudely interrupted by your phone’s ringtone. You groaned in the kiss, ignoring it. Toji felt around for your phone and checked who was calling, not breaking the kiss until he saw who it was. “You should pick this one up.”

You sighed and looked at the screen reading ‘Dad’. Guilt filled you, but you shook it off, still too worked up to care, but Toji gave you a stern look. You picked up the phone.

“Hi dad! What’s up?” You asked.

“Are you alright? People are asking about you!”

“I’ll come back in a bit!” you reply before hanging up.

You sigh and look at Toji. He chuckles. He’s able to compose fairly well. He holds out his hand for you to get off the counter and closes the window for you.

You adjust your dress and he fixes your hair. “I’ll make sure the room is clean before I leave.” He says. “Now go off, princess.” He instructs. You smile shyly at him. He musters up the self restraint to let you leave after a single last peck. You smile at him and start leaving the room.

You look back at him before closing the door as he leans against the counter and readjusts himself in his pants. You feel your face heat up as you get a peek through the fabric at how big it is. He notices you look and grins. “Next time we continue this, I promise you’ll get to feel every inch of it.”

The door closes with a soft ‘clunk’ and you have to take a bit to find your composure again before starting your walk back to the party, music volume increasing with each step. You’re awfully aware of how wet he got you without even touching you. Images of his hungry face fly through your mind, and the faint ghostly feeling of how his lips felt on your neck send butterflies straight to your core.

Your eagerness to have professional boundaries in your starting career gets buried by your excitement for continuing this unprofessional affair.

[duskholland]

Ritual || Boxer!Tom Smut

boxer!tom x reader — smut.

summary ↠ with the championship fight less than two weeks away, tom adopts a series of frustrating pre-match rituals.... based off the request ↠ ‘boxer!tom refuses to have sex for two weeks before a big match then he wins a belt and becomes the top boxer and his s/o patches him up like she does after every match, but it quickly turns into really intense victory sex with dom!tom’ I changed a couple bits but this is pretty much the same :)) warnings ↠ this gets very, very smutty. for that reason, 18+ pls !! extended nsfw warnings are beneath the cut but this spirals into v intense smut. so just. watch out pls. word count ↠ 8k a/n ↠ I almost died when I wrote this. truly. I felt a piece of my soul leave my body. sheeeesh. anyway uh... this was a lot of fun to write! I found out so many fun facts about sports psychology whilst researching this, so thanks boxer!tom for enlightening me on the fun world of pre-match-rituals. enjoy!

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

extended nsfw warnings: fem masturbation, oral (fem and male receiving), mentions of vibrating egg, edging and denial, dirty talk, reader definitely has a pain kink (...): biting, spanking + hair pulling, face-fucking, dom!tom, rough sex™️, shower shenanigans, doggy-style, unprotected sex — please wrap before you tap if you do this irl thank you very very much !!

*:·ﾟ✧Ritual ✧·ﾟ:*

Thump. Smack. Thump.

Tom’s fists rain down over the punching bag, and there’s a metallic clicking sound as the object goes spinning in the air. You watch as he pirouettes around the bag, dodging its movements between swings, getting in hit after hit after hit. He slowly works his way around the object, his face screwed into an expression of empowered determination as he alternates which bright red glove he uses to pound against the fabric.

You sigh, loudly, the sound dying in the near-empty gym. There’s just something about Tom in the days preceding a fight that makes you squirm.

He’s different. Still the man you know and love so effortlessly, but heightened in the most attractive ways. His senses pull sharper, his jaw carrying a firm line to it, his eyes like roaring fires. As Tom pounds his fists against the bag, his sweaty brown curls stick to the top of his forehead, contrasting the bright pink tones staining his cheeks. You watch the muscles in his arms tense and flex, pale skin on display due to the tight black vest that clings tightly to his torso. You know if he turned around properly, you’d be able to make out the sunken lines of his abs, packed rigidly with muscle.

You bite your lower lip, stifling a moan. You find Tom attractive enough under normal conditions, let alone when he’s like this: eyes glowing with determination, body burning with passion as he takes swing after swing at the punching bag like he’s got a personal vendetta against it.

“Having fun?”

You startle, clutching at your chest as you turn around to look at Harrison Osterfield, Tom’s sports psychologist. A frown instantly springs out across your mouth, and you reach up to begrudgingly take the bottle of water he offers you.

“I hate you,” you grunt. You sit up a little straighter before leaning back against the wall. You’re waiting for Tom to finish his workout, sitting on one of the benches in the gym. You’d started out the session sparring together, but you’d called quits after twenty minutes against him. Unlike Tom, you don’t have the biggest fight of your career in two weeks—and, honestly, you enjoy watching him like this more than you enjoy trying to keep up with him in the ring.

Harrison frowns as he drops to sit beside you, nudging your shoulder.

“I’m wounded, love,” he says, smirking at you. “What have I done this time?”

You roll your eyes. “You know exactly what you’ve done, Haz.”

Harrison raises an eyebrow, tutting. “You know this is for the best, Y/N.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “Fuck the best.”

When Harrison had joined Tom’s team at the start of the season, he’d come boasting all the new sciences of a young university graduate. He’d suggested Tom adopt a series of rituals to help him focus before a big match—small things, initially, like taking cold showers and limiting the time he spends on his phone. Yet, as the competition has progressed and Tom has risen further and further up the ranks, the rituals have grown more intense, more focused. It’s reached the point that now, two weeks before the big match, Tom has reached his final form. As instructed, he visits the sauna every other day, receives daily massages from the most esteemed sports therapists in Europe, drinks multiple cups of pure, fresh herbal tea a day. There are no distractions—his phone is permanently on silent, he’s cut out naps, he’s eliminated music. No distractions, no impurities, no sex.

No sex, because according to Harrison, nothing gets adrenaline rushing and frustration festering like an extended period of denial. No sex, which is a problem, for you, because Tom has never looked as fit as he does now, launching himself at the punching bag, sweat dripping down his forehead. His biceps flex and bulge and you have to cross your legs as you tighten your grip on the water bottle.

“He’ll win,” Harrison mutters, lowly. You glance towards him, taking in the sight of the older man with his face doused in the harsh fluorescent lights of the gym. “He’s good. Got the best form I’ve ever seen.” He lowers his voice, glancing at you shrewdly. “Don’t distract him, alright? He’s on fire.”

You grumble something incoherent beneath your breath before sighing and sitting up straighter.

“It’s fucked that you get to decide when I get laid, Haz. You know that, right?”

He raises an eyebrow, cheeks blushing a light pink. “Uh, well, I didn’t actually know that he’d go through with that part of it,” Harrison admits. “But if it works, don’t knock it. He wants to win.”

You sit back, resting your shoulders against the wall as you groan. “I want him to win, too,” you say. You look down at your fingers, playing with some of the rings sitting behind your knuckles. “I think it’ll kill him if he doesn’t.”

Both of you look back at Tom, who’s ditched the gloves. You watch him talk with his coach, running a hand through his sweaty hair as he nods, looking focused as he listens to the pointers and tips. You release a relieved sigh as Tom’s coach pats him on the back and walks off, leaving Tom to pick up his towel and his bottle before sauntering over to you and Harrison.

“Hi.” Tom tosses his stuff onto the bench before reaching for your hands. He pulls you up easily and quickly, causing you to squeal as you find yourself in his arms. He’s hot, his entire body flushed with the sweaty, adrenaline-filled afterglow of a good, long workout, and you laugh as he dives down to kiss your neck, soft curls tickling you. “Missed you, darling.”

He works his way up your neck, nibbling softly at your skin before pressing a kiss to your jaw, then your chin, and then, finally, your mouth. It’s light, but then you push against him eagerly and wrap your arms around his neck, and pull him deeper. His tongue slips into your mouth, and you moan happily as you enjoy the feeling of Tom, his skin warm and flushed, his pulse vibrating against you, and his mouth, coming over yours again and again.

“I’m right here,” Harrison mutters, speaking up from behind you. You groan, give Tom a final kiss, and then begrudgingly pull back.

“Sorry,” you call out, stepping closer to Tom as you turn your head to look at Harrison. Tom’s arms come around your waist, and he holds you nearer, humming as he presses his face into your shoulder. “You can always leave.”

Harrison rolls his eyes as he flips you off, causing Tom to chuckle.

“Y/N,” Tom mumbles, voice fond. “Harrison can stay if he wants to stay. I was thinking we could all go get dinner or something.”

To your relief, Harrison is quick to shake his head. He pulls on his jacket as he looks between you and Tom, his eyes lingering on you for a moment as they twinkle with amusement.

“It’s fine. I’ll leave you both alone. I think Y/N’s had enough of me, anyway.” He’s teasing, and you all know it, but you still throw out an easing pout as you shrug.

“Night, Haz,” you say, leaning further into Tom, who echoes your sentiments. As soon as Harrison’s gone, Tom spins you in his arms, his brown eyes bright and glowing with adoration. He kisses you again, and you sigh as you melt further into him, the spark in the pit of your stomach roaring back to life as Tom’s tongue teases your lower lip.

“Come shower with me,” Tom murmurs, hands roaming your back. He pecks the side of your mouth a few times as you hum.

“I can’t,” you find yourself saying, though it pains you considerably. Tom abruptly stops his kisses.

“Why not?” He pouts, pulling back to stare at you. He looks a little bit like an injured puppy, eyes wide with hurt. He squeezes your waist for emphasis.

“We’re in the two-week window, Tom,” you remind him. You reach up, lightly cupping his very hot, very sweaty face, in your palm. “You know we can’t.”

He groans, then dramatically lets his forehead fall to rest on your shoulder. You chuckle, rolling your eyes as you let him pout and rub his back.

“I love you,” he says, after a moment. He pulls back, kissing your neck briefly before sighing. “Thanks for putting up with this.”

“It’s okay.” You bite your lip, tilting your head to the side as you examine him carefully. “It’s kind of hot. You get so frustrated.”

Tom just narrows his eyes, staring at you with an expression mixed between amusement and frustration.

“Go on, champ,” you say, pushing his shoulder gently. “Go shower so we can go home, yeah?”

Tom begrudgingly steps back, opening and closing his mouth a few times as if he’s going to try and change your mind again, but he doesn’t. As much as you know he wants to drag you into a steamy cubicle, his desire to win his match is stronger.

“Be back soon, darling,” he says. “Don’t miss me too much.”

———

The days burn by slowly.

About a week in, you find yourself snapping. You always try to adopt pseudo-chastity with Tom, feeling a little guilty every time you sneak your hand between your legs and chase the highs he can only dream about finding. Yet, you end up reaching breaking point and giving in to temptation one evening, alone in your flat. Tom’s out late at the gym, at the point in the regime where he’s spending most of his days hauled up in the large building, and you just can’t help yourself: you’re so horny.

If you asked him to get you off, you know he’d agree, never wanting to deny you anything. Tom loves you, loves watching you fall apart for him, loves the power trip that comes with knowing your pleasure is in his hands, but you’d just feel too mean. His refusal to have sex in the lead up is as much psychological as it is anything else—you know he finds energy in the ritual, finds aggressive, fiery hormones in the fourteen days of denial. You’d never want to put him in the position where he got tempted to break, no matter how badly you want to cum.

So, you decide to take care of your ache yourself. Or, at least, you try to.

You start off strong. Teasing yourself over your panties, drawing your fingers over the front of your covered sex. You let your eyes flutter shut as you think about Tom, recounting some of the last few sessions you’ve witnessed at the gym. You think about him, his biceps flexing and curling, the subtle curves of his long, slender fingers, his mouth. His features blur, and you find yourself moaning as you dip your fingers beneath the soft cotton and start to stroke your folds. You circle your clit for a while before dipping down to your entrance, touching the pool of your arousal and groaning as you wet your fingers. As your arousal starts to build, you tease your clit, accompanying the action with your other hand after a while. It feels good—so, so good—as you tease your g-spot with your fingers, keeping your thumb on your clit, edging, and edging, and edging, and—

You can’t cum.

A frown settles on your face as you start to grow frustrated. You try to change things up, slowing your movements, letting the high ebb away before trying again. Instead of reaching climax like you crave, you find yourself resting on the edge instead. You’re aroused, your cunt throbbing, your clit tingling, but you can’t quite get there. It’s frustrating.

You’re so caught up in your irritation that you miss the loud slam of the front door, too absorbed in the sounds of your wetness to hear Tom’s yell of greeting. Your eyes are shut as your boyfriend enters the bedroom. You’re not aware he’s home until you hear him tutting, his voice stacked full of amusement and lust. Your eyelids flutter open, and you find yourself looking at him, wide-eyed like a deer stuck in the headlight.

“T-Tom,” you whimper, your movements stilling. You have your legs spread wide open, two fingers buried in your heat, your other hand draped over your bud. A shy smile finds its way across your lips as you batter your eyelashes at him, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of your boyfriend, drowning in a black hoodie and tight blue denim jeans. His hair lies in fresh, air-dried curls, his eyes dark pools of lust. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Tom repeats, imitating your tone. He pushes himself away from the bedroom wall, walking towards you like a lion stalking his prey. You whimper when he reaches down to touch your leg, sliding his hand over your shin teasingly. His eyes glint as he hears you, gaze fixed on the spot between your legs where your hands have stilled. “Oh, please don’t stop on my account, darling,” he teases, smirking. “Keep going. Just because I can’t have fun, doesn’t mean you should have to suffer too.”

You bite your lip, recognising all too well the teasing glint in his eye.

“I can’t,” you admit, shifting around on the mattress as Tom kneels on the end of the bed. Both of his hands are on your legs now, slowly, teasingly, dragging his touch up your shins. Your breath hitches as he slowly works his way up, dipping his head so he’s able to kiss each of your knees, his lips warm and tender.

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

He’s lying down, settled between your legs, slowly kissing up the inside of one of your thighs. It’s hard to concentrate with him so close to your centre.

“Can’t get there,” you mutter, slowly pulling both of your hands away from your mound, leaving you exposed. Tom leans up, raising his eyebrows until you offer him the fingers you’d had buried inside your entrance. He hums as he sucks on your fingers, the sight of him making you moan softly. “I get so close, but I can’t get over the edge.”

Tom licks at the tips of your fingers before releasing them, smirking slowly. “What a shame,” he drawls, sounding the opposite. Both of his hands go to the soft sides of your thighs, and you let him pry your legs apart. He’s so close to your cunt that you can feel his warm breath fanning out across your bud, your folds, your entrance. “Looks like neither of us can cum this week, hmm?”

Before you can reply, Tom drops his head and buries it between your legs. You cry out, sensitive from your edging, your clit throbbing as you feel his tongue, warm and wet, circling the bud. His hands push your hips back down, holding you firmly in place as he moans, drawing his mouth all over your sex.

“Stay still, darling,” he murmurs, voice thick. He glances up at you, a wild look in his eyes. “Be a good girl and let me have a little taste.”  

Your eyes roll back, and you try to lie as still as possible. Tom’s fingers slip into your cunt, exploring your passage, curling up against your g-spot as you whimper.

“So good,” you moan, already feeling your climax twitching in the pit of your stomach. One of your hands goes down to grab at his hair, digging into his curls and keeping his face exactly where you need it, and the other fists the sheets. Your chest rises and falls, your heavy pants mixing with the sounds of Tom’s fingers, fucking your wet heat, and his tongue, teasing the life out of your tender clit. “Please, please.”

“Hmm, you don’t want to cum, do you?” Tom’s words are coupled with a gradual slow in his pace, and you feel your orgasm drifting away as he stills his fingers. He laps over your clit a final time before sitting up a little straighter, looking at you straight on as his chin glistens. “If I don’t get to cum, it doesn't seem fair that you do either, does it?”

His voice is hypnotising, and when his free hand goes to rub warm circles on your inner thigh, you find yourself nodding, transfixed.

“I- I guess.”

Tom smirks, dropping his lips so he can kiss your clit, lightly.

“Are you going to wait for me, sweetheart?” He asks, pink lips puffy and inflamed.

You bite your lip. “Tom,” you whimper, frowning when he lets his fingers pull away from your heat. You watch as he licks his digits clean, still with that wide, confident smirk on his face.

“Hm?” Tom kisses your thigh. “I can make you cum, if you really want to, darling. Just thought it might be nice to do this together.” He rolls both of his hands over your legs, battering his eyelashes at you. “Promise I’ll make it worth your while. Just think about how good it’ll be to wait until next Saturday.” He pushes himself up your body, anchoring himself with a strong arm either side of your head as he suspends himself above you. Tom kisses you, roughly, but only for a moment, letting your lips pull apart when he feels you trying to slip your tongue into his mouth. “Let’s do this together, yeah?”

You hum, thinking on it for a moment, but the scent of his cologne and his fresh shampoo scramble your mind. You find yourself nodding, distracted by the glint in his eyes.

“Okay,” you agree, rolling your eyes when he grins. “We’ll do it together.”

“Good girl.” Tom kisses you, grinning against your lips. “This is going to be fun.”

———

If you’d thought the sex ban was difficult to cope with in the first week, it only gets harder in the second. After giving Tom the green light to have his way with you, he seems to channel all his frustration into you—or, more specifically, into making you as frustrated as possible. He teases you, makes you squirm, beg, cry, letting his mouth wander over your sex or his fingers explore you, any time, any place he feels like it. He never allows you to roll over your edge, just watches, usually smirking, as you try to convince him to let you climax, only to kiss you, softly, and pull away each time.

It happens in the locker room—he pushes you up against the metallic lockers and slips his fingers into you, whispering gentle words with sinful intent.

“Gonna stay quiet for me, darling? Cunt feels so desperate... So tight, so hot. Fucking snug around my fingers, aren’t you? Shh… I know, I know. Feels good for you too, doesn’t it?”

In the showers, when you’re both hot and steamy—Tom drops to his knees and slings one of your thighs over his shoulder, nuzzling his face into your heat.

“Wish I could taste this pussy for the rest of my life, love. Tastes like paradise.”

It even happens in the gym, when he pushes a vibrating egg into you and enjoys teasing you, never warning you before he ups the pace of the bullet, watching with that signature mischievousness on his face.

“Don’t get all shy now, love… I can see the way you’re squirming for me. Bet you’re making a mess in those panties, hmm? Yeah… You can’t hide from me.”

It drives you crazy—beyond crazy. If you thought you’d been mad at Harrison before, you’re practically incandescent with rage by the time fight night comes around.

As your frayed arousal combines with the nerves of the big night, you find yourself alone with Tom, half an hour before the most important match of his career. Your priorities have shifted, your mood sobered by the situation.

“Visualise it,” you murmur, voice soft. You roll your hands over Tom’s shoulders. “Think about how good it’ll feel to hold that belt in your hands.”

Tom hums. He’s sitting on one of the hard wooden benches in the locker room. You’re kneeling behind him, occasionally dropping your lips to kiss the top of his head. After months of supporting him before a fight, you know exactly what he needs: you, touching him, grounding him. He doesn’t like distractions so near to the fight, which is why he has his eyes closed. Whenever he opens them, it’s only to look at the bright red gloves settled in his lap. You know that he appreciates you, even when he’s unable to vocalise it, too lost in his thoughts.

“You’ve trained your whole life for this moment, Tom. You deserve it.”

It’s a mantra. Harrison had taught it to you. Small words of affirmation, repeated softly over the lead-up, speaking them into existence. Tom hums, listening intently.

“You’re going to win,” you speak, your own eyes shut. You focus on the feeling of his shoulders, packed firm with muscles between your hands. “You’re going to win, and then you’re going to fuck me.”

Tom shifts, his posture straightening a little, and your eyes widen as you realise you’ve let your inner thoughts interrupt the ritual.

“I don’t think that’s on Harrison’s script, darling,” he mutters, voice amused.

You reach forward, drawing one of your hands over his forehead. Your fingers play with his hair, and you scrunch up your nose as you chastise yourself for your deviation.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “Just fucking horny. Your fault.”

“Mm, sorry.” Tom grunts when you pull on his hair a little harder, and you repeat the action. “Fuck, love.” He groans louder and tilts his head to the side, exposing the pale column of his neck. “Give me a hickey?”

You oblige, dipping your head so you can rest your lips on his neck. “Where?” You ghost your lips over varying points on his skin, teasing him with light nibbles.

“There,” Tom mutters. One glance at his face confirms he’s still got his eyes shut. When you give in to his desire and start to suck a deep hickey to his skin, he grunts and reaches up to grab at your hands, squeezing your fingers roughly. “Shit.”

“There you go,” you say, voice soft as you pull back.

“Thanks, love,” Tom mutters. “Want to wear it in the ring. Good luck charm.”

You bite your lip, your centre throbbing as you listen to him. You kiss the mark, stained dark against his skin.

“You’ve got this, Tom,” you whisper, redirecting your lips to his ear. His neck prickles with goosebumps when you kiss his earlobe, softly. “You’re going to win, then you’re going to come back, and we’ll celebrate together. Okay?”

Tom’s still holding your hands, firm and eager, and you smile against his neck when he squeezes them.

“Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll win. I’ll do it for you.”

You kiss the back of his head, his soft curls gentle against your cheeks.

“Love you, champ.”

He coaxes one of your hands to his face and kisses the back of your palm.

“Love you too, darling.”

———

The atmosphere sharpens when Tom gets out to the ring.

It’s a big match. The press is here, the fight streamed live to thousands of people across the world. As Tom strides into the ring to take on his opponent, you settle at the side of it, looking up through the ropes with Harrison by your side.

Tom starts off strong—a few hard jabs here, some quick punches there. He dodges and rolls, his bright red gloves raining down over his opponent. Yet, both Tom and his rival are the best of their class, so it’s a nail-biting half-hour spent with your fingers crossed, eyes trained on your boyfriend as he throws everything he has into the ring.

When they break halfway through the match for a few minutes of respite, you’re quick to slip up into the ring and assist Tom’s trainer as they patch up his injured hand. Tom doesn’t say anything, his teeth frozen in the hard white mouth guard, but he squeezes your hand before you step out again, and you know he’s still in there.

The second half only gets more intense—both of them knowing how close the match is, and adjusting accordingly. Tom and his opponent are more reckless, more brutal, and you watch your boyfriend take risks he’d promised to never try to take. It leaves you an anxious mess, but you can’t help but watch him in awe.

Tom’s time in the ring is a performance, beautifully violent, elegantly composed. Spit sprays, sweat drips, blood rolls. He’s loud—very vocal, his sounds almost brutish. His eyes glint black, brown curls stiff with sweat, face on fire. You find it incredibly attractive to watch him in his element, not just because he physically looks incredible, but also because he’s so utterly committed to his trade that everything else fades away. His passion burns, scorches the ground, ripples over his opponent, and in the end, Tom rises, and his rival sinks.

It’s close, and though you have the suspicion that your boyfriend might have snagged it, you hold your breath until it’s confirmed. Your grip on Harrison’s hand is so tight that he curses, but you don’t release it until the MC yells Tom’s name as champion and thrusts his arm triumphantly into the air.

The arena explodes. Your ears ring as you clap and cheer, tears of pride pooling in your eyes. The first thing Tom does is turn around, looking at you with an expression of elated shock on his face. Then, after accepting the belt and speaking a few hurried words of thanks into the microphone of the leading journalist, he comes straight to you.

“Tom!” You exclaim, shaking from emotion. It’s a blend of adrenaline, pride and nerves, cooling your body, making you quiver. Tom reaches down from the ring and grabs both of your hands, jerking you up to him. You dodge past the ropes, almost tripping in his haste, but he grabs you.

Still with the bright stage lights blinding the ring, Tom sweeps you into a deep, passionate kiss, his hot hands burning into your waist. You release a loud noise of surprise, taken entirely off-guard but rolling with the punches. Tom pushes you back against the ropes of the ring as your hands curl into his sweaty hair, and your brief hope that they’ve stopped broadcasting live is set aside as Tom comes closer, caging you in with his buff arms. It’s messy and dirty, his tongue twisting against yours, lips firm, intense, but it’s everything. As you let go of the tension you’d been harbouring all evening, another very prominent emotion burns to the surface: arousal.

“I fucking did it,” Tom breathes finally, forehead pushed to yours. He sounds so proud of himself that it makes you smile, tears reappearing in your eyes as you nod.

“You did,” you confirm. You pull on his hair and push him back so you’re able to see his eyes, dark and hungry. “I’m so proud of you, baby.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you.”

He stares into your eyes for a moment, and then kisses you again, with so much intensity it knocks your breath from your lungs. When he pulls back, he uses one very hot hand to cup your cheek, holding you tightly.

“I have to do some interview shit,” Tom says, grimacing. He tilts his head at the championship belt, which now lies on the floor of the ring, discarded. He’s smirking as he brings his gaze back to you. “Meet me in the locker room? Ten minutes.”

You nod.

“Don’t be late.”

———

You wait for Tom in the team’s locker room, taking the time to lock all of the side doors that lead out from the room. His team has been around the two of you for long enough to know that it’s best to give you a wide berth in the few hours after Tom’s won a match, but you can never be too sure. Once you’re finished with that, you go to the liberty of pulling off your shoes, your jumper, and all the jewellery you’d put on for the night.

Then, you wait.

You wait, and you think about how magnificent Tom had looked as he’d fought, arms flexing, jaw set firm in a focused grimace. You rewatch the scenes of him thrusting the belt into the air, yelling elatedly. You think about how fucking mad he’s made you feel over the last two weeks, edging you and denying you, over and over again. It feels as though you’ve been permanently aroused for seven days straight, and now is no exception: just from spending all evening ogling him, you can feel your arousal wetting the front of your panties.

“Fuck,” Tom exclaims, suddenly bursting into the locker room. You turn around to watch him sling the championship belt over his shoulder as he hurries to flick the lock on the main door, knowing the routine as well as you. When he gets it, he turns and stalks over to you, picking up into a jog. “That took so fucking long,” he groans. He throws the belt away and pulls you from the bench, pushing you until your back bumps up against one of the metal lockers. Tom grins, his nose pressing to yours as he smothers you, hands back on your hips, forehead to yours, breath spreading over your face. “Couldn’t wait to get back here and see you.”

You draw your hands over his back, feeling his muscles tense and flex.

“Just see me?” You ask, ghosting your lips over his.

Tom tightens his grip on your waist. “No,” he mutters darkly. He kisses you, only for a second, but very hard. “Couldn’t wait to get back here, rip your clothes off, and finally give you everything you deserve.”

“Everything I deserve?” You raise your eyebrows, running your hands lower. “I think you deserve more, baby.” You smirk against his lips. “You just won the biggest fight of your life.”

“That’s true…” Tom steps back, only for a moment, and you watch as he reaches beneath the waistband of his gym shorts and grunts. A second later, he pulls out the hard protective cup that shields his lower half from injury in the ring, and he groans, loudly, his forehead pressing to yours. “I’m so fucking hard, darling,” he whines. He steps closer, and you feel him, stiff as a rod, pressing into your thigh. “Need to get it out of me.”

You nod, your head moving back as Tom runs a hand over your throat and tilts it to the side. His lips attack your neck, biting hard kisses to the side of your throat that make you moan, your pulse feeling strong between your legs.

“Shit,” you curse. “Get in the shower.”

Tom sucks a harsh hickey just below your ear before pulling back to wiggle his eyebrows. “The shower, eh?”

“Yeah.” You step out of his hold and start to tear off your clothes, your skin rippling with heat. “Gonna suck you off.” You fling your t-shirt to the ground and roll down your jeans, watching as Tom does the same. “Then… Then, you can fuck me… Shit, I’m definitely going to need you to fuck me.” You throw your bra aside and then push down your panties, the waistband rolling in on itself due to your speed. “I’m so wet, Tom.”

“You don’t need to convince me,” Tom says, eyes taking in your bare form. “Been dreaming about feeling you again, love.” He finally pulls down his boxers, and his hard cock springs out. “Two weeks is far too long. Get over here.”

Tom grabs your hand and tugs you into one of the wide shower cubicles. Both of you curse as he turns the valve and the water comes out freezing cold, but the stark contrast to the raging fire burning up your insides is nice.

You kiss him for a while, as the two of you get soapy and Tom washes away the grime. His skin is soft beneath your hands and the noises he makes as you massage his dodgy shoulder would be erotic enough without the presence of his cock, hard and leaking precum, resting between your thighs. You make out for a while, savouring every moment and enjoying the fact you’re now able to kiss him for longer than two seconds without worrying about exciting him too much. It’s still just as intense as before, but less hurried, and more passionate—Tom’s fingers pushing your damp hair out of your face, water droplets rolling down your figures. To be so bare in front of him and have him so ravenous for you makes you want him more than anything.

“Get back,” you murmur, pushing his shoulders. Tom obeys, his body pressing against the yellow tiled wall. You run a trail of kisses down his torso, paying attention to both of his pecs before his abs, then his v-line. Your knees bend, and you kneel on the floor, kissing up his thighs briefly before finally taking him in hand.

“Fuck-” Tom yells. His hands wind into your hair, flat palms grasping at your skull when you drag your tongue over his tip. “Been so long, love, I won’t last long at all.”

You hum as you tenderly lick over his head, absorbing his salty precum and moaning at the taste. “I know,” you say, your hand slowly tugging his length. You give his tip a chaste kiss as you blink up at him, smiling innocently. “I don’t want you to last long. I want you to cum down my throat.” Very slowly, you envelop his tip in your mouth, bobbing your head gently. You pull back after only a few moments, needing to add, “Want you to fuck my face, Tom.”

Your boyfriend moves one of his hands to your cheek, his voice strained from the way your hand is pumping his lower shaft. “Are you sure? Might not be gentle.”

“Yeah.” You nod your head too. “Want it rough. ‘M so fucking horny, and so are you. Want you to make my throat ache tomorrow.”

Tom curses, his eyes fluttering shut. “You’re so sexy,” he whines, slapping your cheek gently. “Thank you.”

You consider telling him that it’s almost as much for you as it is for him, but then you decide that the sight of his cock, flushed red, leaking precum, is your number one priority. So, you loosen your hand on his member and remove it completely, then soften your jaw and start to take him in your mouth, deep-throating him like you’ve ached to do for two weeks.

Tom’s fast to use his leverage on your head, guiding you with shaking hands. Both of you know that all you have to do to tap out is press his thigh, so you let him use you however he needs. Tears pool in your eyes as he fucks your mouth hard, his tip hitting the end of your throat until you gag. The lewd sounds mix with the pounding of the shower against the tiles and Tom’s grumbled groans that spiral up into the air.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he says, voice raspy and light. “So good, sweetheart, fuck. Such a pretty mouth. Feels so bloody good.” He breaks off for a moment, and you feel him shifting around on the wall, indicating he’s near his peak. “So messy too, fuck. Missed this. Watching you on your knees, gagging on my cock.” He tightens his grip on your hair and pushes you deeper, groaning loudly as he does so. “Fuck, I’m gonna blow. Gonna cum all down your throat. Shit, shit-”

Tom stops moving your head as he yelps, one of his hands curling into a fist and hitting back against the wall as he cums suddenly. You swallow around him, pulling up until your lips are at his tip, and your hand goes up to pump the rest of him through his orgasm. His entire body shakes, releasing the pent-up frustration that comes with so long in denial, and you take joy in the light whimpers he deposits into the air as you suck on his tip, cleaning him up.

“Holy…” Tom grabs your hair and pulls you back up, slumping against you instead of the wall as he pants. After taking a moment to gather himself, he pulls back to look at you, his thumb coming up to play with the beads of his cum that stain the corner of your mouth. “Made a mess,” he coos, pushing his seed onto your tongue. You grin as you suck his thumb further into your mouth, delighting as he curses. “You’re going to be the death of me, sweetheart. You really are.”

You release his finger with a pop, shrugging. “How was that?”

Tom groans again, the sound almost orgasmic. “So good,” he mumbles. “Been so long, darling. So, so long.” He kisses your face, dusting your cheeks in light, loving kisses. When he pulls back, his eyes are a little darker. “Bet you’d like to chase that high too, wouldn’t you?” He accompanies his words with a sly hand, slipping down between your legs. When he feels your slick, so pronounced it’s coating your inner thighs, he tuts, smirking. “All this for me?”

You nod, whining breathlessly as he slips two fingers up to toy with your bud. You feel like a livewire—strung out and pulsing, white-hot. Unlike him, you’ve had some stimulation over the last two weeks. Just, you’ve also been cruelly pulled away from the edge, every single time.

“Just for you,” you agree. Your face drops forward, and you find yourself biting Tom’s broad shoulder as he curls two fingers into you with ease.

“You’re so hot in here,” he mutters, “and so wet, too. Fuck, love. You’re dripping down my hand.” When he angles his digits up to caress your g-spot, he strikes it immediately, and you moan noisily. “There you go, baby. Shh. It’s okay.” Tom fucks your tight heat, gradually unravelling you. “I’ve got you.”

Your moans come out strangled, and you feel yourself clenching around his fingers as your high builds quickly. It won’t take much to push you over the edge, and as much as it pains you—

“I don’t want to cum on your hand, Tom,” you manage, your voice betraying you by splitting into a whimper. “Want to cum on your cock.”

Tom slows his fingers, but he keeps thrusting them into you, just too slowly for you to peak. You groan, your centre pulsing as he keeps you burning near the edge, his lips on your neck again. He gently kisses up to your ear, mouth feather-light.

“Are you sure?” He coos, nibbling at your earlobe. “Feels like you want to cum.” When Tom adds his other hand, two fingers gently stroking your tender bud, your knees almost give out. “Can feel you clenching around me, Y/N, naughty girl.” He kisses just below your ear. “If you want something, you know how you need to ask for it.”

You’re all over the place, your eyes squeezed shut, sweat breaking out over your forehead, your cunt clenching and releasing every other second. You’re so close you can almost taste it, but you try to exercise self-control.

“Please, Tom.” It takes everything in you, but you manage to stand up straighter again, looking at him straight-on. His eyes dance dark with power and lust, his smirk unmoving as he thrusts his fingers a little faster. “W-Want you to fuck me. Been waiting so long, don’t want to fall apart if it isn’t with you behind me. Please, please, please, please-”

He cuts you off with a hard kiss, and finally, Tom pulls his hands away. He runs them both through the stream of water before reaching back to clumsily turn off the valve.

“I fucking love you,” he tells you. “Couldn’t deny you anything. Not really.” Tom takes your hand. “C’mere.”

Tom carefully pulls you over to one of the wooden benches. After draping a towel over the wooden slats, he pushes you down onto your hands and knees, his fingers spreading your legs. You whimper as you feel his cock, hard again, refracted in the interlude he’d constructed with his hands working you into insanity. Your knuckles clench around the slabs of wood, and despite already feeling the ache in your knees, it only spurs you on. You love the pain, love the visible, throbbing reminders of Tom, and he knows it just as much as you do.

“Look so pretty like this, darling,” Tom says, voice drifting through the air. Both of his hands go to your ass, roughly massaging your skin until his right hand slaps down across you, stinging bright hot. He repeats the action when you moan loudly, the slapping sound ringing out through the air. Each time his hand falls over you, you only grow hotter. It doesn’t matter that you’re still covered in water from the shower, you’re burning up. “G’nna let me take you like this, eh? Fuck this tight little pussy, like I know you’ve been dreaming of.”

When Tom lines his tip up with your entrance, you find yourself clinging to the edge of the bench with your fingers.

“Yes,” you beg, backing up against him. You feel like you might dissolve into a mess of arousal, tears, and desperation if he doesn’t satisfy you soon. “Please.”

Tom runs a hand up your back, fingers drifting over the line of your spine. He drops his lips and kisses the lower part of your back, so delicately it makes you quiver.

“Okay,” he says. “G’nna give it to you good.”

He enters you quickly and easily, and you almost lose it from the first thrust alone. You’re so slick that Tom’s swift in pulling back and then slamming back into you, his hands holding your hips back and in place as your arms wobble and your figure loses control. You drop your head between your arms, the blood rushing to your skull and making you feel light-headed as he rocks into you, over and over again, giving you everything you’ve ever wanted and more.

“Tom,” you gasp, your breaths heavy and inconsistent. It feels indescribable—the final denouement of your time apart. Each drag of his cock through your heat has you reeling, your walls quivering and clenching and trying desperately to keep him in, keep him nudging your g-spot, stimulating your passage. You’re moaning louder than you’ve ever moaned before, the coil in your stomach building and building without warning or direction.

Behind you, Tom seems to be enjoying it just as much as you. His libido strong and healthy and his body pumped full of pre-match adrenaline that it doesn’t surprise you in the slightest that he’s being so hard and purposeful in his movements. His groans are like music to your ears, small grunts of affirmation that he too has missed the paradise that unfolds when you join together.

“So fucking tight, angel,” he rasps, again letting his hand fall over your ass. He soothes the skin with his palm, and then he repeats the action two more times. “Feel you clenching me every time I do that.” He pinches your hip with his other hand, and you find yourself biting your forearm, embarrassed by how loud you think you’d moan if you were able to. “You love it rough like this, don’t you, darling? Mm… I know you do.”

It’s a dizzying blur of skin on skin for a while, and you feel yourself teetering on the edge on multiple occasions. It’s as if your body is holding back though, waiting on Tom to near it too before you’re able to fully let go. Almost sensing this, he reaches down and shoves his fingers in your hair, roughly tugging you up until your back is pressed against his front. The angle pushes him deeper, and your eyes flood with tears as you find yourself unable to comprehend just how good it feels.

“Y’like that?” He rasps. Tom drags a hand down to your clit, able to access it better now that he’s holding you so much closer. His pace is slower, but he’s going forcefully, his head hitting your g-spot every time. “Fuck, darling, I’m gonna cum if you keep clenching like that.”

You whimper, your chest heaving.

“Yeah,” you moan. His name pours from your lips like a prayer, rising in desperation as you slip back down, hands grabbing at the slats of the bench as you hold on for dear life. “Fuck, fuck, ‘m gonna cum.”

“Come on,” Tom urges. “Do it. I want to feel you squeezing my cock so tight, like you always do. Always makes me lose it, doesn’t it, love? Shit, you’re so perfect. Go on. I’ve got you. Get my cock nice and wet, and I’ll fill you up. You’d like that, eh? Feeling me cumming inside this pretty pussy? Come on. You know what you have to do.”

It slams into you, pouring down over you in waves that submerge you entirely. You feel boneless but also rigid at the same time, your jaw slack as your vision blurs. Pleasure ripples out from your centre, dousing your aching cunt in relief that feels so sweet, only growing richer and more fulfilling when you hear Tom grunt and feel his cock pulse in you. You come together, bodies moving in sync, perfectly, despite the time apart, and it’s so good that it takes you out of it completely.

You’re so absorbed in your climax that you end up drifting, opening your eyes a few moments later only to find yourself lying on your back, staring up at the bright white lines of the locker room ceiling. Your eyes blur with tears, but just for a moment, because then Tom’s palm swims into vision, drifting above your head until he finds the right angle that blocks out the light.

“Hey, darling,” he coos. He brings one of your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles softly. “Are you okay? Lost you for a second.”

A very lazy, content smile finds your lips.

“Yeah,” you say sluggishly. You ache all over, but it feels incredible. You’re buzzing with the kind of energy that only comes after a session like this—after you’ve let him dismantle you completely. “Are you okay?”

Tom nods, his wet hair flying everywhere. “Fantastic,” he confirms. He glances down your figure, then offers you a soft smile. “I’m going to take you home, run you a really, really nice bath, and then we’re going to cuddle.” He drops your hand and instead cups your face in his palm. You nuzzle into it. His eyes are so soft as he gazes at you tenderly. “You’re so lovely, Y/N. I love you.”

You smile softly. “Love you too.”

Tom leans over you and kisses your lips, very gently, before shifting his mouth all over the rest of your face. He goes from one cheek, over to your forehead, down your nose, to the other, before circling back to your mouth. By the time he reaches there, your smile has grown to a grin, and you feel grounded enough to reach up and loop your fingers into his hair.

“Thank you,” he says, speaking earnestly, “for always being here for me. For supporting me, and putting up with all my crazy ideas, and being incredible, always. You are my inspiration, and I love you more than anything.”

You feel your heart throb in your chest, and you have to focus really hard on stopping the swell of emotion from leaving through your tired eyes.

“Any time,” you say, nodding to emphasise your point. “I love you, and I’m here for you. Whatever you might need, I’ll do it.”

Tom’s warm brown eyes meet with yours, and the smile on his face shows no sign of leaving.

“All I need is you,” he says. His lips come down to yours, softly, just resting there. “All I’ll ever need is you.”

—

———

:)) I rlly like this tbh. I hope you do too !

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[homosexuality-at-its-finest]

i'm feeling like a b- *coughs* today and saw that you write for Hannibal so here I am inflicting this on others hbgvyh. maybe a will or hannibal (i can't decide) x reader where reader is the kid of a notorious serial killer and was always affected by that and Will/Hannibal never brought it up until an argument making reader storm out and W/H feel bad? Angst to fluff? And I totally get if you don't want to do this so have a nice day-night! Did you know that a group of bunnies is called a fluffle?

A/n: I'm high on cough syrup rn and getting the information that a group of bunnies is called a fluffle made me cry, thank you. I will hold this information dear. On another note I hope you enjoy this!!

Plot: Requested :)

Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Gn! Reader

Y/N: Your name

L/n: Last name

E/c: Eye color

Warnings: Angst, mentions of murder and blood, reader is traumatized tm, Hannibal is manipulative tbh, fluff, making up, cursing

Word count: 942

The L/n family had been tainted for years, a great shame to their only child Y/n. Their father had been a notorious serial killer, only getting caught because of a slip up. The father had tried to use his child as a shield and was shot down in front of the very child he had put in harms way.

The story was known nationwide, and for many years the traumatized Y/n had to deal with people prying into their life and their business to learn about the situation. Very few had ignored their dark past, and one of those people was Y/n’s partner Hannibal.

The man was a renowned psychologist who had quite a few murder cases under his belt, and he knew better than to ask his beloved about their own experiences. He could tell Y/n was still traumatized by what they saw that day. Hannibal didn’t need to see his partner having nightmares to know this information.

He could see it in the way Y/n would flinch at the mention of their father’s name or become uncomfortable at the mere mention of blood. There were many tell-tale signs of his partners trauma, which had made the entire situation more fucked up.

The couple had been arguing, what they were arguing over Hannibal couldn’t remember. It was something small and trivial that had been blown out of proportion by his beloved. The killer could feel the rage burning in his veins as they screamed back and forth, Y/n getting closer to him as they argued.

Hannibal used one thing in his arsenal he knew would hurt his lover more than anything else, and he had stooped low to win the argument. He watched as Y/n threw their hands in the air, annoyance clear in their body language.

“What the hell is wrong with you Hannibal?” The words were hissed out as Y/n’s E/c eyes narrowed in on him.

“Darling are we sure I’m the one who is fucked up?” Hannibal’s words came out as lazy and condescending. “Last I checked my father wasn’t the mass murderer.” It was a low blow, and he knew that, and as soon as the words left his lips regret bubbled in his chest.

Y/n took a step back as if they’d been burned, and Hannibal wanted nothing more than to grab their smaller figure and pull Y/n against his chest. He was far too stubborn to do that sadly, watching as Y/n’s arms wrapped self-consciously around their frame.

Tears welled up in the beautiful E/c eyes that Hannibal loved so dearly, leaving an aching hole in his chest.

“Fuck you Hannibal.” He had barely heard the words as Y/n turned away, grabbing their keys and bag without a second thought. Pleas died on his lips before they could be spoken, for once he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to calm the raging storm in his lover.

He watched as an outsider from his own body as the one he loved left his home, leaving him alone to sink into the abyss of guilt. The killer knew he shouldn’t have said that it was a topic that wasn’t mentioned, let alone thrown into Y/n’s face.

The brunette let out a low sigh, fingers carding through his greying hair. He didn’t know how he was going to make it up to them. His mind was only drawing blanks, causing his skin to broil with irritation.

He let Y/n cool off for a few days, knowing that his partner would only get angrier if he approached now. After 4 days of letting Y/n cool off, he had bought a bouquet of orchids and made his way towards their apartment.

He could tell his lover was home by their car in the driveway, so he proceeded up the front steps before knocking. He waited patiently for Y/n to answer the door, forcing himself not to shift uncomfortably.

The door was opened by the familiar face he loved so dearly, an apologetic smile spreading across his lips.

“Y/n, darling I’m so sorry for what I said.” He spoke before Y/n could. “It was out of line, and it was wrong of me to hold it against you. I didn’t mean it, I said it during a fit of anger.” The psychologist took a breath, waiting for Y/n to speak.

“If you ever say anything like that again, we’re done.” The words held a finality to them, making him subtly gulp. The smile that spread across his partners lips soothed the anxiety stirring inside the killer. “Really orchids? You sap.” The playful words banished any anxiety left, a loving smile spreading across his lips.

“Of course, darling, they symbolize sincerity.” He replied, handing them to Y/n. “May I come in?” Hannibal was unsure if his partner was ready to be around him yet, but the hand pulling him inside pushed the worries away.

“Who knew the great Hannibal Lecter knew so much about flowers?” Y/n teased, pecking his cheek. Hannibal knew damn well he’d say many more regrettable things in the future, but right now he had Y/n once more, and he refused to ever let them go. Similar to a predator with their prey, the only way Y/n would escape this relationship was in death, not that they needed to know that of course. For now they could be content and happy, ignorant to the monster that lurked within Hannibal.

[biboybuckley]

don’t take me tongue tied

buck/eddie | college au - frat party | 2500 words | also on ao3

Listen, Buck is– he’s actually fairly intelligent, most of the time. He’s always gotten decent grades- mostly B’s with a few scattered A’s or C’s. He understands the material in his classes. He’s good at figuring things out. The only problem is- he gets bored. A lot , okay?

So, yes , he’s at UCLA because- hey, his SAT scores were the best in his high school, alright? He’s a good tester. Yes , he’s a civil engineering major. Yes , he has a huge fucking test in two days. And yes, he’s currently upside down on top of a keg practically being waterboarded by beer. It’s like, a law of being in a frat, okay? Besides. He holds the record. He’s got a reputation to uphold.

The blood is rushing to his head and beer is dangerously close to ending up going out his nostrils, but the crowd is screaming chug chug chug! and Buck is nothing if not a people-pleaser. He steels himself and does as the people demand, almost lightheaded now.

Then- he splutters. Chokes. Topples over. But it’s not his fault, okay? It’s the- listen, this guy is really hot, alright? Like, look- like-he-just-stepped-out-of-some-stupid-2010’s-romcom hot. So- maybe Buck chokes on his beer a bit. Sue him.

He quickly jumps to his feet, then grabs his friend’s arm for stability as his head swims. He blinks a few times, laughing as he shakes his head and tries to reorient himself. A few hands clap him on the back and the friend he’s leaning on, Lucy (they’re a gender-inclusive frat, get with the times people), grabs his wrist and holds his hand up with a whoop. Guess he upheld his reputation, despite the whole ‘falling over cause he saw a hot guy’ thing. Which- speaking of…

Buck’s gaze darts around the room, back to where he last saw the guy. He’s still there, leaning against the doorframe with a small, amused smile on his lips. His eyes sparkle even from across the room and his hair looks soft as it spikes in every which way, like an abnormally cuddly hedgehog. Buck gently twists his wrist out of Lucy’s grasp, nodding subtly towards where the guy is standing. Lucy just winks at him and leans in to whisper-yell, “Go get him, tiger!” She also may or may not slap his ass as he walks away.

Buck pushes through the crowd of people, somehow acquiring a beer as he travels, until he’s right in front of the stranger. Which- that in and if itself is enough to pique his interest. Four months into the semester, there’s not a lot of people Buck doesn’t recognize at these parties.

“I’m Buck,” he yells over the music by way of greeting. “Well- Evan Buckley. But friends call me Buck. Hey, you don’t look familiar.”

The guy snorts, rolling his eyes slightly. “There’s 30,000 kids at this school, and you’re surprised I don’t look familiar?”

Buck lets his eyes drag over the other man, from his worn-out red converse to the tips of his hedgehog hair. He grins suggestively and leans back against the doorframe opposite him. “Pretty sure I’d remember you.”

“Wow,” the guy scoffs. “That’s- wow.”

“Speechless already, huh?”

“You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you?”

Buck grins, shrugging and taking a sip of his beer. “How about I get you a drink and you decide what I am?”

“Okay, I have to ask, do these lines actually work?”

Buck sighs, thumping his head back against the wood. “See, if you had the courtesy of being party-drunk like I am, then maybe.”

The man lets out a laugh at that- a real one, not mocking. “Alright, how about this: you’ve got approximately three drinks to convince me you’re better than your pickup lines.”

Another grin stretches across Buck’s face and he holds out his hand. The guy takes it and shakes it firmly, his eyes twinkling. “Deal.”

***

Eddie really is not the ‘party’ type. He’s at UCLA for one reason: to get his degree so he can become a licensed psychologist. He’s the first member of his family to get this far, and the only reason he did is because he spent the last two and a half years in the army. So, no, thank you very much, he’s not about to waste the education he almost died for on beer and frat people.

But…

Listen, his roommate Ravi is very convincing. And there’s only so many times that Ravi can call him a “mopey hermit” before Eddie starts to take it to heart. So, when Ravi finds out from his friend Lucy that there’s a party at the Phi Kappa Psi house and insists that Eddie goes with hime, Eddie’s just about out of reasons to say no.

He still tries.

“I’m busy.”

“You’re reading.”

“Yeah, a textbook.”

“For like the third time.”

“I have a test tomorrow.”

“You spent the past three hours studying.”

“Exactly, so I’m tired.”

Ravi throws a red bull at Eddie’s head and that’s the end of that.

So that’s how Eddie ends up at a frat party watching a halfway drunken idiot do a handstand on a keg. Albeit, a very attractive halfway drunken idiot. And yeah, okay, maybe Eddie’s having a hard time tearing his eyes away from the stretch of tan skin exposed by the guy’s ridden up shirt. But that is between him and his fluttering chest as the frat boy locks eyes with him, tries to smile around the valve, and then promptly topples over.

And very, very much despite himself, Eddie finds himself extremely endeared with this sparkly-eyed, curly haired human golden retriever. Endeared enough to agree to let the guy- Buck - get him a drink. Which is how he’s now nursing his second beer on a second floor hallway with the party raging on below him and drunken college students stumbling past every few minutes.

“So,” Buck says, leaning against the wall opposite him and grinning at Eddie. “Buzzed enough to tell me your name yet?”

“Hmm,” Eddie pretends to consider, propping himself up with an elbow on the railing behind him. “I’m considering it.”

“Oh come on,” Buck whines and no that doesn’t send something electric spiking through Eddie, not at all. His pink lips turn down in a pout and Eddie is so fucked. “Please? I can’t keep just calling you Hot Guy in my head.”

“How about you tell me about that first?” Eddie dodges, gesturing with his beer at the discolored mark on Buck’s temple. Buck’s face flushes, his cheeks turning a similar color. He ducks his head down, as if to hide his face, and Eddie feels a strange mixture of guilt and fondness. He pushes off the railing and steps closer to Buck.

“Hey.” His voice comes out low and rough, somewhat surprising himself. He sets a hand on Buck’s shoulder, his thumb pressing into his neck lightly. “That wasn’t meant to be rude. It’s cute- I’m just curious where it came from.”

Buck chuckles quietly, glancing up but not meeting Eddie’s gaze. “Born with it. Birthmark.”

Eddie leans in close enough so his lips brush the shell of Buck’s ear and he feels the other man shiver. “You turn the same color as it when you blush.”

“Alright, seriously,” Buck says when Eddie steps back. “You gotta tell me who you are, man. Anyone that makes me blush this much owes me a name.”

“Eddie,” he grins, lifting his beer bottle to his lips and watching as Buck’s eyes track the movement. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and Eddie clenches his jaw tightly, gripping the railing. “Eddie Diaz.”

“Nice to meet you, Eddie Diaz.” Buck’s lips turn up in a lopsided grin and he nods at Eddie’s beer. “You ready for another?”

“Buckley, are you tryna get me drunk?”

Buck shrugs one shoulder, grin not slipping, eyes twinkling. “Just tryna get you to relax a bit.”

“Hey, I told you from the start that I don’t make a habit of this.”

“More like you’ve never actually done this,” Buck snorts.

Eddie’s gaze slides away and he takes a deep swig of his beer in lieu of answering.

“Oh my god,” Buck says. “You’ve never done this.”

“Listen-”

“You’re a total nerd, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Like a stays-in-all-night-studying, doesn’t-go-to-parties, my-best-friend-is-a-textbook nerd.”

“I am not,” Eddie insists. “I just- I don’t get out a lot, okay?”

“You’re a hot guy in college, there’s literally no excuse.”

Eddie feels himself grin. “You think I’m hot?”

“I- well- I mean-” Buck’s face reddens as he stammers. “Have you seen yourself?”

Eddie shrugs. “Once or twice.”

Buck lets out a laugh. “God, you’re not funny, Eddie Diaz.”

“Then why’re you laughing?”

“Because a hot guy told me a bad joke, so the sensible thing to do is laugh.”

“You really are quite a flirt, Buck.”

Buck shrugs, smirking. “Better than my lines though?”

“Maybe just a bit,” Eddie concedes, sipping the last of his beer. Buck lets out a whoop and pumps his fist and Eddie’s so fucking endeared.

“Told you I’d convince you.”

“You did indeed. But you also said you’d get me three drinks and, would you look at that, just finished my second.”

“Then let's go get you a third,” Buck practically giggles, pushing off the wall and heading toward the stairs. He stumbles on the second step and almost pitches down the entire flight before Eddie’s hands dart out and steady him, one hand going to his waist and his other gripping his elbow, fingers curling around his forearm.

“Better idea– let’s get you some fresh air.”

Buck laughs tipsily. “Okay that might not be the worst idea. I’m like…” He holds his hand out in front of him and ticks down fingers, “four ahead of you, not counting the keg stand.”

“Yeah, okay, you definitely need some air.”

“Hey! I’m fun when I’m tipsy!” Buck defends as Eddie steers him down the stairs, still holding onto his waist and elbow. Buck’s arm comes up to sling over Eddie’s shoulder. “I’m a lot bolder.”

“Well, given that you’ve been blatantly hitting on me for the past half hour, I would definitely hope so.”

“Most people call me a flirt no matter what.”

“Are you flirting or are you just hot and talking to them?”

“I-” Eddie risks a glance at Buck and finds him pouting in confusion. “There’s a difference?”

Eddie laughs as they head toward the back of the house, Buck occasionally calling out a greeting to people they pass. His arm doesn’t leave Eddie’s shoulders, sitting comfortably with their height difference and Jesus , this is a big man and why does Eddie find that so fucking attractive?

They push out the back door and into the crisp night air and Buck instinctively takes a deep breath, one Eddie feels against his own ribs. Buck tugs on Eddie’s shoulders, directing them towards a bench in the grass. The backyard is dimly lit with string lights and shockingly empty. There’s only a few students hanging around, and none near the bench.

Buck and Eddie- BuckandEddie, Eddie thinks- sit on the bench, directly beside one another despite there being plenty of space. Eddie is acutely aware of every point of contact between them- Buck’s knee knocking against his, Buck’s warm, solid thigh pressed against his, Buck’s arm still slung over his shoulders.

“So,” Buck huffs out, settling back against the bench. “You like guys right?”

Eddie nearly chokes on his own tongue, spluttering. “I- yeah- I mean- yeah? Why would you-? Huh?”

Buck blinks at him, tilting his head. “Well… I’ve kinda been hitting on you all night, and you just- you don’t seem all that interested?”

“I-”

“I mean- not that you can’t be into guys and not into me- it’s not like- I’m not that conceited I swear- I just meant-”

“Buck,” Eddie interrupts, grabbing his knee and squeezing to cut him off. “Yes I like guys. And yes, I like you. But I, uh… it’s embarrassing okay? But it’s not you.”

“Well now you have to tell me,” Buck insists, shifting so his body is angled towards Eddie, his eyes sparkling.

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on, otherwise I’m just gonna go on being offended.”

Eddie sighs heavily, tilting his head back. “I’ve never kissed a guy,” Eddie mutters.

Buck coughs beside him, probably choking on his own tongue as Eddie had just minutes before. I’d rather choke on his tongue, Eddie thinks.

“What?” Buck demands.

“I’ve never. Kissed. A guy,” Eddie repeats through gritted teeth.

“I- huh?”

“Listen,” he sighs, “I didn’t come out until Senior year of high school, then I was in the army and had a lot of other things to worry about. Now I’m where and, well, in your words “a total nerd.” Though, I gotta say I prefer my roommate’s term for it, which I never thought I’d say.”

“What’s his term for it?”

“Mopey hermit.”

“Fitting.” Eddie scoffs, shaking his head. “But, seriously, you’ve never kissed a guy?”

“Nope.”

“Like… never ?”

“Nope.”

“Have you kissed anyone?”

Eddie shrugs. “Couple girls in high school but I’m entirely gay, so I don’t totally count them.”

“I am… so sorry. You’re missing out.”

“Oh am I?”

“Yep,” Buck affirms, popping the P, grinning and oh god, his lips are like really, really fucking kissable.

“Interesting,” Eddie murmurs, unashamedly looking at Buck’s lips now.

“I could uh, I could show you, if you’d like,” Buck says as they drift closer. “Just for… practice.”

“For practice,” Eddie echoes. “Of course.”

“Yeah, just for-” and then Eddie’s closing the distance completely, sealing his lips against Buck and holy fuck, yeah Eddie’s been missing out. Buck’s lips are soft- softer than Eddie remembers the girls’ being, and warm and firm and insistent against Eddie’s, and the arm over Eddie’s shoulders wraps around his neck and pulls him closer and Eddie lifts his hand to cup the side of Buck’s face and god, Eddie’s ruined.

Buck’s tongue prods his lower lip, coaxing Eddie’s mouth open and Eddie complies happily, relishing in the slide of their tongues and the press of their mouths, in Buck’s other hand coming up to tangle in his hair and he’s leaning into Eddie and he’s warm and solid and everywhere.

They break apart a few moments later, after what feels like a lifetime and no time at all, and Eddie stares at him, searching blue eyes, panting slightly. Buck looks dazed, his lips redder than usual and his eyes shining as he grins.

“Buck,” Eddie says carefully, “do you wanna come back to my place?”

“Fuck yeah,” Buck breathes, stroking the back of Eddie’s neck. “Thought you’d never ask.”

They pass Ravi on their way out, flirting with a cute guy  and raising an eyebrow at Eddie as Buck briskly pulls him along through the house.

“Don’t come home,” Eddie hisses as they hurry past. In response, he gets a clap on the back and a whoop .

[uelden]

Vanity Fair interview translated

Just a side note before the actual translation; I don't know why, but instead of reporting the full questions and answers in full as she should, the journalist decided to report only summarized fragments of what Måneskin said and patch these fragments up into messy clusters. She also worded a couple phrases in a very confusing way (and yes, she's fully Italian). In short, she did quite a poor job, so the final shape of the interview is not that good. I didn't expect top-tier journalism from Vanity Fair but ffs. You'll see what I mean.

I translated it as it is, adding just a couple footnotes to give you insight on Italian pop culture references.

Translation under the cut

Måneskin: "Different from whom?"

by Lavinia Farnese, 09 June 2021

"True justice is being judged for what you do and not for what you are." The ones who are convinced of this are Damiano, Victoria, Ethan and Thomas who, by being the emblem of a generation that is finally free, refuse labels and conformism. In life, in love and on the stage. Where, maybe precisely because of this, they're winning everything

With the still unexpected (first place at Sanremo Festival) and the incredible (triumph at Eurovision) in their eyes, Måneskin are on the sofa of the house-studio they rented - to resume writing songs and rehearsing them - like you are after a won battle: lying in a calm and unreal silence, alert and a bit irreverent, happy.

In the garden there's the tennis table and the pool, the light of summer when it's starting and calming the country all around, and it filters inside from the large windows, and it goes onto the shining black of Ethan's hair, which blends with Thomas' eye shadow and the butterfly he has tattooed oh his naked forearm, which completes the picture of Victoria's golden crucifix hanging between neck and tank top and ends on the black nail polish of Damiano's stretched hands.

It's a human fresco, a Theatre of wrath [translator's note: "Teatro d'ira"] - to call it with the title of their latest album, a platinum record already - where their flaunted 20 years of age, their irregular femininity and virility are grown into proud and challenging custom, a pop glam rock generational manifesto of hard-earned liberties in a finally-unconditional expression of the self.

To watch them from any angle and from another age is to think that a great love will be born in those who'll understand: this new way of being in the world, the true and sovereign realm they hold where "diversity=exceptionality", the power of the artistic and cultural revolution of which they are healthy carriers in establishing in all lyrics and gestures the right to live according to one's own nature past the "people (who) talk, the people (who) unfortunately talk, and don't know what the fuck they're talking about." [tn: "Zitti e buoni" lyrics]

We go where we're afloat, where the air isn't gone. [tn: journalist's own variation on "Zitti e buoni" lyrics]

Miley Cyrus says hi – The numbers of a phenomenon

"The streams of Zitti e buoni are growing by the second, and they bring us above Muse, at the top of English charts, twelfth in the Spotify Global Chart. Followers almost tripled, in the post-Rotterdam period (from 1,4 to 3,3 millions, ed.) Contagious and universal folly: t-shirts and merchandising sold out in 10 minutes. Like the records, the tickets for a tour that keeps adding dates and expanding over geographic maps. They're contacting us even from some festivals were The Rolling Stones went." Thomas

"After the pretextual controversy over cocaine that France built against us, later disproven by my drug test, some graffiti popped up in Spain depicting me as a “No drugs” poster guy. Some tweets made us laugh: "Congratulations, Italy! I've never been more certain that four people have had sex with each other." Miley Cyrus started following us -You're great. -You guys are greater." Damiano

From the garage to the stars – Story of a flight

"It was only 2016, and we played in restaurants, in the streets, in via del Corso. Damiano without even a microphone, Thomas' guitar with wonky strings, Ethan was drumming on a cajón. During Rome highschools' sit-ins (Kennedy, Virgilio, Mamiani) we had our first confirmations and half-hours of celebrity, playing among those who criticized us and those who went "wow they're really cool." One of the rare times when they would have paid us – 50 euros each – we gave the money to the next band in the lineup so that they would make us play in their spot, later in the day, when there would have been more people. We had already realized how things worked. Visibility mattered more than money. And we still think that." Victoria

The intimacy of rock – Choice of a genre

"Music allows us the miracle of extending to others some very personal and private topics, sometimes even difficult and thorny ones. They are and they remain deeply your own, but at the same time they become a confession that reaches a wider audience, and in this passage that is alike a delivery, they find a place in you as well, a processing of them. You overcome them, you accept them. One second it's something aggressive, the next it's a ballad. Cathartic». Damiano

Against panic – The stage as therapy

"I've suffered a lot from anxiety and panic attacks, it's an issue I've worked on thanks to a psychotherapy course, my friends and my family. Playing helped me in not letting myself be paralyzed by my fears, not making myself limited in my private and professional life. I've learned to accept, to live with this side of myself. I don't hide it. I don't feel ashamed of it." Victoria

Analysis as necessity – Relying on someone saves you

"This belief that only madmen go to the psychologist is a widespread ignorance. No-one's born learned. [tn: common Italian saying] And it's often hard to understand the very reason why we're here, let alone the origin and direction of our desires. It's a long and legitimate journey towards lucidity, a kind of backing to become transparent." Damiano

Being out of our minds – But different from them [tn: "Zitti e buoni" lyrics]

"When you feel a strong passion towards something that is not a canonical job but an artistic language, that already puts you on a level of anomaly, which is not superior or inferior to other people, but it puts you in the position of the one who breaks the mold and also works at a loss, the one who sustains great risks while trying to do something that who knows if it will take you anywhere. "Why do it if it doesn't pay?". You want to give this dream of yours an aesthetic, but it becomes "You're dressing so weird! You must be gay!" - now that I'm 22 I laugh about it, but when I was 17 it had an effect on me, too." Damiano

The beauty of uniqueness – Of believing in it and defending it

"And I mean, at the end of the day if we're all different it's not because we want be alternative but because, really, no-one is the same. Justice is being judged on what you do and not what you are. Justice is equality, respect, beauty." Ethan

Fluid sexuality – Pride is freedom

"Heels for men that like themselves in them, kisses among ourselves, we have an open, extended mind, and we're proud of it. The horizons become vast, past the oppression of conservative families. With the information on the web knowledge becomes greater and with it the possibility that minorities will be less and less minorities, because the majority will be less of a majority. This way we'll make insults and bullying grow quieter. If social media get to a village of 50 souls and reveal to a girl who's afraid of the dark that someone has felt her same fear, then there's no reason to give a name to that fear, to mark it with labels which also limit and restrict. Definitions always had this effect on me. You shouldn't even consider the gender when judging someone, let alone their orientation." Victoria

Sexism – A culture to be dismantled

"Emma [tn: Emma Marrone, Italian singer] drops the bomb: “At Eurovision when I was there they massacred me for a pair of shorts, while they said nothing to Damiano – bare-chested and in heels.” The easy judgment against women is more fierce, constant, debasing (if I have a lot of sex I'm cool while Vic is a whore, where I show myself strong I'm a leader while Vic is despotic and a pain in the ass who reached success because she's hot.) As a male I'm privileged, the abuse I get is not comparable to those a woman has to live through, the comments over my aesthetic are centered only on my aesthetic and don't insinuate anything about my professionalism and my competence, while women are victims of this kind of thought in a systematic way. It happened though to find myself standing with a woman who while pulling me to herself to take a selfie, started licking my face out of the blue... I mean, what the hell do you want? Who asked you? Consent exists, and it's due." Damiano

Grow yourself – The only commandment

"To me conformism is the opposite of education [tn: could also mean "politeness"] and is the asphyxia of expression. I fortunately never endured heavy bullying, heavy enough for the the judgement of others to change me. But the mold of the small crumbs of bullying I got and of the kind of aggression that scars is the same. If I'm a kid who dances and likes dolls you have to let me do what I like. I was a kid who wanted to keep his hair long and played with Barbie. As a teen, my friends looked at my hair: " You have to find a girl with short hair to be at your side." My grandparents took away my dolls: "Stop it, they're not for you." Ethan

"When I was six I was already sick of them, the distinctions between masculine and feminine. I've always had strong ideas about how I wanted to be. I refused things that were typically defined as girly, and all around me they mocked me because I went skateboarding, I played soccer, I didn't wear skirts, I was giving myself the chance to be as I wished. I endured it a little, I suffered a little, but I had courage, and now thanks to that courage I know that I could have gotten even much more hurt, otherwise I would have left to others the most important choice: the one about myself." Victoria

Love in progress – Music, girlfriends

"I've been married to music for the last 20 years. I can't wait to celebrate our golden wedding anniversary." Ethan

"Everyone makes their own experiences, sometimes it goes well, sometimes it goes wrong, but it's always not anybody's business." Thomas

"When I first felt feelings and attraction towards a girl it was a bit disorienting because I had never had the courage of going beyond the limitations I had put for myself. For society being heterosexual is the norm and so you often define yourself in that way automatically, depriving yourself of the freedom to live many shades and faces of love. Once I overcame the initial insecurity of having to call into question my certainties I've lived my sexuality in a very natural and free way, as it should be for everyone." Victoria

"I had paparazzi at my door every day and night. So, after four years of relationship, I revealed her name. I still have paparazzi at my door every day and nigh, but at least I don't have to hide anything anymore." Damiano

The worth of the group – Phenomenology of protection

"The true engagement though, the true family is among ourselves, our band. We've believed in it since day zero, even before we called ourselves Måneskin (Moonlight in Danish), even before Ethan drew a giant moon on the flier for the first concert we ever did. We share everything, even the pain for the tragedy of Seid Visin, who committed suicide at 20 because of racism. [tn: I think the journalist asked them their opinion about Seid Visin's death, which was a current events topic in Italy, and then pasted it syntaxically in the middle of Thomas' answer, which was not a great move] A group is what we all should be: stay united and not back down an inch in the face of oppression that is generated by a distorted view of diversity." Thomas

I'm not of the right age – Like Gigliola [tn: Gigliola Cinquetti won Eurovision with her song "Non ho l'età", which means "I'm not of the right age"]

"Before you the only one who won both Sanremo and Eurovision on the same year was Cinquetti (1964). If there's anything I feel I'm not of the right age for? No, honestly no. Maybe having children. Regarding children I'll be honest: I'm not of the right age." Damiano

Having touched the sky – The fears that remain

"We're more than inside the dream, we're in the conquered dream. When you fly high there's the risk of plummeting and hurting yourself, but we'll work hard not to end up like Icarus, who burns his wings with the sun. Everything is in our hands. And this - a bit pretentiously - reassures us rather than scaring us." Damiano

[pigeonp0st]

Since I loved your one shot about Lena, I'm requesting another one! Reader is a single mom and is afraid to tell Lena about her child cause she thinks Lena isn't going to take it well, but in the end Lena loves her child.

Lena Luthor x Reader #2

Words: 1,590

Warnings: none?

Notes:

Thank you for requesting! If you’d like me to change the name of the kid (or the gender) feel free to say so. Also...sorry if you were expecting more of Lena. I realized at the end that there might not have been enough (Sorry for spelling mistakes too).

———

Miles, your eight year old son, has started to pretend he’s a psychologist. He’ll sit you down, with your head in his small lap (which isn’t very ethical), and ask you about your life problems.

Usually, you’ll make up funny nonsense that he’ll struggle to find the solution to...but today a very real problem has arrived, and you know you shouldn’t be trying to confide in your little boy about this, yet you decide to anyway.

He knows about you and Lena, though Lena doesn’t know about him. He saw her on TV once, was awestruck by her “smartness”, and you let slip that she’s the woman you’ve been dating.

Dating used as a loose term, because you and Lena haven’t actually become anything official. It’s...weird. Made even more so by the fact that she doesn’t know about the most important person in your life.

You tell Miles as much in today’s session. He beams down at you, happy that you’re finally starting to take his sessions seriously, and then taps his finger against his lip, thinking. “You should just tell her,” he finally concludes after a long pause.

You narrow your eyes up at him suspiciously, and wonder if you should just pretend to take his advice and move on. You don’t. “People usually don’t want to get involved with single moms.”

His eyes furrow at that, clearly upset, so you rush on. “If someone doesn’t want to be involved with you, none of me longs to be involved with them,” then, you pause, “I just want to want to be involved with Lena.”

“So this stems from past trauma?” Miles asks, and you gape at him, shocked.

“Where the f—when did you learn any of those words, honey?”

He grins at you again, clearly proud of himself, and then schools his face into an attempt of looking professional. It’s humorous. “Psy- Psych—”

“Psychology.”

“Yes, that. It says that our fears usually come for childhood trauma.”

“I’m not scared,” but even as you say that you know it’s not true. You make a mental note to watch over whatever the hell Miles is listening to, to make sure it’s age appropriate. “Even if I am, it’s definitely not from childhood trauma.”

“From relationship trauma then?”

You let out a shocked laugh, completely stumped. “Baby, your eight. If you keep saying smart things you’re going to start scaring me.”

“Let's talk about your fears,” He suggests. Clearly wanting to move on he gestures for you to sit up. Once you do, he hops up from the couch, grabs his clipboard from the coffee table, and starts scribbling down things you aren’t able to see.

“Okay,” you hesitantly agree. “I’m scared Lena will want nothing to do with me.”

“Why is that something you're scared of?”

You give him a confused look that he pays no attention to. “Obviously I like her...I also fear that you won’t.”

He nods, finally looking up from his clipboard. “And what happens if I hate her, and she hates me, so she leaves and you never speak to her again?”

You choke on absolutely nothing.

“What will you do then?” Miles asks, and you have no response for him. He doesn’t seem to want one. “You’ll deal with it, like you always have. So stop worrying until it comes. If it comes.”

You’re equal parts extremely proud of him, and extremely concerned as you think over what he’s said.

Then, as if he’s tired of being the smartest eight year old alive, he hands you the paper he was working on for half of your ‘session’. The paper is full of sharp lines that get more curvy and tangled the closer they get to what appears to be the middle.

“This,” he says, “is how you’re feeling.”

And you believe him.

———

It takes you a week to build up the courage to tell Lena about Miles. He surprisingly helped you come to the realization that holding off on telling Lena the truth won’t change the outcome.

In fact...it would probably make things more complicated. Even now, she deserved to know sooner than this.

It’s too late, of course. There’s no point in wishing you had done differently.

“Are you okay?” Lena asks through the phone, sounding so beautifully concerned over the fact that you haven’t spoken for awhile. God, you're whipped for this world-saving genius.

“Yeah,” you say, “just...you know how I said I had something to talk to you about?” You don’t wait for her to confirm, because of course she remembers, she’s looked scared because of it all day. “I sort of have to show you...so would you mind coming over?”

Yes, you’re a coward that’s hoping Lena seeing Miles for herself, instead of you telling her about him, will make her more accepting. Miles has a very convincing charm.

“You want me to go to your place?” Lena sputters, clearly shocked.

In an instant you regret the decision you were so sure about before. Maybe Lena isn’t ready. You should tell her before she comes, so she isn’t shocked out of her mind when she sees him.

You should—

“Okay,” Lena says, determined. You hadn’t even responded to her before. “I’ll be there soon.” And then she hangs up the phone before you manage to say anything, leaving you wondering what the fuck you’re doing.

You could call her back.

...you’re not going to. You’re too scared.

——

Miles waits by the door, dressed in his best suit. He knows how anxious you are about this, despite how hard you’ve been trying to hide it since your weird ‘session’, so he says he’s going to try and be the best him he can be.

You tell him that all he needs to be is his normal self and everything will be alright, but he admits to being nervous to meet Lena too, because she’s super smart. (He’s been watching anything he can find of her on the internet)

Thus, the two of you wait together impatiently, trying not to descend into madness.

——

At some point Miles starts making and handing you scribbles of how you feel, and you start making and handing them back.

It’s while you’re handing Miles your next piece that the doorbell rings.

He doesn’t look to be that nervous anymore, just excited, so he follows you on your track to answer the door, and with each step you contemplate your entire existence beyond Miles.

Then…Then you open the door.

Miles is hiding behind your leg, looking up at Lena with hesitant hopefulness and uncertainty, it’s the exact match of the way you’re looking at her, and Lena is looking at him with wide eyes.

Because you’re sure you’re about to die from the silence, you croak out a wobbly and quiet; “hi,” at the same time Mile’s sticks out his hands and says his own charming greeting.

“Hello, doctor Y/L/N here. Nice to meet you.”

“Lena Luthor.” As if on autopilot Lena shakes his hand. “You’re a doctor?” She asks, smiling the smallest of smiles at him.

He nods his head eagerly, glad she’s smiling. “Yeah! Of—of psy- psych...”

“Psychology,” You finish. Lena’s gaze switches to you. It’s the moment you think you’re gonna die, but her gaze is concerned instead of disappointed.

“He’s older than the photo on your wallpaper suggested,” Lena says.

Oh.

Oh…

You’re an idiot.

Then, Lena smiles—wider this time because of your dumbstruck expression—and looks at Miles. “To be a doctor you have to be pretty smart.”

He nods, his eyes practically full of stars.

“That’s how I know you and I are going to get along great.”

Miles grins madly, pushes you a bit to the side so Lena can come in, and says, eager, “can I show you my work, please?”

And Lena looks from you, to him, laughs a laugh full of amusement and endearment, and agrees gracefully. “I’d love it if you would.”

———

Lena adores Miles.

Around him she almost seems, impossibly, like a child herself. She so obviously and beautifully wants him to like her, and all the while Miles is almost exactly the same around her.

They’re both complete dorks trying to subtly get each other's attention and all you want to do is watch the two of them interact for ages.

They both were two separate parts of your life, and now they’re merged better than you ever expected them to.

It’s great. Absolutely great. But whenever they turn their twin gazes on you you’re sure you’re going to melt into a puddle of adoration.

Wow.

“What is it?” You ask them, after they’ve both looked at you for too long without saying anything.

Lena tilts her head, her smile concerned again, “you look like you’re about to cry.”

Miles nods his agreement. “What’s wrong mom? Does whatever bothering you stem from childhood trauma?” He asks, and at Lena’s ‘the fuck’ face you burst out into a fit of laughter, that quickly turns into tears of absolute love.

Both Miles and Lena looked at you with alarm because they don’t realize this is the happiest you’ve been in a while. It is though. It is.

“Not childhood trauma,” you assure them both, and before Miles can suggest it you add; “not past relationship trauma either, it’s happy tears.”

“Oh,” Lena stutters, “good.”

“Oh,” Miles repeats, sounding relieved and a tad bit disappointed. “I haven’t learned how to deal with those tears yet.”

[justasimplesinner]

This can take as many decades as you want, but if I don't put in the suggestion I will explode and that's just a mess. How would Arkham Riddler and Scarecrow deal with an s/o that seems to be on the brink of a break because "I can't watch you destroy yourself again" regarding their mania towards Batman. Again, take all the time you need and you are wonderful.

prompts like this are exactly what i live for

Arkham!Riddler's s/o breaking hcs:

Edward was very... determined to prove his point. he always was, determined and stubborn and doing everything to show that he was right. and ever since Batman outsmarted him for the first time, ruined his plans of releasing all the dirty information on everyone important in the city, his obsession with the hero started. he took it as a challenge, and Edward Nigma doesn't lose

you knew the truth though. it didn't take a skilled psychologist to tell that, despite putting all his efforts into what he did, despite gloating about being the smartest man in Gotham, despite bragging how he could defeat Batman every time he came up with a new plan, you knew that in reality... he wanted to lose. he wanted to lose because... what if he won and nobody believed it? again? and that's why he left riddles everywhere, that's why he always gave Batman a chance to win (or to 'cheat' in his eyes). and it was ruining him. every time he lost, it took away another part of his sanity, but he was never meant to win. maybe he wouldn't ever admit it, not even to himself, but he knew that Edward Nigma didn't win, and never will win and it killed him from the inside

you were there with him before he was The Riddler and you stayed by his side even as he turned to a life of crime because you fucking loved that idiot but... that wasn't enough. every time, he was getting worse and worse, living with him was getting worse and worse and unconsciously, you realized that being with him only ruined you. that you - the only person who ever truly loved and supported him - didn't deserve to be pushed away in favor of him making fucking race tracks for Batman because he couldn't accept the fact that someone matched wits with him. you didn't deserve his insults and his toxic nature, you didn't deserve to be called an useles fucking idiot only for him to be begging at your door weeks later after he got his ass handed to him and needed someone to patch him up because one day... you wouldn't be there. one day, there would be no one to help him stand back up from his knees, there would be no one that even gave a fuck about him. because you couldn't watch him destroy himself since it also destroyed you

Edward always feared in the back of his mind that you would leave him one day, but he never did anything to prevent it. he never improved. he only lost himself further into that spiraling pit of insanity, and it was getting harder and harder to reassure him that "he'll get Batman next time", to help his broken bones and mind mend, to be there for him. he was taking everything from you and you had nothing in return, not even his love. or at least he didn't give you any reason to think otherwise. because it started looking like he just got used to having you around and it didn't matter if he loved you or not, he knew that no matter what happened, you would always take him back in. like you were his last resort. you helped him once and now he used you for that every single time

worst thing is, if (or when) you actually leave him after telling him all this, he'll act like he never needed you in the first place. it doesn't matter that he hasn't slept for a week or eaten for even longer, it doesn't matter that the guilt and longing for you are quite literally killing him from the inside, making his chest hurt so bad he once suspected he had an actual heart attack, it doesn't matter that he can't even take care of himself and he's spiraled further down into his obsession to fill the void you left behind, he will act like you were a good riddance and force himself to believe it so he doesn't hurt anymore. he can't just go back to living alone again, not when you've been there with him for the most of his life, not when you showed him what love and kindness looked like, but he'd rather lie to himself than admit defeat, admit that he was wrong and that you deserved way better and that he really should've treated you like a fucking deity instead of acting like his father. his disorted, ruined mind couldn't accept the idea of him being the actual reason for why you left, instead telling himself that everyone was just fake and fucking two-faced and he never should've trusted you in the first place, that it was his miscalculation that will never happen again

don't expect him to leave you alone though. it doesn't matter what he tells himself because all of it is a lie, and he can't simply let you go. he will torment you, but not to the point of actually hurting you, he wouldn't ever use you as bait in his traps, even now, but he will absolutely bother you. he will call, force you to pick up, he'll talk to you like you were worth nothing, but he will talk to you. he will even come uninvited to your house and act smug about it despite his heart racing at the mere scent of you and your house filling his lungs. he won't get over you. i don't think he can get over you, so - while continuously lying to himself about his own motives - he won't leave you alone and he'll do everything to have some sort of contact with you because... you were the last bit of his sanity left. you were the only thing grounding him to reality, the only reason why he wasn't dead yet while also the reason he was constantly dying inside

Arkham!Scarecrow's s/o breaking hcs:

remember when i said Edward was determined to prove his point? Jonathan's only meaning of life was proving his point. he would do everything to prove that he's right, to show the world the true power of fear, the true power he possessed. Jon, despite his insecurities, really has an ego, it's just not as prominent as Ed's, he's more "subtle" about it. but he's married to his job and he'll do everything to fulfill his destiny, do what he was put on this earth to do

despite him being a workaholic, life with him wasn't so bad. despite having to see him get dragged off to Arkham and helping him whenever he got injured by the Bat, Jonathan was reallly doting. he treated you well. quite honestly, you were the apple of his eye. he never deemed himself worthy of your love but the fact that you still decided to bless him with it made him cherish every moment spent together with you. he was always affectionate, spoiling with his smooth, affectionate words, spending as much time together with you as he could without tangling you into his work. but after the Croc accident... he changed

Jonathan was left a broken man by Waylon, both physically and mentally. it's not that he stopped loving you, it's just that he didn't understand why you were still with him. some days, he had his moments of clarity, where he realized just how much you must've loved him to have stayed by his side even after all this time, after everything that happened, but they happened pretty scarcely. Jon wasn't the same person anymore. he told you he loved you but you didn't feel it anymore. he spiraled more into his obsession with fear, with bringing Batman to his knees. he started distancing himself from you because he didn't want you fussing over him. he didn't want to feel like he was useless. he didn't want to feel like he needed help - yours or otherwise. the rehabilitation process was a nightmare. he wasn't cooperating at all, he treated you with coldness you never knew from him just because he didn't want to feel so dependent on you. you tried to understand but jeopardizing his own health was too much

his new plan was supposed to be his apotheosis, his greatest masterpiece. he couldn't allow himself any distractions, and you were a distraction. he started neglecting both you and himself and his health in favor of making his plans come to fruition and bringing Gotham city to it's knees. it wasn't just a scientific research, it was an obsession. he was obsessed, and it was ruining him. his body was a ruin and his mind was becoming one and you couldn't just watch him destroy himself because of his goal. you didn't accept the "whatever it takes" excuse. but it's not like you had any power over him. it's not like he came to you anymore. it's not like he ever thanked you for what you did, for how you helped him. it's not like he still loved you at this point

saying he got distant was a huge understatement. you didn't see him at all, whenever you did he dismissed you, you don't remember the last time he even truly looked at you. he wasn't there anymore. you went to bed and woke up alone everyday, without a clue where he was, what he was doing or if he hadn't accidentally worked himself to death. the only thing that mattered to him now was his research, his plan to spread terror, to unmask Batman and show the world that there was no hope, there was no fighting fear. you always knew Jon's research went in the first place and you accepted it, you never expected him to throw away his life's work for you. but you never expected him to throw you away for his life's work either. it was by some miracle that you even managed to meet him in person, because you thought he deserved to hear the truth from you. but when you told him you were leaving him, all he responded with was "good", all he said was making up some bullshi excuses that it was better for you two to go your separate ways, that you had different goals in life, different needs, that suddenly, after all this time, you weren't "compatible". and in that moment, it didn't matter if he was lying or not, if that was his reaction, if he really didn't care about you anymore, you weren't going to wait for him to come back to his senses

the thing was... he did care. maybe at first he genuinely thought it was better if you two were separate, but he... felt your absence. funny, since you were absent almost all the time because he practically hid away from you. but now, you were really gone. this time, he was alone with the realization that there was nobody to come home to (as if he ever came home). he was a selfish hypocrite, but he really started missing you, missing the knowledge that there was someone out there waiting for him. someone who cared about him. he constantly pushed you away but now that you were actually gone he regretted it, and he knew how absolutely stupid and disgusting it was of him. he swore to himself he would never bother you again, but that didn't mean you weren't bothering his mind. that didn't mean he stopped thinking about you, and how he sabotaged his own relationship, his own happiness. that didn't mean he didn't wish for at least one more chance to talk to you, to at least apologize for everything, thank you for everything. he won't ever do it, of course, he won't ever force you to look at his scarred face again unless it's on the fucking news, but... he wishes he could. even if just to see you that one last time

[dropintomanga]

Tokyo Revengers - The Best Kind of Revenge Is Compassion

“I don’t care if I can’t be like Mikey-kun! Because I’m Takemichi Hanagaki!”

I heard this line from a famous article about being comfortable with yourself. Perfection is an oppressor. It puts you at odds with who you want to be, not should. I started following Ken Wakui’s Tokyo Revengers and there’s one powerful moment in its introduction arc where substance can win over style.

Tokyo Revengers is about a young man named Takemichi Hanagaki who somehow has the ability to travel back in time to his past high school self. In his present timeline, Takemichi’s old girlfriend from high school, Hinata Tachibana, is dead. Takemichi realizes he can save Hinata from death as it was caused by a delinquent gang known as the Tokyo Manji Gang. He joins the Tokyo Manji Gang in order to save Hinata and change the future into one where she’s alive.

Even though he has grand ambitions, Takemichi isn’t a super-strong hero. He’s weak compared to the two Tokyo Manji Gang leaders, Manjiro “Mikey” Sano and Ken “Draken” Ryujugi. Takemichi manages to gain the trust of Mikey and Draken and helps to prevent certain events from occurring all while reuniting with Hinata. After preventing major deaths in a massive gang fight, Takemichi runs off to celebrate with Hinata at a summer festival.

However, Takemichi finds out that death flags are still apparent after the gang fight. He runs into a rogue Tokyo Manji member named Masataka “Kiyomasa” Kiyomizu. Kiyomasa wants to kill Draken for ruining his life. Takemichi is confronted by Kiyomasa and he becomes instantly passive in a slave-like fashion. Kiyomasa once controlled Takemichi, but the future Takemichi decided to take things into his own hands back in Volume 1. After getting beat up by Kiyomasa, Takemichi is comforted by Hinata. He then berates himself.

“I don’t want you to see me at my worst! If I was Mikey-kun, or Draken-kun, I could’ve dealt with these guys, no problem!! I’d just beat’em up and get shit done! But I’m just...! I’m just...garbage.”

Hinata then kisses him and tells him.

“I gave it to you, because you’re a special person. You aren’t Draken-kun. And you aren’t Mikey-kun, either. Takemichi-kun is Takemichi-kun. You shed tears for other people, without holding back, and you worry about other people from the bottom of your heart. That’s who you are, Takemichi-kun.

There’s nobody else as cool as you.”

Those words are so touching. I literally cried because two of the best qualities that people say about me is that I’m kind and care about other people. I also think back to famous organizational psychologist Adam Grant once said about raising good children that are socially responsible. Instead of asking his kids during dinner questions like “How did you do at school today?”, “How was your day?”, Adam asked something like “Who did you help this week?” He goes on to say that when you tell kids that they are helpers, they’re more likely to be generous towards others.

While Mikey and Draken are indeed “cooler,” their actions led to severe consequences that have hurt those around them. They don’t think about how their actions affect other people at times due to being stubborn about their principles. I know hard work and determination gets people far, but getting ahead to where you want to be involves helping people. I sometimes feel that helping and caring about someone takes a lot of courage. It’s an act of vulnerability that benefits both parties. 

I feel the best kinds of leaders are those that can relate and care about those under them. Unfortunately, I don’t see too many of those types. A lot of people need genuine caring right now. Even those who are supposed to help just act distant at times. I want to say it’s okay to care. It’s okay to care a lot. Your emotions and feelings about those around you do matter. I think worrying about other people is a sign that you’re a human being who is either burnt-out by modern life’s mantras and/or somehow managed to walk away from the cycle. 

That’s why I love Hinata’s words. It’s okay to give a fuck about other people. There’s no shame in that. We’re all interdependent with one another. I like self-care as much as anyone, but the kind of self-care I see that’s being promoted doesn’t address root problems based around trauma and genuinely improving mental health. Takemichi thanks Hinata and realized that he needs to take “revenge“ against his past trauma of being bullied. He eventually confronts Kiyomasa and manages to beat him in a fight despite his limited strength. 

They say the best kind of revenge is to live well, but I would argue that it’s to live well and be compassionate towards those around you. That creates the future timeline where we can all thrive with joy.