#unexpected amen break

[shoegazergamer]

THIS IS THE BEST ALBUM OF THE YEAR ALREADY IT IS SO FUCKING GOOD 5th wave emo wins again

[lxndonorris]

a perfect summer break - Charles Leclerc

Charles Leclerc x Y/N Theme: a little bit of everything, mostly fluff spending time on Charles's yacht during the summer break with a wet surprise for Charles x word count: 3415+ taglist: @game-set-canet open for requests :)

The Mediterranean sun shines brightly in the cloudless sky, casting a golden glow across the still waters. The only sounds are the gentle lapping of the waves against the yacht and the occasional cry of a seagull soaring high above. It is the perfect day—warm, peaceful, and serene—the kind of day made for relaxation and enjoying life's little pleasures.

Inside the luxurious cabin of the yacht, you stretch lazily, the feeling of pure contentment filling every fiber of your being. The smell of saltwater mixed with the faint scent of sunscreen lingers in the air, a comforting reminder that you're far away from the bustling world of Formula 1. It's summer break, and there's no better way to spend it than out here on the open sea, alone with the person you adore.

You take a moment to appreciate the opulence around you. The yacht, sleek and modern, in a world unto itself, with every amenity one could desire. The cabin is cool and shaded, a stark contrast to the heat outside. But while the interior is lovely, it's the world beyond that calls to you—the endless blue of the ocean, the warmth of the sun, and, of course, Charles.

You slip into a light cover-up and head out of the cabin, your bare feet padding softly across the wooden deck. The sound of the sea becomes more pronounced as you open the door, and your heart skips a beat as you see him—Charles Leclerc, your boyfriend—standing at the edge of the yacht, his hands casually on the railing.

He looks stunning, as always. His swim shorts hug his lean, toned body, accentuating the muscles he's worked so hard to maintain. A few pieces of jewelry—a necklace, a couple of rings, and his ever-present sunglasses—glint in the sunlight, adding to his effortlessly cool demeanor. The sun casts a warm glow on his skin, though you notice he's starting to turn a bit red. 

Despite the slight burn, he looks utterly relaxed, his usual intensity replaced with a rare tranquility.

Charles is gazing out at the horizon, lost in thought, when you step closer. His hair, tousled by the sea breeze, flutters lightly, and the corners of his mouth curve up as if he senses your approach. 

The sight of him like this, so calm and content, fills you with a warm affection. You move silently, your fingers itching to touch him, to close the distance between you.

When you finally reach him, you gently run your hand along his broad shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin under your fingertips. Charles tenses slightly at the unexpected touch, then relaxes, a soft hum escaping his lips as your hand trails down his spine and along his waist.

He turns his head slowly, and you're greeted by that irresistible smile—the one that makes your heart flutter no matter how many times you've seen it.

"Hey, beautiful," he murmurs, his voice soft and full of affection.

You smile back, your fingers still tracing lazy patterns on his back. "Hey, you. Enjoying the sun?"

"Mmm, always," he replies, leaning into your touch. "Though I think I might be getting a bit too much of it."

You laugh softly, your hand now resting on his side. "You might be right about that. A little red, but still looking fantastic."

Charles chuckles; the sound low and warm. He removes his sunglasses and sets them down on the nearby table, revealing those stunning green eyes that always seem to capture your soul. They are so clear, so expressive, and they lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

For a moment, you just stand there, soaking in the beauty of the moment, the comfort of being with him. His presence is all-encompassing, yet never overwhelming. It's as if the world has shrunk down to just the two of you, here on this yacht, floating in the vastness of the sea.

Breaking the comfortable silence, you ask with a playful glint in your eyes. "Do you have your phone on you?"

Charles raises an eyebrow, clearly puzzled by the question. "No why?"

You smile mischievously, stepping a little closer. "Good, because the water is calling you."

Before he can react, you give him a gentle push, sending him over the edge of the yacht. His eyes widen in surprise, and he lets out a half-laugh, half-shriek as he tumbles into the crystal-clear water below. 

There is a loud splash, followed by a moment of silence as you watch the spot where he disappeared.

You giggle, your heart racing with a mix of excitement and mischief. You love teasing him like this, knowing he'll be plotting his revenge the moment he surfaces. 

Without wasting another second, you dive in after him, the cool water a refreshing shock against your sun-warmed skin.

You emerge from the water, gasping slightly at the temperature difference. The sun overhead feels hotter now, the rays reflecting off the water's surface in dazzling patterns. 

But there is no sign of Charles. You glance around, treading water, a playful sense of unease creeping in.

Where did he go?

Just as you're about to call out his name, something grabs you from behind, pulling you underwater. You let out a startled yelp before being submerged, bubbles escaping your lips as you twist around. 

When you resurface, sputtering and laughing, you find Charles grinning at you, his hair slicked back from the water, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Gotcha!" he exclaims, his laughter mixing with yours.

You splash him in retaliation, and soon you're both engaged in a playful water fight, your laughter echoing across the empty sea. It's a liberating feeling, being out here with him, away from the pressures of his career and the constant media attention. 

Here, you're just two people in love, enjoying each other's company in the most carefree way possible.

After a while, you tire of the game, and Charles swims closer, wrapping his arms around you. You lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder as you both float lazily in the water, letting the gentle waves rock you back and forth.

"This is perfect," you murmur against his skin, closing your eyes as you soak in the moment.

"Yeah," Charles agrees, his voice soft in your ear. "It really is. Just you and me, the sun, and the sea. No races, no schedules, no nothing."

You nod, feeling completely at peace. Being with Charles like this, away from everything, makes you realize just how much you treasure these quiet moments together.

It's in these times that you see a different side of him—the side that's not the fierce competitor or the media darling, but the man who loves you with all his heart.

Eventually, you both decide to head back to the yacht, your limbs feeling pleasantly tired from the swim. Charles climbs up the ladder first, offering you his hand as you follow. 

The sun hits you with full force once you're back on deck, and you shiver slightly as the breeze picks up, cooling the droplets of water clinging to your skin.

"Let's let the sun dry us off," Charles suggests, gesturing to the cushioned lounge chairs that are perfectly positioned to catch the sunlight.

You agree, and the two of you settle down next to each other, lying on your backs with your faces turned up toward the sky. The warmth of the sun soon chases away the chill, and you close your eyes, feeling yourself drift into that pleasent, lazy state that only comes on the most perfect summer days.

As you lie side by side, Charles shifts closer, the space between you disappearing until he's right there beside you. Without hesitation, he moves to join you on the same lounge chair, adjusting himself so that you're nestled comfortably together. 

There's just enough room for both of you, and you can feel the warmth of his skin against yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

As you lie nestled together, the familiar scent of Charles reaches your nose—a mixture of salt from the sea, the lingering freshness of his cologne, and that indefinable warmth that is uniquely his.

It's a scent you've come to love—one that instantly calms you and fills you with a deep sense of comfort. You breathe it in deeply, letting it envelop you, and a soft smile tugs at your lips.

You reach out, your hand resting on his firm chest, the rhythmic beat of his heart steady under your palm. His skin is still slightly damp from the swim, but the sun has already begun to dry him off, leaving him warm on the touch. 

You begin to gently stroke his chest, your fingers tracing the defined lines of muscles, feeling the strength and power that he carries so effortlessly.

Charles hums softly, his eyes half-closed in contentment. His own hand finds its way to your arm, his fingers trailing up and down in a soothing, repetitive motion. It's a tender, intimate gesture, one that speaks of the deep connection you share.

The world around you seems to fade away, leaving only the sensation of being here, together, in this perfect moment.

His hand moves slowly, almost absentmindedly, from your shoulder to your wrist, and back up again, as if he's memorizing the feel of your skin. The simple act of touch, being close to each other, is enough to make your heart swell with affection.

You feel the love radiating from him, not in words but in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you close.

You lift your head slightly, gazing at him. His eyes are still that vivid green, but now they're softer, more relaxed, filled with a peacefulness that you rarely see during the racing season. 

His face, too, is relaxed, free of the tension and focus that usually dominate his features when he's in the public eye.

"What are you thinking about?" you ask quietly, your fingers still brushing over his chest.

Charles opens his eyes fully, turning his head to look at you. A slow smile spreads across his face, one that reaches his eyes, and makes them twinkle. "I'm thinking about how perfect this is," he replies, his voice low and sincere. "How perfect you are."

You feel a flush of warmth spread through you, not just from the sun, but from his words. You smile back at him, your heart feeling as though it might burst with happiness.

"You're the perfect one," you tease gently, but there's truth in your words. To you, he really is.

He chuckles softly, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. His lips are warm and gentle, and you can't help but smile as the slight roughness of his stubble brushes against your skin.

The sensation is both familiar and comforting, a reminder of the many times he's held you like this, his affection evident in every touch.

"We're both pretty lucky, I think."

He moves to kiss your cheek, and again, that faint tickle from his stubble makes you giggle softly. You can't help but lean into it, savoring the contrast between the roughness of his stubble and the softness of his lips.

It's a feeling that's become intimately familiar to you—one that you've come to associate with the quiet, tender moments you share with him.

What's so funny?" He asks, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Your stubble," you reply with a playful grin. "It tickles, but... I like it."

A slow, teasing smile spreads across his face as he leans in to kiss you again, this time on the lips. The sensation is electric, his stubble adding a deliciously rough texture to the softness of the kiss.

You sigh into it, your hand moving to the back of his neck to pull him closer, deepening the kiss.

His stubble continues to graze your skin, the sensation sending little shivers of pleasure down your spine. It's a small, intimate detail, but it's one of the many things you love about being close to him.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless, and you smile up at him.

"I'm never letting you shave that off," you say, half-teasing, half-serious.

Charles laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he brushes a hand over his stubble. 

"I'll keep that in mind," he replies, leaning down to kiss you again, this time on your nose, eliciting another giggle from you.

As you nestle closer to him, you sigh contentedly, closing your eyes as you rest your head on his shoulder. 

The sun continues to bathe you in its warmth, and the gentle rocking of the yacht adds to the feeling of utter relaxation. Charles's hand still moves on your arm; his touch light and comforting.

For a while, you both lie there in silence, just enjoying the simple pleasure of being close to one another. The sun's rays start to soften as it dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the deck. The air cools slightly, but neither of you makes a move to get up.

There is something about the moment that feels timeless, as if nothing else matters except the two of you and the love that you share.

You feel Charles shift slightly, his lips brushing against your temple. 

"You know," he murmurs, his voice soft and filled with affection. "I could stay like this forever."

You smile, your hand resting over his heart.

"Me too, Charles. Me too."

As you lie comfortably in his arms, your eyes drift over Charles's skin, noticing the slight redness from too much sun. You can't help but chuckle softly, the sound escaping your lips before you even realize it. 

The thought of his usually careful self forgetting something as simple as sunscreen brings a playful smile to your face.

Charles notices your amusement and raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a curious grin. 

"What's so funny now?"

You reach out and gently run your fingers over his warm, slightly sunburned skin, feeling the heat radiating from it.

"I´was just thinking," you say with a teasing lilt in your voice, "that you really need to put on some sunscreen, Mr. Leclerc. We can't have you turning into a tomato before the break is over."

He glances down at his own chest and arms, chuckling along with you as he realizes just how much the sun has kissed his skin.

"You're right," he admits with a sheepish smile. "I might've overdone it a bit." His tone is light, filled with that easygoing charm you love so much.

You laugh softly, leaning in closer, so your noses almost touch. 

"Looks like I'll have to take care of you," you murmur, your voice playful yet tender.

Charles's smile widens, and his eyes soften as he looks at you, the affection in his gaze making your heart skip a beat.

"I'd like that," he replies, his voice low and full of warmth.

Before you can say anything more, he closes the distance between you, capturing your lips in a gentle kiss. His stubble tickles your skin, making you smile against his mouth. 

The kiss is sweet and unhurried, a perfect reflection of the lazy, sun-soaked day you've spent together. You can taste the salt of the sea on his lips, feel the warmth of his skin under your hands, and it makes you feel completely, blissfully content.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, and you both chuckle softly, the sound mingling in the stillness of the evening. 

"Seriously, though," you say with a playful smile, "we need to get you some sunscreen before you're too burnt to enjoy the rest of our time here."

Charles grins, his eyes twinkling with amusement. 

"Alright, alright. I'll let you play nurse." He teases, kissing the tip of your nose before adding, "But only if it means I get more kisses like that."

You laugh, giving him a playful nudge.

"Deal."

With that, you sit up, reluctantly pulling away from the cozy cocoon of his embrace to fetch sunscreen. Charles watches you with the same easy smile, his eyes following your every move.

You feel his gaze on you, warm and loving, as you retrieve the bottle and settle back down beside him.

The sun is lower in the sky now, casting a golden glow over the yacht, the light softening everything it touches. 

You squirt some sunscreen into your hand and begin to gently rub it into his skin, your fingers moving in slow, soothing circles. Charles closes his eyes, clearly enjoying the attention, a contented sigh escaping his lips.

"There," you say once you're finished, leaning down to press a kiss to his now-protected shoulder. "All better."

He opens his eyes and smiles up at you, a look of pure adoration in his gaze. 

"Thank you, love," he murmurs, pulling you back down beside him.

You curl up next to him once more, his arm wrapping around you as you rest your head on his chest, the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat is the perfect soundtrack to the moment, lulling you into a state of peaceful contentment.

As the sun dips lower on the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, a gentle breeze sweeps across the deck. The air, once warm, begings to cool, and you feel a slight shiver run through you.

Charles notices immediately, his protetctive instincts kicking in.

Without a word, he sits up, leaving the warmth of your embrace, and you watch as he heads towards the cabin.

A moment later, he returns with a soft, cozy blanket in hand, his smile tender as he wraps it around the both of you. He tucks the edges securely around your shoulders, ensuring that you're completely covered before he lies down beside you again, pulling you close.

You snuggle into his side, feeling the imemdiate warmth of the blanket and the reassuring comfort of his body pressed against yours. 

The coolness of the evening air fades away as you lean against his strong frame, feeling his warmth seep into you.

With a contented sigh, you reach out to stroke his chest once more, your fingers tracing the familiar contours of his muscles, the steady rise and fall of his breathing soothing you.

Charles hums softly, the sound vibrating through his chest, and it's a sound you've come to love- a sign of his deep contentment, of how peaceful he feels in this moment with you. His arm wraps around you, holding you close as he nuzzles his face into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp.

The quiet intimacy between you feels almost sacred, as though the world has narrowed down to just the two of you, wrapped up together under the softening light of the setting sun.

The sky above begins to darken, stars slowly appearing one by one, twinkling against the deepening blue. The sound of the water lapping gently against the side of the yacht provides a soothing backdrop, mingling with the rustle of the blanket as you shift, nestling even closer to Charles.

His chest rumbles with another contented hum as he hugs you more tightly, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"I love this," he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing whisper in the quiet evening. "Being here with you... nothing else matters."

You smile, your heart swelling with affection as you lift your head to look up at him. His eyes meet yours, the green softened by the twilight, filled with so much love that it takes your breath away.

"I love this too," you whisper back, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. "And I love you."

His smile is radiant, even in the fading light, as he returns the kiss, his lips lingering on yours. It's a kiss filled with all the love and tenderness that words could never fully capture, a promise that no matter what, you'll always have this- each other, and these precious moments.

When the kiss ends, you settle back down against his chest, your hand continuing its slow, gentle caress. Charles hums again, a sound that reverberates through his chest and into your very soul. 

The night continues to settle in around you, but wrapped in each other's arms, you feel nothing but warmth and love.

[cartierre]

COMO TE QUIERO YO | ln4

SOCIAL MEDIA!AU lando norrix x latina!reader

♡ liked by carlossainz55, felipedrugovich and 264,394 others

lando.jpg cabo san lucas, mexico. summer break 2022

view all 1,380 comments

daniel3.jpg oh la la! ⤷ user1 DANNY HAHAHAHA

user2 does lando have a new girlfriend or am i tripping rn cuz i know this isn't luisa ⤷ user3 how can you tell ⤷ user2 cuz she posted a story where she was in paris with friends ⤷ user4 they broke up like two months ago or so ⤷ user5 i feel sorry for whoever this girl is because she probably is just a rebound ⤷ user6 not y'all assuming about their relationship lmao

♡ liked by daniel3.jpg and 298,420 others

lando.jpg late night shenanigans

view all 1,038 comments

user7 what kind of summer is lando having this boy is out here wilding around

user8 L-LANDO IS THIS ALLOWED ⤷ user9 did he just post some girl's tramp stamp??

daniel3.jpg "summer's" been treating you good mate ⤷ user10 daniel teasing lando through the comments takes the cake ⤷ user11 i just know the drivers' gc is going bonkers rn

♡ liked by 29,310 people

tagged: landonorris

f1wagupdates New girlfriend alarm? Lando Norris was spotted picking up a girl in his McLaren from the airport. Is this the girl he posted multiple pictures of during his trip through Mexico? Many say he was looking for a rebound after his break-up with long term girlfriend Luisinha Oliveira, but does someone fly their rebound out to their hometown? Guess we'll have to stay tuned for more!

view all 763 comments

user12 lando is so whipped ⤷ user13 the power of latinas ⤷ user14 amen

user15 he flew her out to monaco after his trip? bro must be in love love ⤷ user16 guess we'll see if he also brings her to bahrain after the summer break is over

user17 i think i found her insta, i'm not sure because lando doesn't follow but her posts align with his' ⤷ user18 okay stalker... what's her @? ⤷ user17 yourusername

♡ liked by 9,293 others

yourusername guess i could get used to frequent trips to monaco

view all 89 comments

user18 and we're sure she's not just some girl? ⤷ user19 yeah i mean just because she's mexican and now conveniently is in monaco doesn't mean she's the girl lando's been messing around with

user20 if this is the girl lando's with, geez my boy has some good karma ⤷ user21 yeah like why yould someone as pretty as her sleep with someone as crusty as lando ⤷ user22 wdym 'crusty' lando's actually really pretty ⤷ user23 he behaves like a child

♡ liked by 13,293 others

yourusername tiro caliente (hot shot)

view all 99 comments

user24 omg she's dropping some serious hints guys ⤷ user25 the breadcrumps we needed

user26 the orange car? lando? i mean... ⤷ user27 how many people own an orange mclaren. it's obvious at this point it's lando

♡ liked by yourusername, daniel3.jpg and 321,987 others

tagged: danielricciardo

lando.jpg princess treatment after a tough weekend

view all 2,391 comments

daniel3.jpg are you getting the princess treatment? ⤷ user28 i hope lando does lmao

user29 omg yourusername actually liked this post??? ⤷ user30 this is a sign, the sign we've been waiting for. it's her

yourusername the only treatment one deserves ⤷ user31 it'S YOU

♡ liked by landonorris and 21,292 others

tagged: landonorris

yourusername 4 lifers

view all 293 comments

user32 i- what ⤷ user33 this was so unexpected ⤷ user34 was it?

landonorris did my pr team give you the go? ⤷ yourusername they love me ⤷ user35 someone tell me if this is sarcasm or not

♡ liked by yourusername, carlossainz55 and 349,394 others

tagged: yourusername

lando.jpg como te quiero yo (how i love you)

view all 3,293 comments

yourusername lando we need to go back to mexico i'm loosing my good tan ⤷ lando.jpg 7 more races until we're back in mexico

user36 yeah okay i understand lando, i'm also in love

user37 still weird how fast he moved on ⤷ user38 he's an f1 driver what did you expect

[dhampling]

the kitchen 18+ gn!reader x potwasher!astarion au, 2k

He‘s not the sort to linger among the rabble of the kitchen at the end of the evenings. The fact you were barely aware of his existence prior to now speaks volumes. - based on a discussion with @bhaalism. he's a potwasher. you want to fuck the potwasher. this started as a joke and now i'm obsessed. enjoy. cw: 18+, astarion is a potwasher, this is an au, you work in a shitty chain restaurant, sex, reader smokes, astarion vapes, creampies, oh no, gn reader i think

Before he’d caught you short of smokes, you’d never paid him much mind. 

Hair back in some messy swoop - grey, although you could swear under the fluorescent light of the kitchens it shone a bright white. Some age to his almost-crimson eyes but nothing too notable. 

Your pockets empty, patting down a food-encrusted apron in a tired resignatory furor - and he’d offered his vape silently under the back-door shelter. Minty. The familiar clouds in the walk-in, the occasional lingering menthol smell from his station. Your smoke breaks rarely align but this evening the stars shone between the fuzzy gaps in soaking clouds overhead and they gave you something new. Nicotine, chewed mouthpiece. 

There’d been a small exchange at the doorway following his outreach. 

He watched you with an inquisitive head tilt, eyes sharp with a dark smudge of lash - as if he were seeing you for the first time in this haze of heavy rain. Looked out to the bins with a deep breath and snorted at the overflow.

Astarion. Pot-wash extraordinaire, announced with a churlish eye-roll and some quiet clack of his tongue in your direction. He’d never so much as looked at you prior that you’d noticed, but now his gaze was locked on your inhale as if to watch the clear liquid leave the tank in real time. Lids flickering up to etch your side profile somewhere in the silver span of his mind. Another name to know. Another person to potentially cover his Sunday lates if he can get through to you, though.  

The name sounded far too beautiful, too distinct; but the pallor suggested local blood in those thick bluish veins. No freckles nor warmth in his ridiculously high cheeks, just the breeze of an oft-downturned nose and a passing fondness for the half-full bottles of red left by your tables, chugged (naturally) in a messy snorting huff over the running sink. Dribbles of dry red down that statuesque marble chin and a cack handed holler from the weekend porter - who would just as quickly be walloped over the head with the neat strike of a folded tea-towel.

His sniff at your thanks, the brief noncommittal nod before he tucked the vape back into his trouser pocket and dived back inside.

Camaraderie. That’s it.

-

It’s a week later when you both find yourselves outside again, falling through the back door out into another dark downpour to find him huddled to your left; drowning in an oversized outdoorsy coat with vape in hand. 

He catches your eye once more with a small smile

“Astarion, right?”

“Well remembered.”

You fish in your jacket pocket and pull out a disposable vape box, handing it over with a hurried smile.

“For the other night.”

“Could’ve just got the juice, you know.”

He hesitates on taking it, holding your stare. 

“I know. This was easier though. I’m not going to a vape store.” You grin and he snorts, taking the box from your hand.

“Well. Thank you. Most unexpected.”

You stand in amenable silence for a few moments, lighting your poison whilst he puffs away into the night. 

“How long have you been here, then?” You ask, flicking the ash into the wet and folding your arms.

“Too long. Far too long. You?”

“I’d say the same, but we haven’t really crossed paths before; have we?”

“Shame.”

He bristles as he says it. Some easy poke at wooing, you think. 

You could be swayed.

He is pretty. Really pretty. With those looks you’re almost surprised he’s not the rake of the joint, but your co-workers seem ridiculously oblivious to him - and he isn’t too endeared with them either, from what you can tell. He‘s not the sort to linger among the rabble of the kitchen at the end of the evenings, nor is he one of the roaring personalities that carry all the way through to the bar counter in their jovial roaring. The fact you were barely aware of his existence prior to now speaks volumes.

“What do you do when you’re not here, then?”

He looks back at you in a guarded ponder, eyes narrow.

“I spend the odd day off on my yacht, obviously; but only when my sprawling country mansion is undergoing renovations.”

You offer a laugh and he smirks. The humour is poor but salient.

“Ah! We might be neighbours, you know.”

“The mansion?”

“No, the dock. My weeknight yacht was newly refurbished there!”

“Oh, what luck!”

“We’ll have to host a dinner party or something. It’s only proper.”

Astarion gives you a laugh you’ve never heard before - loud and airy, almost comical if it weren’t for the sincere rumble toward the end.

“Dinner party! Oh yes. Absolutely. With little vol-au-vents and hors d’ouvres.”

“A must have.”

“I agree, darling. It’s a date.”

As he puts his vape back in his pocket and bids you farewell with a small wave of those pale hands, you lean back on the closed door with an uncharacteristic light-headedness.

-

Darling.

You’re given too much time to stew on it, the slight exuberant lilt of his voice. The roundness of his eyes as he spoke with you in jest. The fact he didn’t smell like kitchen grease but instead some warm note of vetiver and menthol. The fact you even noticed how he smelled.

As a new evening rounds off you find yourself with little else to do but search for him behind the service window, and you’re quietly delighted by what you find.

The smattering of white-shock curls - back arched as he leans over the empty prep station, ass high in a light nonchalant sway as your fellow servers dash to visit the kitchen in search of dead plates to devour. The quirk of a brow as the head chef gives freely to those who ask, whittling down a single stale fry with small bites as he observes.

You hadn’t expected things to change after your encounter, and to that point, they definitely haven’t.

You’re just more aware of him now. 

When he catches you watching almost immediately from afar, you offer him a small grin whilst he shifts to wholly capture your gaze. A challenge. The corner of his mouth lifts as he moves to hold your stare, calm and cool; with that fox-like tilt of his head to the side. 

You could picture it. 

The linger after lock-up, satchel on his shoulder as he catches you waiting for him. 

The slight moment of bewilderment before it becomes easy banter - even though restrained - once more. A quip on his part, maybe; some query as to what you’re waiting for as he hangs onto your every word in focused anticipation.

Maybe a drink at the bar down the road - but more likely in your mind a stop at the nearest off-licence to pick up a bottle or two of that wine he likes, as you dance around each other in a waiting quiet, bristling. Fluorescent corner-store lights giving his hair that unnatural sheen while he prowls the aisles and heads to the till, head turned back to see you waiting; eyes on him at the door. He’s heavy lidded the whole walk to his, hands kept to themselves for the walk up the stairs. The rattle of keys in the lock.

You reckon his flat - it has to be a flat, he couldn’t keep a whole house on your wage - is littered with burnt incense sticks and plush rugs and cushions in every jewel tone you can possibly imagine yet it feels so very him. He ushers you through to the living room and the awkward dance begins with the sofa, but he keeps you at ease. Collects wine glasses from the kitchen and pours with a flourish before settling back onto the seat and encouraging you with some typically witty output to do the same. 

Candles. You didn’t see him lighting them, but they’re lit. The air is heavy with orange flower, patchouli; musk - vetiver and menthol as he exhales, insisting you’re okay to smoke if you like, but passing you his vape wordlessly as you reach for it. Fingers brushing as you do. You talk for a small while, but you both know why you’re here.

His eyes move to the open buttons of your chest as he deftly wets his bottom lip, and you take it as your chance to place your glass on the side table and ask if you’re okay to shed the shirt completely. It’s far too warm in there. 

The candles, obviously. That’s why.

His coy nod, the languid blink as he watches your fingers dance your shirt open and pry the black shirt from your chest. Your deep exhale as you settle back into the sofa, lying slightly back with your legs angled toward him; glass back in hand.

His breath hitches. You notice it. He’s practically purring.

When he sets his glass aside in a pretence of pouring more wine, you reach for his arm to halt him from filling yours - now empty - and like a tense spring, he snaps. 

Time slows as he reaches for your wrist and tilts his head once more, your enthusiastic nod giving him the permission he seeks; and brings your hand quickly down the solid span of his torso to the achingly hard bulge of his cock, letting your palm rest over the top of his trousers. 

Wet. Fuck.  

His slow-primal groan as you gently stroke at the sodden patch of precum, cupping to warm him through his clothes whilst he bucks lightly toward you. Towards the pressure, the warmth you can provide.

From then, you can feel yourself growing sticky. Shuffling as you race to disrobe. You picture the stony length of his cock freed from those awful work trousers and glistening something bulbous and glassy in the low light, your own fevered want reaching its peak as you bare yourself and he pulls you into a kneeling hover over him.

To feel the soft velvet of his tip brushing your arousal. There’s no need for foreplay. No need for any preparation of the sort, you’re both craving the relief. He offers his hand to catch a pool of your spit and lubricates his length in long, steady jerks. 

Even they can’t mask the shudder of his breath. The fluttering of those smoky lashes as he rubs himself onto your waiting hole, watching; allowing a slip inside every few moments and waiting for your eager gasp each and every time.

Then, you sink onto him - and it’s bliss. Complete and utter bliss. You’ve never felt so full nor so weak in your whole entire life and for a moment you’re worried he’s ruined you. His heady moans of pleasure as you adjust around him. The space where you meet, where he impales you; runs soaking with arousal and sweat. 

You move to ride him like your life depends on it. You’re his sweet little thing, his angel; and you are being so very good for him as you take his cock. His palms remain glued to the fat of your ass whilst his cool fingers dig deep into the ripe flesh and he bounces you up and down on his forearms with some remarkable strength.

His. 

His, his; his. His beautiful thing. He’s perfect under you, with his pathetic desperate whimpers and the face of a wanton adonis; sturdy shoulders your anchor, for fear you’ll simply float away with sheer unbridled pleasure.

When he cums, he makes a point to do it inside you. Holds your thighs down so you can’t hop off nor be tempted to ride him through his peak; so you can feel him twitch and pulse inside you, ropes and ropes of his thick, hot spend painting your insides. His.

He’s called back to finish the last few pots on the side, and you silently rejoice in your sticky save as he winks goodbye through the bar window; eyes lingering on his ass as he walks slowly back to the service sink.

Fuck.

[penvisions]

gone to the dogs {chapter 4}

Pairing: Boston QZ! Joel Miller x Reader ; brief mentions of Boston QZ! Joel Miller x Tess Servopoulos

Summary: Unexpected glimpses of your past allow for your softer side to be exposed. But it won't be the thing that alters the dynamic between your trio. No, you have something else planned for that.

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, canon typical gore, outbreak fic, age gap (only by about ten years), angst, dark fic, dark joel miller, mean joel miller, joel miller is uptight, degrading language, sexual language, sexual proposition, violence, heated interactions, descriptions of a minor assault, adult language, fighting, argumentative language, mutual disdain, sexual content, implication of sex work, unprotected piv, sexual acts, reader is snarky, reader gets violent, major injuries, dismemberment, reader meets joel toe-to-toe with insults and it's amazing, both reader and joel pov, lemme know if there are any i missed!

A/N: ARE Y'ALL READY, but seriously, i hope y'all enjoy this chapter *minor spoiler but reader's singing voice is very much akin to ruby leigh from the voice contestant show

ao3 link || series masterlist || joel miller masterlist || ko-fi

It’s early morning, when Tess seeks you out. The sun barely coming up and showing its form over the horizon, the sky swathed in deep oranges and golden tones that remind you of seasonal fruit.

Frank is sitting with you already, coffee brewed fresh and sweetened with frozen ice cubes of coffee creamer and sugar. A surprise you hadn’t anticipated but greatly appreciated as the man beside you refilled your cup time after time to ensure it was never truly empty. Conversation had been light, on the back porch where you had curled up in the wicker loveseat to try and get the weight off of your body for a few hours.

As soon as she shuffled through the door, Frank removed his hand from where it was tangled with your own and said he would get started on breakfast. Wanting to ensure you, all three of you, had a full stomach for the journey back to the zone. His way of taking care of you where you’ll let him, even now in the end of the world.

“Look, I know it may seem like I was playing some game yesterday…” The older woman breaks the silence, knowing your mind must be turning and overturning the events of the last few days.

“Just wanted to know I was meant to be playing along.” She’s not cautious, but there’s a tiredness and stilted manner to her sitting down in one of the matching wicker chairs. The cushion and pillow in the seat do little to comfort the unease you can see in her body. It’s as if she hasn’t slept, or that her sleep was restless just like your own despite the safe environment and almost now foreign amenities.

“I was being genuine with them, Frank…he’s reminded me of who I used to be. As I’m sure he has with you, especially sharing a past I’m not going to ask after. It’s your business and that’s your prerogative.”

“Sent your guard dog after me to listen into my conversation with him, not sure I really believe the sentiment.”

“Cane, you know as well as I do that he does what he wants.”

“Doesn’t take away from the fact that he reports back to you. Acts as if you two are the ones who run things. Conversations I’m not a part of.”

“We all run things, the three of us.” You’re glad for her roundabout honesty, though you know that it’s natural for rifts to divide people, for them to seek out those they are more comfortable with. That talking with someone you feel bonded with, a partner, a friends, is a part of life. That they both must have conversations going over things just as you do with her, though not as frequently.

“Yeah, looks like it from the outside, doesn’t it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you two have gotten very comfortable with the way things are in the zone-“

“No more comfortable than you made yourself in my bed the other night.” Her eyes meet your own in a silent challenge, will you lie and cover up the fact you shared Joel’s bed, or will you be honest with the woman who does so on a regular basis. You don’t know Joel as well as she does, but he doesn’t strike you as the type to seek out attention or affection from other’s behind someone’s back. A cheater, he is not, though he has done many questionable things to survive. She doesn’t seem upset, at least outwardly, though you know it must strike a cord near her heart. The way you catch her gazing at him sometimes tells you more of her feelings than she ever has. And for that, you cannot fathom lying.

“That was a lapse of judgement. It had been a shitty day trying to move what little product I had. He didn’t fuck me if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“I don’t care if he did, that’s his prerogative. I don’t own him, I don’t control him-“

“Wouldn’t matter if you did, he needs to feel like he’s got someone to look out for and you’re it. He would do anything for you, does do anything that you ask of him now. It’s me he has a problem with and I’m not entirely sure why he laid with me the way he did.” You try to soothe her as best you can, as best as you’re able to in the situation. She must know what she means to him, or at least what he’s able to with the damage and destruction he’s surely endured.

“He doesn’t have a problem with you-“

“Save it, I know he does. I know you do too, blatantly throwing us under the bus to make us seem like untrained dogs who only snap and bite at those that near us.”

“That was more for him, than for you.”

“And yet you still said it the way you did. It wasn’t appreciated.”

“I didn’t intend for it to hurt your feelings, I apologize if it did. I really am…appreciative of the way you’ve allowed us both to fold into your zone.” It’s obvious, the appeal she’s trying to make to you now. The same woman who had been at the table yesterday. A glimpse of who she used to be, but it bothers you how you can’t tell if she’s genuine or not, if it’s the same play you had been orchestrating with her the past couple of months.

“You came into my home to try and get intel on me before usurping me. Of course you’re grateful I folded you into the scene. You wouldn’t have had anything otherwise.”

“Not nothing, no. But I do realize it would’ve been less if you were getting a portion of the cut of everything we got on both sides.”

You only hummed in response. Aware that this conversation was taking turns you’d rather not delve into at the moment.

“We’ve all gotten comfortable, me included, you’ve given me the room to do so. But I talked to Frankie, he’s willing to convince Bill to agree to it. You’ll lead this one, you did find it after all and there’s no reason for my knowing him to effect that.” You don’t have to fear for someone lunging at you in the dark, for someone using a trade as a rouse to lure you alone to take advantage. Her intelligence and Joel’s strength have allowed you breathing room in the months of constant worry after your brother’s death.

“Joel will need to really be on his best behavior. He’s got his teeth bared because Bill does.”

“Then reign him in.” You meet her eyes, the worry you house at the rise of conflict that is all too real aimed her way but ever present in the way you didn’t have to say anything else. She nods once as you lifted your mug up and took a sip of the wonderful coffee Frank had been kind enough to keep full. “Mind him and lead by example. I will as well.”

“He doesn’t think poorly of you, if he did, he wouldn’t be insistent on joining you beyond the walls.” It’s hard to know how to respond, it’s almost default to fling insults with the older man, to taunt him and see if he rises to the bait, something he does in return. But despite it all, you would defend him should he truly need it and you only hoped he would do the same. You doubt he would die for you, but that was such a rare devotion these days.

“I suppose not, but…should anything happen he will still work with you. He…Joel is someone who needs someone by his side whether he wants to admit it or not. Like you said. And you would be good for him, protect him as he protects you. It’s…good you were willing to work with us.” It’s implied, the connection you both have with the man even if it feels different, looks different. The way she wishes for you to recall that should something happen to her. Infection, sickness, a trade gone wrong, a trigger-happy soldier, anything. She wants to ensure he won’t be alone.

“I swear to you, should something happen, I won’t throw him to the crowd waiting to tear him apart.”

“Thank you.”

“Tess, just- I have a feeling the scene is going to get worse before it stabilizes again. The cartons of cigarettes Frank is going to give us will help but, other things are bound to dry up.”

She’s quiet for a beat, taking in the way you reach for your mug. She’s watching you as much as you’re watching her. It’s not a stalemate, it never is between you two. She knows your penchant for comments on how things are going, the ways your mind works and overworks. Concerned about details and the intricacies of things whereas she’s focused on the entire scene or play. It’s a match, which allows for all things to be considered, working well with each other in the past year. She has to be aware of that, at least, even as tensions rise and perspectives are beginning to warp and shift.

“Cane, this- opportunity to do trade with an outside source, it could help prevent scavenges into the decaying city. You know as well as I do that things are getting harder and harder to find as time goes on. Hell, it’s already beginning to thin.”

“It is…” You agree solemnly.

It’s when you’re in the shower again, before you change into the clothes you had showed up in, that Joel seeks you out. Now washed and dried, folded atop the counter waiting for you. The door opens and closes without the call of a voice but you can hear the distinct steps of Joel as he stand in the middle of the bathroom. Hear the way he’s breathing a little harder than normal. You’re about to ask him what’s wrong when you hear the hush of fabric and see the outline of him through the plastic shower curtain move to pick up the dress you had been wearing.

“Dress was nice.” His voice is low, a quiet rumble that washes over your skin much like the shower, though goosebumps sprout up despite the heat of the water.

“I’m not in the mood for games, Miller.” Sighing, you reach for the shampoo, the scent of sandalwood and amber wafting in the steam that fills the room.

“I’m bein’ serious. Looked good on you. Different.” The effect his words on you, his attempt at an actual conversation is one of heat blooming in your middle. He’s so goddamn handsome and it’s a shame he’s such an asshole, molded by the circumstances of the fallen world. He seems to take your words in stride, his mood nothing but calm as the shower continues to rain down on you.

“Everything seems to be different these days.”

“Can be a good thing, sometimes.”

“Can be.” You watch through the clear curtain, dappled with beaded water. He’s shrugging out of his dark green button up. The fabric hushing as it reveals his skin to you for the second time. His chest is dusted with dark hairs, the silver threading through it catching the sunlight filtering into the bathroom.

“Don’t mind, do you?” The clink of his belt and the unzipping of his pants.

“Not particularly, no.” He’s already stepping into the stall, his broad body taking up what little room was left and crowded the space. But it doesn’t feel like he’s cornering you, it feels almost…intimate in the way that his eyes are taking in the form of your body slick from the water and foamed up bubbles trailing down where they drip from your hair. “Just didn’t think you’d be the one to seek me out next.”

Tangling his fingers into your hair, he dips your head back to wash the shampoo from the long tresses.

“There was no need for me to be so…biting last night. I don’t know how to do the whole- talking thing these days. And you have to admit, we don’t do much of that with each other already.”

“They’ll work with us, Frankie is a good man.” You reach for the shampoo again, reaching up with the thick liquid cupped in your hand to lather it into his bowed head. His hair is as soft as you always thought it was, thick curls dark with the weight of the water saturating it.

“Sharing a past with him helps, otherwise it would be a tense and slow start.” His hands are anchored on your hips, fingers digging into your skin as you don’t dare to look down where you feel him soft against your thigh. The admittance of presence helping isn’t lost on you. He’s not one for praise and it’s intense with how close you are in the stall. You hear the apology for his previous words on the matter in his new ones. Though you are unsure if he believes them, you feel the need to but it is hard to tell as his skin touches yours and ignites your blood. “Tess may have set this whole thing up and he may have convinced Bill for the trades, but you are an asset.”

You hold your tongue, the question of ‘an asset or the orchestrator’ drowning from your mind as he noses along your collarbone, ducking his head further to allow you to wash the suds from his curls. As soon as he looks back up, you’re reaching to brush the water from his eyes, his brows, his scruff, watching the way it sticks to his silver threaded hairs and the memory of it against your skin makes pleasure and desire pool in your core.

His hands are turning your willing body around, and he’s firm where he bumps against the back of your thighs, the plush of your ass as you face the wall. And now you feel crowded, as he presses his front to your back, the way he hinges your hips to meet him, for the way he slips into you in one smooth motion for the first time.

But it’s not a bad feeling, it’s comforting being shielded from the rest of the world in this little stall, his body hiding you away and comforting you all at once. It’s a dangerous thought, even as it’s punched out with your heavy breath carrying a moan as he begins to thrust against you. Heat overtakes your senses, from the pleasure rippling through you to the flushed skin pressed to you to the still running stream of the shower. It consumes you even after you peak, after you feel Joel’s own sear into the backs of your thighs, panting breath matched by him as the moment winds down.

“You didn’t tell him your brother wasn’t alive. Just told him you found him.” He breathes into your shoulder, facial hair brushing over your skin to send tingles down your spine. It’s quiet, the way he seeks an answer instead of demands one.

“He doesn’t need to know.” Is your own whispered response, unable to rise to his words with a truth of your own, a vulnerability.

“Thought he was your friend.”

“He is, but he’s…he doesn’t need to know how things really are. He wouldn’t have let me leave.”

“You say that like he has control over you.” His hands are no longer gripping tight, caressing instead along your sides, feeling the dips and valleys of your body with no intention other than to touch. The urge to return the softness twitches your fingers where they are still planted along the wall for support.

“He doesn’t. But if he asked, I would listen. Because I respect him. Mutual respect.”

He parrots the sentiment back to you, as his large hands grip your waist once again to turn you around face to face. There’s something glinting in his eyes, behind the dark brown of them slowly. “An interesting thought.”

“It is.” You nudge your nose against his, breathing him in, the scent of you both mingling in the air.

And he’s suddenly slotting his mouth against yours, droplets raining down over you both as you surge up to wrap your arms around his shoulders, returning his kiss with earnest. It’s so different from what yo expected kissing him would be life, it’s not rough or biting, it’s almost heartachingly soft in how he pulls you close and touches his lips to yours again and again.

“He’s just so hard to read sometimes, you know? Like…I don’t mean to get too personal considering we just met but,” Tess’s voice carries from a room downstairs, the one you had been given the night before, the one you hadn’t been able to lay in and remain for the entirety of it. She had ducked into it with Frank after breakfast shared at the dining room table. While the eggs had been powdered, the meet hadn’t been and the taste lingers, mingled with that of Joel.

“You can talk to me about anything, the same sentiment for Cane applies to you. We all need friends these days, people we can turn to.” Frank’s comforting voice is genuine as you step closer to the open door without trying to alert them of your presence. Tess hardly opened up about herself, let along about the dynamic between her and Joel. All you ever got out of Tommy was that they were bonded in a way that he understood, shared losses, shared pasts. They would and have killed for each other.

“Well, I’m not quite sure what’s going on, relationships were hard enough before and now…”

“It’s hard for men like Bill and Joel to be honest with what they want, to let their guard down in different settings. You shouldn’t fault yourself if he was too on edge to be with you last night.”

“It’s not that exactly. It was more like he implied he was done with that entire part of…whatever we are.”

“Maybe he’s going through something he hasn’t told you about. He seems like a pretty private guy even if he does have someone like you to talk to and in his life.” Mind reeling, you recall the way Joel had spoken to you the other night. The implication of his words, of his wants, of who exactly he had his eyes on. And then this morning when he had all but rolled over to show you his willingness to give you credit and praise your work.

‘Don’t want Tess.’

‘Mutual relief.’

‘Then clear my head, be a good little lap dog for me.’

Your blood boils, bubbles thick in your veins despite the rather calm and sensual acts you had just shared with the man in question. The worry of him moving on from the woman at his side to yours, where there is more opportunity, more to be gained, more power to be had with the smuggling scene. It’s hard to read him, whether he is truly making a play, a switch. The idea that he is losing interest in Tess in favor or you too big a notion for there to not be anything else woven into the desire. Men tended to seek out those younger than them, though you didn’t think that was the only matter in this case. The thought sticks to the inside of your throat like fuzz, drying it up and making you clear your throat loudly as you approach the doorway head on. You’re determined to undermine it, should that be the reasoning behind his recent behavior.

“Frankie?” You finally step toward the doorway, brushing your hands down over the clean shirt to try and calm your nerves.

“Yes, darling?”

“Could I use your radio, there’s a call I need to make. To set up a smooth return to the zone for us.” You nod to Tess, who doesn’t meet your eyes. As Frank stands from where he was seated on the bed, he brushes a hand over your shoulder. He’s reaching for another box from the top of the closet, the shelf too high for you but easy enough for him. The box is labeled with your name, the real one and he takes a marker from his back pocket and crosses it out. Cane replaces it in that same, simple writing he’s adapted.

“Of course, I’m looking for something, but Bill can help you out.” Frank smiles at you, saying he’ll make sure to send an outfit back with all three of you, worried for the very real act of both Joel and Tess scrounging for their nicest pieces of clothing for the visit. First impressions still meant so much and sometimes it meant the difference between life and death these days. He was a good man, and you’re determined to ensure you can continue to find things he may need use of and build up your stocks should you need to trade for something far more valuable and harder to come by. He was a priority now.

One thing was for certain, you were done allowing Joel Miller to think he had more power than he did.

An asset.

It rings through your mind as you recall the way he approached you in the shower. In the touches burned into your skin, in the way his body moved against your own. He had been there, with you, after telling Tess no. That he didn’t want for the physical any longer with her and it’s dizzying. Trepidation simmers low in your abdomen, upsetting it as it twists the muscles and pulls them taut before they tremble. Akin to the pang of hunger but much, much stronger.

It was your zone, your connections, your reputation that allowed for the smuggling and scavenging to bloom opportunity and trade. You had worked up from literally nothing, having been forced into the zone under false pretenses. The network established by you and your brother after some time, scooped up by the jaws of another hungry dog searching for the next meal to feast on. Only this one wasn’t a simple meal that would fill your belly for a night, it was one that would bring meals day after day and you were done sharing it. Done feeling like an afterthought to the man who was Tess’s counterpart.

The radio is far more advanced than the one set up in the zone, the one that Abe was lucky enough to set up outdated and one of the more military focused models. The soldiers knew he had it, it was hard no to squash the thin string of hope it allowed for all the occupants to stoke as they tried to search for loved ones and family even so long after that first horrific day and all the others that followed.

Bill walked you through how to navigate the signal waves, how to tune it just right to get the ones wafting weakly from direction of the zone. He was still on guard, the gun holstered at his side and his gauging eyes still present. But you felt at ease with him, he was an extension of Frank. He was a good man, that much you were sure of, that much you knew. Frank would be well protected and provided for here, allowed a space to cling to the good parts of who he is. He wouldn’t have lasted in the zone, let alone the pretenses in which you had found yourself able to enter the zone.

“Echo 4236, do you copy?”

“Copy for Echo 4236. Rely your message.”

“This is Ammo 1342, I have an order for you.”

“Ready to receive order, proceed.”

“I need you to hit Building 42, Apartment 19 and 20.”

“Ammo 1342, isn’t apartment 20-“

“It is, proceed. Stash the contents in Building 56, Apartment 14.”

“Copy that Ammo 1342.”

“Echo 4236 signing off.”

Bill is watching you closely, one brow arched as he takes in the smirk on your lips.

“Working together means you guys contact Tess, heed her wills to trade.”

“So, you’re allowing them to think this is still the fruits of her labor.”

“For now. When the time comes, I’ll cut them out and let them be in charge of this trade and only this trade.”

"Just be careful." The sentiment behind his words is not lost on you.

“Before you go,” Frank is guiding you by the shoulders toward the front room the second you visible coming up from the steps of the sub-basement. Bill following behind at a slower pace, content to let Frank do as he wished, the barely contained excitement and sly smile on his lips telling the other man he was happy. The piano comes into view, set up already, dusted off and smelling of lemon oil cleaner.

“Frankie, no.” You don’t even give the man a chance to say anything, the book of sheet music open and waiting.

“Cane, please. It’s been so long since I’ve heard it done justice. Bill does his best, but…too low a tone for the song. This’ll be the last thing I ask of you to recall from our past and if you truly don’t want to, I’ll concede.” As he speaks, the others are walking into the room. Bill, followed by a curious Tess and tense Joel. The word ‘no’ in your voice summoning him where he had been on the back porch with Tess talking over the most likely items to get on the list Frank had written up.

You looked from the piano to him, trepidation obvious, as if the piano were a coiled snake waiting for you to step closer to strike you down. But he looked so soft, so much like the man you remember sitting and painting with for hours in a comfortable silence, the one who had always allowed you the room to create how you wanted.

“Just this once.”

The wooden seat is firm beneath you, and you roll your shoulders a few times, cracking your knuckles to loosen your body up. Taking a deep breath, you glance up from where your hands are hovering over the keys to the music written out. You don’t need it, of course, it was Frank’s favorite song. One you had sung to him at every opening hour of a show in the gallery. The first few pushes of the keys feel unfamiliar, but muscle memory takes over quickly and you’re licking at your bottom lip before parting them.

“Love will abide, take things in stride,” Your voice is smooth and soft, growing emotive and soulful, as it fills the silence of the room and intertwines with the notes of the piano. A hint of twang in your tone as the lyrics pull it from deep inside you, where you buried it long ago. You close your eyes, feeling the sting of tears as the last seven years flash in your mind.

“Sounds like good advice,” You belt out, pitching your voice around the words, allowing for them to surge and swell. “But there’s no one at my side. Cause I’ve done everything I know to try and make you mine. And I think I’m gonna love you for a long, long time.”

You don’t dare to turn around and glimpse the expressions on everyone’s faces, the song filling you up with something you had long forgotten. Your voice carries through the second verse, the third, and then the last cords of the song are echoing in the air as you lift your fingers from the keys. The final note wavering off and silence reclaims the room.

It’s the last thing before you all make your way outside, the sun bright and the breeze cool. Bill is walking alongside Joel, Tess up ahead with Frank. You linger, eyeing the canvas and paint accumulated in boxes around the porch. An agreement made between to the two men who reside here. One giving into the other’s indulgences in only the way a loved one does for their affections.

Rationale and reason for keeping such things for better uses, a means of survival should it come to that lost in the wake of making someone happy.

“Cane, I’m- I’m just so glad that you’re okay.” Frank is suddenly pulling you into an embrace, his hands cradling the back of your head as you instantly return it. His chest is warm where you bury your face into his shirt, just feeling him for a moment, basking in the touch of another you once spent so much time with. “Please, don’t be a stranger. I may not be able to come to you, but you come to me or radio should you need anything.”

“I’m happy you’ve found your person, found a little slice of what life used to be here. The zones, they aren’t, they aren’t a way to live.” As you pull back from him, you see the question in the depths of his eyes, obviously in the way he smiles sadly at you. He wants to ask you to stay and you almost want him to.

Your trio departs with a plan to contact in a week’s time, to set up the first trade of many.

It was obvious that your order had been followed through the second your trio had entered turned from the stairwell to the hallway. The doors leading into both yours and their apartment hang on their hinges, the wood splintered slightly as they wight down the remaining nails keeping them upright.

The second story just high enough to not give any clues away from the view of the windows on the streets. You had made sure to not include your signature of a paw print, not wanting to stir up trouble before felt the need to. The same one you had Tess and Joel stamp onto their portions of goods, always beneath the foil for cigarettes or the plastic bags of pills. Especially on the butts of guns save for the ones you all carried yourselves.

“Fuck, looks like we got hit!” Tess is caught off guard, rushing forward until Joel stops here with a forearm and a small shake of his head. He moves up ahead of you both, the gun tucked into the back of his waistband sliding into his palm as he pushes aside what remains of the doors to the two apartments you occupy.

“They got everything we had stashed away.” His voice is a low rumble, anger and frustration filling the picked over and damaged apartment. He’s already cleared it as you and Tess approach, moving onto yours to clear it as well.

“This is because you showed weakness by working in that whore house!” Joel roars, dark glare focused on you as he appears back in the hallway. A shove of his gun barrel against your shoulder raises your lips in a snarl of argument.

“What I do in my spare time has no effect on the business!”

“It does it people think you’re weak, submitting to them!” He digs the gun into your shoulder again, to punctuate his words.

“Then everyone would be going after you, with how obvious it is you drown yourself in pills and booze until you pass out every god damn night!” You smack the weapon away from you with enough force that he doesn’t do it again, instead it’s hidden back in his waistband. He’s anything but calm as he shouts back at you, no doubt the entire population of the hall is listening against their closed doors.

“That has nothing to do with anything!”

“Then neither does my sparse visits to work somewhere that actually puts food on the table! The people we trade with don’t go there.” You step up into his personal space, the tension in the air thick and so unlike the last time you had done so. His eyes narrow, the brown of then shielded by the darkness of his pupils and the dim hall. The lights have been needing to be replaced for ages, your men following orders taking out the few that had remained working to make the scene.

“If they don’t, then the people that work for them do and tell them.” He doesn’t back down, his chest nearly brushing yours as he breaths in deep.

“Alright, why don’t- why don’t we all just take a breath. We had a good past couple of days, we can’t let this bring us down.” Tess is suddenly between you both, a hand on each of you to further push you apart. But you’re done. Tired and feeling too much after seeing someone who you never thought you would again mentally draining. You’re stepping around them both, their eyes heavy as they watch you walk over to your door.

“Oh, I’m not down about anything. Shit happens. Sometime tried to clean me out the second I took over the zone, it’s part of the game.” With that, you manage to shut the door as best you could.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, was wondering if somebody finally put you down?” The hair on the back of your neck rises as your skin prickles. You knew someone had been following you but you hadn’t expected it to be the man you last laid with the day Joel had caught you nearly two weeks ago. He was never one for conflict or conversation, but today he seemed willing to partake in both.

“Not that I owe you an answer, but I was busy.” Your eyes trace the way he reveals himself from the stooped doorway, the building is abandoned and boarded up. Deemed toxic due to the damage of fumes from the bombing that is evident just outside the walls.

This part of the zone is dilapidated, most of the buildings had been homes or independently owned and run businesses, but now it was the slums. The pleasure house is only a street away but that hadn’t been your intention of coming down here. It had been to retrieve some of the goods ‘stolen’ from you, stashed in an old building very few knew operated as a base for soldiers to reside in for their drug fueled days off from patrol.

“Feel like you owe me a freebie.” He’s bold to step in front of you in that moment, the street empty at the hour that closes the day in the zone.

“Not on your life.” Sidestepping him, you don’t expect him to reach out. He’s strong, his hands clasping in front of you as his front presses against your back. He’s overly hot, the scent coming from his clothes rotten and you thrash in his hold.

“Get her gun!” He’s shouting and you realize he’s not alone. There are four others now surrounding you, having slunk out of the shadows and alleyways. Someone makes a grab for it, where it’s holstered on your hip beneath your shirt. The fingers that graze your stomach are marred with ash and dirt, something you hope isn’t smeared into your skin. The man isn’t very focused, his eyes dipping to catch the flash of skin as he does so and you kick out at his hand.

The gun is knocked away from you the second it hits the broken asphalt of the street, the only weapon left on you is the knife tucked into your boot. But your thoughts are scrambled as your sense of gravity wavers, body suddenly pulled forward. Your forehead knocks into the ground, and you groan out at the feeling of rubble digging deep into the skin there.

“You fuckers!” You shout, hands reaching for the concealed blade as you feel a body pin you down. You don’t manage much as they’re suddenly held down, as are your legs. The feeling of the man above you and four more holding you down kicks your instincts into overdrive.

Surging up as best you can, you knock your head back as hard as possible. The crack of it hitting the man’s face is loud as is his cry of pain. He’s knocked off balance and into the two men holding your legs down.

Careening forward, you bite into the hand of the person putting their weight on your hands, teeth digging and tearing as he tries to pull away with a scream. He’s down and cradling his mutilated hand as you stand and brandish the knife you’ve finally got in your grip. Spitting, chunks of bloodies flesh spray onto the ground and you wipe the back of your free hand over your mouth, only managing to smear the blood further.

It slices into the skin of forearms and cheeks as the three men try to get you pinned back down and under their control with their ringleader tries to stall the bleeding of his broken nose and the whitening of his vision.

The man whose hand you bit reaches for the gun and he fires a shot that has everyone ducking. His aim had failed to help his friends but worked to your advantage as one of the men cries out at the bullet now lodged in his shoulder. The scene freezes, everyone completely caught off guard and you take the moment.

You’re reaching for the gun as he sits shocked and still, the metal rattling from how badly he’s shaking. Quickly forcing it from him and aiming it point blank, he’s slumped over and no longer breathing as you round on the others and fire three more shots.

The man who started all this is pleading, snot and tears running along with blood down his face. He’s spouting nonsense words of apology and to please spare him, that he’s learned his place and he won’t ever try to corner you again. But you don’t care. This man, this piece of nothing man had tried to track you down, to take from you, to assault you, to demean you. The knife in your hand sings for more blood but you’re shooting at him where he stands hunched over and holding a hand over his face.

He falls, hands flying to where his thighs meet his body as he whimpers. The pain of being shot in the groin too intense for him to muster up a scream. You feel a twitch of your lips as you watch him writhe and moan about on the ground, surrounded by the other men. But it’s not enough to soothe you and you’re bringing the knife down harshly as he reaches out to you for help he would never receive. His fingers scatter, and you feel the ease of your anger.

“Don’t come at me again or I’ll take your life too.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Telling them to make payments to you but I still have to go and deliver the goods? Do you have any idea what that makes me look like?” Joel’s voice is loud as his door creaks open, not completely repaired but enough to work for the time being. Something about him needing to find a certain type of glue for wood before he would complete the task.

“Excuse me?” If the blood staining your clothing or the tangled mess of your loosened hair catches his eye he doesn’t show it. Not even the cut above your brow or the stain of blood around your mouth and chin gives him pause and you realize he’s drunk from that and the loosely coordinated way he approaches you.

“I don’t know who you think you’re talking to but now is so not the time, Miller.” You warn, adrenaline still coursing through your body and making you shift on your feet to face him. His steps are loud, the effects of whatever he took showing.

“You listen to me, you little-“

You use the arm he reaches out to grab at you and haul him over your shoulder. The breath in his lungs wooshes out at the contact of his back hitting the floor hard. Before he even has the chance to realize he’s been downed, you’re straddling his stomach and holding the still bloody knife to his throat. He’s more aware of himself as you meet his eyes, the pressure of the blade sobering him up almost instantly.

“You wanna see how I left him, you wanna see what I looked like putting the last fucker down that dared to come after me. Dared to put his hands on me when I said no. Bleeding in the street without his fingers or his dick?” The thump of the man’s detached fingers onto his chest pull his eyes down and away from your own. They widen slightly at the sight of them, the white of the bones you severed stark in the fixed light of the hall. “Try me, Miller, try me and find the fuck out.”

He’s silent, eyes wide and mouth clamped shut. Chest heaving as he takes in the way you’re completely serious and focused on him. The knee you’re digging into his crotch painful for the force behind it and you see fear flash in his eyes. You take it in stride, feeling far more powerful than you had in months.

“That’s what I thought, go sleep off the pills you downed and report back to me tomorrow with payment or replacement.” He grunts as you shove off of him, his body stinging where yours had been on him, his neck feels cool where a few drops of blood form on the shallow cut where the knife had been.

The door shuts behind you, lock clicking in place. He stays there on the ground, heart beating wildly in his chest and his eyes take in the cut off extremities you had thrown at him where they had slid to the floor of the hall. His stomach lurches at the thought of the other one you had mentioned and he’s surging up to empty his stomach onto the faded and worn carpet.

previous chapter || next chapter

taglist: @sawymredfox @tuquoquebrute @orcasoul @itsokbbygrl @keylimebeag

@n7cje @hiddenbabynyc @ameagrice @everythingiwanttoread @furiousmushroom

@vivian-pascal @76bookworm76 @dugiioh @jellybeanxc @littlemisspascal

@undercoverpena @janaispunk @jessthebaker @persephone-girl

@corazondebeskar @harryscum @morgaussy @burntheedges @pascalpvnk

@cavillscurls @joelmillerisapunk @copperhalfcent @blackcatgreengrape

@the-orange-tabby-cat @yxtkiwiyxt @punkshort @cumberpegg

@littlemisspascal @mosssbawls @luxurychristmaspudding @cherrycolouredflunk

@tobethlehem @axshadows @ameagrice @theoraekenslover @mellymbee

@survivingandenduring *shoutout to @the-mandawhor1an for beta reading and @joelmillerisapunk for letting me scream with them while this chapter got finished and edited, thank you so much bbs!

[emotionallyattachednerd]

Firefly | RotB Bumblebee x f!human reader | NSFW 18+

Word count: 1200+

Warnings: Smut ( size difference ) and human on top of her bug. NSFW 18+.

Notes: Bumblebee is my favourite autobot. Trying to keep my requests within 1000+ just so I don't get too carried away or burn myself out too much. So far so good I think, maybe. Lets see how I go with the others. Thanks for sending in @lemon-and-lime-hq. Enjoy. 🥰

I found this very useful and I highly recconmend to check it out. They have done amazing and useful work. ❤️

☕ Coffee

"Bee! Look at them all! An't they just beautiful?" You beam brightly as you lay against Bumblebee's chassis, snuggled up against him on this beautiful night with the unexpected yet alluring visitors.

It's date night for you and Bumblebee. He's been staying with Noah and Mirage while taking a break from missions, and he gets to be closer to you as well before he needs to meet up with Optimus again.

Now, on this night together, the fireflies we're all out and lighting up around you. You don't see them often, so this was a special treat.

"From ten thousand lightning bugs." Bumblebee sings through his radio making you giggle gently from one of your favourite songs.

"With so much shit in this world you've got to admire its beauty as well, what lives here, the innocent lives that bring such an amenity to us. So pretty." You coo in delight while leaning into Bumblebee more, admiring the surrounding glowing insects.

"Your smile makes me happier." Bumblebee always admires your alluring smiles, they bring such warmth to his spark, seeing you calm and happy.

Turning your head you face him on a better angle and lean closer, softly kissing the side of his mouth guard and savouring his soft vibrations of delight. He might not use his voice, but you enjoy his radio chatter and his ability to find everything through that.

Moving your hand you lift the shirt off your head, tossing it aside and wiggling out of your skirt and settling yourself back down.

"Daaaaaaamn." Bumblebee admires the black lace you wear as he traces his thick digits across them and against your skin.

His reaction makes you blush while leaning your body against his touch, letting out a low moan as your body breaks out in goosebumps. Your fingers trace over his yellow plating, up over his chassis and gently curling against both sides of his neck cables, earning you a satisfied rev from his engines.

Moving your hands you reach behind and unhook your bra and sling shot that across the grass. Your breasts are in view and your perk nipples harden under his eager touches. The fireflies hovered around and some landed against your skin making Bumblebee coo gently.

"Heavens above." He praises. They do tickle your skin a little but you decide to allow them to hang around during your coupling. Above all, despite his size, you have been able to take his spike before. The very thought makes your heated core throb under your panties.

Your hand descends and you start to rub yourself inside your panties, circling your clit with your thumb while pumping your fingers into your depths, curling against your walls and stretching yourself while planting kisses against his armour.

Bumblebee responds through lingering revs and moans, optics flickering through the growing pleasure that was boiling through him. He retracts his panel and you gasp as you feel the long throbbing length drag against you.

"It's been a while, huh? You're so eager." You whisper through your heated breaths before removing your hand from your core and slipping out of your panties.

"So fricken eager baby."

Now naked, you knew you were perhaps rushing slightly, but you can't help yourself as you take hold of his throbbing spike and position yourself on him, pressing down against his tip before feeling yourself stretch around him.

Gasping you slowly take inches at a time, feeling the ridges drag past your lips and against your inner walls, every throb sending gentle shockwaves through your body. The intense arousal that blooms through you only grows hotter as you take more of him, feeling his metal frame quicker before stopping half way and letting out a long moan as you give yourself a moment.

"Fucking hell. Bee, so big, so good! You're so fucking huge!" You cry out in bliss as you rest your hands against his chassis, clenching down on him as his servos hold you steady around your smaller body on him, wanting to be careful and not hurt you.

"So tight!"

Letting out a wide smirk, you caress your hands across his face before taking hold and slowly start to rock yourself on him, letting out short whimpers with each aching fill provided. You feel every throb and ridge rocking through you, your depths accepting more of him each time you sink back down, your hand moving to your belly where you feel his spike pressing up against you over again.

Feeling the lump gave you such a high, a desire to be filled by him always, to feel the lump and to be filled with his fluids so deeply. You're not crazy, you're simply in love with your robot boyfriend who you wanted to be with forever and always.

Most of the fireflies still hang around, not minding what was happening at all as they land on you and Bumblebee to join the fun. You can't help but giggle through the burning pleasure and glee, loving the glowing sight they provided on each of you.

Bumblebee's optics flicker more, his moans increasing as he holds back his overload. Again, it's been a while, so you're not too far off either from cumming around his twitching spike buried deep in your core as you ride him eagerly.

Your juices flood over him, leaking out onto his armour as you feel the warm leaks of his trans fluids soaking your channel. Moving your hand again you rub your clit gently, whimpering more followed by a loud mewl as you toss your head back, riding him harder and panting through your hammering heartbeat.

"Oh fuck! Bee! I'm close...so close!" You chant your warning to him as you feel yourself about to break loose on him.

"Come crumbling down!" You hear him answer, seconds before he jerks his hips up into you, spike twitching and erupting thick ropes of fluids deep within you, filling your belly where there's a small round lump formed. His sounds were so mechanical, machine like, and you are freaking addicted to it.

All the fireflies suddenly burst off your both during your orgasim and overload, leaving it just the two of you than on this beautiful night. Guess you both kind of scared them away.

Unleashing yourself you cum around him, clenching hard and crying out in bliss as your body convulses against him, planting yourself against his chassis where you pant heavily, breasts rubbing against his warm metal as you catch your breath while letting out soft murmurs.

"I just had sex!" He sings, making you snort a giggle.

"That we did. So good Bee, you're always so good. I'll love you forever my yellow bug. Will you love me?"

"Loved you yesterday, love you still, always have, always will." Bumblebee speaks a quote fondly that makes you blush more.

Gently, he helps you off him, laying you against his chassis and soft blanket he had brought on your date. You lean up and kiss his cheek plating, before nuzzling yourself against the blanket and his warm metal, silently thanking whatever gods were real for making you so damn lucky.

"I love you, Bumblebee." You whisper fondly.

"I know." He answers that silly famous Han Solo quote that you can't help but giggle lightly through your tired state.

You are very lucky indeed.

[foxilayde]

Taking a break from Thanksgiving thots to ask how you envision OTTR Leto meeting reader?? I haven’t given it much thought before this moment and now I’m desperate to hear your thoughts on the beginning of their relationship

I think about this one all the time.

You met Leto in Venice. Ocean Front Walk Venice, CA.

It gets hot in the Valley.

So hot that when you’re getting off your shift one blazing afternoon in downtown Los Angeles, the prospect of sitting in dead stop traffic on the 60 to Jurupa Valley, in your busted Honda Civic, only to go home to a stifling house with no AC…. Is anything but appealing.

So you do something unexpected. You are going to cool down, and you’re going to treat yourself while you do it. You’re going to pretend your life is ab-fab (absolutely fabulous) if only for one evening.

You take off from the parking lot of your job and instead of heading east, you go west. You stop at Neiman Marcus and you buy a dress. One that is too expensive to actually keep. So you wear it out and tuck the tags with every intention to return the next day. The dress looks amazing tho, it’ll be a shame to say farewell. It’s a classy little black cocktail thing that goes well with your plain black work shoes.

You get a little touch-up at the makeup counter to refresh your lipstick and spray on some Diptyque, and you head back to your car. You google, “open houses ocean view near me” and you take off to the coast.

You park your car a few blocks away from the listing. If the agent sees that heap, they probably won’t let you step inside. I mean this house is listed for nearly 15 million dollars. You shouldn’t even be walking down this block. You feel almost guilty for parking anywhere near this neighborhood.

There’s about 5 or six other people in the house looking around. The agent smiles at you and hands you a brochure when you enter. A glossy embossed thing listing the amenities as well as her contact information. You feel a little overdressed. The men are in tommy Bahama shirts and the women are in Lulu Lemon leggings.

You get a glass of free champagne and you help yourself to the charcuterie tray, looking around the house with appraising eyes, trying to nod your head at the bannisters and balconies like “hmm yes, maybe this will do.” Truthfully the house is beyond gorgeous. It’s ocean adjacent and has it’s own deck, pool, hot tub rooftop lounge, bedroom balcony… the kitchen is a thing of ART. The whole open concept and glass everything makes you feel so utterly out of place.

But its not like buying it was ever in the cards or the intention. the AC works, that’s all you care about, and you step outside the living room patio balcony, the ocean breeze hits your face in the most cooling fantastic sort of way. You audibly sigh and close your eyes breathing in the air. A voice from behind you startles you.

“Refreshing, isn’t it?” You nearly drop your glass, surprised by the man’s proximity.

God. He is handsome. Slick backed hair, mirrored aviators, a thousand watt smile, movie star jaw, and a dark navy suit cut, sewn, and ironed by Giorgio Armani himself. He looks like a magazine advert for Ray Bans. Now this, this is the type of man who buys a 15 million dollar home. Not you. The way he’s smiling at you now seems like… like joke or something. Like he’s laughing at you. He can smell the Honda Civic on you, can clock your shoes as Margiela knock-offs… heat creeps up your face despite the cooling breeze.

You look down at the floor and smile politely. “Excuse me” you mutter and go inside to investigate another part of the house.

You run into him again in the closet. Literally, you bump into him in the grand walk in. He’s probably going to need a closet this big for his collection of fine Italian sartorials. “Sorry” you mumble, ducking out. God he smells good.

You head back down to the kitchen to grab more cheese and crackers. Another bonus of open house crashing along with the free AC and free sparkling wine. Free food.

You’re midway through shoving another Brie covered cracker into your mouth when you see him again, in the kitchen, examining something attached to the marble countertop. His glasses are hanging from the center of his undone silk shirt. Those eyes.

You cover your cracker-full mouth and gulp. He’s so fucking cute furrowing his brow at the contraption and he spins the lever of it with one hand and smiles. He looks up at you.

“Pasta maker.” He points to it before shoving his hand back in his pocket. “You ever use one like this? It’s old school.”

You shake your head, still swallowing cracker.

“Wonder if it comes with the house…” He muses, looking up at the recessed lighting. He points up. “They all come with this now, you notice that?”

You shake your head again.

He tsks and continues, “Can’t stand it. I like something softer, y’know. These are harsh. You get up at 3 in the morning to get a glass of water and you want to kill yourself.”

You shrug and take a sip of sparkling wine. You wish you could talk to him but you can’t. You can feel yourself on the verge of saying something fucking stupid and it’s best to just not speak at all. So you look up at the recessed lighting with a curious face, trying to see the harshness, as he put it.

“Something hanging, like right over here,” he indicates over the island. “Something with yellow light. Soft, capiche?”

You smile at the word. It makes you more comfortable for some reason. “What? Like the Tiffany lampshades in the pool hall?” You offer with a smile.

He grins the most dazzling smile at you, stepping a foot closer and nodding. “Not exactly what I had in mind, but keep talking.”

“I was thinking more Venini myself.” You offer, taking another sip. He nods at you with appreciation.

“Tasteful. And soft. I’m listening.”

Your cheeks hurt from smiling at this point and you take a few steps to the living room gesturing near the sofa.

“An Arco floor lamp in the corner right here.” You submit to him, looking back over your shoulder with a wink. He chuckles.

“Took the words right out of my mouth.”

“And for the foyer,” you stride over to the front entrance, “A Sputnik. Right in the middle.”

“Gold or silver?” He asks.

“Bronze of course.” You reply with an affected air.

“How silly of me, dear.” He puts his hand over his heart.

The real estate agent makes a remark on what a gorgeous couple you are and how you just “fit the house”.

You start to protest but the man puts his arm around your shoulders and thanks the agent saying, “whatever baby wants, baby gets.” Winking at the woman and KISSING the side of your head. Which makes your face turn hot instantly.

He is… good at playing along, isn’t he. Well isn’t that what you were doing already? cosplaying as someone who could afford the house, and now you’re cosplaying a couple with this man whom you don’t even know the name of? Jesus—Just go with it, you suppose. Enjoy the pretending before you have to go back to the heat of Jurupa Valley…

“Now what about the dining room?” He asks into your ear in a deep voice, arm still over your shoulder.

“Hmmm,” You’re slowly running out of lamp styles, but you can’t let on. “How do you feel about Venetian glass, darling?”

“Inspired. Really,” he squints his eyes at the recessed lighting over the dining table. “We are in Venice after all.” He laughs with a toothy smile. “You have fine taste…” he leads.

You give him your name. He repeats it before telling you his. “Leto”

“I should have known you would have fine taste by the dress you’re wearing.” He compliments, picking up a glass of sparkling wine on the marble counter and gesturing your dress up and down.

“Thank you.” You blush. It’s not even yours. It’s on loan. You’re returning it tomorrow and you feel like a fraud.

Leto bites his bottom lip in contemplation then takes a step towards you, his hand making its way towards the nape of your neck with stern concentration on his lips. Oh fuck he’s about to kiss you. You make the split second decision to let him, closing your eyes gently, puckering your lips, holding your breath, and leaning in slightly.

But he doesn’t kiss you. You feel the slide of glossy paper down the back of your neck and the settling of it under your dress. He was tucking in the price tag of the dress for you. Jesus fucking Christ. You step back, embarrassed. He pats your arm. You cover your your brow, feeling your face get hot once again. So much for searching for that cool breeze by the coast!

Leto chuckles pleasantly. “Hey, hey, don’t be embarrassed. Happens to the best of us.”

God he’s probably giving you the benefit of the doubt. Probably thinks you just have so many new designer dresses that you innocently forgot to take the tag off… but if he had, would he have tucked it back in like he did? Or would he have just plucked it off?

“You like the house?” He asks, still jovial like the most embarrassing thing in the world didn’t just happen to you 5 seconds ago.

“It’s amazing. Perfect, really. The location, the style. It’s a dream. I have always wanted to live in Venice… the energy here is unbelievable.” You look around at the pristine grandiosity. The sun is close to setting now over the ocean and you sigh wistfully at the stunning view. “Whoever gets it is a lucky duck, I’ll tell you that.” You say, cheersing the sun itself before knocking back a sip of wine.

Leto watches you watch the lapping waves. “Let me buy it for you?”

You nearly choke on your drink. “Leto?! The house??”

Leto nearly doubles over in laughter, holding up his hand in apology, “No. No. I’m sorry, I— I meant the dress.”

Your face goes hot again. He knows! He knows you’re planning on returning it. Shit, he probably saw you pull up in your Civic!

“Please let me buy it for you. It suits you perfectly and it’d be a shame for anyone else to own it.” His eyes are so soft and kind and pretty and you almost want to cry.

“I… I can’t let you do that. It’s already on my card. I promise I won’t return it though, after that compliment, how could I?”

Leto nods. “At least let me take you out to dinner? Give you an excuse to show it off?”

Your heart nearly sinks. He’s probably the type to insist on picking you up. And he’s going to, what? Drive to the IE to do that?

“I live kind of far away…” you trail off, cringing slightly.

“I can send a car for you.”

“Leto, No, I—“

“Do you live father than a car ride? I can send a plane for you if you’d prefer?”

You laugh, but the returning stare isn’t a joking one. He’s fucking serious.

“I promise I won’t try anything funny. I just… want to pick your brain for more design ideas.” He grins and scratches the back of his neck, “It doesn’t have to be a date. Could be a business dinner? You would be my consultant…”

“Oh really? Consultant?” You cringe.

“Or it can be a date. A proper one. The best meal of your life. The Barber of Seville at the LA Operahouse, dancing, desert, a starlit walk on the beach outside my brand new house.” He grins. God what a fantastic smile.

“Sound like a 5 hour date.” You assess.

“What? You want longer? Because I will have a hot tub by the time this date rolls around and that can add up to 2 hours.”

“Two hours? Ambitious.”

“Agreed. But if done properly…” he winks and hands you a business card with his number on it. “Just think about it. I’ll be around.” He takes a deep breath, surveying the house and you, “I could stay and play house with you all day but I have a sudden urge to get ahold of my broker.” He takes your hand and kisses it.

“Nice meeting you Leto… Atreides.” You read off of his card.

“The pleasure was mine, gorgeous.”

Once he leaves, you have to go out to the balcony again for a breath of fresh air.

[milgram-tournament]

MILGRAM Best Song Tournament, Round 2, Match 1 WEAKNESS vs. THE PURGE MARCH

Propaganda for both options under the cut!

Propaganda for WEAKNESS:

"This is definitely more of a personal anecdote. However, I’m neurodivergent (like Haruka) and struggle with knowing it causes quite a bit of disappointment for my mother. I cry about it a lot. But I find that putting on Weakness is soothing for me. Knowing that there’s a character out there with the same issues…. I don’t know. Just my experience."

---

"why weakness should win over umbilical: - THE SINGING THE HIGH NOTES - this song set the tone to what to expect for the trial songs to come (or what we expected) - the part where the song gets all slow paced and then picks up louder at the end it just done beautifully - it's haruka. - the singing sounds like a mix between of course singing and crying. the 'AHahA' sounds like manic laughing until the end when he's crying and it almost feels like he's sobbing while laughing. - the guitar and the drums complement his soft/sad-ish voice perfectly, especially at the beginning - very emotional, even if you didn't see the music video you can tell he's crying and mentally unwell I'm bad a propaganda, but vote for WEAKNESS!!!!"

Propaganda for THE PURGE MARCH:

"Despite the shorter length, the Purge March has several distinct sections in its structure.

It starts with a rolloff, and then… they don’t follow it. Amane isn’t here to follow the beat.

There’s the spoken-word intro and the upbeat first verse listing the tenets. The prechorus (“dou shiyou mo nai…”) has an amen break. The most-sampled four-bar drum beat. Well, there’s half of it. Is it supposed to mean something? Can I get an amen?

The chorus is so, so cheerful… unless you’re actually listening to the lyrics (“I’ll crush your throat too”) or watching the video. And it’s super catchy. 

The second part of the verse dials things back. Now we’re in reality. This is how Amane breaks her tenets. All the while, those tenets are spoken into both ears over the singing. Get some good headphones. She sounds different in each ear.

The music picks up again with the amen break as Amane happily strolls back home, and then-

Oh.

The somber second chorus, with Amane’s lower singing voice and mournful spoken words, leads into the final chorus, with new lyrics and a more forceful tone. The once-meaningless chanting now has real words. “You’re sorry? I don’t care! Please go ahead and die already.” You can hear Amane’s anger despite the cheerful melody. She harmonizes in the final phrase, as if to say “we’re in this together, me and my little color guard troop.” And finally, it’s just her. Speaking. "Oboetemasuka?" Accompanied by only a single drum.

She is both Amane Momose and not. She upholds the doctrines that she was raised with, but she can’t."

---

"Purge March is geniunaly one of my favorite pieces of fiction both in and out of the context of trauma. Its fantastically directed and composed. The batton twirling is spetacular and energetic, the set and character design of Amane conveys a lot about the world she’s in and the story she’s telling. Purge March contextulizes a lot of Magic in both expected and unexpected ways (insert the entire cat symbolism thesis here) Purge March casts Amane in the role of a scary child. The glowing eyes, the framing of Amane as Above the viewer, the brutality and catharsis of it all. It seems tailored made to make you Scared of her. It’s a continuation of the cycle of abuse that we the audience repeated in T1 when we gave her that verdict. A red flashing warning sign about the Inhumanity and Monsterous qualities of Amane Momose. But Amane as a monster is fufilling and freeing. Again, its deeply cathartic. I would write more if I wasnt so sleepy at the moment but its just some Fantastic work overall. Purge March is also just fantasitic vocally and also hids electricity sounds in the instrumental which I think is evil and awesome."

---

-Amane’s vocals and how they slowly get more and more off the deep end is both really sad and cool to watch.

-The symbolism of the marching band and the flags. Ifykyk

-The beginning where it sounds like a propaganda TV show… really shows just how far Amane’s thinking is rooted in her cult and how that’s shaped her perception.

-The LYRICS. They work so well but it’s also creepy AF considering it’s a child who’s singing it.

-“So there is no second time, I’ll give back the judgment that you gave to me!”

-The overlapping part… gives me chills everytime.

-Building off the last point, the last “I’ll crush your throat too.” Ouch.

-“Remember MY cries, MY repents, MY words of “I’m sorry” that I said to you?”

-The song also does a great job of showing how much the guilty verdict messed with her.

[eoieopda]

I loved the dad joon and dad yoongs drabble 🥹 it's freaking cuteeee omg jade 😭😭 *whisper* can you do dad-to-be or dad seokjin too please...? I'm on a seokjin missing hour 🥹 thank you ❤️❤️

of COURSE! i’m combining this with a request @cinnamin-ji made for my 1k drabblepalooza which, of all things, was SUPER TUNA 😩😂

listen here

c: marriage!au, dad!jin, fishing? lol, not proofread because i’m tired but i’ll come back later to fix what i imagine are numerous, glaring errors!

Kim Seokjin wasn’t known for his quietness. In the years you’d been together, you’d only identified two circumstances in which he was silent. Still.

Come to think of it, perhaps sleeping didn’t truly belong on that list. After all, Seokjin had a habit of talking to you even while he slept. More alarmingly, he proved that sleeping and making himself laugh weren’t mutually exclusive. On more than one occasion, his unexpected giggling broke free from his dreams and ripped you out of yours.

With sleeping crossed off, the only circumstance left on that list was fishing. He went often and, thanks to you, he never went alone.

Initially, it confused you whenever he asked you to tag along. It was well-known that you didn’t have the stomach for catching - or releasing - living, flopping, terrified fish. So, you figured, he wants someone to talk to. Unfortunately, you learned the hard way that your constant chatter scared off all the nearby wildlife.

After spending countless, sleepy mornings by the water, it finally dawned on you: conversation was never the point. Seokjin simply wanted to do his favorite thing, in his favorite place, with his favorite person at his side. Even if you were half-asleep, or reading, or knitting to pass the time, you were along for the ride. That was all that mattered.

Well, not all.

Someone had to be there to praise him whenever he successfully caught something. Clapping for himself was too difficult to do while reeling in his prize; and it didn’t hold a candle to your proud grin. Lucky for him, he’d married his biggest fan.

Well, you used to be his biggest fan. Now, there was stiff competition coming for your title. A brand-new contender, a dark horse vying for the role of Seokjin’s favorite person. You were, of course, amenable to a tie. Negotiations were stalled, but would resume once your sole competitor could speak in sentences.

This morning’s trip was a special one. For the first time, it wasn’t just the two of you on that dock, basking in that lakeside sunshine. Importantly - though he was too shy to say so - Seokjin was eager to share his beloved pastime with someone who might actually, meaningfully participate in it. Unfortunately, that dream was a few years away from becoming a reality.

After all, his new fishing partner had only just mastered the art of sitting up on her own.

As you sat in your foldable camp chair, you tried and failed to think of anything better than your current view. No sight could ever compete with that of your husband trying his very best to cast a line, all with a seven-month-old baby strapped to his chest. Two perfect halves making up the whole of your heart.

Every time he drew back, Jinseo’s relentless wiggling prompted Seokjin to lose his focus, his balance, and his - self-proclaimed - perfect aim. When he did manage to follow through on his dutifully-practiced cast, his baited hook would end up in the shallows with the weeds. So, he simply kept trying.

After his seventh unsuccessful attempt, he turned around to face you. You expected him to whine out all his frustration, but he quickly proved you wrong. Instead, he was laughing so hard that his eyes crinkled and his nose scrunched. If you looked closely, you might’ve spotted a stray, mirthful tear making a break for it.

Jinseo, that chubby-cheeked menace, was unbothered by her role in her father’s downfall. She babbled and kicked her little legs as if her life depended on it, none the wiser. And when she giggled, she did so with her entire face.

Just like her father.

Through your own laughter, you gestured to the marshmallow baby squawking happily under the brim of her floral sun hat. “Do you want me to take her off your hands for now?” You called out, but quickly amended, “Er - off your chest?”

“We’re okay!” He chirped with a wave. Unbeknownst to him, his most-loved accessory echoed his movement - albeit with a tiny, far chunkier hand.

Copy, paste.

With the fondest look you’d ever seen in his eyes, he beamed down at his fishing partner and tickled her sides. As he did, he cooed, “Isn’t that right, Jinnie?”

Her reply came in the form of giddy squeals and spit bubbles, but it sure sounded like a resounding yes to you. Having drawn the same conclusion, Seokjin shot you a wink and a smirk to match.

“See? I’m finally not the only Kim who likes to fish!”

a/n: did give my own name to the aforementioned marshmallow baby? yes. yes, i did. do i regret it? absolutely not! lil beeb ain’t the only jinseo droolin’ over kim seokjin 😂

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch5

summary: “Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here! [this won’t make much sense, otherwise]

[ao3 version]

notes: I privated my ao3 account so that only registered users can see it... since all the ai stuff has been going on and I'd rather be safe than sorry.... I'm not sure how many ppl follow with the series here on Tumblr, but I figured I'd post it here too, in case any of you don’t have an ao3 account... [I posted this a bit ago on ao3, so apologies for the tardiness]

the gif above is so funny. the lil head tilt is killing me, idk. 

warnings: panic attack, self harm (digging nails into skin), franklyn having zero boundaries

You’re in Hannibal’s home again. You really need to have more self-preservation—you’re practically a gift-wrapped murder victim here. Although, he hasn’t killed you yet. Maybe you’ll be fine. Perhaps you aren’t as rude as you thought you were. The thought amuses you.

Inexplicably, as you’re speaking with Hannibal, he asks you to accompany him to the opera. The request is so unexpected that it takes you several moments to realize you heard him correctly. Hannibal stares at you expectantly and you take a deep breath.

“You realize I don’t know the first thing about opera,” you remark apprehensively. “Surely there are far better choices than me.” Doesn’t he have acquaintances that are more suited for this type of outing? You’re certain you would look extremely out of place amidst the typical visitors. Surely, Hannibal knows that he will put his reputation at risk by bringing you along. You try to convey those sentiments in the eye contact you’re currently maintaining with the man, but he doesn’t seem dissuaded in the slightest.

“You are my friend and I want to spend time with you,” Hannibal states easily. You envy his ability to be so straightforward with his thoughts and feelings. “Is that really so strange?”

“I suppose not,” you frown. Fond of breaking doctor-patient boundaries, are we, Dr. Lecter? You dispel the thought. Admittedly, from the first moment you interacted with Hannibal, you knew he would be more than a psychiatrist. You’re happy to consider him a close friend now.

“Are you amenable?” Hannibal then asks, just before you can zone out and lose focus.

“When is it?” You ask, despite knowing that you don’t have much going on this week anyway.

“Tomorrow night,” Hannibal answers. You raise an eyebrow.

“Rather late notice,” you say, if only to make him sweat a bit. Of course, Hannibal’s perfectly crafted mask remains in place. “Did your date cancel on you?” Hannibal’s eyebrows furrow and he crosses his arms over his chest. You decide to take pity on him and stop messing around.

“I’m just kidding,” you interject with a grin. It’s kind of fun to see how much you can push Hannibal around. You get the feeling that no one really questions him. It’s amusing to see him scramble for an explanation, even though the effort is perfectly rehearsed. “I think I’m free; I’d love to go. You just may have to deal with my complete ignorance when it comes to opera music.”

“I think I’ll survive,” Hannibal smiles. Is he playing along? You raise your eyebrows in surprise. Admittedly, you weren’t expecting that. It’s nice to know that Hannibal can take a joke. 

“Anyway, thank you for inviting me into your home again; I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Of course not,” Hannibal says with a shake of his head, as if the very thought is ludicrous.

“I invited you.” Hannibal then excuses himself for a moment and you take the opportunity to look around his kitchen. You suppress the extremely compelling urge to look through his drawers—you know what you’ll find and you’re certain you don’t want to see it. Instead, you let your eyes rove over the polished cabinets and clean counters. Just before you can lose interest, your gaze falls on the rolodex. Interest peaking, you decide to walk towards it.

It appears the rolodex holds business cards of people Hannibal has met. You idly flip through the rolodex, needing something to occupy your restless hands. A few of the names are (unsurprisingly) ones you recognize. It takes you a few moments of observation to realize just what purpose this rolodex serves. It appears this is a list of potential murder victims. Flipping through the various business cards, you don’t see a common denominator. “Whenever feasible, one should always try to eat the rude,” Hannibal had told you once. On second thought, these business cards are probably people that Hannibal has determined to be rude. You go through the names with renewed interest. A few of them are rather fancy. One even looks remarkably close to yours. You move to the next one before a breath catches in your chest and you find yourself returning to the one that caught your eye.

The business card is extremely similar to yours—same color and font. You squint at it, heart racing in your chest as you look at the name written on it. It must be another government agent, surely. You all have similar, standard-issue business cards. You just hope it isn’t any of your acquaintances. You’re expecting to see anyone from Jack Crawford to Alana Bloom. You close your eyes for a moment, before finally giving in and reading the name. It’s… It’s your name.

You stare at the card in disbelief. Where did Hannibal get your business card? It has your name, phone number, email address… It even has your office location at headquarters. You swallow past the trepidation building in your core. You can’t quite stop the choked laugh that escapes your lips. You let your guard down. You had foolishly hoped that maybe, just maybe, things would be different. You let your guard down and, now, your name rests amidst the names of current and future Ripper victims.

“Is everything alright?” The timing could not be worse. Hannibal walks in as you’re looking at the rolodex and you quickly turn around, trying to shield it from his view. You’re not sure what expression is on your face, but it must be suitably harrowed, because his face twists in concern—mock concern, your mind supplies. “You look rather shaken.”

“Yes, of course,” you answer. It takes every ounce of practice you’ve accumulated to keep the fear from your voice. You sound slightly flat, but you’re convinced that you’ve mostly concealed your true feelings. “Apologies, Dr. Lecter. I think I’d better get going.”

You can tell that Hannibal is suspicious, but you don’t give him the chance to ask you about it—instead deigning to murmur a quick goodbye and walk out to your car. You’re infinitely grateful that you had the foresight to drive yourself. You’re not sure that you would’ve had the energy to maintain your composure in Hannibal’s company.

You wait until you’re a sufficient distance from Hannibal’s home to sag in your seat and sigh heavily. You’d been growing too big of an ego. Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper. The two of you are friends and you foolishly assumed that your friendship gave you immunity. Clearly, that isn’t the case. You need to remember yourself, remember that the composed dinner host you often sit across from is a practiced killer. One false move and you’re dead. Once you get home, you spend the remainder of the evening in an anxious and paranoid haze. It takes you a while to fall asleep that night and, when you do, the Ripper follows you into your dreams.

The next morning, you receive a text from Hannibal—which includes the details of the opera and what time he plans to pick you up. It takes you several moments to ground yourself in reality and remember that Hannibal isn’t aware of your knowledge that he’s the Ripper. Once you collect your composure, you insist that you can drive yourself—but he waves off the suggestion and maintains that he’ll drive. Admittedly, now that you’re thinking about it, you don’t have the slightest clue what to wear. You’ve never really been to an opera performance before, and you can only imagine what the people in attendance will be wearing. You have no idea where to begin searching for an outfit. Your closet isn’t exactly the best.

Eventually, you swallow your pride and text Hannibal. He knows you’re not sophisticated, you think to yourself. Asking him for help isn’t that embarrassing. In fact, you’d rather ask and lose a bit of dignity than try to puzzle it out on your own [and fail miserably.] Hannibal is quick to respond—almost as if he had been expecting the question—and says that he’ll bring clothes for you. You immediately have several objections to that, but they fall on determined ears. You regret asking, now.

A few hours later, there’s a quiet knock on your door. You open the door to find Hannibal waiting on your doorstep, folded clothing in hand. You shake your head in exasperation and let him in. “Thank you,” you say, taking the clothes he’s extending out to you. You still feel the need to try to argue one more time. “I could’ve found something on my own.”

Hannibal looks you up and down, in a manner that makes you feel extremely self conscious. You aren’t exactly wearing the fanciest clothing right now, but that’s only because you knew you’d be changing. “Doubtful,” Hannibal remarks. You glare at him, only to find his lips twisted in that slightly amused smirk. You roll your eyes.

“I’m going to change,” You then realize that this is the first time that Hannibal has been in your home. He’s driven you many times, but he’s never gotten out of the car before. “Feel free to explore, I guess.” You’re struck with the sudden mundane feeling of shame, as you recognize how much less luxurious your home is. Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind, though, as he starts to walk around and look at things. Meanwhile, you head to the bathroom.

Once you place the clothes on the bathroom counter, you’re once again realizing that you’re out of your depth. The outfit he’s given you is extremely lavish: an extravagant suit with dress pants. Upon further examination, you realize that he even gave you an undershirt. You push aside all the strange, conflicting feelings you have about wearing clothes your psychiatrist provided you. The clothes even smell very strongly of Hannibal’s cologne. It takes all of your resistance not to cough once you put them on. You’re not very fond of fragrances to begin with, since they often give you headaches. But, you know you have no right to complain. It was extremely generous of Hannibal to lend you clothing, and you don’t plan to disrespect the gesture by complaining about his cologne. You put on the rest of the clothing and assess yourself in the mirror. You look rather good, you have to admit. Of course, it’s all due to Hannibal’s clothing. You take a moment to brush your teeth again before walking back out into the main area of the house, where Hannibal seems to be looking at your decorations with a keen eye. He turns around upon hearing you enter and, for a long moment, the two of you stare at each other in silence. 

Inexplicably, Hannibal breaks the distance between you and reaches out. Your heart is racing in your chest but you manage to remain still. He fiddles with your collar for a moment before stepping back, apparently satisfied with his work. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Better?” You ask sardonically.

“Much,” Hannibal remarks. “Shall we?” He holds out an arm and you scoff. Hannibal freezes and you do, too. Shit. You hadn’t meant to scoff aloud. You compensate by putting your hand on his arm and he sends you a smile that is almost… fond. You immediately disregard that notion.

The drive to the opera house is enjoyable. Hannibal is one of the few people that you feel comfortable enough to share silence with. You don’t feel the need to constantly fill the air and, so, you spend most of the ride staring out the window and looking at the trees. Before long, Hannibal is pulling into a parking space and the two of you are ascending the stairs leading to the opera house. The building is rather grand, with beautiful towering pillars and elegant statues decorating the path to the entrance. When you enter, you’re unsurprised to see Hannibal’s mask slide neatly into place.

Evidently, Hannibal has been here before, because he navigates the opera house with practiced ease. There are several people that greet him upon his entrance, and he smiles and sends them a courteous wave. You idly wonder if he truly likes any of these people, or if he merely tolerates them. As you continue to walk in, you’re brutally aware of the gazes searing into your back. You’re sure that Hannibal will be the talk of the town soon enough—you get the feeling he never brings people to these kinds of events. Indeed, he seems the type to want to appreciate art in solitude. You debate asking him once more if he’s okay with being seen with you here. Within a few moments, you’re finally in the area where the performance is scheduled to occur. Hannibal leads you to your seats—which are in one of the balconies—and you can’t suppress your thoughts any longer. Thankfully, it seems no one else has found their seats in your section just yet.

“You realize how this looks, right?” You finally ask. Hannibal sends a curious glance at you and you refuse to acknowledge how handsome he looks right now. You avert your eyes for a moment, instead watching as the people below file into their seats. “Everyone thinks that I’m…  you know.” Hannibal continues to stare at you with a blank expression. Damn it, is he really going to make you explain it? You try to push past your embarrassment and remain professional. “I think they’re under the impression that we’re… dating.”

“The thought makes you uncomfortable,” Hannibal states, crossing one leg over the other. That must be why he chose these seats—he probably needs the legroom. The people below are milling about, talking with one another. You’re grateful that these seats are isolated from everyone else—there’s no expectation for you to talk to anyone.

“No, it doesn’t,” you clarify, wondering how he justified that leap in logic. “Besides, if anyone’s reputation is going to be at risk, it’ll be yours.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Hannibal says, something akin to amusement on his face. You’re not sure what he’s finding so amusing—you don’t think your statement was far-fetched or unreasonable. From the moment you walked in, you noticed quite a few people staring at Hannibal and you. They seemed to be making their own conclusions about the two of you; you just wanted to warn him. “I am not worried about my reputation.”

“You think your reputation won’t be affected?” You squint at him, trying to watch for a reaction. “...Or you just don’t care?” Your companion is silent for a moment.

“I was under the impression that I was the psychiatrist here,” Hannibal then remarks lightly. He sends you a look and you feel a momentary inkling of shame.

“Sorry,” you grimace. Hannibal’s lips quirk at the sides—a sign that he isn’t truly upset about your sudden psychoanalysis. You feel the need to justify your reaction regardless. “It’s easy to slip into the criminal profiling mindset sometimes,”

You spend the next several minutes having lighthearted conversation. It’s rather nice. The theater slowly begins to fill up until, finally, the lights dim and someone appears on the stage. To your surprise, the performance is rather enjoyable. You must be rather horrible at hiding your preconceptions, because Hannibal sends you a knowing look after the first song. You pretend not to notice the smugness radiating off the man, and instead focus on the singer. They’re quite talented, unsurprisingly. You’re not quite sure how much the tickets were, but judging from your surroundings, you’d guess they were rather expensive.

You take advantage of the brief intermission in the middle of the program to use the facilities. Once you’re finished, you move to go back into the theatre. However, there’s suddenly a hand grabbing your shoulder and you’re forcefully guided into a deserted hallway. You chance a glance over your shoulder, only to find a far too familiar patient of Dr. Lecter’s: Franklyn Froideveaux.

“Franklyn,” you remark, feeling extremely apprehensive once you recognize him. The man is wearing a three-piece suit again, but this time it’s eerily similar to something Hannibal might wear. You frown at the thought. Franklyn’s obsession with Dr. Lecter is really rather creepy. If Hannibal weren’t such a capable killer, perhaps you’d be worried for him.

“I saw you with Dr. Lecter,” Franklyn states matter-of-factly. He crowds you against the wall and you have to lean back against it to avoid touching him. The look in the man’s eyes is unnerving. It sends a shiver down your spine. There’s nothing in his irises except madness.

“Yes,” you respond, once you realize that Franklyn is awaiting an answer. You don’t tell him that Hannibal invited you, but he seems to come to that conclusion on his own.

“What did he do?” Franklyn asks. “Did he hold the car door open for you? What cologne does he wear? I have a few ideas but I can’t decide between them.” You feel your head begin to ache at his persistent badgering. You’re deeply unsettled by him.

“What’s it like being friends with Dr. Lecter?” He continues. Franklyn doesn’t even give you a chance to respond, as he continues rattling off questions. “Is he a good friend? Do you two spend time together?”

“Um-” You try to say, only for Franklyn to stop mid-tirade. His eyes quickly lock on the suit you’re wearing and you grit your teeth. This is easily one of the most uncomfortable interactions you’ve ever had, and it isn’t even over yet. You flinch as he puts a hand on your shoulder.

“That’s not your clothing,” Franklyn remarks, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. His fingers dig into your shoulder and you wince. His grip is beginning to hurt; you think you may have bruises later. “You're wearing something Dr. Lecter gave you.”

“No, I’m not,” you try to argue, well aware that your voice doesn't sound very convincing.

“Yes, you are,” Franklyn asserts, not indicating that he’s hearing you or even seeing you. His eyes are glazed and it almost seems as if he’s looking directly through you. “He gave you clothes. Why? What does he see in you?”

Ouch. That hurts for a microsecond, before you then realize that Franklyn’s opinion bears absolutely no relevance to your life. You want to speak on those thoughts, but there’s a crazed look in the man’s eyes and you decide to stay silent. Franklyn seems to take your silence as an argument itself, though, because his hand tightens on your shoulder rather painfully. You try to shove him off, but the man’s grip is unyielding.

A familiar voice calls your name from further down the hallway. You squint, only to find Hannibal walking towards the two of you. There’s an inexplicable expression on his face, and you can’t even begin to dissect it.

“Hannibal,” you breathe, unable to hide the relief you feel at his presence. Franklyn finally releases his grip on you and you reach a hand up to massage your shoulder. The man’s attention is off of you now, thankfully.

“I presumed you to be lost, but I see that notion is incorrect,” Hannibal says, his gaze flitting about your face as if looking for any sign of distress. He then looks at Franklyn, disinterest and boredom evident in his expression. Of course, Franklyn doesn’t care to notice it. He sees what he wants to see, you think to yourself. “What is going on here? Franklyn?”

Franklyn looks to you expectantly, as if waiting for you to lie for him. You instead remain silent. You know that, right now, telling the truth will unnecessarily escalate the situation. Besides, your exhaustion is starting to catch up with you and you can’t find the energy to continue the conversation.

“We were just having a friendly conversation.” Franklyn answers. Hannibal looks to you for confirmation and you avert your eyes. Meanwhile, Franklyn seems to be falling over himself in an attempt to secure Hannibal’s attention. “Dr. Lecter, it’s so nice to see you here,” Franklyn says, his voice a far cry from the manic lunacy from before. The sudden change is rather dizzying. This man is suffocating to be around. “You know, I thought this might be your kind of place. I was just speaking to your friend here…”

You place a hand on your temple, beginning to get a migraine from the sheer burst of emotions surrounding Franklyn. Your skills in criminal profiling typically allow you to get a sense of other people’s feelings. At worst, you can get a trace of what they feel. Right now, however, you feel every emotion Franklyn is exuding, and it’s enough to make your vision grainy and fuzzy. He continues prattling on, but all you can sense is the horrible flood of obsession, jealousy, and a visceral desire so palpable that it makes you nauseous.

You put a hand to the wall behind you, feeling the need to brace yourself against something. Everything in the background falls to a dull buzzing rhythm—Franklyn’s giddy conversation with Hannibal, the muted sound of the performance that you can hear through the walls. You close your eyes and beg for the torture to stop. Maybe Franklyn will take pity on you and walk away. Maybe Hannibal will lose his patience and walk away, too—you wouldn’t be surprised.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on your forearm. You vaguely register—through swirling vision—Hannibal leading you further down the abandoned hallway until he stops and pushes you into an armchair. Despite the overwhelming emotionality that Franklyn practically assaulted you with, you manage to scrounge up a rather large amount of guilt.

“Sorry,” you choke out to Hannibal. Your breathing is still a bit rough and your clothes feel incredibly constricting. You roll up the sleeves of your jacket—well, Hannibal’s jacket—and try to stammer out the rest of your apology. “Feel free to go back inside; I just need a moment.”

You place a hand over your aching temple and another on the arm of the chair. Selfishly, you think that you could use Hannibal’s support, but you don’t want to occupy his attention when the performance is still happening. You close your eyes and try to pretend that your ears aren’t buzzing. You wait to hear his footsteps as he retreats; you wait to hear an acquiescence. A few seconds pass. Instead, there’s a hand on your shoulder.

“Dr. Lecter,” you choke out, your eyes beginning to burn. You wipe at them furiously, despite knowing that the effort is futile. “Go back inside.”

“No,” Hannibal says. You can’t see the expression on his face through your blurred vision—you just pray that it isn’t annoyance or irritation.

“I’ll be fine,” you maintain through gritted teeth. You think you hear Hannibal sigh at that, but it could easily be your imagination. The man looks down at you before pressing a cool hand to your forehead. Despite knowing that he’ll withdraw his hand in a few moments, you can’t help but lean into the touch.

“I’m sure,” Hannibal remarks, pulling you up to your feet and steadying you as your balance wavers. He places your hand on his arm and the two of you walk back in the direction you came. To your surprise, when you reach the door to the theater, Hannibal pivots and leads you towards the exit. You shake your head in disbelief as humiliation, shame, and guilt battle for prominence in your chest. Before long, Hannibal has led the two of you into his car. The moment you’re in his car, you bury your head in your hands.

Everything in your vision feels harsher and sharper. You begin to dig your nails into your palms unconsciously, hoping for some means to establish yourself in reality. You don’t realize you’re doing it until Hannibal reaches out and pries your hands apart. Your hands are trembling ever so slightly and you ball them into fists.

You’re not sure how much time you spend trying to regain your composure in the passenger seat of Hannibal’s car. Dignity is a foreign concept. You’re sure the embarrassment will catch up to you later—perhaps when you’re home and have some time to think.

At some point, Hannibal begins driving. Thankfully, the roads aren’t bumpy and the ride is rather smooth. He’s entirely silent and you feel the beginnings of remorse prickling along your skin. Hannibal never asked you to explain your interaction with Franklyn, but you feel that he deserves to know what happened.

“You realize Franklyn’s in love with you, right?” You blurt out, before quickly turning your head to look out the window and avoid Hannibal’s gaze. Truthfully, you had hoped to lead into that a little bit more. Somehow, that statement was what came from your lips.

“Yes.” Hannibal responds, his eyes still locked on the road. You take the afforded opportunity to look at him, confident in the notion that you aren’t being observed right back. Hannibal seems… entirely unruffled. Then again, he always looks unbothered. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to notice when something bothers him.

“He asked me what cologne you wear,” you decide to start with. You describe how you had tried to make your way back to the theater, only to be stopped by Hannibal’s patient and led off into a secluded hallway. “Franklyn knew that I was wearing your clothes; he also wanted to know what it’s like to be friends with you.”

“What did you say?” Hannibal asks, his attention still focused on the road.

“Nothing; he didn’t let me get a word in edgewise,” you admit. You run a finger along the smooth fabric of your shirt sleeve. Unbeknownst to you, the sleeve had started to roll up on its own; you take a moment to fix that before continuing to speak. “He’s so… suffocating.”

“It seemed his presence was harming you,” Hannibal remarks bluntly. You nod in agreement. At first, the interaction was merely uncomfortable. However, once Hannibal appeared, Franklyn’s emotions hit you with full force.

“I could feel everything,” you break off for a moment. “The love, the obsession, the jealousy, the envy… It was overwhelming. That man is the darkest person I’ve ever met.”

“He isn’t a killer,” Hannibal points out. That’s true—you’ve seen your fair share of killers, with minds so dark that you couldn’t hope to find an escape. Even so, those criminals were… straightforward. Franklyn, on the other hand, is a paradox.

“I know,” you acknowledge. “Franklyn is extremely neurotic, though—arguably the worst I’ve ever seen. It’s stifling. He has debilitating control issues and a crippling urge to prove himself. He’s often a victim of his own envy and jealousy. His self-concept is… I can’t even begin to describe it.” Yet, there’s a thinly-veiled hunger in Hannibal’s eyes—he wants to hear what you have to say. You inhale slowly. Again, you feel as if you owe him for absolutely ruining his night. Besides, you’re sure that he already knows all this information anyway. Franklyn is his patient, after all.

“Franklyn is sort of… a shapeshifter, for lack of a better term. He’ll adjust and change himself to fit the situation best. When he’s in love, he’s dangerously obsessed. His unconventional actions are reassuring to him, though, because they give him a modicum of control—a control that he cannot possess over anything else.” You have a lot more that you could divulge on the matter, but you decide to stop there. Again, you’re convinced that Hannibal already knows all of that.

“I see why you’re Jack’s best profiler,” Hannibal says, finally looking away from the road to look at you. His eyes are glittering in the darkness. You roll your eyes at the unnecessary compliment, too tired to start an argument. To your surprise, when you look out the window, you realize that he’s driving down your street. That car ride had passed rather fast and within a few seconds, Hannibal is pulling into your driveway.

“We’re here,” you announce unnecessarily, grabbing the door handle and stepping out of the vehicle. To your surprise, Hannibal also gets out of the car. You squint at him in confusion, but he doesn’t seem to notice. You’re not quite sure what he’s playing at, but you’re too exhausted to figure it out. Instead of inquiring about his sudden interest in following you inside, you simply allow him to do so before closing the door behind him.

“Do you want this clothing back now?” You ask, unable to come up with any other explanation for his presence in your home. It’s not that you mind his intrusion—not at all, actually—but you’d feel more comfortable with a legitimate reason for his presence.

“If that’s acceptable,” Hannibal answers, breaking you out of your thoughts. His eyes are fixed on something on one of your bookshelves. You shake your head at his strange fascination with your living room decorations.

“Sure, I’ll go change; mind waiting here?” He assures you that he doesn’t mind waiting. You shut the door behind you in the bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment. There are dark circles under your eyes and you look a little frazzled. Otherwise, you don’t look bad. Amazingly, you managed not to ruin Hannibal’s clothing—a feat you’re rather proud of yourself for. You settle for changing into a simple long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants. As you change, you neatly fold Hannibal’s clothing into a pile. Once you’re done, you glance at your reflection one more time. You take a half-step backwards but, before you move to leave, your eyes catch on something below your collar. You squint and lean closer to the mirror, convinced that you’re seeing things. Somehow, though, you’re not. After a moment’s hesitation, you pull your shirt collar to the side, only to find harsh marks on your collarbone and shoulder. They’re almost in the shape of a handprint and it doesn’t take much detective work to realize who they’re from—Franklyn.

That realization is not very welcome, and you decide not to think about it right now. Remembering that Hannibal is waiting on you, you grab the folded pile of clothes and walk back out to the living room. Unsurprisingly, Hannibal is looking around with a scrutinizing gaze. You walk up to him and hold out the clothes, but his back is turned. You eventually just decide to place them on the entryway table—he’ll have to see them on the way out.

“Thank you for inviting me, it was very fun,” you smile. Hannibal turns around, seemingly just noticing your presence. Just what is he looking for in your humble living room? He certainly won’t find anything of value. Furthermore, your decoration skills are nowhere near his. You can’t find a reasonable explanation for his behavior and, eventually, you have to give up on trying to rationalize it.

“I’m glad you found the night enjoyable,” he answers diplomatically. You raise an eyebrow at the stiff response. Perhaps your little… episode… had annoyed him more than you initially thought. Another apology certainly wouldn’t hurt.

“I hope I didn’t ruin your experience too much,” you wince, sheepishly shoving your hands in your pockets. Hannibal shakes his head, before taking a step closer to you.

“On the contrary, I found the performance more enjoyable with your company,” he asserts. Hannibal still looks as handsome as he did when he first appeared on your doorstep this evening—not a hair out of place. You swallow hard, before roughly shoving the thought aside—now is not the time. “I apologize for Franklyn.” Your eyebrows furrow. Why is he apologizing?

“You can’t control his actions,” you say, waving his concern off. “No harm done.” At that, Hannibal’s expression darkens. He takes another step closer, until the two of you are standing face to face. For a while, there is nothing but tense, uncomfortable silence.

“I disagree,” Hannibal says darkly, his hand resting lightly on your collarbone. Before you can protest, he’s gently pushing away the collar of your shirt to look at your shoulder. He frowns and you realize that he’s looking at the marks Franklyn left behind. If you had thought his prior expression to be dark, the look on his face now is nothing short of murderous. You feel your breath stalling in your chest, as you ground yourself in the realization that you’re standing in front of a killer with absolutely nothing to protect you. Hannibal moves to cup your cheek with a tenderness you thought him to be incapable of. His touch makes your skin feel licked with flames. Each breath you take feels labored and harsh. You swear you see Hannibal’s gaze fall to your lips for a brief moment, but you put it down to your imagination. It’s kind of late and you’re tired—you’re probably just seeing things. For a long moment, neither of you move or speak.

“Good night,” Hannibal says, a strangely determined expression on his face. His gaze keeps moving to your collarbone and you idly wish you had concealed the marks better. His hand falls from your face and he stares at you for a long moment, as if regretting your parting. You make sure to remind him of the pile of folded clothes, which he takes into his arms before turning around to leave.

“Good night, Hannibal,” you respond, opening the door for him. You watch as he enters his car and drives away. Despite the knowledge that he’s already out of sight, you feel the urge to wait a few more minutes before looking away. Finally, you close the front door and fall back against it, your mind reeling.

chapter six

[maximumphilosopheranchor]

"Americans and Europeans were guided through the new century by a tale about “the end of history,” by what I will call the politics of inevitability, a sense that the future is just more of the present, that the laws of progress are known, that there are no alternatives, and therefore nothing really to be done. In the American capitalist version of this story, nature brought the market, which brought democracy, which brought happiness. In the European version, history brought the nation, which learned from war that peace was good, and hence chose integration and prosperity.

Before the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, communism had its own politics of inevitability: nature permits technology; technology brings social change; social change causes revolution; revolution enacts utopia. When this turned out not to be true, the European and American politicians of inevitability were triumphant. Europeans busied themselves completing the creation of the European Union in 1992. Americans reasoned that the failure of communist story confirmed the truth of the capitalist one. Americans and Europeans kept telling themselves their tales of inevitability for a quarter century after the end of communism, and so raised a millennial generation without history. (..)

The collapse of the politics of inevitability ushers in another experience of time: the politics of eternity. Whereas inevitability promises a better future for everyone, eternity places one nation at the center of cyclical story of victimhood. Time is no longer a line into the future, but a circle that endlessly returns the same threats from the past. Within inevitability, no one is responsible because we all know that the details will sort themselves out for the better; within eternity, no one is responsible because we all know that the enemy is coming no matter what we do. Eternity politicians spread the conviction that the government cannot aid society as a whole but can only guard against threats. Progress gives way to doom. (..)

This book is an attempt to win back the present for historical time, and thus to win back historical time for politics. This means trying to understand one set of interconnected events in our own contemporary world history, from Russia to the United States, at a time when factuality itself was put into question. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2014 was a reality test for the European Union and the United States. Many Europeans and Americans found it easier to follow Russia’s propaganda phantoms than to defend a legal order. Europeans and Americans wasted time by asking whether an invasion had taken place, whether Ukraine was a country, and whether it had somehow deserved to be invaded. This revealed a capacious vulnerability that Russia soon exploited within the European Union and the United States. (..)

What has already happened in Russia is what might happen in America and Europe: the stabilization of massive inequality, the displacement of policy by propaganda, the shift from the politics of inevitability to the politics of eternity. Russian leaders could invite Europeans and Americans to eternity because Russia got there first. They understood American and European weaknesses, which they had first seen and exploited at home.

For many Europeans and Americans, events in the 2010s – the rise of antidemocratic politics, the Russian turn against Europe and invasion of Ukraine, the Brexit referendum, the Trump election – came as a surprise. Americans tend to react to surprise in two ways: either by imagining that the unexpected event is not really happening, or by claiming that it is totally new and hence not amenable to historical understanding. Either all will somehow be well, or all is so ill that nothing can be done. The first response is a defense mechanism of the politics of inevitability. The second is the creaking sound that inevitability makes just before it breaks and gives way to eternity. The politics of inevitability first erodes civic responsibility, and then collapses into the politics of eternity when it meets a serious challenge. Americans reacted in these ways when Russia’s candidate became president of the United States. (..)

Concepts and practices moved from east to west. An example is the word “fake”, as in “fake news”. This sounds like an American invention, and Donald Trump claimed it as his own; but the term was used in Russia and Ukraine long before it began its career in the United States. It meant creating a fictional text that posed as a piece of journalism, both to spread confusion about a particular event and to discredit journalism as such. Eternity politicians first spread fake news themselves, then claim that all news is fake, and finally that only their spectacles are real. The Russian campaign to fill the international public sphere with fiction began in Ukraine in 2014, and then spread to the United States in 2015, where it helped to elect a president in 2016. The techniques were everywhere the same, although they grew more sophisticated over time.

Russia in the 2010s was a kleptocratic regime that sought to export the politics of eternity: to demolish factuality, to preserve inequality, and to accelerate similar tendencies in Europe and the United States. This is well seen from Ukraine, where Russia fought a regular war while it amplified campaigns to undo the European Union and the United States. The advisor of the first pro-Russian American presidential candidate had been the advisor of the last pro-Russian Ukrainian president. Russian tactics that failed in Ukraine succeeded in the United States. Russian and Ukrainian oligarchs hid their money in a way that sustained the career of an American presidential candidate. This is all one history, the history of our moment and our choices."

Timothy Snyder, The Road To Unfreedom: Russia, Europe, America

[orthodoxadventure]

I ask for a prayer. I've been dealing with increased anger and anxiety recently. Certainly a symptom of neglecting my spiritual needs the past few months. If you will, pray that I get back on the right path. Please and thank you. God bless.

I'm sorry to hear that you've been struggling with anxiety and anger recently, and I pray that both of these things improve for you. Of course I will keep you in my prayers.

Some prayers you might find helpful are under the readmore

Prayer Against Fear

O Greatly-merciful Master, Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me and cleanse me from every sadness and disturbance and cowardice. Drive away from me every spiritual choking and demonic sorrow, that I sense in my body and my soul. For You are our Joy, and the hope of all the ends of the earth, and those far off at sea. Be merciful to me, O Master, upon my sins. Take from me the heavy burden of sin and despair. Drive far away from me every sadness and laziness. Confirm me in Your Love, and with unassailable hope and unshakable faith in You, through the intercessions of Your Spotless Mother, and all Your Saints. Amen.

Another Prayer Against Fear

O Master, Lord my God, in Whose hands is my destiny:  Help me according to Thy mercy, and leave me not to perish in my transgressions, nor allow me to follow them who place desires of the flesh over those of the spirit.

I am Thy creation; disdain not the work of Thy hands. Turn not away; be compassionate and humiliate me not, neither scorn me, O Lord, as I am weak. I have fled unto Thee as my Protector and God. Heal my soul, for I have sinned against Thee. Save me for Thy mercy’s sake, for I have cleaved unto Thee from my youth; let me who seeks Thee not be put to shame by being rejected by Thee for mine unclean actions, unseemly thoughts, and unprofitable remembrances. Drive away from me every filthy thing and excess of evil.

For Thou alone art holy, alone mighty, and alone immortal, in all things having unexcelled might, which, through Thee, is given to all that strive against the devil and the might of his armies. For unto Thee is due all glory, honor and worship:  To the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen

Prayer Against Adversity

Dear heavenly Lord, It’s as if I take One step forward and Two steps back. Things go wrong In the most unexpected ways. It seems like the whole world Works against me sometimes. And my failure ties me up in knots. Yet I know one thing, For Your Word has told me, That I am not alone. So once again I call out to You, Rise up, oh Lord, rise up! Strike down the resistance and fear That seek to silence my faith. Give me strength and clarity To continue, no matter How hard the wind blows against me. I believe in Your promise. You will not abandon me. I trust in the resurrection That sets my soul free. You are my almighty God And I am Your beloved child. Christ won this for me Upon the cross. Only by Your grace, According to Your holy will, In Jesus name, Amen.

Prayer to Overcome Panic Attacks

Lord, I come to You and I thank You for drawing near to me when I draw near to You. To think that You are mindful of me — it overwhelms my soul. But Lord, today my spirit is heavy and my body is weak. I cannot bear the weight of this anxiety and panic any longer. I recognize I can’t get through this alone, and I pray against the very active enemy who is trying to shake my faith and tear us apart. Help me stand strong in You. Fortify these weary bones and remind me of the truth that this pain and panic will not last forever. It will pass.

Fill me with Your joy, peace and perseverance, Father. Restore my soul and break the chains of anxiety and panic that bind me. I trust You with my panic and I know that You have the power to take it all away. But even if You don’t, I know I don’t have to be a slave to my fear. I can rest in the shadow of Your wings and I will rise and overcome by Your unwavering strength. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

Bless My Enemies, O Lord

Bless my enemies, O Lord. Even I bless them and do not curse them.

Enemies have driven me into your embrace more than friends have.

Friends have bound me to earth, enemies have loosed me from earth and have demolished all my aspirations in the world.

Enemies have made me a stranger in worldly realms and an extraneous inhabitant of the world. Just as a hunted animal finds safer shelter than an unhunted animal does, so have I, persecuted by enemies, found the safest sanctuary, having ensconced myself beneath your tabernacle, where neither friends nor enemies can slay my soul.

Bless my enemies, O Lord. Even I bless them and do not curse them.

They, rather than I, have confessed my sins before the world.

They have punished me, whenever I have hesitated to punish myself. They have tormented me, whenever I have tried to flee torments. They have scolded me, whenever I have flattered myself. They have spat upon me, whenever I have filled myself with arrogance.

Bless my enemies, O Lord, Even I bless them and do not curse them.

Whenever I have made myself wise, they have called me foolish. Whenever I have made myself mighty, they have mocked me as though I were a dwarf. Whenever I have wanted to lead people, they have shoved me into the background. Whenever I have rushed to enrich myself, they have prevented me with an iron hand. Whenever I thought that I would sleep peacefully, they have wakened me from sleep. Whenever I have tried to build a home for a long and tranquil life, they have demolished it and driven me out.

Truly, enemies have cut me loose from the world and have stretched out my hands to the hem of your garment.

Bless my enemies, O Lord. Even I bless them and do not curse them.

Bless them and multiply them; multiply them and make them even more bitter against me:

so that my fleeing to You may have no return; so that all hope in men may be scattered like cobwebs; so that absolute serenity may begin to reign in my soul; so that my heart may become the grave of my two evil twins, arrogance and anger; so that I might amass all my treasure in heaven; ah, so that I may for once be freed from self-deception, which has entangled me in the dreadful web of illusory life.

Enemies have taught me to know what hardly anyone knows, that a person has no enemies in the world except himself.

One hates his enemies only when he fails to realize that they are not enemies, but cruel friends.

It is truly difficult for me to say who has done me more good and who has done me more evil in the world: friends or enemies.

Therefore bless, O Lord, both my friends and enemies.

A slave curses enemies, for he does not understand. But a son blesses them, for he understands. For a son knows that his enemies cannot touch his life. Therefore he freely steps among them and prays to God for them.

[faith-avenue]

Dear LORD, today, I need You to step in and break down any barrier standing in the way of my healing and blocking my destiny. Where I'm feeling empty and without, I need Your power to show up and expose me to mind blowing miracles. Let Your favor and unexpected blessings flow in, right on time. In the Name of JJESUS. Amen

[screampotato]

I was watching a YouTuber who was reacting to someone saying, of their child, "she's a non-conformist and that will serve her well in the world", and the reactor was like "yeah, it's great to be a non-conformist, but let's be real, it won't serve you well in the world", and I've been chewing on that ever since.

Like, I do get what he means. People who don't fit in undeniably have it harder than those who do. But at the same time, being a compulsive non-conformist has actually served me pretty well in various ways.

I only had a few friends at school, and never had general popularity, but that meant I never had to deal with all the backbiting and friend group drama that goes with popularity. My friends were also weird, and we valued each other. I'm not saying we never had misunderstandings, but the level of drama I see my more popular nieces dealing with was never a thing for me.

I have always reacted to peer pressure by being contrarian. Yes, that meant I was mocked for years for wearing "virgin socks", that I refused to stop wearing specifically BECAUSE I was mocked, but it also meant that when the peer pressure to do anything on earth but study started to kick in, I did study. And nobody really expected me not to, because I already had that reputation.

In general, being contrarian meant people applied less peer pressure to me (as it was pointless), which removed a lot of obstacles in my young life.

When I became a professional engineer, my contrarian nature became a real strength. I do not find it difficult, in a group of people all thinking one way, to point out when I see a problem. I cannot overstate how valuable that is in engineering. You need to find the problems before they leave the office, and groupthink is the enemy.

I will go along to get along in unimportant things, I'm not abrasive for fun, but when it matters, you're going to hear about it. That absolutely has served me well, and that's not even mentioning the benefits of having an unusual style of thought when it comes to finding solutions to technical problems.

When I worked as a lecturer, again, I didn't conform to workplace norms I saw as stupid. I didn't take marking home. I didn't work unpaid overtime. I didn't accept extra hours on my timetable, or short hours being timetabled for a course (common in colleges, which are highly disorganised). I didn't do meetings at lunch, or lecture over breaks, or lecture right up to the hour.

I told managers when they were wrong and when things needed to change. Now, all this was combined with a respectful tone, diplomatic efforts and otherwise hard and proactive work, but I ended up with a reputation for being honest, hard-working and not being amenable to nonsense, which meant that my word carried weight. If I said something could or couldn't be done, people tended to believe it. It served me well.

Now, just being contrarian for the sake of it, as I was as a teen, doesn't necessarily get you anywhere in the long term, and being all edge and no point will not serve you well in life. People don't like it if you're an arse to them for no reason, and nor should they.

But if you cultivate a practice of being honest, reliable, hardworking, while also being uncompromisingly who you are in the face of pressure to conform, it absolutely will be a strength. It will put roadblocks in a lot of the popular roads in life, but it can also open up other roads that can take you to unexpected places.

I hope someone else who's a bit weird or contrarian, like me, can take comfort in this. Conformity is not the uncomplicated road to success that people often paint it as.

[cibeeorsomeshit]

Trigger Warning 🔞

: gun sex (ao3)

Blitzø thought he heard it wrong. Stolas’ fancy talk and/or horny talk was unintelligible at the best of times, but those were all simple words Blitzø understood but couldn’t comprehend. 

“Shit, you got some suicidal tendencies you haven’t told me?” Blitzø forced himself to stay put and not be backed into a literal corner. “Because then you need a therapist and not a fuck buddy. Shit. Fuck.” Blitzø was still reeling. 

Stolas’ slender talons played with Blitzø’s flintlock pistol, stroking and caressing in the way Blitzø was so familiar with, though usually it was directed at something benign: a pen, the rim of a wine glass, Blitzø’s back. The closest thing to a weapon those hands stroked was Blitzø’ dick and no matter how good he thought he was, his dick wasn’t powerful enough to blow a hole in Stolas’ stomach. 

“How is this different from the bear trap?” Stolas asked, not at all ashamed or embarrassed. Not at all like the times Blitzø sussed out some sort of buried kink Stolas had, usually by doing something unexpected during sex and felt Stolas’ wet hole or mouth clenched tight around him. Like when Blitzø slapped Stolas in the face with his tail for being a brat and Stolas’ whole inside convulsed around his dick and soaked it until Blitzø thought his dick was going to be puffy and wrinkled like he was in the shower for too long (later Stolas told him what was not how dick skin worked so whatever.)

“Because a bear trap is just a glorified bite, you asshole.” A bite that broke his fucking arm, but Stolas, the freak that he was, hadn’t allowed Blitzø to stop and pleaded to keep being fucked while his blood soaked through the mattress. 

“You know it won’t kill me, right, Blitzy?” 

So what? Blitzø wanted to scream at him. With where Stolas was planning on shoving the pistol, if it did go off Stolas wouldn’t be able to walk it off like he did after most of their session. 

Stolas brought the pistol up to his face, pressed his mouth to it, kissed up the length and swirled his tongue around the opening, gunpowder residue sticking to the pink flesh. “I know you like this weapon, darling, and anything you like I cannot help find interesting.”

“You’re gonna shove a horse up your hole next?” 

Stolas smiled, cheek pressed against the wet metal of the gun. “Well, you do have lots of horses to put inside of me.”

“Your pussy will probably break them.”

“Awww…” Stolas cooed like Blitzø just paid him a compliment (which, okay, it kind of was.) “One idea at a time, darling. Are you amenable to mine?”

“Why now?” Blitzø snatched the pistol back, and Stolas let him easily enough. “You could have found someone to shove all sorts of stuff  into you, including firearms.”

Stolas looked genuinely surprised at Blitzø’s inquiry. “Why would I ask anyone else?” he replied. “I trust you.” 

Blitzø put the pistol down. 

“What?”

“Of course I would not force you to participate if you do not wish to.” Stolas sunk back into the numerous plush pillows on his bed, waist so small it drove Blitzø fucking crazy when its all stretched out like this. “But I would not go look for someone else for this particular fantasy.”

“Because,” because Blitzø just had to confirm. “You trust me?” 

“...yes?” Stolas was looking more confused by the second. “Are…you alright, Blitzø? We really don’t have to —”

The golden pistol, already half-cocked, pressed against Stolas’ chin, forcing a surprised exhale out of him. 

“You’ll only let me do this, huh, Stolas?” Blitzø whispered, low enough that it would have been inaudible to anyone else, but Stolas’ hearing picked it up perfectly. 

“Yes,” Stolas said, holding Blitzø’s gaze. He was hyper aware of the muzzle, first firmly at his jaw, then slowly moving down to his neck, his chest, paused there, right over his heart. 

Sex between them was usually loud enough to drive away most of Stolas’ staff in the entire wing. Stolas loved to scream and Blitzø loved making him scream. Even when they were not actively fucking, they were loud —  laughing or swearing or talking. Quiet was not part of their conscious routine.

Everything was quiet now. Even their breathing. Even — “Your heartbeat,” Blitzø said. 

“Hm?” Stolas spread his legs and caged Blitzø between them.

“It’s slow.” Blitzø clarified.

“Nothing to be nervous about.”

The pistol moved further down, teasing Stolas’ opening, playing with the folds there. Stolas widened his legs and sighed. 

“Fuck,” Blitzø said. 

“Preferably,” Stolas replied. 

Blitzø dipped the tip of the pistol inside of Stolas, glancing up to check on him. But Stolas had his eyes closed, mouth opened slightly, finally breathing a little harder. Blitzø’s free hand pressed against Stolas’ chest, feeling the rhythm there. Still frighteningly calm. 

“Is the gun fully cocked?” Stolas asked.

“Fuck,” Blitzø repeated, and did as he was told. He moved slowly, all the way until it could no longer fit, with the frizzen blocking the way. 

He fucked Stolas slowly. The pistol glistened with slick and cum and Blitzø was pretty sure the gunpowder was now all wet and useless anyway. Stolas hummed happily, like this was a half-asleep lovemaking where being close was more important than pleasure. Blitzø trembled from how hard he was controlling the weapon he normally paid no mind to where the bullet would end up. He carefully moved his finger. Stolas must have felt it.

“Is your finger on the trigger?” 

“Yeah,” Blitzø said roughly.

“Yesssss…” Stolas hissed, yet all of him unfurled, melting into a puddle. His orgasm was as quiet as everything else, leaking onto Blitzø’s gun, his hand, his thighs. 

Still laying flat on the bed, Stolas curled around Blitzø so they were a snug little ball in the middle of the mattress. “Sorry for ruining your gun,” Stolas said. 

“Yeah.” Blitzø was so speechless. He didn’t even cum, but there was fire licking every part of him, so different from arousal, and nothing like the surge of power from taking a life. Blitzø was boneless from it, and couldn’t tell Stolas that this had just become his favorite gun. 

[library-child]

Fanwork Masterlist

I guess it might be a good idea to organize my writing before it gets messy... 😅

A Series of Unfortunate Events / All the Wrong Questions - Lemony Snicket

"Because I promised you, remember?"

After entering headquarters at ten, Beatrice and Olaf were not too happy to study Theatrics alongside each other. But when their dedication began to get them in trouble, they discovered something quite unexpected.

There were too many birds in the trees. Usually, the animals of the woods knew how not to be seen, even when they were close nearby. But now, there were so many of them that the branches could hardly carry them all. From below came the loud humming of insects. And there was a strange smell in the air, like salt mixed with something sickly sweet and bitter.

Ellington had the perfect life with her father. Until the day she first saw it falling apart.

A few drabbles revolving around the locations of the Snicketverse. Written for the Woevember 2023 fanwork event.

The Secret Series - Pseudonymous Bosch

“Fire is the cleansing element. It is pure force and light. The prima materia, the raw, impure matter, will rot in a few days. We need to burn it off completely to preserve its pure essence.”

The Midnight Sun had perfected the art of breaking their followers.

Hear me, Thrice Great Hermes, who art in heaven, Antoinette thought. Itamar had told her that if she wanted to pray, she was to pray to Hermes Trismegistus, the god of wisdom and the father of alchemy. You are with the brave and the unfaltering. You wanted to keep us so we could serve you. He saith: I am Man-Shepherd, Mind of all-masterhood; I know what thou desirest, and I’m with thee everywhere. You're with me, aren't you? Please have mercy on us. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.

At age ten, Antoinette Mauvais had to kill the only friend she ever had. And so much more.