#+ then the driving thing was so out of character for me

[hannie-dul-set]

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — ONE.

SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this. 

the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is. 

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 9k.

NOTE. my goal for this fic is to make as many male characters either detestable or unesttling, and make you like them against your will. in other words, meet mark and doyoung HAHAHAHAH. this is mostly still exposition!!! establishing facts and relationships and dynamics and whatnot. more jaemin next chapter. too much jaemin, even. anyway, enjoy! NEXT CHAPTER TO BE PUBLISHED.

IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE YOUR OFF DAY TODAY. You’re on sick leave— that is, sick and tired of drafting legal papers, meeting clients, reading piles and piles of documents every single damn week, so you decided to use your once-a-month get out of jail free card to stay in bed playing Stardew Valley. It’s pre-planned. You’ve already faked sneezes and coughing fits at the office yesterday. You’ve already called your Division Chief this morning. Kim Doyoung can’t do shit when you’re allegedly bedridden and downtrodden with a fever. He can eat his own ass and suck it.

“You have a new case,” he informs you over the phone. “It’s from Nalkkeutta.” 

Or so you thought.

“Hah,” a weak wheeze squirms out of your throat. “Sure. Okay. Got it.”

Motherfucking son of a bitch. Those two lines spring you out of bed immediately as though your bones have just been tased. God dammit. You’ve just managed to snag Sebastian into wedlock. How dare he throw another job at you right now? How dare he ruin your sweet, sweet honeymoon with the emotionally constipated 2D man of your dreams? 

Still. It doesn’t matter if you just got married or have a collapsing lung right now. You haul your ass, get dressed, get out, and get into your car to drive to your district’s police station in a hissy fit, as per your boss, Kim Doyoung’s, instructions. This damned firm is working you like a dog, but you can’t bite the hand that feeds you. And neither can Kim Doyoung.

“Yes, sir, I’m on my way. Are the files ready? Can you send them to me?”

This case came from Nalkkeutta. NCT. Nal. Day. Kkeut. End. Ta. To burn. The day ends in flames. It’s a name that haunts the streets of Yeongdeungpo. It’s a name that’s synonymous with loan sharking, weapons dealing, and coughing up protection fees unless you want to get your shit rocked on an unfortunate walk home— under the guise of an honest to goodness security company to service your protective needs. 

In the early 90’s, the government had a massive crackdown on gang activity and organized crime, subsequently snuffing out any emerging organized crime presence by officially criminalizing the mere act of joining a gang under the Revised Penal Code. But Nalkkeutta is relatively new. That scorching sunset symbol suddenly emerged in the district one day, around eight to nine years ago, and it’s marred the district of Yeongdeungpo with burn marks ever since.

And your life. You haven’t been lucky enough to be spared from that damned gang’s mess. In fact, you’re currently entangled with one of their messes right now.

The glass doors of the Yeongdeungpo Police Station shut behind you. You’re smacked hard in the face far too artificial lighting and sickly white walls and the words Patriotism, Justice, Honor mocking you in embossed silver. You grimace, cross your arms, divert your eyes with an impatient tap of the foot— and your arrival doesn’t exactly come unrecognized by the front desk and the others scattered around the lobby. One officer takes immediate initiative upon seeing your familiar sour expression, rustling out of a conversation to attend to you. 

“Hey, attorney. How may we help you?”

You eye the man. You’ve come to know him by name— Jung Jaehyun— even without needing to take a peek at his uniform’s name tag. You spare him and yourself the small talk and jump straight to business. “I’m here to see my client,” you inform, followed by under-the-breath swears as you fumble through your phone for the e-file Doyoung had just sent because Nalkkeutt had the gall to demand you to run and fetch the bone they left behind here without even giving you the chance to look at it. Seriously. If they want you to do a good job, they should be more punctual than this. “His name is—”

Huh. You read the top line of the document. A lump forms in your throat. You read it again. Once more. And the letters neither shift nor fold, confirming with absolute certainty that you read the name of your client correctly.

It’s a name you haven’t heard of in a while. It’s name that stalked the corridors of the place you’d bid good riddance to eight years ago with a spit on the concrete ground. 

“Na Jaemin.” There’s a bitter taste on your tongue when you pronounce his name— like your very digestive system can’t stomach it, rejects it, and wants to vomit it right back out. “His name is Na Jaemin.”

A nod from Jung Jaehyun. He turns his heels and leads you further into the station.

Empty footsteps echo against the slowly dimming hall leading to the private visiting rooms. The silence pricks at your memories— an uncomfortable sound you’ve grown accustomed to in the two years you’ve spent at Ganghak High School. It’s been eight damn years since you’ve graduated, yet one mention of a name reels you back into the past with a vividness that’s still as clear as the present.

In your memories, Na Jaemin was the guy who carried with him a pungent air of animosity and violence in his wake. On paper, he is your client, a member of the power-drunk gang that you’re tied by the noose with, and someone you have to defend. At present, he is sits right before you— tight-browed, tight-lipped underneath the singular light bulb hovering above the center of the table, looking as though he’s one clock tick away from flipping the table over (the only thing maintaining a safe distance between the both of you), and leaving on his own accord.

Your eyes meet. Your head snaps down to avoid his gaze.

“Good day, Na Jaemin-ssi,” you manage to choke out. “I will be your lawyer for the case against Yoon Naksung and company.”

You’re not sure how you feel when there isn’t even a click of recognition on his part when you introduce yourself and mention your name. You realize that what you’re feeling is a mixture of fear, relief, and absolute revulsion when he responds with, “So, when the fuck am I getting out?”

There’s a ring in your ears.

It’s the sound of your heart trying to escape from your chest.

You inhale sharply. Fuck. You’re not sure if you have the willpower to push through this, and you can’t even ease your nerves or melt your frozen bloodstream with a sigh because he’s staring right at you— impatient, as though he’s counting down the seconds in his head after a one-sided declaration that you have a limited time to willingly answer before he forces it out of you by the throat.

That fucking looking in his eyes. That damned stare that instinctively triggers you to look down, look away, look anywhere else but directly at him. It’s a habit that everyone in Ganghak used to have. It’s a habit that’s still deeply instilled in your psyche, in your muscles, in your instincts to the point that despite being the person in authority at the moment, you have your head down, throat dry, and doing your damn best to read his case file despite the letters looking all wobbly from your anxiety.

Disturbing the peace. Three counts of physical injury. Less serious. Thank fuck. That makes things a little bit more hopeful, but that doesn’t mean you’re free from hell. Hell is sitting right in front of you, handcuffed because the cops have deemed his very existence a threat to public order and safety. You muster up a bit more confidence knowing he can’t reach over the table to sock you in the face.

“You’re an alleged offender, Na Jaemin-ssi. You’d have to be detained until the trial.”

Na Jaemin sneers, a kick against the table leg with a grunt. “Fucking useless,” he spits. His chair is tipped back, head turned away. You firmly press your lips together. You wish he’d just completely tip over and crash his skull and die.

For someone currently detained for a possible criminal offense, Na Jaemin sure seems very much unbothered yet annoyed at the same time. He sits relaxed on the foldable chair, shoulders slumped as if he owns the place, and he stifles out a lazy yawn— drawing attention to his busted lips and handful of scratches littered all over his cheekbone, temple, and forehead— a stark contrast to the vibrant purple splotch painting over his right jaw. You make a mental note to schedule a physical examination on his ass to record his injuries. 

“But…I can make sure you don’t get arrested” You proceed with caution. His evident annoyance is flecked with momentary interest. You suck in a deep breath. “Were there any other people involved besides you and the three witnesses? Was anyone else there?”

You’re not sure what you were expecting as a response. Whatever it’d be, you just hope you get some useful information. Any sort of information. However, it seems like you just asked the wrong question.

“The fuck? Hell, if I know.”

All that interest is eradicated by a sharp glare. Na Jaemin lets out a huff and a sneer. You’re stressed. You’re beyond stressed. This is impossible. Of all people, why did it have to be him? Back then, you’d always had a feeling that he was part of something sketchy, whether it be some ragtag juvenile group or whatever the fuck. You didn’t care enough to find out. But, christ jesus, he just had to be in fucking Nalkkeut. 

That sun tattoo sprawled on the back of his impatient hand— the gang’s symbol, sun rays etched into the bumps of his veins and calloused skin— tap, tap, tapping on the table with the clunk of his handcuffs tells you that he isn’t just some disposable grunt either. The urgency in Kim Doyoung’s tone when he called earlier confirms that dreadful conjecture as well. He’s up there. Way up there, and you have no choice but to fight back the urge to swallow your own tongue.

“I—I understand. That’s fine. Then…can I ask what events led to the incident?” you tentatively try to prod, taking a peek at his expression to see if you’re greenlit to ask this. His face brightens up. One corner of his mouth twitches upward, revealing a sliver of teeth. You flinch. He looks deranged.

“That bucket wearing dumbass looked me in the eye,” he starts, smiling. “So I punched him right in the socket. Then his friends decided that they wanted a beating too.” 

Na Jaemin is leaning back on the flimsy plastic chair as if he’s reminiscing a happy memory. Jesus christ. He’s always been like this, but it never fails to scare you shitless. You’ve always wondered why he was so insane, but the fact that he currently is and has been in Nalkeutta explains a lot of the things you’ve seen in high school. No high schooler had any business pulling up the gate with a BMW, nor was it reasonable for anyone at your age at the time to afford at least five Cartier watches considering the neighborhood you were in. Yet Na Jaemin and his lackey’s always showed up in the days that he thought was convenient in some sort of Chanel tracksuit and dozens of gold and silver accessories.

You were lucky enough to have never gotten punched in the nose with the absurd amount of rings on his fingers— a taste which he seems to carry until today, you notice while keeping your eyes down and trained on the table. They aren’t allowed to keep any personal belongings in the holding cells, jewelry included, fucking obviously. How this guy managed to keep his is beyond your imagination. 

“So, it wasn’t one-sided,” you try to confirm, try to get a good enough testimony to help his and your sorry ass in court. “Can you testify their participation during the trial?”

Wrong move. Very wrong move.

You jump in your seat when he suddenly lurches forward, chained palms slamming against the rocky table with a loud thump and a clink. “Hey, Little Miss Attorney. Listen very carefully,” he rasps. He’s leaned in closer now, making it a hundred times more difficult to keep your head down and not look him in the eye. “I beat all three of them half to death, and that’s all that matters. This question and answer bullshit is pissing me off. Are we done here? Can you fucking leave now?”

You’re scared shitless. You really are. It’s two years worth of trauma suddenly jumping you from behind a wall and throttling the air out of your lungs— of course you’re fucking terrified, and Na Jaemin can smell it like the rabid dog he is.

The problem is, he isn’t the worst of your fears. This mutt is leashed to an owner that would have your head as a dinner treat if you don’t manage to get him out of this stupid cage. So you don’t have much of a choice in the matter. Damned to hell if you do, damned to an even deeper hell if you don’t.

“Na Jaemin-ssi,” you start. Your jaw is tight. It takes everything in your power to force it open and speak. “I need you to cooperate with me so I can get you out of here. Help me help you, alright?”

You’ve really been trying your best to phrase your sentences in a way that doesn’t sound demanding, that you’re leaving it hp to him because you know this bastard doesn’t like being told what to do. But your careful attempts don’t matter against a volatile son of a bitch. “Why’d you even need my help? Ain’t that shit your job?“ he barbs, a slight scoff hanging off at the end. “Seems like Mark hired a useless fucking lawyer.”

Twice. He just called you useless twice. The sheer level of offense you feel momentarily overpowers your nerves— a biting tick near the side of your temple, and you dig your fingers into the clothed skin of your thigh. 

The Mark he’s referencing did not hire you because you’re useless. In fact, that guy regularly asks for you specifically whenever his gang is caught in any civil or criminal trouble because you’re the only damned attorney willing to get her hands dirty to find an out— and competent enough to pull it off in exchange for an extra zero on your commission. 

Meaning, this bastard is at your mercy. And he has the audacity to piss you the fuck off.

“Strike a nerve?”

Apparently, you failed to hide the scowl polluting your expression. When you sneak a glance at Na Jaemin, he appears to be amused at his successful non-attempt to get under your skin, a lazy, lopsided grin on his face. 

You get it together. Mark Lee, that fucking bastard. It had been fine for the past few months when all you’ve had to mediate were petty settlements and bails and lesser criminal offenses, but you’ve never had to deal with one of his executives directly before— who just so happened to be your high school bully, at that. You close your eyes shut, press your lips together, and release a deep breath from out of your nose as you stand up.

“I’ll handle it. There’s nothing for you to worry about, but I will need to arrange a meeting with you again before the trial.”

Na Jaemin simply shrugs and waives you off. Your tight lips force themselves into a smile as you nod and stomp your way out.

Fucking bastard, fucking piece of shit, fucking, god damn it—

You leave the station with a jumbled up head and with all your five senses screaming themselves into oblivion. Shit. Fuck. What the fuck. Had Kim Doyoing emailed you the file a lot earlier, you wouldn’t have gone here and welcomed yourself directly into hell. You could try to settle with the victims, but in case they won’t agree to a compromise, you’d have to pull a defense out of your ass considering that your client is the most uncooperative asshole you’ve ever been cursed to deal with.

It doesn’t help that spending two years in high school with Na Jaemin is reopening pages and pages of trauma that you thought you’d successfully managed to file away— stored in a safety vault in a little corner of your head that need not be reopened. But just meeting him— talking to him directly when you’ve never even dared to before— brought a rusty crowbar to that vault, mercilessly ripping it apart.

Having cancelled your off day, the car ride to your office building is spent thinking about how to scrape up a case to defend the bastard you thought you’d finally been freed from eight years ago. The bastard who’d made the last two years of high school a literal level hell of dread and desperation.

Even for Nalkkeutta, this has got to be the worst kind of torture anyone could ask for.

*‎

The next morning, Nalkkeutta’s boss is gracious enough to answer your request for a meeting. 

Mark Lee shows up to the conference room of JSS’s Criminal Division, accompanied by a polite knock on the already open door, a humming smile, and a Kim Doyoung— who you very clearly don’t remember inviting to this meeting. Mark enters the room with a good morning. You nod and your eyes skip over him, flitting over to meet your boss’s gaze by the door instead. “You must be very busy, sir. What are you doing here?”

The wrinkle that forms between Doyoung’s eyebrows signifies that he very much understood your polite version of a fuck off. “I just wanted to escort our client,” he replies, adjusting his glasses. 

You smile at him. “The escorting usually ends when the client has arrived at their destination.” 

Doyoung’s jaw stiffens. Mark seems to be sufficiently entertained by the exchange, attention hopping back and forth between you and your boss. The latter surrenders and ends the episode with a sigh and a nod, completely glossing over you to speak to Mark instead. “Mr. Lee, please let me know if you need anything.”

You hear Mark respond in a pleasant tone, “Don’t worry, I know I’m in good hands,” but you don’t look at him yet. You force the gravity of your gaze onto Doyoung— an unwavering smile that creeps him out just enough to finally give up and leave the room, shutting the door behind him with a click, and finally allowing you to relax your shoulders and sink into the glossy, wooden table.

“Ugh.”

Stuck-up prick. The bane of your fucking existence, had it not been for the reappearance of Na Jaemin, the other capricious asshole in your life. Your head cocks up, hearing the scratching noise of a chair being pulled out. Mark sits right in front of you, maintaining a smile. “Bad morning?” And you finally speak your first words to him, in the form of a raging rant about his hot mess of an executive.

“Hey, be honest, do you want me fired? Do you want me to make my first ever loss? Your employee, Na Jaemin, told me he got into this mess because Yoon Naksung and his friends were looking at him for too long. Does that make sense to you? Is that how a sane man operates? How the hell am I supposed to defend that in court? How the hell am I supposed to defend his ass when he gives me fucking nothing to work with, and all while having the balls to call me useless?”

You’re out of breath by the end of it. Whew. That felt so freaking good. 

“Sorry.” You eject yourself out of your tantrum upon hearing Mark’s not-so-apologetic apology. You leer at him from across the table, watching the stillness of his apparent pleasant expression. “Jaemin can be kind of rude sometimes.”

This guy is Nalkkeutta’s boss, you remind yourself. He’s the source of your fattened up bank account and worsened sense of justice and morality for the past five months—

“Rude is an understatement. He’s a fucking piece of shit.”

—and he’s also somewhat your friend.

“I’ve never seen you this angry.” Mark laughs, relaxing into his seat. “Was he that bad?”

Nalkeutta and JSS Law firm’s partnership has existed prior to your employment here. However, you’ve know Nalkkeutta’s boss even before you’ve entered law school, much less started working here. Kim Doyoung doesn’t know this, obviously. Their background check on you did not go as far as finding out your regular patrons throughout the four years you spent working at a run-down cafe-bar downtown throughout the entirety of your undergrad.

The cafe’s name was The Hangman. Pirate-themed, which was used as a frequent justification by your boss to never fix the broken chair legs, unkempt storage boxes, and occasional leaky ceilings. They add to the aesthetic, he says. 

Anyhow, it was then that you first met Mark Lee, around three weeks into your first shift. He’d usually come in at around 10 p.m., order an old fashioned at the counter, flash you a pretty and boyish smile, then quietly read on the same spot until one in the morning before thanking you and leaving. Each time, you clock the hardbound cover titles. The Laws of Human Nature. Man’s Search for Meaning. Leviathan. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man. 

Frankly, the crap he regularly reads worked better to make him look more daunting than his overall appearance. Mark Lee wore the visage of a cute, college literature major— covered in knit beanies and warm cardigans and all— but carried books and ordered drinks that made him seem like he was fifty-seven years old. The only time you found an opening was the time he finally brought a long something other than self-help or pretentious nonfiction. Kafka on the Shore. “I didn’t peg you as a Murakami guy.” 

Mark Lee was taken aback when you first talked to him. He asked what made you say that. 

You referenced the previous books he’d been carrying along. He blinked, laughed, then said that he actually preferred reading fiction. He’d only been reading all that obnoxious bullshit (your words) because he was fascinated with the mental gymnastics (his words) some people were capable of, and he was just compelled to read more. You’re still not sure how much of that defense was true, but that doesn’t really matter because your conversations gradually strayed away from books to your daily life instead— your classes and readings and the annoying customers you’d regularly had to deal with at work. It’s mostly you doing the talking, and it’s mostly because you otherwise had no one else to talk to to kill time during your night shifts at The Hangman.

“Was he that bad?” you parrot, sarcastically. “He said that you did a shit job picking a lawyer. You tell me, Mark Lee. Do you think your executive is a stellar guy?”

Mark only laughs. You grunt and slump in your seat, arms crossed as you observe Mark’s expression from across the table. It seems like he doesn’t mind you talking shit about his people this much. His lips are pressed in a perpetual, easygoing smile as he eyes the set of folders and documents on your side. You bite the inside of your cheek. From his appearance alone, you wouldn’t have guessed him to be the head of the most notorious gang in the underbelly of Yeongdeungpo. In fact, you would never have guessed it if you didn’t take an extra shift one day at The Hangman. 

You ended up staying later than your usual 2 a.m. to cover for a co-worker. It was a weekend, so you didn’t mind much. Mark Lee hadn’t shown up that night. That is until you saw him come in at the store thirty minutes after two— deviating from his usual routine in more ways than one when he didn’t stop to order a drink, when he was with someone else who you were frankly too intimidated to look at for too long. When he went in and up the staircase at the back of the bar that was otherwise off limits because it led to your boss’s office in the upper area— and none of your supervisors came to stop him nor even attempt to look at him when he came back out with his big, scary companion walking three steps behind him while carrying a large and heavy looking black bag.

This happened a few more times. And Mark Lee would always smile at you when he’d pass by the bar counter. That’s when you knew something was up. But you knew better than to dig your nose into that kind of business. 

Unfortunately, you didn’t have the ability to see the future back then.

You look at the guy sitting in front of you right now. Mark Lee’s eyes flit up from your documents to look at you again, hands clasped together and resting gingerly on the conference table. “I’d sincerely like to apologize on his behalf,” he starts. You feel a thump in your chest.  “But I hope his uncooperativeness isn’t making it impossible for you to win the case, attorney.”

Yup. That was a threat. Get my errand dog out of jail— even if he bites you in the process, is what he’s trying to say. Mark Lee may have been your bar regular and friend at some point, but right now he is your client— the most important client your firm has ever had the pleasure of receiving. He is not your friend right now. He is your high school bully’s boss. He is the head of the biggest organized crime group in the district. And your law firm is just one of the many cogs running his criminal machinery. One slip up, and he could just wrench you out without a second thought.

“Of course it’s not impossible. What do you think of me?”

You slide the first file you have down the table. Even if Na Jaemin is fucking useless, you’re not letting him ruin your flawless performance record. You’re not letting him give Mark Lee a reason to throw you away.

“What’s this?”

“The witness list. Yoon Naksung, Hong Hyunjae, and Ma Gildong,” you start. “Your dog fucked them up really badly. I already met their lawyer. He was being dodgy about it, but I doubt they’d let him off with a simple settlement.”

A glint flickers in Mark Lee’s eyes are your introduction.

“I already have another meeting scheduled with him this week. I’d like to talk to the three victims personally, but you know I’m not allowed to do that.”

He hums, glossing over your file before setting it back down on the table, fingers pressed firmly on the page as he looks up with a pleasant smile. “When should I take care of them?”

A shiver crawls down your spine. “I’ll let you know depending on how the second meeting goes,” you answer. “Even if the three of them testify, there won’t be enough evidence to prove his guilt beyond reasonable doubt based on what the prosecution has so far. I don’t know why the fuck their counsel is even bothering with this. Na Jaemin would effectively be acquitted from his criminal charges.”

Your client appears to be satisfied, but you’re not done yet.

“However, that won’t absolve him from civil liability.”

No way in hell.

“Yoon Naksung’s party can still sue for damages. And they have enough evidence to guarantee a win. Na Jaemin would be fined at most, and I’m sure it’d be very easy for you to cough up a couple thousand for him. But that’s still a loss for me. And I can’t have that stain on my record.”

Your brows wrinkle. You release a breath.

“Talk to Yoon Naksung. Or Hong Hyunjae. or Ma Gildong, or whatever. It doesn’t matter. It might be hard to get through Yoon since he’s the one fighting the most for this, but the other two would be pretty easy. I hear Ma Gildong’s business isn’t in good shape lately. The address is on the file.” You rise up, leaning forward to reach an arm over. You drop an index finger on the exact spot on the document you were referencing, landing a firm thump on the table. “If the court hears that all of them were all equally beating the shit out of each other in a drunken episode, not remembering who started what, instead of it being a one-sided beating from your exec just because they looked at him wrong—”

Your eyes flit up. You meet Mark’s gaze— unblinking and dilated. You clear your throat and look away.

“Then—then, their case won’t be merited. The court would dismiss it in pari delicto.”

Mark Lee seems pretty fucking happy to hear that. He’s all smiles and applause and it stresses you the fuck out. “I knew I could count on you, attorney.”

You sigh, slumping back down in your seat. “I already have Na Jaemin’s medical report. If you could get at least two of the witnesses to cooperate, that would be great.” Mark responds with a nod and a hum. You sigh again. “We have so many competent lawyers here. Why do you keep specifically asking for me? Next time, go ask Doyoung, or something. I’m tired.” You’d give up this illegal but lucrative money machine just to see Kim Doyoung experience the life-or-death stress you’ve been experiencing these past five months. You really would.

“Because you’re good,” he responds lightly— genuinely. A little too genuine for your liking. Mark shoots you a smile as he tucks his abandoned seat back under the conference table. Uh oh. Here he goes again. “How about officially joining Nalkkeutta as the head of our legal department?”

“Hah,” you snort. “My hands may have gotten dirty, but I can still wash them, Mark Lee.” The look on his face tells you that he isn’t taking you seriously. You leer your eyes. You’re serious. You don’t intend on being Nalkkeut’s clean-up dog forever. Five months ago, you just happened to have shit luck with the desperation to match. Both bad luck and desperation are bound to run out at some point. You just hope they manage to burn out before this guy could burn you alive. “I’ll get back to you once I’ve met with their lawyer again. For the meantime, just keep an eye on the witnesses. Let me know if you find anything of importance.”

His eyes linger on you for a while, still smiling. You know where his head is at. Your grimace— even harder when he asks again to confirm, “So, is that a no?”

“Hell no.”

Mark clicks his tongue. “Worth a shot.” At this point, he’s already halfway out of the conference. “See you again, attorney,” he bids farewell

“God, please, no,” you respond with a grunt. He laughs. The door clicks shut. You groan and become one with the almond table.

How many times has he tried to recruit you already? You’ve lost count. You’re already being regularly run through the wringer at JSS, how much more under Nalkkeut? Jesus, you don’t even want to entertain the thought. So, you busy your head with your  current main stressor: the Na Jaemin case. You force your face off the table with a grunt and pull out your ipad to double check the trial schedule. Two weeks from now. Thursday. Fuck all. How did you end up here?

In retrospect, maybe it was actually all your fault. Three months ago— two months into working at JSS Law Firm— you decided that you were sick and tired of being trapped in Kim Doyoung’s legal counsel team as an associate, without being granted any personal recognition or accolades. You wanted to prove your worth. You wanted to get your credit. This time, you’re going to get  your first fucking big girl case. Even if it meant discourteously bulldozing into Kim Doyoung’s office like a chihuahua looking for a fight.

Which you did, only to be shell-shocked and surprised to see the face of your old bar counter friend— who might also be a gang leader— in the middle of a very…confidential conversation with your supervisor.

“Attorney, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Too late. You’ve already overheard their conversation. They were discussing a case much like your current one— one of Mark Lee’s executives got caught in the middle of an illegal firearms deal, and Doyoung was having trouble looking for a lawyer stupid enough to take the case. 

He shooed you out, but you stayed. You simply had no choice. You had to bite the bullet. This was a spring-loaded opportunity, and you didn’t intend on feeling from it.

“I’ll do it. I can handle it.”

You did get your big girl case, alright. You won. But you also had to book a full body spa session after your first time shaking hands with a criminal— just to feel somewhat cleaner. Obviously, you’ve become a lot more jaded now. Your boss has decided to dump all of Nalkkeuta’s major cases onto your desk since then, and Mark Lee has been trying to poach you ever since.

JSS. Jinsilseong. Integrity. What a load of bullshit. Where’s the integrity in working as criminal clean up dogs? There’s neither integrity nor justice here. Yet you’re able to afford a decent apartment because of that tarnished integrity. Dirty money. You make yourself sick, but drive home and back to work again for the next few days with the car that money bought you, because there’s no way in hell integrity can give you a comfortable life.

*‎

“How’s your Nalkkeuta case going?”

Kim Jungwoo comes over to greet you at the division breakroom while you’re in the middle of making yourself a cup of instant coffee after three fucking hours of being hunched over your cubicle the whole day. You jolt upon hearing his voice, flitting your head over to the direction of his voice, and you’re greeted by a face that clearly has gotten his eight hours in.

Unlike you. Jungwoo and you joined the firm at about the same time, yet somehow you look as though you’ve been trapped here for a good ten decades. He bats his eyes at you with a pretty boy smile while waiting for your response. You grunt. 

“Dreadful. Horrible. Do you want to take it from me and liberate me from this misery?”

The laugh he gives you in response probably means a no. You click your tongue, grunting as you set aside to give him space on the counter. “Is it that bad?” he asks, rustling through the cabinets for a coffee stick somewhere. Kim Doyoung should restock and feed his poor laborers better.

“Yoon’s party won’t settle. They’re dead set on pursuing a cIass action.” Jungwoo manages to fish one stick out. “Not to mention my own fucking client refused my visit. I miss the days where all I had to do was summarize court transcripts and deliver correspondences for Doyoung. You never really know what you’re missing until you lose it.”

That was a lie, but you’re miserable. You were able to meet all three of the witnesses last week, in the presence of their lawyer, obviously and unfortunately. Yoon Naksung seems to be their leader, because the moment you uttered the words ‘settlement’ and ‘compromise,’ he nearly jumped off his seat to full-on throttle you. You’d ask why the hell he’s so hostile, but you read their written testimony on the day of the incident. He recounted all the heinous crap Na Jaemin spewed out while he beat the shit out of them. Things you’d rather not repeat out loud. The other two witnesses didn’t seem as passionate as Naksung, like they just wanted it to be over with and forget how much Na Jaemin humiliated their asses by wiping their faces on the ground and proceeding to call them a bunch of bitch babies.

Anyhow, you have your last attempt of negotiation this afternoon with their lawyer. Honestly, it doesn’t even matter at this point. You just want to let the court know that you’ve done your due diligence of attempting to reach an amicable settlement. You’ve got other cards up your sleeve— you’ve always had.

Which is why Kim Doyoung doesn’t buy your whining and complaining when overhears it in the breakroom.

“Get a grip.”

You flinch. Doyoung makes an appearance by shoveling in between you and Jungwoo to the coffee storage. You two step aside. He releases a silent swear upon realizing there’s no more instant coffee left. So, he decides to release his pissy attitude onto the innocent cupboard door by slamming it shut with a loud bam!

You and Jungwoo look at each other. Bad executive meeting. Very bad, you two mentally agree, sharing a look and a nod. JSS has been dealing with negative press lately. Director must have dumped the burden of fixing it onto him. Poor guy. He deserves it.

Doyoung manages to compose himself in a matter of seconds. He inhales, chest rising, then adjusts his crooked glasses with a huff from lips, finishing it up by giving you a lowered stare. “I’m not really worried about your performance,” he carefully pronounces. “Nalkkeut always asks for you for a reason. Mark Lee gets along well with you, too. So, quit being dramatic.”

He gets along with you because you both like Haruki Murakami, never dug your nose into his business, and always cleaned up his messes. You doubt you’d get the same grace if you fucked this one up, especially considering it concerns one of his executives. Sure, you’ve managed to weasel your way out of your previous cases without much trouble besides your inherent workload. The problem this time is your client.

Ugh. Na Jaemin. That bastard. How dare he decline your visitation request when his freedom is on the line here? You need to brief him for the trial, make sure he doesn’t do anything fucking stupid that would jeopardize your case and fuck not only himself, but you over as well. His freedom isn’t the only thing on the line. Your record is. Your freaking license is. As much as you really don’t want to see his face again, you have to. And the only comfort you can find at the prospect of meeting him again is the very clear evidence that he does not remember you— whereas your bones are already shaking at the mere thought of having to face him again.

It sucks. This sucks. But even if it does, you force yourself out of the office later in the afternoon to meet the witnesses’ lawyer at a cafe downtown. 

His name is Jung Sungchan from the District Prosecutor’s Office. He’s baby-faced. He still has the light in his eyes. You’ve never even heard of him before this case. Meaning, he’s far too irrelevant to have the gall to strut into the cafe, say his piece, then leave without even buying a freaking coffee.

“See you in court, attorney.”

Of course this meeting ends the same way as your other meetings have had: no settlement, no compromise, no nothing. You release a scoff once he sees himself out with a cocky ass grin and a pep in his step. Hah. Fucker thinks he’s winning. This bitch is a toddler in the field compared to you. You’re gonna show him just how ruthless the law could be in the hands of someone that could bend it. He has no idea what’s coming for him.

You pull out your phone. You text Mark a go signal. [Give me an update tonight]. You stare at your string of texts you’d just sent, squint, contemplate for a second, then bring up your phone to your face. [Also, please send a message to your locked up exec that I really have to meet him soon. Tell him to stop rejecting my visitation requests. Please. For the love of god]. You hit send again. You exhale. That does it. You fix up your things and prepare to start leaving.

While you make your way to the cafe’s exit, you unfortunately overhear a conversation. Not that you’d even tried to overhear. There are two girls sitting next to the counter— one with straight black hair and blunt bangs, the other one with a very bad bleach job— and they’re both just talking really, really loudly. 

“That’s what you get for fucking my man, you tramp,” sneers the fake blonde.

“I’m telling you, I really didn’t know he was taken!” straight hair screeches back.

Oh, fuck. You didn’t want to hear this drama. You try your best to maneuver past them quickly, quietly, but you end up hearing more information as you walk by. “I already broke it off and apologized! Please just take down the post already—”

“There’s no way you didn’t know, and there’s no way in hell I’m taking your disgusting texts down. All your friends and family deserve to know how much of a dirty, manipulative skank you are. So that they’d know to keep their boyfriends away from you!”

“Look, I’d get down on my knees to apologize, but you posted not only my private texts, but my fucking nudes were in them, you bitch! I’m not fucking proud of hooking up with a man I didn’t know was taken, but you’re going too far! I—I could sue you for this!”

“Hah! As if! If anyone, I’m the victim in this situation! Not you! You’re the affair partner who seduced my man!”

Goddammit. You jerk back after a sudden stop six feet away from the exit. You shit your eyes, mutter a silent breath as you continue to listen to the high-strung argument behind you. Normally, you’re not one to butt into these things. It’s none of your business, and quite frankly, you could give less of a fuck. But maybe it’s because you’ve yet again been subject to do something that desecrates the very principles of your occupation— the very notions of what is just and lawful and good— that you find yourself spinning your heels and stomping back into the opposite direction before you could even reconsider.

“Excuse me. I apologize for interrupting without consent, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”

You just want to balance out the scales of your negative karma— even by just a little bit. You’re doing this for no one’s good but your own. The two girls snap their heads at you, one visibly more annoyed than the other. You gloss over it.

“The right to privacy of communication is heavily protected by our laws and Constitution,” you begin. Blondie furrows her brows at you, a loading symbol practically spinning above her head. Straight hair looks at you, confused. You keep a straight face, digging into your bag. “Prying into the privacy of another’s conversation is a civil offense and a cause of action for damages. That’s one thing. Posting someone else’s sensitive and explicit conversations is another story.”

You pull out a card. “Who the hell are you? Why the hell are you butting in?” she snaps, the sound of her chair scratching the ground as she stands up in a huff to level you. You set your business card down onto the table, the words ATTORNEY AT LAW, all caps, facing right side up. 

Blondie’s eyes look down. Her face pales. Then she looks up to meet yours. You almost snort.

“It is a criminal offense punishable by three to seven years imprisonment, or a fine not exceeding twelve million won. Or both.” You could very well be jumping the wrong ship here, but you got a fair sense that Blunt Bangs was telling the truth from how desperate she looks, and that Fake Blonde is simply high on a vengeful power trip over the wrong person. “And, considering the fact that you publicized it online through a post, if I heard correctly, it would also be considered a cybercrime. Meaning, you could be charged for both.”

You didn’t think she could get any paler. You’re proven wrong.

“Wow. That’s an impressive feat considering you had no idea you were committing those crimes. Amazing.”

It doesn’t take much longer for her to sputter out something incoherent and stomp out in a panicked frenzy while mashing something onto her phone, most likely trying to delete the post. Sometimes witnessing firsthand the dredges of humanity gives you a little bit of comfort that you’re not the shittiest person in the world. You release a breath, readying yourself to leave once more, only to be stopped by a quiet excuse me from the same table.

You look down. You’re met by the way too happy smile of Blunt Bangs. She looks cheerful. Oh, god. You’re not used to this kind of positivity. You feel a shudder down your spine and force down a lump in your throat.

“Hi,” she starts. “Thanks for helping me. Jeez. What a psycho.”

The girl asks if she can buy you a drink as a thank you. You have not known kindness ever since you started working at JSS, and, by proxy, Nalkkeutta, so you were possessed with the inclination to say yes even though you’ve just had an americano with three shots. You settle with a warm jasmine tea to spare your stomach lining. The girl introduces herself as Natty, and starts giving you an unsolicited rundown of how Fake Blonde just suddenly started sending her swears and death threats the other day alongside the revelation that she was apparently her fling’s girlfriend.

She came here all the way from Mapo just to apologize again and beg her to take down the post. And then you witnessed how that went down. “I really had no idea,” she huffs in complaint for the nth time. You take a sip from your half-empty cup, glancing at the time. It’s 4 p.m. Sweet. Doyoung still thinks you’re having the meeting right now. One more hour before you have to clock out. You decide to pay a bit more attention to Natty as a thank you for allowing you to slack off on the job. “Oh, by the way. Can I ask something?”

You set down the cup on the saucer. “Sure.”

“Did you maybe go to Ganghak High School? Around eight to nine years ago?” 

And then you nearly choke on your own fucking spit. What the hell? You stare at her, wide-eyed in both surprise and innate fear. “Why...why do you ask?” Natty takes that a yes and immediately lets out a squeal, followed by the squeal of your name, followed by a very slow process of recollection on your part of a girl with similar blunt bangs in your repressed high school memories— then it clicks.

“I recognized your name on your business card, but wasn’t sure if you were the same person! Whoa! You’re a lawyer now! That’s amazing!”

Blunt bangs. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. Pretty smile. You remember being classmates with a girl with that same description. You think they both have the same name. You don’t get the chance to second guess yourself because she starts talking about more people you vaguely remember in Ganghak— the class president who’s apparently on his third try at taking the Civil Service Exam, that one couple who apparently recently got married just two months ago in Jeju, that one kid who had once gotten his head dunked into the trash can on the first day of senior year because he came in without knowing the rules of the school.

He didn’t know who ran it. You did. Natty did. And that confirms the fact that you two had indeed been in the same hell once. 

“Hey, do you have any idea what happened to Na Jaemin? I haven’t heard a single thing about him since we graduated and I moved towns.” 

You look at her, a stiff smile on your face. She was your classmate. She was his classmate. If she can remember all those other people and what their roles were back in Ganghak, she’d very clearly remember yours as well. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard about him either.”

Natty gets the realization and immediately flinches out an apology. “O—oh, haha. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring him up.”

“No, it’s alright,” you hum, smile softening. “I haven’t heard of him, either.” 

Christ. This man really haunts you everywhere you go. Natty is great at conversation, and manages to smooth over that one bump as quickly as she can and proceeds to ask about any new hot places at Yeongdeungpo, ask about your job, you asking about what she’s up to in turn under it hits five in the afternoon and you have to return to the firm to clock out.

The both of you exchange numbers. You look at Natty’s saved contact on your phone with conflicted feelings.

Now that you’ve managed to slot the memories into place, you do in fact remember her. She was your classmate throughout the two short years you spent at Ganghak. On your first day, she was the first person who’d come up to talk to you— the only time she’d ever talked to you and vice versa. It took nine years for the both of you to have a conversation again. And there’s really only one person to blame.

*‎

(“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—!”

It’s Monday. You race down the now emptied hallways, eyes quickly scanning each door label that you zoom past in the off chance that you got carried away running and missed your room. To think this is how your year starts. You were looking forward to using the opportunity before homeroom to introduce yourself and make some new friends, but no— you just had to doze off because you spent the entire yesterday unpacking. 

It’s a new neighborhood, new school. You’ve heard that most of Ganghak High School’s students came from Ganghak Middle, meaning almost everyone already knows each other here. They’ve already formed their respective cliques and cohorts and groups. You’re currently an outsider, and you need to put in the effort to change that. You need to make a good impression to get some god damned friends and not spend the rest of your two years here as a loner.

Which is why you feel a splashing wave of relief drenching your bones the moment you make it to your assigned class for the rest of the year— slamming a palm against the door, just in time for the bell to ring.

“Whoo! Safe!” 

At least fifteen sets of eyes immediately zero in on you. You stand there by the door. You smile and nod.

“Hi, good morning.”

No one responds. They all look at you— some stares lingering longer than the others— but they all eventually divert their eyes before five seconds, releasing what you could only assume were sighs of relief, and then proceed to drown the classroom in a silence that’s so, so unnatural for a large group of fifteen to sixteen year olds. 

That should have been your first sign that this school was far from normal.

What a great start, you mentally huff, scanning the classroom the seat you’ll be stuck with for the next two years, and you eventually clock a pair of empty desks in the middle of the back row. You walk over to the available seat, waiting to see if anyone calls out saying it’s theirs, and after a few moments of no objections, you sit yourself down on the wooden chair.

The moment you hook your bag on the left side of your new desk, you swore that the heavy silence pervading the classroom just got heavier. 

You look up. You see someone from the center row, peeking over her shoulder at who you assume is you with a somewhat nervous jitter— as if she’s having an argument with herself in her own head and for some reason, you’re involved. That should’ve been your second sign, but despite your confusion and frustration, you sit still. You sit still until one side eventually wins the girl’s mental argument and she rises up from her seat, tentatively stalks up to you as the class’s eyes follow her short walk with anticipation, including yours.

“Hi, uhm,” she practically squeaks out, hesitant, eyes quickly flickering over to the classroom door before looking back at you. She inhales and smiles. Her bangs are covering her eyebrows. “I’m Natty.”

You greet back and introduce yourself. This is a really fucking weird first interaction, but you take what you can get. “Hi.”

The expectation would be that she’d ask you if you’re new here, if you’re a transferee, if you’d like to join her and her friends for lunch, but no.

Natty completely diverts your expectations by saying, point blank, “This may sound weird, but…you should maybe pick another seat.”

You blink. What the hell? “Why?”

The answer comes in the form of the sound of the classroom door violently swinging open, followed by a series of hushed exclamations, and Natty’s suddenly paled face snapping away from you within the same moment, scampering to return back to her seat at the center, without even giving you the grace of a response. 

You didn’t think the room could get any quieter, but it does, even with the sound of graveled footsteps marching their way over to you— the only thing you can see of the late student’s arrival because for some damn reason, everyone has their head down, and you felt compelled to follow and shut up and catch up to your confused and bated breaths as you listen to the chair next to you screech against the tiled floor, and feel the presence of someone plop themselves down with a rattle and grunt, and at that moment, you feel like you were given the subconscious permission to look up again.

So, you do. 

And when you do, you immediately lock eyes with Natty. Sorry, she mouths with a hand up her cheek, then just as quickly turns back to the front, leaving you to think— what the hell just happened?

Hesitantly, you crane your head to the right, sneaking a glance at the person who just yanked the atmosphere down into hell with just his arrival, the person who you’d be stuck with for the rest of the year by virtue of your seating arrangement. 

Much to your surprise, you’re not met by a face. You’re met with someone hunched over, a mop of messy hair with his face buried into crossed arms over the desk with an aura that immediately repels you from prodding even an inch closer. You nudge your seat away to the left, making sure not to cross the invisible mark marked by the gap between your two desks. The only sign of life you glean is the rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders— invisible to anyone but you solely because of proximity— which leads you to the conclusion that he’s sleeping.

Sleeping. Something tells you that it’s better that he stays this way. That something is the sigh of relief from the person sitting right in front of you as your homeroom teacher finally walks in.

At this point, you still haven’t seen your seatmate’s face. The only time you know of his name is during attendance, when your teacher calls out a hesitant, “Na— Na Jaemin…?” after double-taking at her class list, answered by nothing but a heavy silence despite having all seats in the classroom filled. She quickly nods in acknowledgement and moves forward after that. Just who the hell is sitting right next to you?)

*‎

Beyond your control, memories from that time of your life continuously flash behind your eyes as you drive back to the firm. A buzz from your phone momentarily interrupts you. It’s from Mark Lee.

[Thanks, attorney. We’ll take care of Ma Gildong first tonight. You can see Jaemin on Monday, next week 🧑‍🎓].

Na Jaemin on a Monday. You grimace. What a load of crappy poetic irony. You reply with a thanks and a middle finger. Mark Lee beeps back with a bright grin in emoji form.

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline). © hannie-dul-set, 2025.

[cheralith]

characters ; michael kaiser cw ; fem!reader, she/her pronouns, childhood best friends, implied fwb, fluff-ish?, some smut so explicit content/smut (18+ only, mdni) a/n ; sorryyy last blurb for the day and then ill head to bed, i couldn't help myself

kaiser only has only had sex with two people in his life. you, his long-term friend from childhood and some other girl he doesn't remember the name of.

you gave each other your virginities in your blooming adult years, given that you were the only person that kaiser entrusted with such a vulnerable moment of himself. it was heaven on earth when he reached his first orgasm from you that wasn't by his own means, and he ended up chasing that high over and over again with you, always ending up in bed together whenever you stayed at his apartment. something about you feels safe, feels fitting, as if you were made for solely him.

the only other time he's had sex with another person was during a post-game party where a bunch of models were invited over to the clubhouse to celebrate. you're not technically in a relationship with him (disregard the fact that he took you out on what would be interpreted to literally everybody as dates, gifted you expensive things, would kiss you in unexpected moments merely because he felt like it, and has a picture of you in his wallet to help calm him down in frustrating moments. that doesn't mean anything. you’re just best friends.) and kaiser thinks that he should at least try to venture out with other people while he was still able to. you were abroad overseas during the time, so kaiser, who usually stalked off and did his own thing with you in his apartment after games like these, chose to stay behind for once to see what the hubbub was about.

he has his eyes set on a rather attractive woman and they end up in a hotel together, with her kissing his neck in an attempt to wind him up. he has his hands on her waist, but something about this feels... off. sure, he's hard, but when he juts himself into her, it doesn't feel right. it doesn't feel good on his end. he pulls moan after moan from her, but the pleasure for him has yet to appear, just barely feathering his nerves but not enough to truly drive him up the wall in the way he's familiar with. this seems more like a chore to him.

he feels it sometimes, and he tries to take advantage of it whenever it came by, but when he attempts to do so in one particular moment where she's riding him, she suddenly gets off and throws a glare his way.

kaiser sits up, clearly irritated at the fact she just short-circuited his orgasm. "what the hell? why'd you stop?"

she gathers her things and shuffles herself back into her outfit, huffing. "moaning out another girl's name? god, you're a dick."

"what the fuck are you talking about?" he spats.

"i don't know who (y/n) is—" she says with an edge to her tone, the sound of your name making his dick twitch. "but if she's some sort of ex you have, i feel sorry for her. sort it out, but don't drag me into it."

kaiser's eye twitches at the mention of her smothering your name in regards to him. he didn’t even notice the fact that he was even making any sound, let alone grunting out your name when you weren’t the one he was with.

he grits his teeth. "shut the hell up and get out."

"i was already planning to," she spits and escorts herself out the room, leaving kaiser half blue-balled to his disdain.

he groans, feeling his hard-on still rigid underneath the sheets. he pulls out his phone and opens your contact, where your flight details that you sent over to him lay out on the screen. you’ll be back tomorrow morning, thank god, but kaiser isn’t sure if he can wait that long. agitated, he presses the call button.

you pick up a moment later to his relief.

“hi there,” you murmur softly from your end.

kaiser feels another twitch, your sweet voice echoing in his mind. “hey.”

“you’re calling rather late,” you say, a concern evident in your voice. “everything okay?”

he goes silent for a minute, trying to think of what to say.

“… yes.”

you hum lowly on the other end, clearly unconvinced. “don’t lie to me, micha,” you warn.

“i’m not,” he groans as he rubs his forehead, attempting to filter out his frustration. “i just… i don’t know. i just miss you, that’s all.”

you give a soft, sweet laugh, a melody kaiser finds himself enjoying over and over again. “the great michael kaiser… missing somebody? what a feat.”

“don’t test me, you dumb girl,” he hisses, thumb hovering over the red button, though it’s clear he doesn’t want to press it or go near it at all. “i’ll end this call right now.”

“i’m kidding, you idiot,” you singsong playfully. “but… i miss you too, micha. a lot, actually.”

it’s been nearly a week since you’ve gone abroad for the business trip. seven days too long without you. he wants you back here with him in germany, in his arms where only you belong.

“when you come back tomorrow,” kaiser begins lowly, “d’you wanna hang out at my place?”

he can sense your smile through the phone. “i’d like that.”

he sighs contently. he figures that there’s no one else in the world he can picture himself with as relief settles into his chest, the thought of you underneath him with a lustful haze on your face staining his mind and bringing ease back into his body.

[cressidagrey]

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Chapter 19

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Warnings and Notes: 

Mention of epilepsy and service animals. I don't myself suffer from epilepsy, so I asked my IRL friend, who thankfully was nice enough to let me ask her all the questions I could come up with. The rest I asked Reddit. So everything that's wrong...that's totally my fault and not on purpose.

This has literally all the worst things the internet has to offer: Ableism, Sexisms, Toxic Media, horrible journalism, death threats...I am pretty sure I am missing some of it.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Call Transcript - Rachel Anderson & Richard Treshton

Richard Treshton: [Answers the call, voice tense] Rachel.

Rachel Anderson: Oh, so you do pick up the phone. I assume you already know why I’m calling.

Richard Treshton: [Dry] No, but I imagine I’m about to find out.

Rachel Anderson: [Scoffs] Don’t play dumb. I’ve had reporters on my doorstep all morning, asking about Lizzie. They were digging into my personal life. I have nothing to do with this. I haven’t spoken to her in years. Why am I being dragged into this mess?

Richard Treshton: Because some lowlife on the internet thought digging into Lizzie’s past would make good entertainment.

Rachel Anderson: [Scoffs] I don’t see why they’re so obsessed. She writes fairy porn for a living!

Richard Treshton: Excuse me?

Rachel Anderson: Oh, don’t act like you don’t know what’s in those books. I skimmed one after all the press about her and that driver started up. It’s embarrassing, Richard. She’s a grown woman writing drivel about handmaidens and fae warriors.

Richard Treshton: [Coldly] Careful.

Rachel Anderson: Oh, please. Let’s not pretend her little fairy tale nonsense is high literature. The only reason she’s even relevant right now is because she latched onto that racing driver—

Richard Treshton: You don’t get to talk about her like that. You don’t get to belittle her, not when you gave up any right to an opinion the day you walked out on her.

Rachel Anderson: [Defensive] I left because I had to, Richard. You know that.

Richard Treshton: [Furious] No, you left because you couldn’t deal with having a sick child. You made a choice. Lizzie was six years old, Rachel. Six. And you left her wondering why her own mother didn’t love her enough to stay.

Rachel Anderson: [Quiet] That’s not fair.

Richard Treshton: No, what’s not fair is that she had to grow up without a mother. What’s not fair is that she learned, at six years old, that the person who was supposed to love her unconditionally decided she wasn’t worth the effort.

Rachel Anderson: [Uncomfortable] Richard—

Richard Treshton: [Cold] You don’t get to rewrite history just because the press showed up at your door.

Rachel Anderson: [Tightly] I didn’t call to argue with you. I called to say that I don’t want any part of this circus. I don’t want my name attached to Elizabeth’s mess—

Richard Treshton: [Dangerous calm] Lizzie isn’t a mess.

Rachel Anderson: [Scoffs] Oh, come on—

Richard Treshton: She is a best-selling author. She is a strong, brilliant, and kind person who has done more with her life than you could ever hope to understand. She is a woman who wakes up every day and keeps going, even when the world makes it harder for her.

Rachel Anderson: Oh, go to hell. 

Richard Treshton: You first. And while you are at it: Keep my daughter’s name out of your damn mouth, Rachel. 

***

Lizzie hadn't let go of Mara since it had happened.

Not on the drive home...not when she had crawled into her bed, and pulled the blanket over her head.

She had curled up on her bed, fingers buried in the soft fur of her Labrador, face pressed against Mara’s side like she could disappear into the warmth. The weight of the world sat heavy on her chest, pressing her down, making it hard to move, hard to think, hard to breathe.

Lando sat beside her, close but not pushing. He hadn’t left her side, not once. His hand rested on her knee, grounding. A silent reminder that he was here. That he wasn’t going anywhere.

But now, morning had come. And he had to go. McLaren wanted him in for a meeting.

Lizzie’s stomach twisted as she listened to him get dressed, the sounds of fabric rustling, the quiet zip of his hoodie. Her eyes were still closed, her face half-buried in the pillow. She could feel Mara pressed against her side, the dog’s nose nuzzling into her hip.

The door was ajar, Lando’s shadow passing in front of the light spilling in from the hallway.

Lizzie still hadn’t looked at her phone. She didn’t want to know what else was being said. Didn’t want to see her name trending. Didn’t want to read a single thing about her mother being dragged into the mess, about her private life being turned into entertainment.

Lando hesitated before speaking.

“Do you regret it?” His voice was careful, quiet.

Lizzie went very still.

For a moment, all she could hear was the sound of her own breathing. The hum of the AC, the tick of the clock on the wall.

Do you regret it?

She knew exactly what he was asking without saying. Not about her mother, not about the stupid online bullshit. Lando was asking about them.

Lizzie’s fingers twitched in Mara’s fur.

She exhaled, long and slow. “I don’t regret you.”

Lando let out a breath of his own, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction. He was watching her; she could feel his gaze, warm and steady on her.

“Not even once?” he said, voice quiet enough that she almost thought she’d misheard him.

Her heart clenched.

She forced herself to sit up, pushing herself up on her elbows. "No. Not once," she told him, her voice raw. "I don't regret you. I...don't even regret going public," she admitted weakly. "I just wish it..."

Lando’s gaze softened. He walked over to her, carefully sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand landed on her hip, thumb stroking the bare skin as he leaned in. “You wish it what?”

Her throat felt tight.

She exhaled, then said, “I wish it didn’t make the world hate me."

Lando’s thumb stilled.

Then he was pulling her forward, his arms sliding around her. He pulled her into his lap, her legs on either side of his hips. Lizzie went willingly, burying her face in his chest, her fingers curling in the material of his hoodie.

He tucked her head under his chin, letting her hide against him. She felt him press a kiss to the top of her head.

“They don’t get to hate you,” he murmured, his voice rough.

“Lando...”

He tightened his arms around her. “No, listen,” he said, his breath warm against her temple. “The whole goddamn world could hate you, and I would still love you. They wouldn’t change a damn thing."

She closed her eyes, her eyes stinging. She wanted nothing more than to simply hide away with him.

She took a shuddering breath, then another.

“ I can’t do social media right now.” Her voice was quiet, rough at the edges. “I just—can’t.”

Lando nodded instantly. “Then don’t. You don’t have to.”

Her throat bobbed. “People are everywhere, saying—” She stopped, shaking her head, burying her face against the crook of his neck.

Lando’s hand came up to cradle her head, the fingers of his other hand tracing gentle circles on her back. “I know. I know what they’re saying.” His jaw clenched. She could feel it against her forehead.

She could also feel the tension coursing through his body, how hard he was fighting to restrain himself, to keep his response in check.

“You don’t have to see it. You don’t have to read it," he said softly.

Lizzie let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “It doesn’t matter if I read it. It’s there. It exists. They think they know me, think they get to have opinions about me, and I—I just want to exist, Lando."

“You do get to exist,” he said, his tone a mix of fierce and urgent, like he needed her to understand this. “Those idiots on Twitter—they don’t get to take this from us. And they don’t get a say in how we live our lives.”

He took her chin in his hand, gently lifting her face to look at him. “They don’t get to decide how I feel about you.”

Lizzie inhaled sharply, searching his gaze.

His eyes were dark, focused on hers. But there was a determined set to his jaw, and a fire in his eyes that she knew meant he was ready to take on the whole world, if he had to.

And in that moment, all she felt was the quiet, overwhelming certainty that he’d win, because he’d fight for this. For them.

 “Your dad’s coming over,” he murmured. “I have to go to McLaren, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Lizzie’s grip tightened. “Okay.”

Lando hesitated, then leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I love you.”

Lizzie’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I love you too.”

Lando’s expression softened. He took her face in his hands, tilting her head up, and kissed her.

His lips were warm, firm against hers, his fingers curling possessively against her skin. It was an urgent kiss, fierce and a little desperate, as though trying to say all the things they couldn’t put into words.

He broke the kiss far too soon, resting his forehead against hers. “You text me if you need me, okay? I’m coming right back.”

Lizzie nodded. “Okay.”

Lando’s eyes searched hers, like he was trying to commit all of her face to memory. Then, reluctantly, he pulled away, sliding her off his lap so he could stand.

He paused, one hand on the door. “Liz.”

She looked up at him. “Yeah?”

Then he smiled, that same crooked, boyish grin that had made her heart skip a beat from the moment she first saw him.

“It’s going to be okay,” he told her, with a conviction that made her believe him.

Lizzie tried to return the smile. “Go,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

Her father came over...The The house was quiet, save for the distant hum of the wind outside and the occasional creak of the old floorboards. Lizzie sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea, watching as her father moved around the small space, rinsing out the kettle and tidying up even though it didn’t need tidying. She knew what that meant—he was working through something in his head, giving himself time before he spoke.

Her father was a tall man, with dark eyes that had always seen everything. He finally sat down across from her, his hands wrapping around the mug of tea. He blew softly over the surface before taking a sip. Then he exhaled, his gaze meeting hers as he carefully set the mug back down.

Mara was curled up at Lizzie’s feet, resting her head against her lap. The Labrador always seemed to know when she needed grounding, her presence solid and unwavering. Lizzie absentmindedly ran her fingers through Mara’s soft fur, trying to do the same for herself.

Her father cleared his throat. “I should've warned you…”

Lizzie frowned. “You knew?”

“I knew about them.” He hesitated. “I didn’t know people were going to drag it into the spotlight like this, but… yeah, I knew.”

Lizzie took a slow breath, willing her voice to stay even. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Her father rubbed the back of his neck. “Because it wasn’t going to change anything.”

Lizzie let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well. I know now.”

Her father exhaled sharply, drumming his fingers against the table. “She called me, you know.”

Lizzie stiffened. “What?”

“This morning.” He shook his head. “She’s furious. Says she has reporters showing up at her house, asking her kids about you.”

Lizzie’s stomach turned. “I didn’t want that,” she murmured.

“I know,” her dad said. “But she’s acting like it’s your fault. Like you somehow brought this on her.”

Lizzie stared silently into her tea. She didn’t want to feel guilt over this. She didn’t want to feel the weight of it on her shoulders, the churning sensation in her stomach.

Lizzie swallowed hard, gripping her mug a little tighter.

Her life.

Her kids.

Her mother had built a family—one that didn’t include her. One that had never even considered including her.

“She really just… replaced us,” Lizzie murmured. “Didn’t she?”

Her father’s expression softened. “Lizzie…”

She shook her head, refusing the sympathy she saw in his eyes. She didn’t want it. She didn’t want pity. She just wanted—she wanted this to be over.

Her voice was almost a whisper when she said, “Do you ever regret it?”

Her dad’s brow furrowed. “Regret what?”

“Sticking with me,” she said quietly. She forced herself to look up, to meet his gaze. “When she left. When I got sick. When things got hard. Do you ever wish you’d done what she did? Started over? With a new wife? A normal kid?"

There was a long moment of silence, her words echoing in the air.

Then her father reached across the table, and took her hand, fingers curling gently around hers.

“Elizabeth.” His voice was steady, firm. “I need you to listen to me.”

She swallowed, nodding.

“I have never—never—regretted staying.” He squeezed her hands. “Not once. Not for a single second.”

Lizzie felt something crack in her chest.

“I would do it all over again,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “Every long night, every hospital visit, every fear and frustration—if it meant having you, I’d do it a thousand times over.”

Lizzie blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Even though it wasn’t easy?”

Her father let out a quiet laugh. “Most of the best things in life aren’t easy.” He cupped her cheek, brushing away the tear that had slipped free. “But they’re worth it. And you, kid… you are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

The tears were falling in earnest now, streaming down her face, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“Dad,” she said, voice choked.

He gently pulled her out of her chair and into his arms, letting her cry against his chest like she was suddenly six years old again, overwhelmed and scared and just wanting her dad.

He held her firmly, gently. He didn’t say anything, just let her cling to him.

He rocked her back and forth, the same way he had when she was little and had scraped her knees, gotten too overwhelmed in a crowded place, or cried herself into a seizure. He never let go, just held her close, letting her sob into his shoulder.

"I never regretted it," he repeated. "Not for one single second, Lizzie. You are my daughter. And I will never, never be alright with people treating you like you are a burden or unlovable or that you don't deserve to exist."

Lizzie’s arms tightened around his neck, like she was six again and he was the only thing tethering her to solid ground. It was familiar and comforting, and she had never been more grateful that this man was her dad.

She let herself sink into him. The solid line of his shoulders against her, the beat of his heart, the smell of his favorite cologne. Her dad was quiet and unassuming, soft-spoken and kind, but he was also the most fiercely protective person she’d ever known.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch gentle. “You are the best thing I ever got out of my marriage,” he murmured. His hand came up to brush her hair away from her face, his palm cupping her cheek. “Just tell me something.”

She sniffed. “What?”

He tilted her chin up, meeting her gaze, his grip on her firm but always gentle. “You’re happy? With Lando?”

She nodded. There was no hesitation, nothing but the familiar, overwhelming certainty that this thing with him was right.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I am.”

“He makes you happy?” he pressed.

She nodded again, not even needing to think about it. “Yeah.” A small smile touched her lips. “More than I ever thought I could be.”

***

***

The tension in the McLaren briefing room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Lando was sitting at the head of the table, arms crossed, jaw locked, radiating barely contained fury. Across from him, Sophie from PR looked like she’s fighting off a migraine, while Zak Brown and Andrea Stella exchanged cautious glances.

And then there’s Oscar—legs crossed, scrolling through his phone with the same casual energy as someone reading the weather forecast.

Lando exhaled sharply. “Let me get this straight. You all knew that Lizzie was getting harassed like this, and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Sophie sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Lando, we weren’t trying to hide anything from you. We were monitoring the situation, trying to control the damage before it got out of hand.”

Lando scoffed. “Out of hand? Do you think what’s happening now is ‘under control’?”

Zak leant forward, trying to maintain some authority over the spiraling conversation. “We wanted to handle it internally, without escalating the situation further.”

Lando’s hands slammed onto the table. “Lizzie has been dealing with days of harassment—ableism, threats, even people doxxing her mother—and your grand plan was to just wait it out?”

Zak didn’t immediately respond, which only infuriated Lando further.

“And you let me walk into that interview blind?” Lando’s voice was dangerously low now. “If I hadn’t shut that down myself, what were you expecting me to say? That maybe, yeah, dating my girlfriend is too hard because she has epilepsy? That I regret being with her? Because that’s exactly what they wanted from me.”

Sophie shifted uncomfortably. “We didn’t expect them to be that direct about it—”

“Bullshit.”

Zak sighed, rubbing his temples. “Lando, we understand that you’re upset—”

“No, you don’t!” Lando cut him off, his voice raw with frustration. “You don’t get it at all! You get to sit here and talk about damage control while Lizzie is at home seeing people pick apart her entire existence like she’s a burden. You think I give a shit about PR right now?”

Zak exhaled. “We’re not saying we do nothing. We just need to be strategic about it.”

Lando let out a humorless laugh. “Strategic. Right. Because God forbid McLaren actually takes a stand instead of waiting until it’s convenient.”

Andrea finally spoke up, voice sharp. “Lando. Be reasonable.”

Lando didn’t even bother trying to contain his scoff. “Be reasonable? You think I’m being unreasonable?”

Oscar set his phone down with a thunk. “Okay, I’m done listening to this.”

Sophie tenses. “Oscar—”

“No, really. Because this is ridiculous.” Oscar looks around at everyone, unimpressed. “Lando wants to make a statement, and you’re acting like he’s trying to blow up the whole team. But guess what? It’s already blown up. This isn’t a little PR hiccup. It’s a full-on disaster. And the only thing worse than handling it badly is doing nothing.”

Zak watched him carefully. “We’re trying to avoid making it worse.”

“By saying nothing? That’s not how this works, Zak.” Oscar shrugged. “You want to wait it out? Fine. But I won’t.”

Sophie groaned. “Oscar—”

“Either you release a statement and you’ll let Lando release a statement, or I’ll start tweeting like I did with Alpine.”

Silence.

Zak blinked. Andrea actually looked alarmed. Sophie looked like she might start crying.

Lando could just stare at his teammate.

Sophie swallowed. “You’re bluffing.”

Oscar’s face remained impressively stoic. “Try me.”

“Oscar,” she said slowly, like she’s trying to reason with a wild animal, “do you remember what happened the last time you went rogue on Twitter?”

Oscar arched one eyebrow. “Yeah. Alpine cried about it, and then I got a better seat. Good times.”

Lando, despite his anger, let out a breath of disbelief. “Oscar, you absolute menace.”

Oscar shrugged. “People seem to forget I have zero patience for bullshit.” He picked up his phone again. "Give out a statement. Or I'll do it for you.  I’m pretty sure there are 19 other drivers who will agree with me that ableism is bullshit.”

Sophie buried her face in her hands. Zak swore under his breath. Andrea just looks resigned.

Lando?

Lando finally, finally smirks. “Remind me to buy you dinner later.”

Sophie lifted her head from her hands, eyes darting between Oscar and Lando like she’s debating whether to resign on the spot or fight for what little control she has left. Zak exhaled through his nose, arms crossed, looking like a man who knows he’s lost but refuses to admit it.

Andrea, ever the level-headed one, finally spoke. “Alright. Let’s take a step back. Oscar—if you tweet, what exactly are you planning to say?”

Oscar leans back, unfazed. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something like—‘If your biggest concern about my teammate’s girlfriend is her having a medical condition instead of, I don’t know, the insane amount of talent she has or the fact that she makes him happy, then I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe try being a better human being.’” He tilts his head. “Something like that.”

Sophie groaned like she’s physically in pain. “Oscar, please.”

Lando was outright grinning now, despite the fury still simmering under his skin. “Yeah, I definitely owe you dinner.”

Zak closed his eyes for a moment, collecting himself before responding. “We need to be smart about this. If we make this bigger than it already is, we risk—”

“Risk what?” Lando interrupted, voice sharp again. “Risk pissing off the same people who are already tearing Lizzie apart for existing? Risk upsetting the same journalists who think they can get away with asking me if I regret being with my girlfriend? Fuck that.”

Zak pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lando—”

“No, Zak. I’m done. You guys are trying to manage PR while Lizzie is sitting at home seeing people drag her through the dirt for things she can’t control. You’re worried about making it worse? It’s already as bad as it gets! They doxxed her mother. They’re making fun of her service dog. They’re acting like she’s ruining my life just by being in it. And the longer we say nothing, the longer they think they’re right.”

Silence.

Andrea exhaled, nodding slightly. “He’s right.”

Zak’s eyes snap to him, but Andrea holds his gaze. “This isn’t just a PR issue anymore. It’s an integrity issue. If we ignore this, we’re condoning it. And frankly, I don’t want to work for a team that stays silent when something this disgusting is happening to someone in our family.”

Lando blinked at him, surprised but grateful.

Zak sat back, weighing his options. He looked at Lando, at Oscar, at Andrea. He knew he’s outnumbered.

Finally, with a sigh, he nods. “Fine. We put out a statement.”

Sophie looks pained, but she knows there’s no stopping this now. “What do you want it to say?”

Lando didn’t even hesitate. “That ableism is unacceptable. That Lizzie has been subjected to relentless harassment, and it needs to stop. That McLaren stands by her, and we won’t tolerate this kind of treatment toward her—or anyone.” He looked directly at Zak. “And that I love my girlfriend, and I’m not ashamed to say it.”

Zak held his gaze for a long moment before nodding. “Alright.”

Oscar grinned. “Great. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some tweets to like.”

Sophie looks like she might combust on the spot. “Oscar, for the love of God, please do not start a Twitter war before we even get the statement out.”

Oscar doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Too late.”

Lando leans over to peek at Oscar’s screen and immediately snorts. “Oh my God, you just liked a tweet that says ‘Lando Norris should set the internet on fire and propose out of spite.’”

Oscar shrugged. “I thought it was funny.”

Sophie stared at him in open horror. “You’re not helping.”

Zak rubbed his temples. “Alright, let’s get ahead of this before we end up with marriage rumors on top of everything else.”

Andrea, ever the strategist, spoke up. “We need to make sure we’re not just reacting to the backlash. This isn’t about damage control—it’s about making a clear statement. We stand by Lizzie. We won’t tolerate ableism.”

Zak sighs. “Fine. But we phrase it carefully. Something like…” He glances at Sophie.

She still looks exhausted but nods. “‘McLaren stands firmly against the harassment and ableism directed at Elizabeth Treshton. We are appalled by the treatment she has received and fully support Lando and Lizzie against this unacceptable behavior.’”

Lando leans forward. “Make sure you use the word ‘ableism.’ A lot of these people don’t even think what they’re doing is wrong. They need to hear it.”

Zak sighs. “Lando—”

“No.” Lando cuts him off. “This isn’t just about Lizzie anymore. If they can say this shit about her, what’s stopping them from going after other people? What if another driver’s partner has a medical condition? What if it’s a fan next time? If we don’t call this out, we’re saying it’s okay.”

Oscar nodded. “I’m tweeting.”

Sophie groaned. “Of course you are.”

Zak shook his head but didn't argue. “Fine. But let’s make sure McLaren’s statement goes out first.”

Lando quietly said, “Make it strong.”

Sophie exhaled. “It will be.”

Andrea looked at them all, nodding slightly. “Good. Because after this, things are going to get loud.”Oscar, jaw still tight, finally put his phone down. “Good.”

[grogumaximus]

On the eve of what might be the hardest fought championship of his career opening in Melbourne this weekend one thing is clear, Max Verstappen will not go gently into that night. The defending Formula One world champion, never one to shy away from speaking his mind, a compelling character trait reflected in his driving, is eyeballing the opposition and demanding they bring it on.

The 27-year-old took his fourth consecutive F1 title last season, the toughest since his first, the titanic battle with Lewis Hamilton that ended controversially in Abu Dhabi, in 2021. In both, when the Dutchman was pushed to the limit, to scrap tooth and nail, he was uncompromising, an elbows-out battler, obdurate, driven by belief in himself and the righteousness of the Verstappen cause.

Out of the car his generally easy-going persona belies this steel but it is there in the eyes and the conviction of his voice. As he leans back to consider his attitude to racing, to quote Rotten, J, he means it, man. 

“I do whatever is needed,” he says, with finality. “I try to always go for it when I think it’s right to do so.

“It’s just how I am. I will always go for it when I think it’s possible, whatever other people call it. You might agree with it or not but I just battle the way I think I need to battle.”

His acknowledgment that some diverge from his opinion is a concession to the debate sparked whenever Verstappen is feisty on the track. Depending on the viewpoint, he is a rare, exceptional, misunderstood genius and there are no shortage of fans who subscribe to this. Or ranging from reckless and even dangerous, as many concluded when he clashed with Hamilton at Monza taking them both out in 2021, to unsporting and contemptuous of rules, as his protagonist last season, McLaren’s Lando Norris, certainly believed when he was the victim of aggressive attacking and defending in Mexico last year.

But, well, whatever. Because Verstappen does not care. The criticism that such driving tarnishes his reputation is the gnawing of gnats on an elephant hide. 

“I don’t tell you or someone else how they should live their lives or what they should do in life,” he says. “Everyone should just focus on themselves. I think my behaviour is good. If someone else disagrees, that’s their problem. It’s not my problem, is it?”

As F1 prepares for a 24-race season the issue is more pertinent than ever. He will probably face an almighty scrap, not least from Norris and his McLaren teammate, Oscar Piastri, with Hamilton, Charles Leclerc, Ferrari and Mercedes all looking to join the party while Red Bull, on the early form in Melbourne, have still to solve the problems that wrecked their car for the second half of last year.

"I will always go for it when I think it’s possible ... It’s just how I am"

Yet Verstappen has beaten them all over the past four seasons and for two of those, 2022 and 2023, was imperious. His driving style was barely discussed because he was so quick, so consistent and so relentless.

Success has come at a price, though. At the F175 launch event last month in London, to celebrate the sport’s 75th anniversary and open the new season, Verstappen was roundly booed. He has declined to enter into a debate on why the crowd reacted as it did. However, he was forthright on considering why some do not appreciate his achievements.

 “They’re just jealous. Jealous of success,” he says.

“My dream was to get to F1 and be successful. I’ve achieved that and people that can’t appreciate that, they’re jealous. So that’s fine for them. But it’s not correct, because jealousy doesn’t bring you anywhere in life. I don’t do it for the people, I’m not there to please people that don’t appreciate me.”

This is Verstappen writ large and it must be considered a fundamental factor in why he is a four-time champion. You cannot look through F1’s history without finding greats who shared such iron-willed conviction, not least Ayrton Senna and Michael Schumacher.

“You create your own success,” Verstappen says. “And I’ve created my own success with very important people around me. Of course, part of that success is with the team. All these people that I’m working with and that are close to me, they value that success. That’s what it’s about. And I am very happy with what I have achieved in this sport. That is the most important thing.”

His honesty is striking and endearing. Verstappen, like Hamilton, is unafraid of putting himself out there just as he is, for all that such an unapologetic attitude could vex those who have taken against him.

Last year, when the team’s performance fell away mid‑season, he was unequivocal in his disapproval, describing his ride as an “undriveable monster” and demanding Red Bull remedy it forthwith. Very much part of a frank relationship he enjoys with the team. No one inside Red Bull has anything but positive words to say about Verstappen and a belief he is driven only by a desire for them all to succeed. During the travails of last season what was perceived as a clash between driver and team was part of this process.

“My relationship with them didn’t change because we are always very honest with each other,” he says. “If I make a mistake it’s also said. We have a very open relationship, we’re very straightforward. So when it’s good it’s good, when it’s bad it’s bad. That’s how we approach it. That works the best if you want to perform at the highest level.”

It is hard not to wonder if that level of honesty can be uncomfortable or even painful?

“Not for me,” is Verstappen’s unsurprisingly blunt response. “It’s how I grew up. When things need to be said, they are said. Some people take that a bit more easy, it’s a personality thing but overall it is well received. We are all part of the process.”

When Verstappen made his debut in F1 at 17 years old, he was its youngest ever driver. There followed a steep learning curve, not all of it pretty and not all of it edifying, but pretty much impossible to ignore. A period that forged him such that he insists he would change nothing of those formative years. 

“It’s important that you make certain mistakes in life and some bits that hurt,” he says.

“In terms of missing out on a result or making a mistake, it’s important to have that hunger to try to improve. If you know everything in advance, how to do it correctly, it’s very boring. You make some mistakes, it’s not nice at the time, but sometimes you need a hard lesson to become better.”

Compelling as a man and driver, however you regard him, he enlivens the sport and his rivals go into 2025 knowing too well, given all those hard lessons learned, Verstappen will only go down fighting. Who would have it any other way?

[queenendless]

*°◇■¤ SHAPE OF YOU ¤■◇°*

A/n: Yeah the same English VA voiced all these dudes, and his B-Day is TODAY!

Tbh though, I wanna take a break from this one sided infatuated hellhole I dug myself into and write for other series again, that aren't dubbed with him in it. The irony of me saying that when I wrote this of all things. I ❤️ that madman though. Ah, the mess of a crush!

Pairing: Adult! Makoto, Anos, Jiji, Mash, Nagumo, Mikey, Lighter, Jinwoo, Ryoji X Fem!Adult!Reader.

CW: SPOILERS FOR ALL THE FANDOMS INVOLVED SO BE PREPARED.

Characters aged up 21+. Isekaied reader. All shows coexist in this anime world AU.

SFW and NSFW CONTENT INVOLVED. Kinda headcanons/daily life with the various tagged dudes, mushy fluffy romance with eventual brief short smut. Voice kink, lovesick/lovestruck reader, reverse harem vibes.

Getting reborn in a world choked full of anime characters would be any weeb’s greatest dream. Your inner wish finally gets granted, at last!

So many cameos, easter eggs, references serving the overstimulation you craved.

Urban dystopia, cyberpunk, fantasy, and even classic and modern day Japan structures this conglomeration that is the capital of this anime city in this anime world.

In one way or another, you yourself seek out such dashing men that all had their unique quirks and styles straight out of the gate. Even in this new life they still hold a place in your heart.

Unlike most leads in reverse harem stories, you wanted to embrace this fantasy. Your lovesick self literally gave off such an intense lovestruck aura as is. You crave that kind of affection and attention, in this life as the last.

Someway, somehow, it worked.

Your bois … them dudes … ah what a lineup.

Mash, the magicless exercise buff, secretly likes you watching him doing weight lifts with one hand and eating cream puffs with the other. While workouts with him are more casual, he still appreciates you wanting to bond over it, inspiring him to do his push ups and sit ups with you kissing him when his face gets close enough as his motivation and reward. That and sharing slash feeding each other cream puffs together whenever you get the chance.

“You don't have to dote on me so much. Even without magic, I will use all of my strength to keep you safe. And bake cream puffs for you every day. I'll dote on you all to show you just how much you mean to me.”

Jiji, the goofy quirky red-head that he is, despite the Evil Eye yokai of hatred using him as its vessel, slowly but surely wormed his way into your heart. The stupid jokes paired with those face expressions laced with the boundless energy he has despite the hell he's been through grew on you over time until his beaming smile got you turning to mush. Being able to wind down and relax when he started gaining control over his alternate self, taking naps with you got you being the big spoon for this cutie. Cuddles are inevitable.

“Your laugh is infectious. Getting you to smile is my daily goal. It really does make my day. Gets me smiling every single time. I never want this feeling to end. So let's have more bright filled days ahead together, Y/n~”

Lighter, the red scarfed honor bound Champion, rightfully won your heart with his protective romantic dorky self. Meeting each other through your shared friends that are legendary Proxies, you become entangled in each other's lives. Giving you rides on his motorbike went from convenient transport to enjoying the scenic drive together. Sharing some Nitro Fuel together as he quipped out some dorky puns all to make you smile. You keep him grounded in return. Kissing every single scar his past left him with, being able to let down his walls and be open with you, it all means so much.

“You can count on me to get the job done. Whatever it is, whenever you need me, I'm there. I'll fight for you until my dying breath. Hey now, don't cry. I'm not going anywhere. Not for a long time.”

Anos, the misfit that is the Demon King of Tyranny, exudes natural charm and strength that is indeed OP. Building bridges, ending divides, bringing everyone united in a new age for his descendants. So of course the strapping reincarnated man bewitched you as well. Sure he has his own group of comrades on the side – a harem in a sense from others perspective – but from his self awareness, you have an actual harem. He was amused, intrigued even, that you would see him as another potential mate, so he humored you. His parents were more than welcoming to meet a bride he wouldn't mind marrying one day. You're just that interesting to him.

“Did you really think that just because I was part of your little court, that I would be outdone by my competition? I'll be as savage as well as benevolent to my rivals. Why am I going along with it? Well … I'm enthralled by you, my lovely human.”

Nagumo, one of the strongest assassins there is, would deem crossing paths with you during a mission not as a coincidence but as fate. He felt light as a feather, walking on air, as he made small talk with you after finishing his tasks for the day, that elated smile that came with blood stains. The fact that you reciprocate his assassin lifestyle had the arrow of love striking him true, mirroring Sakamoto's reason for leaving the Order all to be with his own special someone. Introducing you to said former comrade at his convenience store came soon after.

“Getting close to me will put you at risk, no doubt. And I barely have time to see you as it is due to my job. But I'll gladly kill anyone that dares harm a hair on your pretty little head. I really like you, after all.”

Mikey, the leader of his own biker group, can be quite the handful. Being overprotective about keeping his family, blood bound and found, you were no exception. He'd do anything for you, day or night. He is as loyal as he is a kid at heart. He wears his heart on his sleeve in your honest opinion. Giving him PDA really lifts his spirits; loved fill squeezing hugs, smooching him senseless, and being a shoulder to cry on for those tough days.

“Oi. I'm grateful to you. Ya know that, right? When this city sees delinquents in a better life through the Tokyo Manji Gang, my brother's dream will finally become a reality. And I hope you'll be by my side when that happens. I can't imagine anything else worthwhile.”

Jinwoo, an E-rank hunter reawakened to become the next Shadow Monarch took the world and beyond by storm, sweeping all off their feet. Slaying magic beasts all around you to show off his growing strength and speed. Saving those that are genuinely worth it helped balance the OP aura he gave, winning your heart in his favor. Seeing his former self in you brought out his overprotectiveness, aiding in winning him over in turn. This Ruler rather carry you princess style himself than his shadow generals.

“We've both been at the bottom. But while I've been fortunate to have agency and power to lead a better life, you haven't been so lucky. If you wouldn't mind, I want to look after you. I … I care about you. Very much. I want to be there for you like you have been for me.”

Ryoji, the Appraiser of Nyx herself, could not believe it himself. He was back together with his friends, making new memories with this second chance. And he had you to thank for that. The anomaly that is many worlds meshing together to create this one has you literally radiating at its core, having him hone in on you. You're an angel in his eyes. Hence, serenading on the piano for you, affectionately swaying you over with his wise words about embracing life to the fullest, and wrapping his scarf around you for you both to share. You got Death wrapped around your finger.

“I didn't expect to be in the presence of an angel, yet here you are. Knowing you had a hand in making all this possible, allow me to thank you personally. Beneath this moon, beside this sea, will you share one dance with me?”

Makoto, the savior literally tied to Death itself, willingly gave up his life to save his world from the literal end. In this alternate life, he too had been given another chance to live a long life. And like his close friend, he gets drawn to your presence. But unlike the former, you're the affectionate one. Petting him, sharing headphones in exchange for letting him rest against you, even looking unto his big blue eyes had him blushing and ducking his head in embarrassment. This silent loner boi is not immune to your smitteness.

“You're strange. Putting yourself out there … because you like me? Sorry. I've had admirers before, but I've never wanted to ruin those friendships. So why …? Maybe Ryoji was right. You're like a kindred soul to us … to me. We've all died yet came back. All to meet one another. I've dealt with stranger things … but I don't mind. You, that is. I mean it.”

While they were all different, the similarities when it comes to their bond with you are all there.

Shaking their warm calloused hands, no other kind of handshake could ever hope to top it.

Those marvelous eyes fascinate you.

Their modest encouragement sends your heart ablaze.

The many things they do to make each day easier, comfy, worthwhile.

Their fingers rubbing sensually along your cranium down to your tense neck. Massaging the rest of your stressed sore body followed suit. Of course they'd flex for you as you return the kind act, giving their lean builds love bites and smooches in the process.

Your drained hum of thanks reaches their ears as you use their lap as your pillow. They would do the same if they're too drained to go to bed or they need your presence to cheer them up for whatever reason.

Their hand brushes through your hair strands, pushing them aside to trail along your flushed cheek, causing it to darken further because it's their touch.

Many times you fall asleep against them, whether leaning into their side or using their lap as a pillow, it always ends with them rearranging yourselves to sleep on the couch together with you on top on them or they carry you to bed and keeps you in their arms still as you cuddle amid la la land.

Their laughter, whether deep or light, is a musical score you cherish to hear much more.

Lounging together with you sitting up against his front, your legs in between his own, his arms wrapped around you, he held the console controller in your lap with his hands overlapping yours as you played whatever video games piqued both your interests.

Spotting you squeezing the life out of chibi plush doll versions of themselves always brought out their envy. But it was your comfort whenever you couldn't hug their real life counterparts due to work or any other occupying situations. But you do get the chance to see them again, cuddles and kisses come in tenfold.

Even being able to spend time with them along with their comrades and friends always ends up with you staying glued by their side.

Days turned to weeks and then months, for each passing moment you were interweaving a web of bonds that got you attached to these fine nine beings.

For they share the same voice.

God that voice …

Such versatility and tenor. So sultry, sensual, and sexy all at once. It should be a crime to sound that fine. Of course it will slide. That kind of voice times nine. Like a soul split into nine sublime forms.

Comforting words. Encouragement. Goofy impressions. The puns. Saying your name. Pet Names. Any and every word. You could never get enough.

Then there are the salacious moments.

Them whispering in your ears to utter any and all such things. Dirty, romantic, primal. Whatever suited the mood. Whichever made you both comfortable.

“Does my voice really make you come that much? Interesting~”

That exact sentence would become like a motto – a slogan perhaps – to these guys. Teasing you in that tempo and timbre all to make you melt. Never letting you live it down.

“The ways in which you talk to me~”

Your own tease earned you being pushed up against the wall, your free hand supporting you since your other hand was pinned behind your back. His free hand grasped your chin, tilting your face around all to devour you. Just one of many scenarios that play out between you and your many partners.

Your first time with each of them is equally special, ingrained into your mind and your core.

Whether decent or long, wide or thick, so much variety with every cock that stuffs up your needy pussy.

Smooth and sly or sculpted and rough are such fingers that get to touch you, trace patterns along your sensitive flesh.

To pinch and rub your pearls, leaving love bites on every inch of you to remind one another who you belong to.

Fondling and massaging your frame, suckling on your stretch marks along your fine as fuck dumpy, stuffing their fingers in both your mouths to lather up your essence, licking from your ass crack to your clit.

They all share the intoxicating crave for your addictive taste, devouring your cunt for hours on end, their faces squished between your quivering sweaty thighs, their noses buried in your pubic hair while they're sloppily making out as their dexterous fingers and skillful tongues went to work on having you come so many times.

Missionary, backshots, the mating press, against the wall, on the floor, across tables and couches, even on the roof — when there's a will there's a way.

They love replacing the pearls around your neck …

Titty fucking. Throat fucking. Ejaculating all over your sweaty sheen self. Jacking off through your thighs, your peachy hills, all to tease you so close to edge yet striving to be within you.

Of course, they let you have your way with them in kind. Their egos and hearts soar as you claim them, the bite marks and bruising sucks litter their lean firm vessels to match yours. The tattoos, the scars, those get you showering smooches like mad.

Whether hugging their waist or throwing them over their shoulders, they love to rub and grip your legs enough for fingertips to be left behind as your latch onto them is ironclad.

Weaving hands through each other's haphazard hair while tugging on them hair strands roughly amiss lust, interlocking their hands with yours that need that tether to keep hold onto through the hectic ride of orgasmic paradise.

Massaging your ever tight gummy caverns all to see your expressions of vulnerable passion, falling apart easily while stuffing their cream in you, hitting that sizzling bundle of nerves all to tip you over the edge.

Those feral groans, them unhinged moans, such breathless cries of euphoria with your name reading such a crescendo off their swollen wet mouths as they could never get enough of your vice grip firm enough to leave their fingerprints behind.

Your curling, squirming self crying and breathless as creamy goodness dripped down your valleys, their comforting warm bodies draping over your beautiful self, holding you while the highs of sex would soon calm down.

“Let me fight for you.”

“Laugh with you.”

“Cry with you.”

“Reshape the world for you.”

“Kill for you.”

“Protect you.”

“Rule with you.”

“Live life with you.”

“Love you.”

In this alternate universe, in a world full of vibrant people, with limitless possibilities and potential …

The shape of them — their very existences — ingrained in your type of mate. Partner. Perhaps the shape of their souls are all one in the same. All intense, driven and outrageous.

Maybe because of your preference in your former life. Through their voices all stemming from one. Perhaps your rooted desire for a significant other with that boundless voice created so many options and you finally hit the jackpot.

When the day comes you wake up amongst all nine men strewn about, bare to the bone the same as you, in sheen gleaming ecstasy, soiled sheets and pillows thrown about all over the spacious bedroom, as you smiled all dopey like at those peaceful sleeping dreamboats.

The shape of you might as well be a heart because you too wore it when you're with your favorites.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

senate blessing malleus with the power is such a great reveal; it finally puts malleus struggling with his control in perspective in a serious way (unlike previous comedic bits with the same idea). the diasomnia finale is so dense with payoff, i'm very excited to hear what you liked-disliked about it :)

[You can read my thoughts on the book 7 finale and its payoffs here!]

Hmm… 🤔 I have mixed thoughts on the senate blessing Malleus with Extra Magic Juice.

On one hand, sure, this explains why he’s particularly powerful. On the other hand, I… don’t like that it easily passes accountability for the events of book 7 onto the senators. Yes, they’re terrible people. Yes, they isolated Malleus and they put him on a pedestal and never held him responsible for his mistakes. But by giving him the blessings of power he didn’t ask to have, it… paints Malleus as a kid that “just couldn’t control his excess magic” and the senators as targets to attack. If he had naturally been born ultra powerful or as the result of all the love poured into hatching him (since Lilia did give up his lifeforce), I feel like that would have been a more neutral way of powering him up. Having other people consciously give him magic he didn’t already have from birth or need to survive has different connotations.

This is a very similar situation as theorists who claim Maleanor’s final words to egg!Malleus were a blessing to make him feared by humans in the future. It explains away his isolation and loneliness by saying “it was actually the blessing at work, not Malleus or his peers’ behavior causing this.” The locus of control—and the onus—shifts from the individual, which he can control, to the circumstances, something he cannot control. It’s almost as if to say, “there’s nothing he can do about it, so he can’t be held accountable; the ones who shoved this unwanted power on him are the ones who should take accountability.”

I appreciate Twst attempting to be more serious in how it presents Malleus’s OPness instead of defaulting to its usual comedy bit. I just don’t know if I care for… this interpretation.

Context: In Malleus’s post-OB flashback, we see that he was blessed with particularly strong magical gifts from the senators. He considers these blessings as curses that kept him from being able to fully express himself + socialize with others.

That’s a good observation 🤔 Sometimes there will be notable differences in opinion due to cultural differences between JP and EN, but I’ve actually been seeing both sides sharing beef with the Briar Valley senators since the main story update. JP side in particular has been pumping out a ton of fan art of the NRC boys lining up to pummel the senators, which is quite unusual. You normally don’t see this much… concentrated disdain from them. (Though you can definitely still see differences in how we express disliking characters; EN fans tend to use very strong language whereas JP fans’ wod choice is demurer. JP also tends to use art as an outlet for expressing negative emotions.) I guess the one thing that’ll unite people is a common enemy, huh? 😂

But allow me one moment, if you will, to play devil’s advocate. Listen, I don’t like the senators as much as the next Twstie does—but giving Malleus blessings does make sense in-universe. They lost their princess and tons of land to humans. Malleus himself almost died in his egg. They’ve suffered devastating losses and just barely came out of the conflict with what is essentially a miracle baby. The future of their country, the next and only surviving member to the queen’s bloodline. If I were a senator, I would fear losing that, and what little land, power, and influence we have left in the world. I would want to ensure that this child had all the resources at his disposal to drive off future threats and to protect the valley, so that the same tragic end his mother and most of their country met doesn’t happen to him, too.

When it’s put like that… didn’t the senators bless Malleus to help him and their country? I doubt any of them intended to give him this strength to isolate him from others and drive him to OB. So… the senators had good intentions, but it had unintentional consequences which were harmful—which is a point often brought up about Malleus’s actions in book 7. If we’re going to forgive one party for the unintended consequences (or, alternatively, hold one party accountable for them), then should the other be treated differently? Yes or no, and why?

Just some food for thought, because this sure made me think about how I see the situation myself.

[artsninspo]

Richmond Inc. | Terrance's Interlude

to be read after part 008

「 ✦ full library & archive ✦ 」 「 ✦ aaron pierre & characters library ✦ 」

♠ authors note: a few of you wanted some insight into Terry's mind, so I wrote this quick little snippet that should explain a few things about him.

♠ warnings: mentions of a mothers death & sexual thoughts

♠ summary: following the events of part 008, we get our fist look into the thoughts of the man himself Terrance Richmond.

♠ pairing: Terry Richmond (Aaron Pierre - Rebel Ridge) X Lorence Cole (Black Fem OC)

♠ word-count: ~1.1K

⌖ - Secure Location, Monte Carlo, Monaco

Looking at her suit again he counts the points of impact sustained during the firefight that they’d found themselves in. The worst was at her hip where the decoy had shot when she was trying to help him. Impressions from glass shards as they fell, the worst of which had cut through her dress just under her breast. Then there were the impressions on the feet. While Cassandra hadn’t encountered any fire it was clear that he could have lost Lorence. The realization unsettles him. He paces the length of his room in the safe house while in deep reflection. He’d founded Richmond Inc. because he had the ability to kill proficiently. Only he’d learned quickly that taking lives never fulfilled him the way preserving them did. Lorence Cole’s life was one he couldn't fathom being taken from her. The thought alone caused him chest pain. Her presence in his life felt serendipitous; and he was the last person to believe life's intangibilities. The harshness of life had killed his ‘faith’ in anything outside of what could be proven. If miracles existed and karma was real his mother would have never been killed after committing her life to the improvement of others. If life were fair Lorence would have never even been in that kind of situation.

“Rich, she’s stable. Nothing's broken or sprained, no clots, just a few bruises and a pulled hamstring” Joel says entering the room to update Terry. Joel has always considered Lorence a sister to him and yet he waited to suit up while his boss hadn't spared a moment to plan or protect himself.

“Is she still crying?” Richmond asks, laying the suit back down.

“No, she's trying to make sense of it all”

“She go through shock?” Terry asks.

“Yeah, the shakes,” Joel responds. 

“The authorities are snooping around. Do you want me to handle it?” Joel asks.

“Take point” Terry nods, needing a moment.

“Keep your phone close, in case I need anything” Joel sighs earning a nod from his boss in response.

“Will do” Terry nods.

He’d been too late for his mother. He’d been on the phone with her as she wrapped up with patients for the day. He’d been asking for fast food for their Friday night tradition. He heard the fear in her voice as the client came into her office, he heard her beg the man to stay calm. His babysitter was in the process of calling the authorities when he heard what he’d learn later was the sound of bone cracking and his mother screaming. He’d froze then before deciding to run the ten minute drive to his mothers office. Only then he hadn't been strong enough to keep pace. He hadn't been old enough to drive either. He arrived after the police to see a bloodied woman being lifted onto a gurney. He knew she was dead the way her hand hung lifelessly. Taking a breath Terry shakes the memory out of his head, the trauma of the event bringing him back to the moment where his heart raced so violently he thought his life was over right there. Lorence’s screams had brought him right back there.

He’d redeemed himself and somehow he still felt like a failure for not saving her from the predicament altogether. Being in Lorence’s presence had him thinking of his mother more than ever. His mother was unconventional, she didn’t dote on him like most boy moms do. He was the apple of her eye but never to his own detriment. She spoke to him like he was an adult explaining all of her actions thoroughly. She told him all the secrets to life she knew, and all the paradigms she’d studied even if he wouldn't understand them at such a young age. She called their outings field trips. He was often the only kid in the company of adults. To make things more interesting they played observational games where he learned about body language. Signs of deception, truth, discomfort and the whole nine yards. He’d imagined his mothers smirk on several occasions when Lorence rejected his attempts at kindness. Pride is poison. His mother would often say - she’d been right. Putting his pride aside had worked wonders with Lorence and was the reason he reached the venue to protect her.

His thoughts go back to the truth, the full extent of it. The reason he’d been so tense during his first meeting with Lorence. The reason he’d grilled her was to be sure she was a qualified candidate and not a desperate attempt by Cassandra to pull him out of depression. It would’ve worked too if she'd been a hooker like he thought. If it weren't for the barber's cape covering him, every attendee in the room would’ve known he was thinking with his dick. He found himself staring all the time during those first few weeks of her employment waiting for her to disappear, for her to not be real, for her face to be some kind of high level prosthetic sorcery. His thoughts would oscillate then to her coming into his office and letting him have his way with her. He's order her to strip and then fuck her right there in his office. Terry dug deep to find deceptionand ulterior motives but there were childhood and graduation photos to confirm she was real and exactly who she claimed to be. He’d verified the metadata on his own. Lorence’s presence was making him so crazy he looked into the social media profiles associated with her to be sure nothing was a foot. Then he sought her out a few times, only she avoided him like the plague. That had made him angry, women seldom refused his advances, half the time they came to him but not Lorence who looked at him like he was the boogieman. Eventually Richmond took the hint because just seeing her around made him feel again. He found himself thinking about her at random. Looking through her files for information about her. Weighing his options. Trying to conceive of ways to get closer before giving up altogether. But the other night had changed all that for him. She had let her guard down and walked alongside him for hours. She was unguarded and somehow more beautiful. She was real. And by some strange coincidence she’d come to know Joel and started working for him just as he’d begun to give up. It was unspoken, the minute he’d seen her eyes - he’d been hers. After possibly losing her, now it was time to accept it.

Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed this quick look into Terry's mind. Chapter 009 should be out sometime before the end of this week. Just in case you missed it (I don't think any of you did 😆) I was playing coy about the origins of Terry's attraction. No Lorence doesn't look like his mother. There's no weird Oedipus complex going on. But there is a reason Cassandra would know Lorence is his type. Lets see if any of you can guess it 😉

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[heylittleriotact]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Thank you for the tag @razildor!

If you're reading this, consider yourself tagged. GIMME ALL YER WIPS.

Here's the beginning of Chapter 11 of i heard people are dying to get in here in which Emmrich decides to be cleverly proactive (if he does say so himself) about the potential stamina issue he has run into with his young partner.

The invention of tele-health apps was not given the praise it was due.

Before the existence of such things, Emmrich would have had to schedule an appointment with his doctor, leave early, or try to book a banked day (nearly impossible), drive across the city, sit in a mint-walled waiting room full of sniffing people that all but guaranteed he’d be sick within a week, and then get ushered into a freezing cold, windowless examination room, false hope that the doctor was imminent dashed when he inevitably waited for another forty-five minutes.

But now - and oh he was so clever for this - now, he only needed to punch in his credit card information to an app, submit a request for a consultation with a doctor from the comfort of his office between arrangements, and wait.

Granted, the ensuing instant message conversation that ensued with the physician that ended up with his consult request was as awkward as it would have been in person:

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Riley, I’ll be assisting you today. What is the nature of your medical concern?

E. Volkarin: Good afternoon, Dr. Riley. How are you today?

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: I’m very well, thank you. How can I help?

E. Volkarin: That’s wonderful. And your spouse is keeping well, I trust?

There was a long gap between messages after that, for some reason, and he almost wondered if the connection had been lost when finally a reply popped onto the screen.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: I’m divorced. What do you need?

Mortified that his polite attempt at cordial small talk had blown up in his face, Emmrich ignored the text that Rook had just sent him and forged onwards.

E. Volkarin: I'm terribly sorry to hear that. My apologies for my brutish assumption.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Sir, please tell me the reason for your appointment or I'm ending the consult.

E. Volkarin: Right. Apologies again.

E. Volkarin: I've recently found myself in a budding romantic relationship with a lovely partner. It's a fledgling romance, as we've only truly solidified our intentions within the past few days, but I feel that it has the potential to become quite serious - much to my surprise.

E. Volkarin: We work together, you see, and I've never been one to wade into the treacherous sea that is workplace relationships, but in this case, I can't help but feel that I might regret not throwing caution to the wind to explore the places she and I might go together if all goes well.

He had been part way through explaining how he and Rook met, and was listing out the bounty of character traits he was smitten with when Dr. Elizabeth Riley replied again.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: I have other patients I need to see today - I'm ending the chat. Please resubmit your request for a consultation through the portal when you're prepared to tell the assisting physician what medical assistance you require.

Emmrich backspaced the entire wall of text.

E. Volkarin: Wait!

E. Volkarin: How best to put this? Forgive me for the awkwardness of the situation.

E. Volkarin: It would be apt to say that she's rather in her salad days, and I am not.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Sir, you're going to have to be more clear - I have no idea what that means.

E. Volkarin: She's in very good health: clearly takes care of herself, despite questionable nutritional habits. She's very energetic, and has a keen mind. Her stamina is most impressive.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Mr. Volkarin.

Realizing that Dr. Riley was on her final straw, Emmrich had uttered a pained groan and resumed typing.

E. Volkarin: There is somewhat of a difference in our ages - nothing suspicious or unseemly, mind you - and I am afraid that I might be unable to keep up with her needs in an intimate setting.

If a sinkhole had opened underneath the funeral home and swallowed him then, he wouldn't have complained.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley is typing...

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: You want a prescription for Viagra?

E. Volkarin: If it isn't too much trouble.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Do you take any nitrates or medication for hypertension?

E. Volkarin: No.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Do you have a heart condition, high blood pressure, liver or kidney disease, blood cell or bleeding disorder?

E. Volkarin: None.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Have you ever had a heart attack, stroke, or an ulcer?

E. Volkarin: No.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: I'm faxing a prescription for Viagra to the pharmacy you've listed in your profile. It'll be ready by the end of the day.

E. Volkarin: That's wonderful! Thank you very kindly for your efficient assistance!

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Goodbye.

He had been initially off-put by the doctor's chilly demeanour, but as Rook pulled into the parking space outside of the pharmacy near his house, he supposed he would be rather annoyed too if a stranger took it upon themselves to assume he was married.

She put the car into park and her hand went for the ignition, but halted when Emmrich said, "No, no, darling - you just wait here where it's warm: I won't be long."

He'd formulated this stop at the pharmacy during the drive to his home after their brief stop they made at her apartment for her to quickly pack a bag for the weekend.

'I realized I don't have a spare unopened toothbrush for you to use,' he had said. 'We'll just make a quick stop and I'll pick one up for you.'

It was almost too perfect of an excuse - and it turned out that it actually was, because when he said that, Rook just wrinkled her nose and said, 'It's no big deal - I can just use yours.'

Suppressing the shudder wrought by the idea of putting another person's used toothbrush in his mouth - even if it was someone whose tongue had been there - he smiled indulgently at her and impressed that it was no trouble, and he had a few other small things he'd been meaning to stock up on anyway.

He returned to the toasty car minutes later, carrying a reusable shopping bag containing a variety of completely innocent and utterly non-suspicious items: the promised toothbrush, a bottle of the same shampoo he'd seen Rook use that morning (in case she wasn't fond of his or it made her hair greasy), a carton of orange juice (no pulp - texture issue), a box of Band-Aids, some Bactine, a sleeve of red licorice for Rook (he’d seen her snacking on it at her desk a few times), and of course the stealthily acquired prescription bottle of Viagra that he had secreted within the inside pocket of his coat.

[tainbocuailnge]

[post i am writing as self-exorcism] the more i think about this collab the more disappointed i get. and again this is without the investment of having personally read or watched dunmeshi I only know it from posts.

the way this collab event story is written, if you have no prior knowledge of the source material then you'd probably come away thinking dungeon meshi is an episodic comedy manga where a bunch of goobers eat inadvisable meals in a generic video gamey fantasy setting that is little more than an excuse for the existence of the funny monsters that they eat. which is not a bad thing to be, but the way everyone talks about this series gives me plenty reason to believe that's not what dungeon meshi actually is. even within the bounds of the event itself there's reason to believe that's not actually what dungeon meshi is, because there is a disconnect between what the event tells you and shows you about the characters.

laios is so interested in and knowledgeable about ecology that he is able to correctly infer that the gang is in a fake world right now because the ink spirits don't make sense, but despite this interest and knowledge being his primary character trait, after explicitly having spent several years in terra he apparently only just barely picked up the terran names for each of its animal people. similarly, marcille is presented as a magic academic who wants to learn about terran technology, but years after obtaining that flashlight that was her first step to figuring it out she still doesn't know what a drone is. we're told senshi knows a lot about how to forage for safe foods in hostile environments, but he repeatedly feeds the party dangerous meals for comedy. the overall tone of the event is comedic, with the party shrugging off things that would be super hyper death bad endings by arknights rules, but they still drop implications of a more serious tone like valarqvin being able to see many deaths in chilchuck's past and future, or senshi having firsthand experience with starvation driving people insane.

in that same ink spirits chapter laios mentions that the dungeon where they meshi was made by someone so meticulous about, let's say worldbuilding, that its ecology completely checks out despite being an artificial environment. arknights, as we know, is meticulous about its setting history to the point of having an etymology for the word "hot dog" in a world with dog people. but while the dunmeshi characters are presented as deeply curious about their environment with regard to their particular fields of expertise, the writing itself lacks the same curiosity. and thus these deeply curious characters spend several years traveling every corner of terra without learning a single damn thing about it.

this event blatantly does not care about arknights. it makes extremely basic lore mistakes like "the church of the deep priest is opposed to people eating seaborn", it grossly mischaracterises kal'tsit, it debuts ceobe's ability to turn into a cerberus with a handwave to a "special bloodline" and no deeper exploration than "funny dog hungry" and only two appearances in the damn event. it's baffling to have something in arknights which cares so little about being in arknights.

but what's even more baffling is that it seems similarly disinterested in its own source material. this collab does not make any attempt to accurately convey the tone or appeal of dungeon meshi. unlike the characters themselves, it lacks any interest in the world around its characters, let alone how the characters' knowledge of one setting would translate to the other. they wrote a dungeon meshi x arknights collaboration event that does not want to be either dungeon meshi or arknights. why even do the damn collab then?

[kaisfanfics]

The Cow/Bull hybrid Farm & a girls dream house:

JJK Man Bull hybrid x Chubby P**n Star Female Reader 🔞

Chapter 1: the boring chapter.

Word count: 2236

Has everyone else found any fanfic thats about the jjk man (if i mean man I mean man like toji, satoru, and Choso) Bull hybrids. I was only able to find 2 or 3 of them. And then I found another one but it wasn’t a jjk ff. I got so into it that I decided to make a FF about it.

And the jjk characters won’t appear until ch 2 so bear with me.

I hope you enjoy chapter 1 and I’m sorry for the bad writer.

You have finally made the decision to work at a Farm full of Cow and Bull Hybrids that are looking for 20 women who can take care of the male cows but also keep the Bulls satisfied by having sex with them and milking both of the spices. at the time you were confused on why your boss was telling you this because you were a human and not a Cow Hybrid. That was when he tells you why the farm wants human women instead of female Cow Hybrids. The reason why is because the male Bulls and Cows we’re starting to get tired of the female hybrids fighting and hitting them whenever they are trying to help them in their heat. So much that the male hybrid started competing with the farm owners to pull them out of the farm.

you heard from your boss that they are looking for women that can move and live on the farm for free instead of driving there in a car or bus. And also because the club that you work at is going to be moving into a different location in the city you are in. You didn’t mind the move until your boss told you where the new club is going to be. And the reason why is because it was closer to your house and since they are moving to a new location it is now 40 minutes away from home. What makes it worse is how you get there through traffic making it 1 hour and 20 minutes. You were glad that your boss recommended this new job for you and a new home because the one you are living in was getting too expensive on rent.

After talking for a while, give you the phone number to call the people about that job, and give you your last paycheck from your boss. Two days later You then went back to the club and then went straight to the back stage where all the strippers were. Guess you are not the only one here today but also not the last one to know about the news. All of the girls were excited about the move but also very nervous about it too. All of them were talking about it until you walked into the room. All of them knew that face you were making and they know what that means.

“Hey girls, how are you Guys doing today?” You said with a sad smile on your face. “We are… doing ok we were just all wandering on what to do later.” One of the girls (Amy) said with sad eyes “Yeah, since all of us are moving to a new location we thought we could do something together with you since… you..are leaving for the… new job.” The other said (Alexa) holding back a sob and trying not to cry.

“Do you want to come with us one last time tonight… just to have fun and hang out. And to know how much… we've cared.. about you since middle school.” Rose said, trying not to break down into tears remembering all the hard times you had to go through during that time. “We are just so happy for you but also grateful for how much you have done for us and for yourself throughout the year we’ve been together.” Alexa said no longer holding back her tears anymore. You stayed quiet for a minute, looking at all of your friends with tears in your eyes until. “yes…. I would love to.”

After you packed all of your items into your truck, you and your friends went out to spend the last time together until next year. You were sad about leaving your friends who you’ve known for a long time but you were excited about this new chapter in your life. But

also because you’ve been wanting to try new things in life. And besides, what could go wrong.

2 weeks later

It took you a while to do all the paperwork. You then started to call some moving companies to help you take your stuff to the farm only to be told no for they are unavailable at the time. You then called another company to see if they were available during the weekend and they said yes. You were so relieved when they said yes because you have been stressing out for a week about the situation lately. So when they finally came to the house you were nothing but happy and drained from the stress at that moment.

“Excuse me miss, my name is Kai and I’m here to help move all your belongings to a new place. are you perhaps the one who called us here the other day to move your belongings to the farm house right?” A man said with a polite smile along with some 4 men behind him. “Yes, I am. I’m so sorry for calling in such short notice. I was having a difficult time calling some companies to see if they were available only to be told no. I’m just glad that you men were able to come and move my stuff to the farm.” You said with a sweet smile and soft eyes.

“It’s ok, miss. things like this tend to happen when you are moving to a new location. Especially when you are moving to a farm.” One of the other men said with a smile. “Though I am surprised that you are not Bringing all of your furniture to the farm except for all the things in your room. Did you by chance sell all of them along with your bed as well?” When he was done talking you stepped aside to let the 5 men in and when you did. You got a really hungry look from the last 2 men who entered.

“Yes, that is correct. Well, I was talking to the farm owners about what to bring. They said that I can’t bring my bed or any furniture because they want us to feel comfortable in our room. But it was also because they don’t want any germs in the living area, but also because they have been wanting to replace the furniture around the place. ” You said when they started getting the boxes and putting them in the back of the truck.

“I can see why and I don't blame them for that. Especially when they are getting new workers in their Farm.” Kai said with a couple of boxes. “I agree with you si-.” You were cut off by feeling a slap on your ass. “My my, is my sweet little angel leaving me without giving me a goodbye kiss.” A man said well, moving his hands to your breast and folding them in front of the workers. As soon as you heard the man's deep voice, you knew exactly who it was. It was your next door neighbor who helped you with your ex editor, your ex sex partner, and your ex boyfriend Scott.

“Ok, what the hell did I say about you doing this in front of people. Especially doing it in front of people that I don’t know.” You then broke free from him and took a few steps away. “Oh come on, it’s not like I ripped off your shirt or anything. And besides, you didn’t even notice those two men looking at you like they were going to fuck in the ass when they got here.” Your face started burning up from the action and turned around to see three of the workers watching the scene in front of them. The workers immediately Looked away and started acting like they saw anything.

“You still have no right to do that when there are people around. Especially when they are helping with something important.” you said wall pushing him out of the house. “Oh come on, look I’m sorry for doing that but at least give me a goodbye kiss or makeout before you leave.” He said with a smile on his face liking the way you looked. He’s been doing this when you both were in college. He’s been nothing but a Pervert, a jerk, and a cunning guy.

“If I makeout with you, will you stop embarrassing myself in front of the workers?” You said in a whisper still struggling to push him out of the house (you failed miserably). “I’m sorry but can you say that a little louder? I couldn’t hear you very well.” He said with a that stupid smirk on his face.

“I’ll… Makeout with you.. if you stop embarrassing me… Please.” You said a little louder enough for him to hear.

“Hmmmm…….” He stayed quiet for a few seconds until he spoke.

“Very well then. Now get ready for this because this is probably going to be the last time we’ll ever be like this or not.” You were confused on why he said that but you didn’t want to push him any further on that.

You started by dragging him into an empty room where you used to film your video with him…

”If you guys need anything Or if you're done I’ll be in this room.” You said as you locked the door closed so no one could get in.

“You know Y/n, you don’t have to go if you’re short on money… You can just live with me and not do anything other then making p**n videos for money. And I’ll be doing my thing at the office that pays me well… Just please stay here, with me.” He doesn’t want you to leave.

He never left you alone after what happened 2 years ago… after giving him your love and care but it was never enough for him… it never was to begin with when he started wanting his space. It lasted 9 months until you received photos and videos of him with another woman at a party…One of your friends saw them making out and having sex in her bedroom during the time.

You ended up sending him the photos and videos with the girl, broke up with him by text, and blocked his phone number along with his social media……… until he found out where you lived 3 months ago… and besides, you were going to move out of the house anyway.

“Scott, it’s either making out with me and never seeing me again, or see me find a man who treats me well and is honest with me whenever he feels guilty about something that I don’t know about.” You said without breaking eyectada with him.

He knows he messed up by cheating on you with his female friend. And wishes he can go back in time and refrain himself from doing it… but sometimes there are some couples that are not meant to be together…

“Ok if that what yo-” He was cut off by a knock on the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt you Miss but we are done placing your boxes in the truck. It’s time we go so that we can get there early in the afternoon.” “Thank you sir. I’ll be out in a second.” She then smashed her lips on to him and slipped in her tongue. It startled him until he started kissing back.

His hands started going under your shirt so that he could get the full accent of your breast Which caused you to moan in pleasure. He loved playing with them and misses shoved his cock between them and cuming on your boobs and face. But he Especially Loves your thighs, your ass, and hips. oh who is he kidding, he loves every single part of your body along with your personality and your will to help people out when they are in bad shape.

Before going even farther into the kiss. You pulled away from him and pushed his hands down to stop from Playing with your boobs. “I wish you the happiest day and future Scott, Goodbye.”

Once you were done fixing your clothes, you then left the room to find and talk to the workers. It was weird making out with your ex boyfriend. What made it worse is that he is dating the girl he cheated on you with. You just hope you don’t get to see him again.

When you enter the living area, you see the workers and the house owner who just so happens to get here just in time. “Hello miss Y/n, I’m sorry for being late. Something happened on my way here that I have to take a different route here.” A woman with bunny ears said with a smile. “It's ok ma'am, in fact you're just in time. Here are the keys.” “Thank you dear, out of all the tenants that I had, you are the only one who is always keeping the house clean whenever I come to visit.” “It’s no problem ma’am, I’m just glad you let me live here for the past 2 years.”

Once everything was in place and making sure that you didn’t leave everything behind. You then got into your car and started heading to the Farm with the moving truck behind you.

Chapter 2>>>

HELLO!!!

Their might be a chance that I’ll do a Toji ​Fushiguro x ghost raider reader ff but I’m not done with it yet. If you enjoyed reading this I’ll continue to do it.

Thank you and please stay safe.

[vennavenus]

Revati is the realization of time being non-linear and the fact that life is basically a series on repeat. Every life is a book on a bookshelf. We are like dolls and the universe is a child expressing its imagination through us. God consciousness exists within every person. This realm of consciousness makes you see God in everybody. “I” becomes nonsensical in this stage because you realize that “you” are also the stream of God consciousness observing this life. You’re both at the same time. The director and the actor; the author and the main character; the child playing with dolls and the doll itself. That’s when you gain ultimate cosmic freedom and become “the fish that swims freely in the sea.” (the sea symbolizes the cosmos or the endless sea of space) because you are able to write your story the way you want to and become anybody or anything. This is also what grants Revati a lot of manifesting powers (Neville Goddard had exalted Revati Venus for example) because you exist in a state completely beyond the illusion of the material realm and “I”. Subconscious suggestion becomes easy as you are able to inspire people with what you see. Intuition becomes stronger as you are able to “see” through the veil of the cosmos and interact with all energy openly and at will. You attract people who see the same as you and there will be a special connection there because like I said most people are not operating on this level. Life becomes a lot more beautiful as well.

When people reach this stage they may eventually go crazy or they may share their infinite love for this grand, playful creation/innocent nature of the universe expressing itself playfully (which kind of reminds me of Lalita).

What drives people crazy when they reach this realization is the fact that most people in this world are not existing on this level of consciousness, so people who have reached this Revati state of awareness start to feel insanely alone. They realize that most people are veiled under illusion to a certain extent (not thinking for themselves and living by their predetermined cosmic destiny rather than rising out of that illusion. That’s why Revati moon Loki tries to go beyond the illusion of the timelines at all costs to reach the truth about life beyond all of these illusions and predetermined destinies). People may develop God complexes because they think they are truly above those who have not realized these things yet (that’s where the Joker archetype comes in). They may “play” with other people because those people have not learned to take control of their cosmic destinies and realize that their lives are pure illusion. But not every person is supposed to realize this because they are not ready. It’s not part of their journey in this life. If anyone realizes this state too early in their spiritual development it may drive them a little crazy. And if you, as someone who has reached this state, start sinisterly toying with others you will create a mental hell for yourself to live in. You will make God, or Goddess, upset because you are being rude to her creations. The unfolding of events can only happen according to the Creator. If we inflict any harm, that will come back to us. It is what it is.

Revati energy can bring you immense peace because you reach a conclusion with the mysteries of the universe. Or it can drive you completely crazy because you realize you were never in “control” of your destiny like you thought you were. Your life is simply existing on repeat. The future already exists. Your death has already occurred. How does that work? That’s why Revati energy can drive you crazy. You may even seek to forget about this realm of consciousness and go back to living your “normal” life because it’s too much to handle. That’s why it takes a long time to prepare for these things. There should be disciplined practice for years before reaching this state of consciousness.

(Highly recommend watching Everything, Everywhere, All At Once + Russian Doll + Children of the Sea + the Loki series for more themes like this starring a few Revati natives)

[sal-absinthii]

No I'm sure it couldn't possibly have been based off the folkloric household spirit of the British Isles that will be so offended if you give it clothes it will leave forever

Whatever other implications may be seen in it, just because that isn't a bit of folklore you are familiar with doesn't mean it isn't where it comes from

She tried to incorporate a well-known British magical creature into the world, and because Dobby and Winky and Kreacher are actual characters we get to know, that means that questions of their place in hierarchical wizard society will inevitably get raised, and I think she actually did address that perfectly fine. The problem is that people A. want to assume the worst about her alleged 'message' or social views, and B. are expecting an easy, clear-cut answer that the complicated situation of house elves does not provide.

It drives me nuts how many people accuse her of supporting slavery (as if, first of all, these were actual real people in an actual real world scenario) bevause of the house elves when in fact their situation is NOT something that is being praised. Again, this is a Cho Chang situation: people complain that ~the narrative~ (by which they ALWAYS mean 'Harry's perception,' which often ends up being wrong and which he changes) are treating a character/situation unfairly when in reality there are reasons that you should actually be upset by this treatment. With Cho, people seem to need constant reminding that all of the evidence that she is a character with feelings of her own that ought to be considered and not just a crybaby comes from the text. The text the author wrote. On purpose. To make you think that. You as a reader with the expected literacy and emotional intelligence of someone in their mid-teens are supposed to see the discrepancy between what Harry thinks and the perspective you are able to see of the character. This is not a flaw or accident, as if she were a completely incompetent writer, it is the point, and you are not fighting against JKR's alleged worldview, you're in conflict with the unreliable teenage narrator's perception. Like you're supposed to be.

The house elf situation has the same issue, not because there is evidence that JKR thinks this is good, but because Harry (an outsider to this world who has other things on his mind at the moment than school activism) does not seem terribly bothered by the social condition of elves as a whole (he is shown to be extremely empathetic to Dobby, on the other hand, and does see that it's wrong, and literally frees him). Hermione once again is the voice of reason (just like she is when she tries to explain Cho to Harry) and voices the expected perspective of the reader, which is that slavery is bad. The entirety of the false accusation that JKR supports elf slavery comes from the fact that Harry and Ron do not find Hermione's cause very worthy of their attention, which is (also falsely) assumed to be the position of the author. It's telling that no one wants to be charitable enough to assume that Hermione's view is more representative of the author's, even though, please use your brains for a single second, if the point was really to argue 'slavery is fine actually,' all of Hermione's campaigning could have simply been left out of the books, no objection raised at all, and elf slavery simply treated as normal by every single character. JKR goes out of her way to give us Hermione's perspective, and IMPORTANTLY, it is Hermione's perspective that ends up being the most justified. You all seem to forget that Dumbledore was perfectly willing to pay any elf who wanted it, and that Ron, her biggest detractor, ends up coming around to her point of view.

The characters' reactions to the house elves tells us something important about each of them:

Harry seems apathetic to them as a group, because he has his usual blinders on and doesn't really have any mental energy left to spend on things that aren't directly affecting him or his goals. Do not make the mistake of thinking this is being called praiseworthy, it is just a trait about him and also it would be messy writing to give the main character too much investment into a side plot that has nothing to do with the main quest. We also see that when confronted with individual elves, Harry is capable of showing a great deal of empathy and love, enough even that his grief for Dobby -- "which Dumbledore would call love" -- was enough for him finally to block out Voldemort. This is a brief but significant turning point in Harry's understanding of everything Dumbledore has said to him.

Ron is, for most of the time, actively hostile to Hermione's efforts. Unlike Hermione and Harry, Ron is not an outsider to this world. Harry doesn't care, because he has other things to worry about. Hermione cares because she cares about injustice and bevause as a muggleborn she is sensitive to the hierarchy that exists. Ron can barely see the hierarchy, if at all, because he was born into it. He thinks Hermione's efforts are silly because they are an attempt to change a status quo he has never known not to exist. One of the first things he says about house elves is that his mum wishes they had one, which makes sense given the amount of work Mrs Weasley has in raising a large family, so he has never been exposed to any point of view other than 'this is something normal and they seem fine so we don't really question it.' He does not have a personal connection to elves. Muggleborn Hermione thinks on a broader level and empathises with elves' situation in general. Abused Harry thinks on an individual level and empathises with the abused elf he knows personally. Ron, who is neither at risk of being treated as lesser because of his blood nor abused, and does not know Dobby as well as Harry, and has never known a world in which this was not the case, does not see the issue as readily. Again, this is not ~the narrative~ saying it's fine. Besides underscoring the differences in the backgrounds and interpersonal motivations of the main three characters, there is the additional point being made that even characters who are overall good and decent people can have blind spots.

We see this exact same point with Hagrid, who also tells Hermione her cause is in vain. This is unusual to hear from a character defined by his nearly-pathological obsession with defending monsters (because he knows what it means to be considered one). He is sympathetic to monstrous creatures, including ones who don't actually deserve his defence from the label, like man-eating Aragog, not because he sees their 'humanity'/equivalent to humanity, but because he is extremely invested in the idea that nothing ought to be called a monster, even when that is just...idiotic of him. This is much less about the monsters than it is about Hagrid's own sore spot. So why does he seem so uncharacteristically apathetic about elves? Well, like Ron, he is from a world where this is normal, and because his compassion for creatures is fundamentally driven by his own insecurities as opposed to either reality or true empathy. This is a weakness of Hagrid's. And like Ron, we are supposed to feel discomfort with the fact that here is a character we are used to considering nice and kind and good, expressing a statement most contemporary western readers are NOT going to really like. We are SUPPOSED to side with Hermione. But a recurring theme throughout the books is that "the world isn't made up of good people and Death Eaters." This is seen obviously in characters like Snape, who has many bad, unpleasant, villainous characteristics but also does heroic and brave and selfless things, and in Dumbledore, who we spend nearly the whole series seeing as a Father Christmas type figure of goodness and wisdom but who is revealed to be flawed and fallible and even to have supported things Harry is fighting. But it's also true in more minor ways like with Hagrid and Ron, who are good guys, having these blind spots that we would consider moral errors.

Then there is Hermione. As I said above, Hermione believes strongly in equal rights. Part of this is her personality, but it's also because she knows what it's like to be looked down on in this society. It also says something about her character that she holds very firmly to this cause even when it seems like everyone else is against her. This is why she's in Gryffindor and not Ravenclaw, after all, and is a reflection of the book 1 statement we get about clumsy, awkward Neville being praiseworthy and brave for standing up to his friends. It is her perspective that is ultimately vindicated, but at the same time, she is also a teenager with bigger issues to deal with at the moment, and single-handedly overturning centuries of wizard tradition just by shaking a collection tin under her fellow students' noses would be unrealistic. Yes, Hermione comes off as annoying about it, and makes many missteps. This is because she is a well-rounded, human character, not because the author wants you to think her cause is bad. She wants to help, but she doesn't know how to do it in an effective way. Again, this is a side plot whose entire purpose is to contextualise Dobby, Winky, and Kreacher and to show Hermione's character. The failure of a 17yo to completely overhaul the social structure overnight is not grounds to claim that "the story says slavery is good ackshully, I am very clever" and would feel unrealistic and unsatisfying; not to mention the obvious objection to perceived 'white saviourism' if she had done so.

Hermione's missteps come in two forms: first, she's annoying. This is not the only time she's annoying. In fact, she's annoying and self-righteous about a LOT of things. That doesn't necessarily mean that she's incorrect, it's part of her character. If we were equating being insufferably self-righteous with being incorrect, literally every single issue ever championed by SJWs on this incredibly obnoxious site must be thrown out the window immediately, as would 90% of the hot takes in this fandom, ESPECIALLY including "house elves are proof JKR supports chattel slavery." Perhaps people have difficulty seeing this because like Hagrid they are overly-sensitive to anyone being treated as annoying because they themselves are deeply annoying. But Hermione is called annoying for many reasons, from her scolding about sneaking out to her constant nagging at them about exam revision. She is also called a know-it-all. These are all true. They also don't mean that she's incorrect when she says sneaking out is dangerous, doing your homework is important, and house elves should be treated better.

Her second misstep is that she takes actions she thinks are best for the elves without taking their views or feelings into account. They see being given clothes as an insult (this is a feature of the original folklore; given them clothes or payment means that you are treating them as common labourers and employees, rather than appreciating that they are helping you because they want to). She says the elves are brainwashed. This may be true. But she is also a well-meaning but ignorant outsider who is being very patronising in her insistence that the elves are simply too stupid to understand what's best for them, similar to Mr Weasley's apparently-genuine enthusiasm for muggles that often comes across as mildly insulting to those muggles on the receiving end, or more insidiously, to Grindelwald and Dumbledore's argument about ruling muggles for their own good. This is a very thorny subject, because we naturally want there to be a right and wrong answer with no pitfalls or grey areas or doubt, and the story does not give this to us. But is this not reflective of so many social issues? People who have their hearts in the right place can still go about it in ways that are unintentionally offensive, harmful, or counterproductive. I think this is a very important takeaway from Hermione's efforts on behalf of the elves, and it does not mean that she's fundamentally wrong about it. Not everyone on the right side of an issue is doing it in entirely the right way. This is a very nuanced concept, and perhaps it falls flat for many people because it is too nuanced for a side plot in a YA series that is asking us to spend more time looking at other themes, but the one thing it is NOT is a defence of chattel slavery, and if you could all get over your pre-formed conclusion that JKR supports whatever social issue you oppose and your Hermione-ish obsession with self-righteous outrage long enough to look at what's actually being said/shown, it would be clear just how ridiculous that is.

i've seen 'house elves are based on brownies and folk spirits so you can't read chattel slavery into it' as a defense of the house elf situation but like. CoS and GoF were published in the twentieth century and I am sorry but assuming that brownies and folk spirits are the salient comparison there is irresponsible because chattel slavery will inevitably loom larger. like she may not have intended for chattel slavery to be read into it but she should have thought it would be.

and like when our literal first introduction to house elves has Dobby calling himself a slave calling himself the dregs of the wizarding world...like. that is a slave. that is a comparison the text is making. it fails to do anything remotely responsible with the metaphor but it makes the metaphor and you cannot excuse the failure by saying well she was talking about something more obscure, because how do you read these books without slavery as we know it looming in your mind? it's about context! a modern reader comes to it with the context of chattel slavery!

[vigilantejustice]

ebbs and flows. a week ago responded to the group chat for the first time in two entire years + then responded to my friend who was definitely joking about me dropping her off some snacks by doing a sneaky surprise drop + am now feeling very flat + apathetic about everything :(

[heylittleriotact]

𝐢 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟏

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐱 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐀𝐔

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐮𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 ��𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭. 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬 𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 ✨𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐭✨

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The invention of telehealth apps was not given the praise it was due

Before the existence of such things, Emmrich would have had to schedule an appointment with his doctor, leave early (or try to book a banked day - nearly impossible), drive across the city, sit in a mint-walled waiting room full of sniffing people that all but guaranteed he’d be sick within a week, and then get ushered into a freezing cold, windowless examination room, false hope that the doctor would be by soon cruelly dashed when he inevitably waited for another forty-five minutes.

But now - and oh he was so clever for this - now, he only needed to punch in his credit card information to an app, submit a request for a consultation with a doctor from the comfort of his office between arrangements, while sipping tea and catching up on emails while he waited.

Granted, the ensuing instant message conversation that ensued with the physician that ended up with his consult request was as awkward as it would have been in person:

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Riley, I’ll be assisting you today. What is the nature of your medical concern?

E. Volkarin: Good afternoon, Dr. Riley. How are you today?

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: I’m very well, thank you. How can I help?

E. Volkarin: That’s wonderful. And your spouse is keeping well, I trust?

There was a long gap between messages after that, for some reason, and he almost wondered if the connection had been lost when finally a reply popped onto the screen.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: I’m divorced. What do you need?

Mortified that his polite attempt at cordial small talk had blown up in his face, Emmrich ignored the text that Rook had just sent him and forged onwards.

E. Volkarin: I'm terribly sorry to hear that. My apologies for my brutish assumption.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Sir, please tell me the reason for your appointment or I'm ending the consult.

E. Volkarin: Right. Apologies again.

E. Volkarin: I've recently found myself in a budding romantic relationship with a lovely partner. It's a fledgling romance, as we've only truly solidified our intentions within the past few days, but I feel that it has the potential to become quite serious - much to my surprise.

E. Volkarin: We work together, you see, and I've never been one to wade into the treacherous sea that is workplace relationships, but in this case, I can't help but feel that I might regret not throwing caution to the wind to explore the places she and I might go together if all goes well.

He had been part way through explaining how he and Rook met, and was listing out the bounty of character traits he was smitten with when Dr. Elizabeth Riley replied again.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: I have other patients I need to see today - I'm ending the chat. Please resubmit your request for a consultation through the portal when you're prepared to tell the assisting physician what medical assistance you require.

Emmrich backspaced the entire wall of text.

E. Volkarin: Wait!

E. Volkarin: How best to put this? Forgive me for the awkwardness of the situation.

E. Volkarin: It would be apt to say that she's rather in her salad days, and I am not.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Sir, you're going to have to be more clear - I have no idea what that means.

E. Volkarin: It’s a Shakespearean idiom - I thought you might be a patron of the arts. No matter: what I mean, is that she’s in very good health and clearly takes care of herself despite questionable nutritional habits. She's very energetic, and has a keen mind. Her stamina is most impressive.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Mr. Volkarin.

Realizing that Dr. Riley was on her final straw, Emmrich had uttered a pained groan and resumed typing.

E. Volkarin: There is somewhat of a difference in our ages - nothing suspicious or unseemly, mind you - and I am afraid that I might be unable to keep up with her needs in an intimate setting.

If a sinkhole had opened underneath the funeral home and swallowed him then, he wouldn't have complained.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley is typing...

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: You want a prescription for Viagra?

E. Volkarin: If it isn't too much trouble.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Do you take any nitrates or medication for hypertension?

E. Volkarin: No.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Do you have a heart condition, high blood pressure, liver or kidney disease, blood cell or bleeding disorder?

E. Volkarin: None.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Have you ever had a heart attack, stroke, or an ulcer?

E. Volkarin: No.

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: I'm faxing a prescription for Viagra to the pharmacy you've listed in your profile. It'll be ready by the end of the day. The pharmacist will provide usage instructions.

E. Volkarin: That's wonderful! Thank you very kindly for your efficient assistance!

Dr. Elizabeth Riley: Goodbye.

He had been initially off-put by the doctor's chilly demeanour, stewing over it throughout the remainder of the day between the suggestive text messages Rook kept sending him, but as Rook pulled into the parking space outside of the pharmacy near his house, he supposed he would be rather annoyed too if a stranger took it upon themselves to assume he was married.

She put the car into park and her hand went for the ignition, but halted when Emmrich said, "No, no, darling - you just wait here where it's warm: I won't be long."

He'd formulated this stop at the pharmacy during the drive to his home after their brief stop they made at her apartment for her to quickly pack a bag for the weekend.

'I realized I don't have a spare unopened toothbrush for you to use,' he said. 'We'll just make a quick stop and I'll pick one up for you.'

It was almost too perfect of an excuse - and it turned out that it actually was, because when he said that, Rook just shrugged and said, "It's no big deal - I don’t mind using yours.”

Suppressing the shudder wrought by the idea of putting another person's used toothbrush in his mouth - even if it was someone whose tongue had been there - he smiled indulgently at her and impressed that it was no trouble, and he had a few other small things he'd been meaning to stock up on anyway.

He returned to the toasty car minutes later, carrying a reusable shopping bag containing a variety of completely innocent and utterly non-suspicious items: the promised toothbrush, a bottle of the same shampoo he'd seen Rook use that morning (in case she wasn't fond of his or it made her hair greasy), a carton of orange juice (no pulp - texture issue), a box of Band-Aids, some Bactine, a sleeve of red licorice for Rook (he’d seen her snacking on it at her desk a few times), and of course the stealthily acquired prescription bottle of Viagra that he had secreted within the inside pocket of his coat.

He navigated as they drove to his townhouse, and she ventured down the wide streets lined by healthy, well-established trees, paying attention to the road, but also to the perfectly landscaped lawns and beautiful estate homes built on massive lots and illuminated with aesthetically pleasing decorative lighting in the form of replica iron lampposts and deliberately angled pot-lights. She didn’t say anything as she took in a well-dressed couple strolling down the sidewalk with a gangly purebred-something - surely worth thousands - dressed just as smartly as its owners in a little yellow sweater and booties, but her eyebrows certainly raised a little.

He may have found himself in a place in life where he could afford to live in a neighbourhood like Darrowley, but he never felt like one of its residents. Didn’t quite fit in with the upper crust and snobbish folk that saw fit to raise a fuss during each quarterly Home Owner’s Association meeting about some perceived slight or another: so-and-so’s car in their driveway is an eyesore and detracts from the ‘visual harmony’ of the street so it should be mandatorily parked in the garage. ‘Those people’ down the lane planted a spruce tree, and everyone knows those aren’t allowed because the acidic needles kill the grass and make the surrounding lawns look like shit… and so on.

Having been raised in poverty, it was true that he enjoyed the finer things in life now that they were available to him, but he liked to think he was still humble… different from ‘old money’, purely because he made a deliberate of remembering what it was like to have nothing rather than pretending that success and wealth were what he was owed - he just hoped that Rook saw that too. Hoped that she didn’t think look at him and see one of them.

“I’m excited to meet Manfred,” Rook said, taking the next left per Emmrich’s instructions. “I always wanted a cat but my dad was allergic - or said he was, at least.”

“He’s a wonderful companion,” Emmrich bragged, unable to help himself. “Though he can be rather… unconventional in his approach towards new people in his home— take your next left and follow the bend at the end of the street.”

Rook’s frowned and she adjusted her grip on the steering wheel. “Uh… what do you mean by ‘unconventional’?”

“He’s not anti-social or aggressive - just… very curious. I apologize in advance for his lack of boundaries. It’s something we’ve been working on, but frankly I don’t entertain often, so he isn’t exposed to people as frequently as perhaps he should be in order to refine his social skills. End of the street on the right, darling - the one with the porch light on: the unit on the end.”

As they drew close to the driveway, Emmrich reached up and hit the button on the remote garage door opener he kept clipped to the sun visor.

“I’ve never parked in a garage before,” Rook said, leaning over the wheel and nibbling on her lower lip.

Luckily Emmrich’s was well-organized, tidy, and free of any clutter or things lining the walls that might present as obstacles.

“You’ll be fine,” he encouraged. “Just use enough gas to get over the curb, and then keep your foot off of it and over the brake as you pull into the garage. You won’t hit anything - you have an abundance of space.”

“I keep imagining myself accidentally flooring it and driving through your wall,” she laughed nervously, but she followed his instructions, mounting the curb smoothly and slowly inching into the garage until she was satisfied that she was far enough inside that the rear bumper wouldn’t get swiped off by the door closing on it. She cut the ignition and dropped her hands to her sides, resting her head against the seat and letting it fall to the side so she was looking at Emmrich, her grey eyes taking on an enchanting slate colour in the garage light. “Well, you’re officially stuck with me for the weekend.”

“So I am,” Emmrich shed his seat belt and reached up to press the button on the garage door remote again, leaning forward and planting a long, sweet kiss on Rook, lowering his hand to curl his fingers into her soft dark hair as the door lowered behind them.

She sighed into his mouth and he felt tension dissipating from her body as she relaxed into his touch like she was finally at peace for the first time that day… he supposed he was too, when he thought about it: sitting in his car in the garage, having just arrived home for the weekend, all night and all day ahead of them to just… be.

It was a familiar sense of domestic comfort that Emmrich was no stranger to, having had his fair share of relationships before. But the fact that this wasn’t new to him did little to change the fact that he adored this feeling: the very idea of having another person to share his space and his thoughts with felt… it rather felt like home, didn’t it?

He gripped her hand in his and squeezed before opening the door. “I’ll carry your bag.” He popped the trunk where the shopping bag and her duffel were. “Let’s introduce you to Manfred, shall we?”

As soon as Emmrich opened the door inwards, Rook was greeted by the pulsating trill of an alarm system. It was dark and the light from the garage spilled inside, reflecting eerily off of a pair of wide, saucer-like eyes that were rapidly moving towards them with the pitter-patter of soft feet and a veritable chorus of chirps and chatters until an incredibly lean and leggy beast emerged from the black, brilliantly white with perfectly round green eyes that immediately locked onto Rook and did not leave.

Rook stepped out of the doorway to give Emmrich access to the keypad on the wall, and he disarmed the alarm while Manfred approached her without hesitance, looking directly up at her, intensely cyan eyes perceiving her with a level of comprehension and scrutiny that was not what one would expect from even the most discerning of felines.

“Mraow.”

A short, clipped utterance delivered with the same cadence one might use if they were to ask, “Who are you and why are you in my house?”

Manfred continued, looking over his shoulder at Emmrich, circling in place, then looking back up at Rook, chittering all the while as if to say, “And where has he been? I’ve been left to my own devices since last night, did you know that? Was that your doing?”

“Hello, Manfred,” Rook said, her tone gentle and friendly. She bent at the hip and held her knuckles out to the cat as Emmrich flipped on the hallway light and watched on.

The sleek creature did not move closer, but instead stretched out his neck towards the hand offered to him, lips curling slightly, ears flattening against his head, lending him an decidedly skeletal appearance: a construct of bleached bone brought to life. He sniffed at Rook’s fingers eagerly - thoroughly - like he was gleaning her entire life story from the exposed digits.

“I knew he was lamp-eyed from the pictures you’ve sent me of him, but I didn’t think his eyes were always like that,” she chuckled, watching the studious twitch of Manfred’s pink nose and the slightest narrowing of those eyes as his assessment continued.

“He’s an unconventional looking cat, but I find him to be quite distinguished,” Emmrich beamed, closing the door and locking it. “He’s not to everyone’s taste, but he suits me just fine, and I him.”

“He is very handsome,” Rook agreed, flipping her hand so her palm was facing upwards. She could feel little huffs of air as Manfred sniffed at the pads of her fingers. “You said that he more or less adopted you?” Rook flinched when Manfred, apparently satisfied with everything he could learn from her right hand, lit from the floor and neatly landed on the small gray console table next to her by the door only to immediately started pushing his nose into the sleeve of her leather jacket. He inhaled deeply, lip curling back even more, teeth slightly bared - they were very sharp.

Emmrich stroked the curve of Manfred’s back and the cat’s head jerked back as if to say, ‘Do you mind? I’m busy,’before resuming his incredibly in-depth exploration of Rook’s sleeve.

“Quite right. He started haunting my front porch when he was just a kitten. I thought he might belong to someone else in the neighbourhood who saw fit to let him outside, so I would leave out a bowl of food for him from time to time, thinking he was being properly cared for somewhere else, but when he kept coming back I began to have my doubts about that. One day he ignored the food completely when I opened the door to his customary summons and instead, he sprinted inside the house. It was then that I realized that this place had become synonymous with home to dear Manfred, and that he didn’t actually have one.” The warmth in Emmrich’s eyes as he recounted Manfred’s history was unmistakeable. “He’s a curious spirit - I believe he belonged to somebody at one time, and they found themselves unable to cope with his unendingly inquisitive nature. A shame, but their loss turned out to be my gain in the end.”

Right as he said that, Manfred’s jaws clamped down on Rook’s forearm, the leather of her audibly popping as his impressive fangs punctured it.

“Ah!”

The bite wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but Rook knew that panicking would probably change that, so she forced herself to stay still.

“Manfred!” Emmrich chided, gently working the cat’s mouth off of Rook’s sleeve and batting away a probing paw with an ease that betrayed the fact that this wasn’t the first time he’d had to extract Manfred from something - or someone. “We’ve been over this before: biting is not how we make friends!”

Rather than fleeing at the rebuke of his unanticipated exploration, Manfred only licked his lips and sat back on his haunches, shifting his weight from foot to foot and hissing softly, head tilting Rook-wards once more.

“Oooh…” Rook winced, “I don’t think he likes me…”

“He likes you perfectly well,” Emmrich asserted, regarding Manfred with the benign but unamused expression a parent would regard a naughty child with. “Don’t let his hissing fool you - he simply enjoys relying on that particular vocalization amongst those in his repertoire… I suspect he likes the way it sounds.” He shot Manfred another chastising glance and took Rook’s hand, lifting her arm to examine the place where Manfred had bit her, warding off another casual attempt to snag her sleeve - with claws this time. “Are you all right?”

“Oh yeah, I’m fine - didn’t even break skin. Lucky for me it’s a thick jacket.”

Emmrich’s thumb ran over the fresh puncture holes in the worn black leather, lips pressing together in a thin line as he hummed. “Be that as it may, I’m tremendously sorry for the damage he’s done to your jacket.”

“Damage?” Rook laughed, pulling her arm from his hand and turning on in place (sidestepping another swipe from Manfred, who seemed disinclined to leave his post on the table.) “Have you taken a good look at this thing? It’s been stomped on, dragged around, burnt by clumsy cigarettes…” she indicated a piece of leather about half an inch wide near the zipper that had torn when she clambered over a chain link fence instead of going the long way around yearsearlier. “… snagged on fences, practically marinated in beer and sweat. Trust me: it was ‘damaged’ well before Manfred sunk his fangs into it.”

“Be that as it may,” Emmrich repeated, still looking at her like he’d offered great insult to her mom or something. “I’ll gladly have it repaired.”

Rook made a dismissive sound and let the jacket fall down her shoulders and into her hands so she could hang it on one of the hooks on the wall, feeling Manfred’s eyes on her the entire time. “With all the things this jacket has seen, you’d be better off just buying me a new one.”

“I will… if you want me to.”

Rook paused, her back still to Emmrich. When she turned away from the coat hooks to face him, he was absently scratching Manfred behind the ears, his other hand in the pocket of his suit pants, an oddly serious expression on his narrow face.

“You’d buy me a brand new leather jacket because your cat gently savaged mine?” She lifted an eyebrow. “You know I got it practically brand new for only fifty bucks at a set sale for a movie that was filmed in town?”

“If you want me to,” Emmrich repeated, his voice low, his rich bottle green eyes nearly as intense as Manfred’s.

Okay, so maybe there were semi-dubious perks that came with dating a person with the disposable income that Emmrich clearly had.

Something stirred within Rook. Something buried deep within the chaotic rubble of an adulthood which, up until this point, had been spent babysitting grown ass men: putting someone else’s aspirations and joy ahead of her own wants… her own fucking needs, because that was just how she was, wasn’t it? Forever watering herself down. Diminishing herself in the name of someone else’s self-worth; underachieving and overreaching like such things would earn her some sort of fucking award or prize in the end. Yet here she was at 25: financially and emotionally bled dry, in thousands of dollars of debt, boasting a double-digit credit score while collection agencies called her daily and sent her nasty letters threatening legal action.

Maybe it would be nice for a change to let someone take care of her. This wasn’t transactional: he wasn’t offering to buy her an expensive jacket in exchange for a sloppy, emotionally vacant blowjob. There was more to it.

But if she took him up on it, would that change? Would the dynamic insidiously shift until she found herself in a place where her autonomy was slowly whittled away by jackets and gifts and financial stability, until one day she woke up and realized she was totally, completely, and entirely reliant on a man? — something she swore she’d never be.

The correct and right thing to do in this scenario, would be to decline: giggle coyly and say ‘no thank you’ with a simpering and humble pout tacked on for good measure — the palatable, dignified response of a woman who would never dare take advantage of a man’s success - whether out of pride or manners… did it matter? A self-respecting woman simply wouldn’t, but she could certainly betray that self respect to act like a coquettish child just to save face.

Ha. That was fucking stupid.

“Yeah alright then: buy me a new jacket.” She crossed her arms and sat into her hip, taking in the sight of the handsome man petting his tiny furry murder-machine like it was no big deal. He was so… normal looking, wearing his funeral blacks, standing in the entryway of his enormous, fancy house that didn’t smell at all like mold or stale cigarette smoke. “That’s really sweet of you — thank you.”

He rubbed his thumb up the bridge of Manfred’s nose and the cat tilted his head upwards, big wet purrs issuing from him, and as Emmrich stood there, showering affection upon his slightly insane looking pet, he looked… pleased?

“It’s no trouble at all, darling. You’re welcome.”

Manfred eventually stopped circling Rook ominously after dinner, though he did insist on following her wherever she went, unwilling to let her out of his sight for even a moment.

"So: talking to the dead."

She broached the topic post-dessert ('nothing special' Emmrich claimed, 'just leftover banana bread I baked earlier this week), while they smoked on the patio of the small but private yard behind his unit.

"I prefer to call it 'corpse whispering'," he said, smoked trailing from the premium cigarette between his fingers. He'd seen fit to bequeath one unto Rook one too, rather than watching her choke down one of her dirt-cheap, half-sawdust 'cigarettes'.

"That's so dramatic," Rook snickered.

"Perhaps," Emmrich admitted, resting his elbow atop the arm that was crossed over his abdomen, looking dignified and elegant while he smoked in a way that Rook very much doubted she could duplicate. “It’s hardly as if it’s common knowledge anyway — I can call it what I want, so long as it’s within the boundaries of propriety, at least.” He took a drag, smoke drifting lazily above his head. “What did you want to know, darling?”

“Tell me about the first ghost you saw and spoke to? I can’t help but think that must have been terrifying for a little kid: was it?”

“Actually, no. The first echo I ever saw was that of a young boy who lived in the same orphanage as me. We were close in age, and formed a strong bond with one another as many of the children in the orphanage tended to do. Casper, was his name. He was bold and precocious where I was withdrawn and timid, and he seemed to take it upon himself to bring me out of my shell when I first arrived after the loss of my parents.” He extended his fingers, idly surveying his many gold rings on one hand. "He took ill one day and did not recover: the last time I saw him, he was being taken away to the hospital. He never returned to the orphanage. Not alive, at least."

Emmrich's words weighed heavily on Rook, and she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket - who would be texting her right now? She hadn't made any other plans this weekend. She ignored the urge to dip into her pocket and assuage her curiosity - this wasn't the sort of story one listened to while scrolling through their phone.

"He appeared at the end of my bed one morning, mere days after we were all told of his passing. All of the other children moved around him ignorant to his existence, but as he stood there and looked at me, and I looked at him, I knew that he knew I could see him." A sentimental smile pulled at Emmrich's lips as he lifted his cigarette again. "So he did what any lonely frightened child would do and asked if I wanted to play with him. And I answered like any lonely frightened child who had already lost his parents and was now dealing with the loss of his only friend as well: I said 'of course'."

Rook’s heart pulled at the mental image of a small boy utterly alone in the world, burdened with a cosmically unfair amount of grief when such things should have been mysteries to him for years at least.

“Imaginary friends are not at all uncommon for children to have. No one thought much of it - thought that I was merely an infant coping with yet another tragic death the only way I could at such a tender age. The other children already avoided me to begin with, so no harm was done to my reputation amongst them. And happily for me: Casper wasn’t imaginary: he was very real.” Emmrich exhaled, looking pensive as he stared into the dark, snow shrouded yard. “I believe the lingering imprint of his soul returned to the orphanage because he couldn’t bear to be alone - nor could he bear the thought of leaving me alone.”

Rook had not been expecting such a sad story - stupid, really: How could the origins of a child gifted with the ability to see the dead not be crushingly sad in some way?

She puffed on her smoke, and leaned back against the wall. “What became of him?” She already knew the answer to the question, but it felt right to ask.

Her phone vibrated again.

“As I mentioned to you last night, the imprints of those who linger are impermanent. Casper was my first conscious experience with the dead, and my first introduction to the fact that they too are as fleeting as the living.”

“Maker… I’m so sorry, Emmrich. That must have been awful.”

“Oh, no need to fret on my behalf,” he said, tone brightening as if she’d just apologized for spilling his tea. “Casper and I enjoyed each other’s company for the better part of a month after his passing, and there isn’t a single day that passes where I don’t look back on that time fondly. One day he was simply gone. I don’t think that any harm or suffering came to him - only what remained of his residual spiritual energy weakened and finally dissipated.”

“Yeah but for a kid to have to reconcile with that?” Rook hauled on her smoke and shuffled closer to Emmrich, partly to keep warm, mostly because she wanted to be close to him. “You can come to terms with something like that when you’re older and with like… therapy. But… but not when you’re fucking six.”

“An arguably unfair hand, but the one that I was dealt regardless,” Emmrich opined, snaking his arm around Rook and enshrouding her with his warmth. He looked down at her, illuminated by the dim porch light and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Besides, I think I turned out all right, all things considered…”

“Yeah, I guess,” Rook grinned, returning his embrace, basking in the sophisticated, gentlemanly scent of him that mingled with the stigma-drenched aroma of the thousands of chemicals immolating into the air around them. “It must have lonely for you, carrying that around for so much of your life.”

“Each of us bears our own burdens and tribulations, and my rare gift happened to be mine. I resolved early on to make the best of it and ultimately it lead me down the path of becoming a mortician, which has in turn allowed me to help hundreds of families over the years.” He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on a small bistro table by the door. “Aside from that, who better to help people cope with the seemingly relentless and disorientating agony of grief than one who has been exposed to its passionless magnitude before?”

Wow. This got dark.

“Yeah,” Rook agreed, knowing all too well about that passionless magnitude herself. “Makes sense to me.”

She let Emmrich go and reached into her pocket for her phone, ready to navigate away from the topic of death before she started oversharing again. Her face dropped when she looked at her screen.

“Maker’s balls,” she sighed, burning the smoke in her fingers down to the filter with one final haul.

‘Are u home? Can I come by? I wanna see u.’

‘I guess you’re not home. Ur lights are all off. When will u be back?”

‘cmon lovely miss noir dont leave a fella hangin. I’m just at the bar down the street come get a drink with me.’

“Fuck…” she breathed, reaching past Emmrich to dispose of her butt.

“What is it, darling?”

Concerned. Genuinely concerned - that’s what Emmrich was, and now she was going to have to let him in on this whole… mess - because that’s what it was.

“It’s nothing,” she said lightly. “Just… uh…” How fucking embarrassing... “Just that… that piece of shit ex-boyfriend I told you about yesterday. I broke up with him like five months ago and - he’s… he’s had some drinks, and sometimes he does this.”

“Does what?” Emmrich frowned, clearly not taking the hint despite her forced smile and the fact that she’d shoved her phone back into her pocket.

She opened the door and breezed past Emmrich into the warmth of the house where she shrugged out of her jacket and kicked off her unlaced boots, careful to keep them on the mat so they wouldn’t ruin the hardwood. “Oh, uh…you know - he’ll text me or call me or whatever and act like a dumbass.” She left out the fact that he implied he’d been outside her apartment that evening.

She fished the phone out of her pocket again and pursed her lips as she re-read the messages, all from a random number not in her contacts. “I can handle it though, no need to like… knight in shining armour or anything. I don’t even give him the satisfaction of replying - I just straight up block the number and move on.”

Emmrich, who had followed her inside and taken her jacket, hanging it on the back of one of the chairs in the breakfast nook, looked unconvinced.

“Does this happen often?”

“No, now can we please not talk about it anymore?” Something in her expression must have registered for Emmrich, because he nodded once, let it go, and went over to the handsome milled walnut bar built into the wall near the living room.

Rook observed him as he busied himself with pouring a drink for each of them, silver hair catching in the warm incandescent light of the bar.

Her eyes followed the slope of his shoulders as he pulled glasses from shelves and uncorked a bottle.

Nothing about Emmrich could be described as ‘broad’ or ‘wide’. He was proportioned attractively enough, sure, but his physical charm was seemingly rooted in the fact that a creature as intimidatingly tall as he was had no business being so lithe and graceful: his narrow, waifish frame was a rebellion against nature… and it was very, very enticing.

Oddities and trinkets adorned the nooks and crannies of the bar in front of him: an armillary sphere, a Galileo thermometer; a shadowbox containing the iridescent carapaces of half a dozen preserved scarab beetles.

She wasn’t entirely sure why, but her throat tightened and she had to bite her lower lip to keep it from trembling as she watched the lanky man pour a measure of expensive looking brandy into a pair of snifters that were finer than anything she’d ever drank from.

How’d she go from Tommy to this? Did she even deserve to be fed thoughtfully made dinners and poured pricey drinks?

He corked the bottle and turned to Rook holding the crystal snifters. The look on his lined face wasn’t one of condescension or unwanted pity, but rather a polite expression of understanding.

“A digestif. I hope it’s to your liking,” he murmured, returning to the kitchen. “Not that… not that I’m trying to get you potted so I can take advantage of that fact, of course, I—”

“Thanks, Emmrich,” Rook interjected before he could properly carry on with his assurances that he wasn’t a debased rapist. She swept the delicate patterned crystal out of his hand and swirled the deep golden liquid within like she’d seen mobsters do in the movies. “Cheers, handsome - to a good weekend.”

Emmrich hesitated at first, his fingers curled prettily around the swell of the snifter. For a horrifying moment, Rook thought he was going to insist on talking about the situation with Tommy, but he seemed to think better of it when he raised his glass and softly met his rim to hers.

“To a wonderful weekend, darling.”

And that was exactly what it was going to be, she decided, her nose dipping into the snifter as she brought it to her mouth, the warm, ethereal aroma of the brandy doing an elegant foxtrot over her olfactory receptors. It tasted rich and luxurious and suited Emmrich: his cashmere sweaters and tailored pants and his fingers covered in gold. It imparted warmth and comfort like he did. Stable. Gentle. Safe.

Rounding the corner of the island, aware of Manfred leaping up onto a bar stool to keep an eye on her, she stood in front of Emmrich, looping her index finger through the belt loop of the casual chinos he’d changed into. His hand came to rest on her waist, his thumb slowly tracing the flare of her hip.

“Maybe I don’t have the greatest track record with the guys I date… but maybe that’s about to change…” she mused, taking in his distinguished face: sharp angles and planes that contradicted the softness of his heart, and betrayed by the deep smile lines around his mouth - chiseled into flesh by decades of kindness and compassion served up in the form of a simple empathetic curve of the lips. The crow’s feet around his eyes also gave away the goodness of him, for Rook knew that a person whose smile did not meet their eyes could not be trusted.

She could see herself reflected in the his gaze: wide-eyed, young - immature and inexperienced and unsure, even as she rose slightly on her toes and pressed her lips to his.

“My ghosts tend to hang around a bit longer than yours,” she set down her brandy and slipped her hands under his shirt, fingers trailing along the dip of his spine, tapping out some brand of bastardized morse code over the peak of each vertebrae. “And they rattle their chains a bit louder too, I bet…” She closed the distance between them, bracketing his thigh with hers, one hand still languidly roaming the expanse of his back while the other drifted over the distinct crests and valleys of the spaces between his ribs. “Do you still want me?”

“Of course I do,” he breathed, almost looking hurt that she’d even thought to ask, setting down his own brandy and removing his glasses before running his hands over her waist and up the small of her back.

Rook leaned into him slightly, capturing him in another kiss, the friction of his leg between hers sending a shiver up her spine. “Something about being in a kitchen with you really does it for me, apparently,” she observed, fingernails digging into his skin, and she rolled her hips just enough to relieve the ache at the juncture of her thighs, moaning softly against Emmrich’s lips.

“Does it?” He inquired curiously, tucking her hair behind her ear while tilting her chin up gently, and Rook couldn’t help but think he’d moved his leg forward ever so slightly. His tongue swept over the seam of her lips and she parted for him: she’d allow him unimpeded access to any part of her he wanted if he only asked - she burned for him in a way that made her feel fucking stupid.

“Mhmm…” she hummed, pressing herself against him with mounting desperation, clit throbbing; making no effort to disguise the way she was moving against his leg - well aware of the tightening at the front of his pants.

She kissed a line down Emmrich’s jaw, then his spent some time on his neck, causing his breath to hitch before he whispered, “I had no idea you were so passionate about the culinary arts…”

“Me neither,” she mumbled, nipping at the soft slightly scratchy skin of his neck - his five o’clock shadow was darker still than it had been this morning and she knew he was literally itching to shave, but wouldn’t dare allow himself to abandon her for something so self-indulgent.

She dragged her hand over his cock, and he groaned at her touch, pushing away from the island and swapping their places so she was leaning against it instead. His hands found her ribcage and he shifted her up onto the countertop, slotting himself between her legs to resume kissing her feverishly.

Maker, he was so good at kissing: every time his lips crashed into hers, tongue stroking past her lips, hot, heavy breath feathering across her skin, her stomach jolted and sparks of pleasure suffused through her entire being.

Pushing up her shirt, he unbuttoned her jeans and dipped his hand inside, bypassing her underwear and uttering a quiet, pleased sound when his fingers encountered her slick heat.

Rook gasped and flung her arm to the side to brace herself on the cool surface of the counter when the tips of Emmrich’s fingers pressed against her clit, and she felt her wrist brush one of the crystal snifters hard enough to send it toppling to the floor where it landed with all of the predictable finality of shattering glass.

“Shit!” She breathed, going rigid, Emmrich’s hand still down the front of her pants. “I’m so sorry… I’d better… I’ll… Manfred.”

‘I’ll clean it up: wouldn’t want Manfred to hurt himself,’ was what she was trying to say.

“Leave it,” Emmrich said, moving up her neck. “He doesn’t care for brandy - he’ll give it a wide berth…” his teeth scraped over the skin under her ear. He slipped a finger inside of her and the willowy muscles and tendons of his forearm tensed. “I’m sure you can only imagine the misadventure that led us to that particular discovery…” He leaned part of his weight into the inside of her left leg, opening her wider, keen to move on from the brandy incident. “Ohhh… you’re so warm, darling. So tight…”

Rook could only whimper in response as a second finger joined the first, stretching and filling her so wonderfully until she could feel the metal of his rings against her skin. She threw her other arm over Emmrich’s shoulders, the scent of the spilled brandy rising into the air to mix with her fragrant arousal.

She bucked against his hand, chasing every bit of friction she could earn and whining into his shoulder when each time she tried to grind against the hand that was responsible for her bliss, he’d pull away slightly, depriving her of what she sought - taunting her - before returning and imparting even more intense sensation.

“Emmrich…” she entreated, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“You teased me all day,” he said, the smarminess of his tone not diminished by the intimate sussuration of his words, imparted so tenderly into her ear. “It’s only fair I return the favour…”

Ohhhh you bastard…

She had. She had teased him relentlessly: had sent him a picture of her skirt hiked up, a dark stain soaking through the front of her thong during her break… along with more than a few colourful suggestions of what they should do later.

He’d staunchly refused to rise to her bait for the entire day, and apparently this was why: he had collected each lurid, flirtatious message and stored them in his pocket for later - leverage to turn to his advantage, because now she was sitting on his natural quartz countertop with her legs spread open as he tormented her with his fingers, dragging her right to to the edge and then backing off with almost infuriating efficiency.

She moaned his name again, back arching, toes curling against the cupboard doors as he stroked her g-spot. She clenched around him, a sharp gasp spilling from her lips, and once again his ministrations cruelly receded.

Emmrich’s voice rumbled approvingly in the depths of his chest and he shivered against her, thumb dragging so, so fucking slowly over her clit, sending her arcing up further into his arms. “You’ve no idea how much I enjoy your pleasure…” he breathed, “Every twitch and tremble - every little sound you make…”

Rook made a sound that might have been an attempt at his name.

“Teasing or not, you’re so perfect… especially when you’re like this. Such a good girl…”

A ragged gasp ripped from her at those words - so sinfully delivered in a tone unlike anything she’d ever heard from her kind, cordial mortician.

No one had ever said that before: never called her a good girl - and she’d never aspired to be labelled as such, operating up until under the belief that people who were into such things had deeply seated issues that only therapy could resolve.

“Holy fuck…” she panted, floored by the effect those words had on her: partly confused, partly ashamed… entirely aroused.

She was a good girl. She was a good person. She worked her ass off and paid her bills. She said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, and didn’t toss her cigarette butts on the ground. She was polite to waitstaff and held doors open for old ladies. She laid her own happiness and aspirations down before other people like a coat over a mud puddle so they wouldn’t get their fucking feet dirty, just to have the satisfaction of knowing that she was - at the very end of the day - good.

It was about fucking time someone else recognized that she was, in fact, a Good Girl.

Emmrich appeared to share the unspoken sentiment, looking rather pleased with himself as he extracted his hand from her pants and started pulling them down her legs, mindfully sliding the other brandy snifter out of harm’s way as she raised her hips from the counter briefly to assist.

The stone was cold under her bare ass, and the goosebumps that rippled over her skin were born of a combination of the jarring temperature and Emmrich’s tongue ghosting over her swollen clit as he knelt between her thighs, staring up at her with an unmistakably lewd glint in his lust-blown eyes.

“You smell divine,” he declared, sinking soft, sweet kisses into the delicate flesh of her inner thigh. “You taste divine. I can’t get enough of you, my darling Rook…”

He shrugged his shoulders under the backs of her legs and parted her with his fingers, his nose rubbing against her clit as he pressed his flattened tongue against her, licking up the not insignificant amount of moisture pooled in and around her entrance, sounding as charmed as ever to make the acquaintance of her pussy.

“Fuck!” She whispered shrilly, carding her fingers through his hair while he took his time, eyelids sliding shut as his mouth shifted here and there, seeking out every single aspect of her labia; lips periodically closing over her clit to suck gently before drifting elsewhere.

It wasn’t that all of the sex she’d ever had before was bad. It was just that it wasn’t this.

He was actively ruining her for anyone else ever again with each perfectly placed flick and stroke of his tongue.

He had described himself as ‘familiar with the finer points of anatomy’ during dinner the night before.

His tongue laved over her, then into her.

Is he fucking ever, she thought, hips stuttering against his mouth as he feasted on her like she was actually the third course of the night and the banana bread was the most clever red herring that ever was.

She felt the tug of his lips sealing around her clit again, and he bobbed his head against the engorged organ, the very tip of his tongue pressed against the underside of it, maintaining a consistent, solid rhythm as Rook’s fingernails scrabbled over the smooth surface beneath her. Her breathing was pitched and ragged as she writhed in his grip, cursing, crying his name, and moaning loud enough for her voice to echo through the main floor.

“Cum for me, Rook…” he beseeched hoarsely, parting from her for only enough to make his desire known, gazing up at her, lips and chin shiny with her slick. “Cum in my mouth like a good girl.”

“Oh… fuck!”

Release splintered through her, brought about by the sheer eroticism of the command and the ruthlessness with which his hot wet mouth plundered her. Her voice strained and then broke, her hips jerking sloppily as her fingers tightened in his hair and she felt sudden warmth as she gushed forth, rivulets of sweet liquid trailing down towards her ass and dripping from Emmrich’s chin, plummeting to the ground in small drops like a welcome summer rain.

“Maker! Emmrich!”

He fumbled for her hand, brow furrowing as he moaned into her, gathering her palm to his and locking his fingers between hers, squeezing assuringly - talking her through it wordlessly while his mouth was still occupied. He held on tight while she rode out her orgasm, encouraging squeezes eventually replaced with the comforting stroke of his thumb until her muscles relaxed and she melted into the counter, her head coming to rest on the hard cold stone, legs dangling over the edge, spread out like this year’s uncooked Wintersend turkey.

“Holy fuck…” she whispered again, blinking up at the ceiling as her limbs continued to tingle.

“Such language, dear,” Emmrich purred from between her legs, gracing her thighs with more grateful kisses, palming her smooth belly.

“That’s your fucking doing…” she breathed, accepting his assistance when she started to sit up and he guided her upwards, his hand still holding hers. She kicked her feet lazily through the air on either side of Emmrich and pulled him into a somewhat dopey kiss, tasting the remnants of herself on his lips and tongue; smelling herself on his moustache and his skin.

“I think I’ll tease you more often,” she decided, kissing the well-defined curve of his chin and caressing the side of his face. “Time for bed?”

They were both aware that sleep was not on the menu. Not for a while yet, anyway.

“If you insist,” his face split in a wide grin that touched his eyes differently than she’d seen before. “Up the stairs, the door at the far end of the hall - I’m going to clean up this glass first and feed Manfred.”

He helped her down off the counter, careful to guide her away from the pool of brandy that was still slowly spreading past the shattered snifter, and then picked up her jeans from the floor and neatly folded them in half before handing them to her.

She padded towards the stairs, looking over her shoulder at him, her face flushed and glowing.

“Only a minute, darling," he smiled after her.

She was a good girl.

[serpentface]

The pylidaigh, a type of vampiric snow ghost, as imagined in folklore in and around the Highlands.

This is a ghost believed to come into being when a person dies in the snow and their body is not found before their soul (still trapped without its funeral rites) 'freezes' inside of it. The body then reanimates into a pylidaigh's twisted form. It looks like someone who slowly died of starvation, just a thin layer of flesh over bones. Its skin is as white as the snow itself, so pale it can blend seamlessly into a blizzard. Most of its body appears subtly stretched and lanky, save for its exceptionally unsubtle long, skinny arms, which drag on the ground behind it when it walks. After a big meal of blood, its belly swells like the abdomen of a tick.

A pylidaigh can only tread across snow and ice, and so doorways and windows are best kept clear of snowfall during the winter in order to prevent it from reaching inside. It mostly comes out to hunt during blizzards when there is little that can prevent it from catching its victims.

In spite of its fragile appearance, a pylidaigh is supernaturally strong, and can run at great speeds when it wants to. No mortal weapons can pierce its body, nor can any bonds known to craftsmen hold it in place. It is usually said that chains forged like iron but made out of ice can bind a pylidaigh and render it immobile, but this smithing technique remains tragically elusive to the average joe.

This ghost is either cast as a wildly dangerous but tragic figure, or one that is more simply malicious. In either case, it is described as experiencing nothing but bitter cold. It shivers endlessly. It retains distant memories of what it was to be alive, and it is motivated by a futile desperation to experience the feeling of warmth again.

In more sympathetic framings, it is described as using its freaky gibbon arms to capture its victims and pull them into an embrace, rather innocently trying to warm itself against their body. This inevitably fails, and the embrace becomes a bone crushing squeeze. When that too fails to warm the ghost, it rips out the person's throat and drinks their blood until the victim is as cold and drained as the pylidaigh itself.

In other cases, this more pitiable narrative of a ghost seeking warmth with no comprehension of its actions is discarded in favor of making it purely monstrous. Here it is a type of vampire with an insatiable thirst, practically a physical manifestation of the worst of winter itself. Some tales acknowledge both variants, suggesting a pylidaigh's violent attempts to warm itself may be initially devoid of malice, but turns into an act of furious jealousy of the warmth of the living after years of suffering.

The only (more or less) surefire method to permanently kill a roaming pylidaigh involves trapping it with fire. They are attracted to any source of heat, and will attempt to warm themselves with the flames (if not tempted away by a juicy living human body). The fire itself cannot kill them (as the sheer cold of their body is more powerful even than flame) but they can be trapped if kept near the fire long enough for the snow it depends upon to melt. This does not kill the pylidaigh either. The monster will remain in stuck in place (and potentially become a threat again if it snows more) for the duration of the winter. Only when the spring comes and all the snow melts does it revert into a normal human carcass (though mysteriously invulnerable to decay), at which point it can be cremated.

Pylidaigh in the wilds also revert to a human corpse during the snowless seasons, but will roam again each following winter unless it is burnt in the interim. It is of critical importance that any human corpse found in high mountain pasture is cremated- not only out of respect for the poor soul trapped as an earthbound ghost, but to prevent the threat of the possible dormant pylidaigh emerging next winter.

[the-stove-is-divorced]

It feels like such an insulting flop istg. This cannot be your big hype moment. Like for the sake of my sanity, it cannot. About to pretend this didn’t even happen. What episode 7? 

No, seriously, if three whole fucking seasons, if years of set-up does not matter then none of it does! You wasted my time for YEARS. Plus, I desperately wish we had fun, inventive fight scenes! Thrilling ones! Especially for teams like TT that’s worked together for years! What special combos and moves do they do together! Rex and Eve were dating and you’re telling me they never pondered a combo move? Like, please get more staffing and funding so these can look fun!

Levy’s stupid robots ARE boring, why are we being less inventive with a mf who makes portals. I get their purpose, but it feels like a weird downgrade despite being an upgrade. Show me how he’s improved with these abilities, or mixing inventions WITH portals! A portal gun? Multiple portals at once? Portals opening without him gesturing? Mark dodging them successfully now is neat, yes, but maybe show me how if he closes it while you’re halfway in, you’ll be split in half from the get go!!! Raise the fucking stakes. Or even Levy AND Mark’s fighting against Mark! Try to throw a punch only to slam into another you aiming for the throat!

Heck, have Levy fight some of the disobeying Mark’s THEN versus our Mark (I think it’s intriguing if some linger with their own interests/goals)! But gimme that contrast! Our Mark, fueled by a personal vendetta, is faster and stronger. Like, the alt!Mark’s get in each other’s way, snapping and fighting each other, while Mark is focused in, and openly vicious by this point. They’re, like, mutually, going to kill each other. 

Literally, the other!Mark’s should think he’s one of them. There is literally no reason why they shouldn’t when they all look different. I know Levy probably has footage/pics of our Mark, but it’s more interesting if they think he’s one of them, anyway! He takes off the mask and he blends in instantly, they’re all the same person! And boom! Interactions! Like, WHAT IS THE POINT of setting up dark mirror situations, which are built for explorations the depths of the character, especially for Mark, WHEN THEY DON’T INTERACT. It truly boggles the mind. You are trying to subvert the idea I thought you’d be a good episode? Like what are we doing!

Mark should realize how similar he is, because they’re literally the same person. He should realize, by interacting, that he’s never that far off to becoming like them. Single moments in parenting that changed him. Debbie leaving, being hands off, divorcing, leaving, etc, Nolan being more active as a parent, not even knowing Nolan’s his father, etc etc. Getting his powers later or earlier. 

AND LITERALLY. DID THEY AVOID BEING INTERESTING ON PURPOSE? Mark being afraid to go out because then he’d have to see his family is dead, (especially if he realises that’s a catalyst for other, evil him’s), would be a wonderful character moment! It acknowledges the shit he’s gone through which the show seems allergic to doing. Shaving away what little of a personality’s Mark got just to be Boyfriend is killing me. Why is he less of a person? Not only do I loathe the ship, not only do I not believe he cares this much, not only do I hate this decision for him, it’s done in the least interesting and most frustrating way! It’s almost a skill at this point. Like I detest the ship so much more, now. 

No, because, this episode should have been building off so many things, I’m also half tempted to restructure the entire goddamn plot this season ‘cause what the fuck. Firstly, trying to make this episode make sense, but the rewrite for that is already driving me crazy, I may need to actually plan a plot thoroughly for once. The fact the Mark/William shippers are partying off of one line is saying something. Like, yes shippers will use anything but damn. We are starved of character dynamics, aren’t we? 

And honestly, I’ve thought about the same thing? Are there writers gone? Switched out? Something that explains this, honestly?

Being used to middle aged women being written poorly is sickening, but unfortunately real. I’m more so starved of media that actually, like, lets the events and actions a character goes through actually impact their psyche continuously. I wish Debbie was a person, anyway, like she’s already interesting, you could do so much with her character! Like we talked about her making friends with villains or selling houses to villains and supers alike! Like you can do so much fun world building and dynamics with her as well. 

Rex’s death is soooo evil. And not even a fun, wound of tragedy, it’s just dumb to me. It’s truly for naught. Like, why not make him and Mark have a dynamic if it’s arguable Mark’s inaction lead to his very death? Where’s the fun guilt and strained Guardians dynamics? Where’s the consequences? Or, like, even if he stayed an asshole, how do you mourn an asshole? Not to say I don’t like it’s arc, but agreed it’s useless if he just dies. It’s so meaningless.

And you’re right, omg? There are no people? What the hell happened to emphasizing the people caught in the crossfire? It’s so strange? That’s exactly what the first season made a point to express, and now we’re regressing? Why is the world empty and flat? Why is there no one there? Where’s a child crushed by the rubble, a single arm or leg exposed, cut off screams and horrified, grief stricken wails? Heck, where’s alt!Mark’s threatening and killing people not just causing general, non-specific destruction? Like, have the Mark’s go after people our Mark knows istg! Debbie, Oliver, William, Eve, Amber, etc. Make it so all their lives are at risk for being close to him, so it’s a gamble of who might die if we gotta have the death risk. And I wish Rex came back anyway. He has a personality. 

NO FR. EXPLAIN TO US THIS THINKING BECAUSE THIS MOMENT FALLS SO FLAT WITH THE CONTEXT GIVEN TO US. Like you are speaking the truth here, his morals should be set with Powerplex opening the season, and then being challenged every step of the goddamn way, until he snaps with Levy. Make it less of a moment of rage or desperation, and even more conscious, considering choice, even, Mark knowing he could let him go, and choosing not to. Have his morality actually take a solid hit to show growth, even if it’s a darker kind. Also it should give him paranoia. He should be worried about portals popping up and if anyone he knows is safe. He should be stressed outta his mind. Heck, if Levy lives, contrast s2 even further by having Mark make the technically unnecessary choice to kill him, and in spite of his wishes he lives! Have Mark wrestle with the fact he doesn’t need to, he wants to. He’s angry he couldn’t kill him, and he’s disturbed about that kind of violence existing within him, as it did the other Mark’s!

The way I forgot he was violent against the multi-Paul’s because that didn’t really matter either? Like nothing leaves an impact? We don’t see how he thinks about ANY of these despite all the pieces being RIGHT THERE? Like the centipede/underground monsters, Mark can attack a monster easily, but struggle to protect or prioritize protection. Then, Mark can struggle, or even improve, with keeping Rex safe against overwhelming force like Multi-Paul’s AND getting the declaration back. Does he get frustrated and nearly stop pulling his punches? Then get repulsed by himself, with Powerplex echoing in his mind? He defeated him without being violent! Why can’t this work? And the idea keeps being challenged!!!!

The way Mark doesn’t fucking think about anything at all is so great and fun and I’m definitely not bashing something into the wall about it. Like, it’s not even a purposeful avoidance! I would’ve loved if Mark suppressed it on purpose, if he’s avoiding it on purpose, aad not an outright sidestep to OUR PROGONIST’S OWN THINKING. He is one of the three most important characters!!!!

Him refusing to save people is downright diabolical OOC. I can’t get over it. This isn’t who he was in s1. He risked his LIFE to fight his Dad. Like the idea you’ve given actually makes sense! It’s interesting! It’s an exploration of the trauma he’s had! It fits with who he is and what he’s been through! 

Mark agreeing to go hang out on a beach w Debbie instead of refusing and the beach is Beach City (am now officially thinking too much about this crossover lol)

The way I got caught up on our back and forth I almost forgot this, lol! AND OH MY GOODNESS, IMAGINE? I forget exactly what which point Debbie makes the beach offer, but I’d love when exactly in SU/SUF-timeline they’d go? There’s something so fucking funny to me about them going during the SUF-timeline and always narrowly missing the strange, Steven-shaped mental breakdowns in the back. I know those don’t occur in a single day, but it’s tickling me. How could they miss anything? I don’t know I just think it’s funny.

Though, post-SUF is interesting if Gems can see the similar “world on your shoulders”, Mark has going on! Steven can shunt the narrative in the Gems’ minds, which I think is neat, if I’m not misusing the phrase since the guy’s on the road far away. Or maybe it’s just before Steven goes and they stumble into each other. I’d kinda love Pearl and Debbie interacting, honestly, if they could talk about loving someone who hurt you, hide things from you, even when you thought you knew them so deeply, and they left you to raise a child. Pearl being in a well adjusted space, and Debbie still grieving.

Honestly, the gems could help train Mark, they’re got experience and similar-ish powers in strength, sturdiness, and they can jump/run fast enough for flying to be vaguely similar enough to lecture about, I think. Or Lapis Lazulis, haha! Peridot with her trash can lid! Garnet, I’d love to see if she told Mark anything about his future in vague, well meaning advice. Or even giving relationship advice considering Amber. Or, importantly, how to convince an entire reign to end their colonizing ways, lol. Is Mark perhaps willing to start a war, take advantage of being related to any leaders, or fake his own death to varying results?

In general, there’s something so fucking funny to me about Nolan, in the sake of comparison, being Pink Diamond coded. Like OH, did an important or well respected of the colonizing empire come to earth and learn the beauty of its people and nature, including faking/lying/omitting things about his identity and background to being in, only to feel conflicted when his responsibility still remained, and he tried to free himself from them? Yikes! We’ve been through that before! Like gimme Pink Diamond and Nolan outfit swap rn. This is tickling me so much oh my goodness.