#Robert being subtle

[freesiablooming]

Did Oscar just broadcast two asian actors get flat out ignored by two white actors? Acting like an Asian person doesn't exist is the most common form of racism against Asians.

[lokilow-keystabbing]

Vamp!Lewy anyone?

@acrazybayernfan something for the mental image 😏

[callsigns-haze]

The quiet ones

Summary: You surprise the Dagger Squad by revealing your secret to Bob, who shyly but lovingly melts into your kiss as the others watch in shock, as shy guys are your type.

Chapter Warning: Secret relationship reveal, unexpected PDA, and flustered teammates, drinking.

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x reader

The sun is barely up, casting a soft glow over the empty beach outside The Hard Deck as you pull open the doors and step into the familiar dimness of the bar.

You've been doing this for years—unlocking before the heat of the day sets in, setting up stools, and sliding glasses onto the shelves with the smooth rhythm you've perfected. Today feels the same, but something in the air hints it won't be an ordinary shift. There's a buzz, the sort that comes with Navy missions brewing, whispered over drinks in tones low enough that only bartenders know how to hear.

You're wiping down the bar when the door creaks open. You look up and spot a guy with dark-rimmed glasses, a touch of shyness evident in the way he stands at the door, scanning the place like he’s about to get reprimanded just for being here early. He's tall but sort of unassuming, a guy who'd rather fade into the background. He's a contrast to the pilots who usually come in loud, all bravado and swagger. You recognize him instantly: Bob, the quiet one who stands at the edges of the Dagger Squad.

As he approaches, you give him a slow, easy smile and cross your arms, leaning back. "Hey there. Early start for you guys?"

He swallows hard, adjusting his glasses. “Uh…yeah. Just…getting a round for the squad.” His voice is barely audible, like he’s half-hoping you’ll mishear and let him walk away without much fuss.

Your eyes flick over him, taking in his nervous fidgeting. It’s endearing, really, the way he seems like he'd rather be anywhere but standing across from you. And maybe it’s because he's the polar opposite of the loud types, but you can’t help teasing him a little.

“So…who’s in charge of this little mission?” you ask, setting down a few glasses with a subtle clink.

He hesitates, caught off guard by the question. “Uh…Admiral Simpson.”

You chuckle. “Beau? That's my uncle."

Bob's eyes widen, his mouth hanging open for a moment before he stammers out a response. "Oh. Uh, wow. I… I didn’t know." The faintest blush creeps up his cheeks, and he looks down, almost embarrassed to be caught off guard like that.

You can’t resist needling him just a bit more, leaning in just close enough to watch him fluster. You know the effect you have—the low neckline of your top, the tattoos trailing down your arm, the glint of your piercings just visible through the thin fabric. He’s doing his best not to stare, but his eyes flick down for a split second before he yanks his gaze back up, his face turning redder by the second.

“Don’t worry,” you say with a smirk, letting your fingers trace the rim of a glass, “your secret’s safe with me.”

“Uh…thanks. I just—um, I’ll take…uh, the round,” he manages, his voice catching as you pour the drinks.

You can see his struggle—the way he wants to say something, but every time he opens his mouth, he clams up. He's never met anyone like you before, that’s obvious. The confidence, the tattoos, the piercings peeking through the fabric—it all ties together into something that leaves him completely off balance. And he’s… well, adorable.

As you slide the last glass across the bar to him, you give him a wink. “See you around, Bob. Bring your friends by sometime.”

He mutters a quiet “thank you” and shuffles out, beers in hand and cheeks flushed. And as he heads out the door, you can't help but grin to yourself, wondering if he’ll find the nerve to say more next time.

---

It’s a typical night at The Hard Deck, the bar buzzing with energy, filled with the sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and rock music blaring from the jukebox. The place is packed with Navy types, just as it always is when there’s no active mission holding them back. You’re behind the bar, quick on your feet, sliding drinks to customers and catching up with the regulars. Then, through the crowd, you spot him.

Hangman strides up to the bar with that cocky swagger he’s famous for. Tall, blond, and all confidence, he’s got a grin that could charm the devil himself. And he knows it. Tonight, he’s dressed in his usual off-duty look—just tight enough T-shirt and a leather jacket slung over his shoulder, looking every bit the guy who doesn’t take “no” for an answer. But that’s the game he plays, and tonight you’re ready for him.

“Evening, sweetheart,” he drawls, leaning across the bar just a little too close. “Thought you’d be closed by now.”

You raise an eyebrow, resting your hands on the bar and meeting his gaze without flinching. “Well, I thought you’d be up in the air by now,” you shoot back, your tone teasing. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

He chuckles, clearly delighted by the challenge. “All right, you got me there,” he says, glancing around. “But I’ve got a list for you. The squad’s thirsty tonight.”

“Let’s hear it, then,” you say, pulling out a row of glasses, ready to work but giving him your full attention.

He leans in even closer, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone. “Well, let’s start with two beers for Phoenix and Bob. Can’t have ‘em dehydrating, right?” There’s a slight pause, and he gives you a smirk, his gaze lingering a bit longer than necessary. “Make sure Bob’s is extra cold—he’s, uh, still cooling off after the last time you talked to him.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you start on the beers. “Don’t tell me he’s still flustered from that., it's been years.”

“Poor guy doesn’t stand a chance with you around, no matter the time,” Hangman says with a wink. “But hey, he’ll survive. Next up, Coyote wants a whiskey—neat. You know how he is. And Rooster…” He pauses, rolling his eyes in that way he does whenever he brings up Rooster. “Rooster’s a beer guy, as usual. But let’s give him the lighter stuff. Don’t want him trying to prove anything tonight.”

You slide the beers across to him, already pouring the whiskey as he keeps going. “And what about you, Hangman?” you ask, tossing him a smirk. “Anything special, or do you just want a mirror to stare into?”

He laughs, clearly enjoying this back-and-forth. “Ouch, darlin’. That one stings.” He places a hand over his heart, feigning offense before letting his gaze flick down to the line of tattoos trailing up your arm, then back to meet your eyes with a mischievous glint. “But as long as you’re the one serving, I’ll take whatever you recommend.”

You pour him a whiskey, sliding it over the bar with a raised brow. “Think you can handle it?”

He picks up the glass, holding it up to you with that easy, confident grin. “Oh, I can handle a lot more than that. But I like a bartender who can keep me on my toes.” He takes a sip, never breaking eye contact, letting the moment hang in the air.

The bar is still loud around you, but there’s a beat where it’s just you and him, his gaze heavy and flirtatious, yours daring him to keep going. He leans in a little closer, his voice a quiet murmur. “You know, we should get a drink somewhere else sometime. Just you and me.”

You lean back, letting a slow smile spread across your face, but truly this guy is not for you. “Oh, is that an invitation?”

“Consider it an open one,” he replies, giving you a wink before stepping back to gather up the drinks. “But hey, don’t take too long thinking it over. I don’t like waiting.”

It’s been a busy night, the bar still packed as the crowd buzzes with the kind of energy that only comes when there’s no telling when the next mission will roll around. You’re behind the bar, catching your breath after that last round, when you catch sight of Rooster winding his way through the crowd, headed straight for you.

He’s wearing his usual laid-back style—well-worn jeans, a vintage band T-shirt, and that aviator jacket slung over his shoulders. He looks like something out of a different time, especially with those sunglasses perched up in his curls, even though it’s night. Rooster always has this quiet, steady confidence, like he knows he doesn’t need to announce himself. And there’s something a little different in his step as he approaches you, maybe a touch of playfulness in the way he’s looking at you, a half-smile already curving on his lips.

“Hey, bartender,” he says, leaning onto the bar with an easy grin. “I’m back for the squad’s refills, but this time I think we’re changing things up.”

“Oh yeah?” You give him an amused look, resting your hands on the bar and leaning in just enough to close the space between you. “Guessing Hangman finally realized he can order something other than whiskey?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, Hangman’s hard to change. But the rest of us? We’re open to suggestions. Figured you might know what we need better than we do.”

You raise a brow, sensing the tease in his tone. “Oh, so now I’m in charge of drinks? Guess I must be moving up in the world.”

“Better believe it.” He flashes you a quick grin. “But you still gotta keep me entertained while you’re at it.”

You laugh, reaching for a row of glasses. “Let me see… Something tells me you could handle a little extra kick tonight.” You pour a round of tequila for Phoenix and Coyote, grabbing lime wedges and a sprinkle of salt for the rims.

“Tequila for Phoenix and Coyote,” you announce, lining them up. “And… let’s do something different for Bob. A Moscow Mule might be more his speed—something smooth but not too strong, I know he likes it.”

“Perfect,” Rooster nods, his eyes catching on the way your hands move as you pour, clearly fascinated. “And what do you recommend for me?”

“Hmm,” you say, pretending to consider as you tilt your head, catching his gaze. “Something with a bit of bite, I think. Something… classic.”

You reach for the whiskey, but instead of neat, you add a twist of orange, pouring a well-balanced Old Fashioned. You slide it over to him, catching his eye with a smirk. “Think you’re ready for that?”

He picks up the glass, turning it slowly in his hand, that same lazy smile lingering on his face. “Only if you’re ready to join me for one sometime,” he says, his voice low enough to make sure you catch the hint. He takes a sip, and his gaze stays fixed on you, watching your reaction, clearly testing the waters.

You raise an eyebrow, not about to let him off easy. “And what makes you think I’d go for a guy who takes drink recommendations from the bartender?”

He chuckles, not missing a beat. “Because I don’t think you’d waste your time with just any guy.” He holds your gaze, letting the words hang in the air, something challenging in his smile. “You seem a little… particular.”

“And you think you’re up to the standards?” You tilt your head, leaning on the bar just close enough that he has to take in every word.

His eyes flick down to your arm, where your tattoos catch the light, and then back up to meet yours, a flicker of mischief in his gaze. “I think I’d be willing to try,” he says, his voice smooth, steady. “But I’ll leave it up to you if I get the chance.”

You shake your head, suppressing a grin, and reach for another glass, pouring yourself a splash of soda as you lean back. “How about you focus on delivering those drinks first, hotshot?”

Rooster raises his glass in a mock salute, his eyes never leaving yours. “Alright, boss,” he says, clearly amused. “But don’t think I’m letting this go that easily.”

He picks up the tray, balancing it with practiced ease as he throws one last look over his shoulder before heading back to the squad. You’re left behind the bar, catching your breath with a smile as you watch him go, knowing full well he’ll be back for another round—and maybe another shot at breaking through.

-

The Dagger Squad is clustered around a corner table, the drinks you just served scattered across the tabletop. Conversation and laughter flow easily, but the energy shifts the second Hangman and Rooster start eyeing each other, sizing each other up with cocky grins and sidelong glances. Bob, meanwhile, is trying his best to blend into the background, clutching his Moscow Mule and looking more than a little flustered as he watches his teammates' latest standoff unfold.

“You know, Rooster,” Jake drawls, leaning back in his chair and raising his whiskey with an infuriatingly smug smile, “you’re wasting your time here. She’s clearly more into a guy with… confidence.” He emphasizes the last word, smirking as he takes a slow sip, his eyes flicking over to the bar where you’re serving another customer.

Rooster snorts, crossing his arms as he leans forward. “Confidence? Is that what you call whatever it is you do?” He shakes his head, trying to keep his voice casual, but the competitive gleam in his eyes betrays him. “Trust me, Bagman, she’s not going for the guy who struts around like a damn peacock.”

Phoenix snickers, sipping her tequila and watching the scene unfold like it’s her favourite soap opera. “This is priceless,” she mutters to Coyote, who nods, clearly entertained.

“Oh, please,” Jake fires back, unfazed. “You think that ‘slow burn’ routine of yours is going to win her over? Women don’t want to wait around forever. They like a guy who knows what he wants.” He casts another confident glance toward the bar, and Rooster follows his gaze, jaw tightening just slightly.

Bob, meanwhile, is turning a shade of red that nearly matches his squadmate’s call sign. He keeps his eyes firmly on his drink, but Phoenix catches the flush creeping up his neck and nudges him with her elbow.

“Hey, Bob,” she says with a mischievous grin, “you’re awfully quiet over there. What do you think? Who’s got the better shot?”

Bob’s eyes widen as every head at the table turns to look at him. He stammers, his grip tightening on his glass. “I—I don’t know,” he mumbles, his voice barely audible. “I, uh… I think she’d go for someone… respectful. Kind of… uh…”

Rooster grins, reaching over to pat Bob’s shoulder, his tone almost affectionate. “See, Bob gets it. A guy who’s not all in her face about it.”

Jake rolls his eyes, scoffing as he leans back. “Right. Because nothing says ‘charming’ like shyly staring into your drink.”

Bob just blushes harder, sinking a little lower in his seat as Phoenix pats his back in a show of support. “Ignore them, Bob. They’re just scared you’re the dark horse here,” she teases, sending Jake and Bradley a challenging look.

“Oh, is that it?” Hangman laughs, tipping his glass toward Bob in mock salute. “Tell you what, Bob—if she turns me down, I’ll let you take a shot.”

Rooster shakes his head, chuckling. “Sure, Bob. If Jake somehow fails—and trust me, he will—you’ve got my blessing.”

Bob’s face is now a deep shade of crimson, and he lets out a nervous laugh, clearly mortified. But he can’t resist glancing over toward the bar, where you’re moving easily between customers, completely unaware of the mini-drama playing out across the room.

“You know what?” Rooster says, straightening up and giving Jake a look that’s half-challenge, half-smirk. “Why don’t we let her decide who’s worth her time?”

Jake’s eyes narrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Fine by me, Rooster. May the best man win.”

Bob practically melts into his seat, but despite his obvious embarrassment, there’s the smallest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he glances at you.

-

You’ve been keeping an eye on the Dagger Squad from behind the bar, and you’ve caught enough of the banter to know they’re up to something. You can feel the weight of their stares now, so you decide to put them out of their misery. With a knowing smile, you grab a couple of fresh napkins and make your way over to the table, letting your gaze linger on one person in particular.

Bob’s leaning on the railing, doing his best to stay out of the spotlight as Jake and Bradley bicker, each too wrapped up in their little rivalry to notice you coming. Only Phoenix catches your approach, her eyes widening in excitement as she realizes what’s about to happen. She’s the only one who knows, after all.

“Hey, Bobby,” you say with a playful lilt, giving him a warm smile. His head snaps up, his cheeks turning an immediate shade of pink.

You can tell he’s trying to play it cool, but there’s a flicker of pure adoration in his eyes as he takes you in. Without a word, he leans in, brushing his lips softly against yours, his hand finding your waist as he pulls you in. His usual shyness fades as he melts into the kiss, his touch growing just a little bolder, like he’s letting himself savour every second.

Around you, the entire squad has gone silent. Rooster, Hangman, and Coyote are all staring, mouths slightly open in complete disbelief. But it’s not the kiss that has them in shock. It’s the glint of your engagement ring—hanging on a delicate chain around your neck, tucked just under the collar of your shirt. The light catches it as you pull back from Bob, and you see the realization dawn on each of their faces.

“Oh, my god,” Phoenix gasps, covering her mouth, trying to stifle her laughter as she watches Jake and Bradley try to process what they’re seeing. “No way. All this time, and she’s been with… Bobby?” Her eyes sparkle with pure delight as she glances back at you, unable to contain her excitement.

Bob, still flushed from the kiss, shifts awkwardly as he catches sight of his teammates’ stunned expressions. He ducks his head, clearly overwhelmed by all the attention, but there’s a shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he wraps an arm around your waist, holding you close.

“Wait…you’re with Bob?” Hangman says, still sounding completely baffled. He shakes his head, his usual confidence gone. “And you’re engaged?”

“Guess we kept it under wraps a little too well,” you say with a smirk, running a hand affectionately through Bob’s hair, watching as he blushes even deeper but relaxes into your touch. He looks at you with such genuine, quiet adoration that it’s impossible not to smile.

Rooster, still processing, lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Wow. And here I was thinking shy guys didn’t stand a chance.”

Phoenix is practically beside herself with joy, and she can’t help but gloat just a little. “Well, guess what, boys?” You grin, crossing your arms. “Turns out all I wanted was the quiet one.”

[lxclerc]

𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 ─ 𝐨𝐩𝟖𝟏

summary: where oscar has done everything in his power to make his feelings for you as obvious as possible, but you are simply quite clueless to the poor boy’s advances pairing: oscar piastri x driver!reader warning: fluff, oblivious reader

note: i wrote this in two hours and it's purely for fun. i did not bother thinking about how realistic this could be at all so it's a bit ridiculous i think

masterlist

sometimes, oscar just wants to run into a wall and knock himself out. 

maybe that would shake his brain enough for it to formulate a plan for you to finally realize all the oh so awfully obvious hints he’s been dropping. he’s been so obvious that the entire world knows it; all the other drivers, mechanics from practically every team, reporters, fans. literally everybody has picked up on his pitiful attempts at catching your attention but you. 

or maybe he needed to push you down a flight of stairs and knock you out for you to finally figure out that he likes you as more than friends. because at this point, it’s starting to get ridiculous. he’s been pursuing you since f3. in every ridiculous challenge with prema to every track walks and everything in between, he’s done everything possible to show you that he likes you, fancies you, absolutely besotted to the sound of your voice. 

that never seems to discourage him though, if anything, it only makes him like you more. robert once joked that you’d put a spell on him and oscar can’t quite deny it if he’s being honest. 

“y/n, wait up!” he called to you right before the driver’s parade, leaving lando behind him, who whispered a quick good luck to him. 

hearing your name made you turn to him, an instant smile on your face that made oscar’s heart violently lurch forward. most of the time, you preferred to keep your hair in a tight ponytail, wanting all the little strands out of your face when you’re on track but this time, strands had fallen off the paintail, framing your face in such a perfect way that knocks the breath out of oscar’s lungs. 

you’re perfect in his eyes all the time of course; even in the few times you’d pushed him off track, but there’s something so ethereal about you when your smile is for him. 

charles, your teammate, and lewis whom you were previously talking to subtle stepped away from you in order to give the two of you a moment. charles throws oscar a small thumbs up with that maniacal smile of his whenever he’s fortunate enough to be able to watch oscar absolutely get crushed by y/n’s cluelessness every time he tries and drops a hint to his feelings.

“hey, osc,” you greet, easily falling into step with him. 

“hey, how’s the down under treating you?” he asked, trying to act casually as he buried his hands in his pockets. 

he winced at his own words. how’s the down under treating you? really? 

at least you seem to find it amusing as you award him with a chuckle, hand instinctively wrapping around his arm the way girls do when they’re really comfortable with you and don’t want you to get lost in the crowd. you only ever do it to him (and he’s made sure to check) and it never fails to quite literally turn him to mush. 

“you know i’ve adored it!” you gush. you love australia, this is no secret to everyone , so much so that you’ve joked about it being your second home race, to which oscar have always enthusiastically nodded in agreement to. “charles, alexandra and i went cafe hopping all around melbourne yesterday.”

oscar hummed, trying to hide the hint of disappointment in his face that you hadn’t asked him to accompany you like the few times in the past but he knows that you and charles’ girlfriend have formed a very close friendship. “is that so? i’m glad you had fun.”

you smile up at him. “how about you? i reckon it’s nice being back home, isn’t it?”

“absolutely. the family’s been asking about you, by the way.” he just wanted you to keep talking. you could talk his ears off for hours and oscar would never complain. 

you face instantly light up at that. “i’ll make sure to drop by the mclaren garage later. i miss nicole.”

“she missed you too,” he says before clearing his throat. “so um, are you immediately flying out tomorrow?” 

you shook your head. “no, i’m planning to stay for a couple more days.”

“oh good.” he thanked god his hands were buried in his pockets so you can’t see how much they’re shaking. “you’re free tomorrow then?”

you nod and he nods back at you awkwardly. “yeah.”

“oh good.” stop. stop. he already said that. “do you want to check out that restaurant we went to during f2 maybe?” 

your face lights up again and your hand that’s holding on to his arm squeezes it ever so slightly in excitement. “oh absolutely. maybe i can bring charles and alex along and you can bring lando and logan.”

oscar wanted the ground to just swallow him up. he could probably shout i love you at you while staring directly into your eyes and you’d think he’s talking to someone behind you. one time in f2, he wrote all his feelings for you in a note and gave it to you only for you to hand it straight to robert without even glancing at it thinking he just wanted for you to pass it along. another time, he spent hours and hours trying to gather the courage to wrap his arm around your shoulder only for you to grinned up at him and wrap your arm around logan’s shoulder thinking he’d just wanted the three of you to huddle around. oscar is running out of ideas if he’s being honest. 

“that sounds…fun, but i was hoping, maybe, it could just be — you know, the two of us. like old times,” he manages to let out. 

“poor oscar,” lando says as he, charles, max and lewis watch your interaction. 

“oscar should just kiss her already,” max said.

charles cackled at that, shaking his head. “she’d probably think it’s a friendly kiss.” 

“maybe he just needs to shake her shoulder and scream im stupidly in love with you right on her face,” lewis joked as they kept watching the two of you. 

oscar watched as you let go of his arm, leaning onto the railing for the parade. you seem to take your precious time twisting the cup of your water bottle open and torturing oscar at the way your throat constricted as you drank water before you turned back to him with a smile. “yeah, sure, osc. i’d love that.”

oscar returned back to the group of boys with a dopey smile on his face, high off of you as lando slapped him on the shoulder in a small congratulations. 

charles couldn’t help but laugh at the look of the younger driver. “y/n’s broken him, i think.”

—

logan tried to contain his amusement as his australian best friend fell on his hotel room’s couch with his face buried in his hands, groaning in frustration and looking red in the face. oscar wore a loose white button up with a dark pair of jeans. he’d even worn his nice shoes for the occasion, wanting to be as presentable as possible as he picked you up from your hotel room to see you in the prettiest sundress in the most beautiful shade of blue that contrasted perfectly with your skin. 

the two of you ate and laughed and walked around with you holding on to his arm as oscar gathered the courage all night to tell you how he felt. 

“and then what happened?” logan asked as oscar groaned, frustratedly running his hands through his hair. 

“i told her i love her,” he muttered to himself and you smiled at him with that beautiful smile of yours.

“that’s great, osc!” logan tried to cheer him up, clapping him on the back as he remained hunched over the couch. “what did she say?” 

that seems to be a sore spot as oscar only groaned louder, petulantly kicking his shoes off. he can’t quite fathom how such a perfect night turned to him crashing in his best mate’s room so he can vent. 

“she said, and i quote ‘aw, osc. i love you too. you’re one of my best friends.’ and then i just about died on the spot.” 

logan winced at that, his hand now rubbing on oscar’s shoulder in comfort. “well, maybe next time the wording should be ‘i’m in love with you’?”

but oscar only groaned again. “this is a lost cause. best friend? is that all i am?” oscar starts his rant. “am i just one the many best friends in her life? will we drift apart after we both retire? at this point, i’d count myself lucky if i ever get invited to her wedding. maybe if i want to push my luck, i could be the fucking godfather of her kids.” 

and logan only winced again because he never even thought someone could be that clueless and oblivious.

—

“you look beautiful, y/n,” oscar tells you as he passes you by the media pen, ignoring the cameras and lando’s knowing grin. 

“thanks, osc. you look quite handsome yourself.” a dust of pink covers your cheeks as you smile at him, hand reaching to squeeze his lightly as you pass him by, being led by your pr team. 

for a moment, oscar freezes on the spot, unable to stop the way all his blood rushed to his cheeks and the smile that stretched across his lips. 

“mate, pull yourself together,” lando teases, pushing oscar forward to get him out of what lando dubs as the ‘y/n l/n induced lovesick daze’. 

a reporter who’d seen the entire interaction couldn’t help but laugh as she said; “y/n truly is quite a sight, isn’t she?”

oscar didn’t think his cheeks could get anymore red as he nodded. “she always has been the most beautiful girl.”

lando playfully rolled his eyes as he and oscar continued on. if he was being honest with himself, even he is getting tired with the constant pining between you and oscar. the boy could scream at the top of his lungs how in love he is with you and you’d still think it’s all platonic. this entire thing was getting a bit too pitiful for both of your friends to watch.

which is why charles and lando have taken it upon themselves to finally force you to see what’s right in front of you. oscar loved you too much to even think about putting you in any form of uncomfortable situation even if it comes at his own expense, thankfully for lando and charles, they don’t share the same sentiment and so the two got to planning. 

it was simple enough really. lando grabbed oscar by his collar, dragging him all over the paddock towards the ferrari motorhome.

“lando,” oscar whined behind him. “what the fuck are you doing?”

“trust me, mate, this is for your own good,” said his teammate, ignoring all the cameras that had gathered around them, following along. 

“can’t you at least let me walk on my own?” oscar complained again, hunched over as lando quite literally dragged him by his mclaren shirt’s collar. 

lando shook his head. “nope. i legitimately cannot handle this not going the way it’s meant to again.” 

in the distance, both mclaren boys heard you voice your complaints to charles as your teammate held you on the shoulder to keep you in place, a group of mechanics and engineers huddle around the two of you, watching in curiosity, 

finally, lando let go of oscar, allowing him to stand properly as the younger boy threw a glare at him while fixing his shirt. then he found himself face to face with you, confusion all over your face as it finally dawned on him what this is all about. 

“oscar?” you asked, looking between him and lando along with the group that had accumulated on their way to ferrari. “what are you all doing here?”

lando and charles folded their arms over their chest as charles motioned towards the two of you. “we figured the only way for you to finally get it is if there’s an audience.”

“get what?” you asked again and oscar, palms already sweating in front of you and looking as though he’d rather get struck by lightning awkwardly cleared his throat. 

“well get on to it, oscar,” lando says though his accent makes oscar’s name sound like oscah and oscar almost wanted to punch him there and then. 

again, oscar awkwardly cleared his throat as you finally face him. “y/n, i have to tell you something.”

you motioned for him to continue. “okay. what is it, osc?”

“i don’t know how else to tell you this without being upfront about it so—”

“what’s going on here?” and at the moment, fred vasseur stepped into the scene, confusion all over his face as he found practically half the paddock inside his motorhome, all of them crowding around you and oscar. 

everyone groaned, charles threw his hands up in frustration and lando wanted to bang his head against the table. “fred, you’re my boss, but please stop talking.”

fred was just about to say something else when charles physically dragged him to his side to shut him up. 

you turned back to oscar, encouraging him to keep talking even though you would have preferred more privacy. 

“i like you a lot,” he finally blurts out. “ever since f3. no, way before that. ever since karting.”

you smile at him kindly. “i like you too, oscar. i told you, you’re one of my best friends—”

every one groaned, cutting you off and oscar shook his head. 

“no, y/n. you don’t get it. i don’t just like you. i’m very much in love with you,” he emphasized, remembering logan’s words about wording it properly as he took her hand in his shaky ones. “like…i want to spend my life with you kind of in love with you.”

you eyes widened in surprise and a part of oscar had thought that maybe you were just in complete denial the entire time but he realized now that you truly, absolutely had no idea about his feelings. he doesn’t know which one is worse if he’s being honest with himself. 

“well, why didn’t you tell me, osc?” you ask gently. 

“love,” he starts softly, the nickname effortlessly rolling off his tongue. “i can’t count anymore how many times i’ve told you and how many times i’ve tried to tell you and how many times i tried to show you.”

“i never noticed.” for a moment, you seem completely dumbfounded and he couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his lips at the adorable way your mouth parted in surprised. you’re adorable, beautiful, gorgeous and every other adjective even if you unintentionally made his life hell the past few years. 

“that’s alright,” he reassures you.

you couldn’t help but smile shyly at him as you squeezed his hand. “well, if it makes a difference, i’m very much in love with you as well. like…i want to spend the rest of my life with you kind of in love.”

at that, he laughed again, pulling you towards him as your lips crashed together.

and everyone fucking cheered at that.

general tag list: @ricsaigaslec @dragon-of-winterfell @coffeehurricanes @rdtbattinson @privcherry7 @miniminescapist @sebsdaniel @strelcka @writing-about-current-obsessions @amsofftrack @lostinketterdam @bisexual-desi @cialovessirlewis @multilovebot @lovelynikol16 @troybolton-14 @ohthemissery @dr3lover @myescapefromthislife @sunf1owerrq @the6ccnsp6cyy @t-nd-rfoot @navixfr @xjval @gridbunny @sunf1ower16 @lord-sharl-perceval @callsign-scully @saturnsrinqs @darleneslane @nmw-am @stopeatread

let me know if you guys want to be added to the general tag list or a specific driver's tag list or even if you want to be removed from the tag list because i get how annoying consistently getting tagged is.

[mysaintkitten]

I just read Between Shoots again and I am on my hands and knees BEGGING for more dumbification😭🙏🏻 (as for who, I’m not super picky lol but preferably Cillian, Tommy, Robert, or Crane <<<3)

dumbification is 100% my weakness thank u for requesting this (& it’s been a little while since i’ve written dumbification so I’m a bit rusty but i would love to start writing it more often!)

Mindless | Robert Fischer x fem!reader

prompt: Robert does not take your teasing lightly lol

WARNINGS: SMUT (18+ MDNI) dom!robert, degradation, dumbification, size kink if you squint, brief misogyny, creampie

*not proofread*

“Get inside. Now.” Robert snarled as his nails dug into your arm, shoving you inside entrance of your shared penthouse. Your cheeks burned with excitement and anticipation, you knew Robert was going to punish you, but you weren’t sure if this was going to be a punishment or a ‘punishment.’

“Ow, Robert,” you giggle with a small smirk, partially playing it up for your own entertainment , “you’re hurting me.”

After slamming the door shut and locking it, It was clear that Robert was fuming after you interrupted one of his important meetings with a slew of lewd gestures, which started to become dirtier and dirtier as time went on.

First it was a wink, then it was a subtle grope to one of your tits, followed by sucking one of your fingers into your mouth. While eyeing Robert down, you slowly brought the digit between your legs.

It didn’t take long for Robert’s annoyance and arousal to reach its peak, leading him to call off the meeting early.

“All I ask is for you to sit there and look pretty while I work, is that too fucking difficult for you? Huh?” Roberts asking you rhetorically. You bite your lip, you know it isn’t nice to push his buttons, but he’s just so sexy when he’s angry.

“You looked so handsome up there,” you coo while running your hands along the front of his suit jacket, “I couldn’t help myself.”

His eyes are dark, pooling with anger and desire. With a strong hand he grabs your hips and turns you around, promptly forcing the front of your body against the wall, pushing some air out of your lungs in the process.

“Wanna act like a dumb whore? You’re gonna get treated like one,” Robert decided, purring into your ear as he hurriedly unzipped his trousers, pulling up the end of your skirt as soon as his hard cock was free.

You gasp quietly when you feel his hot member pressed against your ass. You sneak a hand behind you and pull your panties to the side, not caring enough to fully discard them.

With a groan, Robert thrusts his full length inside, causing your mouth to fall open with whiney moan. No matter how many times you took him, he still stretched you out like it was your first time. He barely gave you a second to get used to the sensation before he was snapping his hips out and slamming them back in, his pace and depth already being deliciously intoxicating.

“Fu-uck-“ you whine, reaching behind you to grip Robert’s suit jacket. His balls teasing your clit with each thrust, taunting you with the potential friction.

“Is this what you wanted?” Robert growled into your ear, his strong hands gripping your hips painfully tight as he fucked you harshly against the wall. “Pretty little thing just wants to be daddy’s come dump, huh?”

Your eyes rolled back and you mewled in response, your back involuntarily arching towards him while standing on your tiptoes. The sensation of him forcing his thick cock inside you left you speechless and you could feel your brain becoming cloudier.

“What a filthy whore,” He teased, nipping at the shell of your ear and sending a chill down your spine, “disrupts my important meetings just so I’ll pay attention to her needy fuckin’ cunt.”

You swallowed and huffed out a shaky breath, your body becoming far too overwhelmed with the pleasure that robert was giving to you. He dips his head down to watch his cock slam into you, and to see your ass recoil with each hypnotic thrust.

“F-fuck,” you pant again while your legs shake and nearly give out from beneath you. As Robert’s pounding into you, your feet are barely on the ground, he’s holding your hips up and slamming into you like you’re nothing more than a warm hole for him to use.

Robert laughed weakly, he can see every single rational thought slip out of your head as he pounds into you, he’ll never get sick of watching you get cock drunk. You choke out a moan, twitching as your core clenches around him.

“Hm,” Robert hums as he snakes a hand down the front of your body, gently circling your clit with the tip of his middle finger while his member tears into you. “So well behaved once she’s got a cock in her, you like being treated like a dumb little toy, baby?”

The degradation made your stomach burn with an added layer of eroticism, a needy whimper falling from your lips as your pussy got wetter around him. All that could be heard around you was panting and skin slapping skin, mixed in with some filthy little comments.

Robert moaned when he felt you get slicker around him, unintentionally showing him how much you liked this rough and demeaning treatment. You felt the knot in your stomach begin to wind up tighter and tighter and you knew it won’t take much more to push you over.

You try to respond to his comments, only for a few incoherent babbles to come out. Robert only clicks his tongue at your attempts, poorly feigning sympathy.

He holds his hips still, forcing his entire length painfully deep inside you. It’s nearly too much, but addictive fullness of his cock leaves you needing more.

“Look at that,” he cooes, roughly grabbing your cheeks and cranking your neck to get a better look at your face while still rubbing your clit. His dick twitches at your smeared lipstick and smudged mascara, he’s always thought you looked prettier like that anyway. “Ruined by my cock already, poor thing can barely think. ‘S alright, baby, you don’t gotta think. Daddy knows best, right?”

You swallow harshly before whimpering, “y-yes mmh …”followed by a few curses and pants, Robert slowly begins to thrust himself in and out again.

“That’s right, daddy knows you’ve got no thoughts in that pretty head, all you care about is getting this wet little pussy stuffed. Don’t care how, or when, just need to be full, don’t you?”

You nod as best you can while he’s still grabbing your cheeks, his other hand sliding up from your clit back to your hip. He releases his grip on your cheeks and smacks your ass, your brain and body turning into putty all for him. He owns you entirely, mind, body, and soul. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I bet you’d let me use you in front of my colleagues,” Robert hissed, the thought of ruining you in front of his peers brought him closer to his already approaching orgasm. “Bend you over the table, show them what a brainless little cockslut you are. Maybe I’d even let them take turns on you, would you do that for me baby? Let them use whichever holes they’d like?”

You knew this was purely hypothetical, Robert was far too possessive to let anyone else actually touch you. But the idea still got you hot, being passed around like a cheap whore all for Robert’s enjoyment.

“Y-yes, yes!” You cry out as you arch your back again, you and him both know that you’re mere moments away from your orgasm. He laughs thinly, he knew you got off on this but he didn’t know it was to this degree.

“That’s what I love about you, sweetheart. Pretty face ‘n pretty pussy, no fuckin’ brain. How all good girls should be.”

That was all it took, a bit of praise sprinkled in a mix of ignominy. With a broken sob, you came for him, your wetness spilling down onto his balls and undoubtedly staining the expensive material of his trousers. He groans out a few praises while thrusting into you, his own climax trailing close behind.

“Thats it, baby, fuck-“ Robert groans as he tips his head back and screws his eyes shut, your pulsing core just begging him for his come. With a few more pumps, he’s spilling into you, huffing and growling as your velvety walls milk him dry.

Once he starts to go soft, he begins to pull himself out, you wince quietly and Robert shushes you before spreading your lips apart with his fingers. With attentive eyes he watches your ruined hole drool and clench around nothing.

He brings his eyes back up to your face and sees your reaction as he smacks your ass, “next time you pull some shit like that during a meeting, I’m fucking you right then and there, got it?”

Through heavy lids, you smile back at him before nodding weakly, already getting ideas for what you’ll do at his next meeting.

—

sorry this isn’t very long </3 i really reaaaaally want to get back into writing, i think i’m going to write something a bit fluffy/angsty next. we’ll see!

[nickeverdeen]

Calling Top Gun Maverick characters “wife/husband” instead of “girlfriend/boyfriend” while being on the phone with someone

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell

Maverick would give you a subtle, knowing smirk, his eyes glinting with amusement

He’d raise an eyebrow slightly, intrigued by your choice of words

Once you’re off the phone, Maverick might tease you lightly, “Husband, huh? You sure you’re ready for that?”

He’d give you a gentle nudge or a squeeze of the hand, clearly pleased

You’d catch him smiling warmly, clearly touched by the unexpected title

Maverick wouldn’t say much but would give you a look that says he’s very okay with it

He might add it to your banter, occasionally calling you his “husband” or “wife” in return

Penny Benjamin

Penny would immediately flash you a cheeky grin, loving the new title

She’d give you a playful wink, clearly enjoying the unexpected upgrade

Once you’re off the phone, Penny might tease you with, “I like the sound of that”

She’d laugh softly to herself, obviously delighted by your words

Penny would reach out to touch your arm or hand, appreciating the sentiment

She’d respond with a playful flirt, something like, “Does that mean we’re planning a wedding now?”

Penny would likely pull you in for a quick kiss, happy and amused by the title

Jake “Hangman” Seresin

Hangman would immediately react with a wide, cocky grin, loving every second of it

He’d throw a quick, witty retort your way, “I knew I was husband material.”

Hangman would puff up his chest a little, clearly proud of the title

Once you’re off the phone, he’d tease you relentlessly, “So when’s the ceremony?”

He’d respond with a flirtatious comment, something like, “I’ll give you a great husband.”

Hangman would give you a charming wink, fully embracing the term

He might make a sly comment about you having good taste in husbands

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw

Rooster would get a bit flustered, not quite sure how to react at first

He’d break into a surprised but happy smile, loving the unexpected term

Rooster would chuckle nervously to himself, a little embarrassed but clearly pleased

He might blush slightly, especially if you’re in front of others, but he’d still love it

Once you’re off the phone, he might say softly, “Husband, huh? I like that.”

Rooster might gently tease you about it later, “So, how long have we been married now?”

He’d give you a long, affectionate look, clearly touched by the sentiment

Natasha “Pheonix” Trace

Phoenix would immediately laugh, clearly amused and delighted by your words

She might give you a light, playful punch on the arm, “Wife? I like the sound of that.”

Phoenix might feign surprise, “Wow, didn’t know we were that official.”

She’d grin at you teasingly, loving the playful nature of the title

Once you’re off the phone, she’d quickly retort with, “Guess that makes you my wife/husband, huh?”

Phoenix would likely continue the banter, throwing in some flirtatious remarks

She’d clearly be happy with the title, maybe bringing it up later with a smile

Robert “Bob” Floyd

Bob would be stunned into silence for a moment, not quite sure how to react

His face would turn bright red, clearly flustered but pleased by the title

Bob would give you a shy, sweet smile, loving the idea but too shy to say much

He’d let out a nervous laugh, trying to play it cool but clearly a bit overwhelmed

Once you’re off the phone, Bob might say timidly, “Husband? I, um, didn’t know we were there yet.”

He’d give you a grateful, affectionate look, touched by the unexpected upgrade

Bob might make a soft comment about how much he likes the sound of it

Mickey “Fanboy” Garcia

Fanboy would instantly get excited, his eyes lighting up at the word “husband.”

He’d immediately start playfully joking, “So when are we booking the honeymoon?”

Fanboy would break into a big grin, clearly loving the idea

Once you’re off the phone, he’d be full of energy, “Husband! I knew it! We’re that good!”

He might go over-the-top with his reaction, acting like you’ve just proposed

Fanboy would be laughing joyfully, clearly thrilled with the new title

He’d constantly tease you about it afterward, bringing it up at every opportunity

[opencommunion]

since zionists want to act obtuse about why we're criticizing a superbowl ad, here's an explanation from before the ad even aired. it was openly designed to act as pro-genocide propaganda. fighting antisemitism is a worthy goal but that's not what's happening here:

"The New England Patriots’ 81-year-old owner, Robert Kraft, writes seven-digit checks to the right-wing Israeli lobbying machine AIPAC, but his personal, political, and financial ties to Israel run deeper than the occasional donation. The multibillionaire married his late wife, Myra, in Israel in 1963 when Kraft, then 22, was older than the nation itself. Together they set up numerous business, athletic, and charitable ties to Israel, a record of which is proudly proclaimed on the Kraft company website. In particular, the Kraft Group boasts of its 'Touchdown in Israel' program, where NFL players are given free, highly organized vacations to see 'the holy land' and come back to spread the word about 'the only democracy in the Middle East.' (Not every NFL player has chosen to take part.) Kraft also attends fundraisers for the Israel Defense Forces, currently—and in open view of the world—committing war crimes in Gaza."

Now, as Israel wages war against the civilians of Gaza—more than 25,000 Palestinian have been killed with at least 10,000 of them children—Kraft is again flexing his financial and political muscles in order to defend the indefensible. His Foundation to Combat Antisemitism (FCAS) will be spending an estimated $7 million to buy a Super Bowl ad titled 'Stop Jewish Hate' that will be seen by well over 100 million people. Under Kraft’s direction, the ad’s goal is to create a propaganda campaign to counter the reports and images from Gaza that young people are consuming on social media. 

... The content of the Super Bowl ad is not yet known, but FCAS has afforded Kraft the opportunity to make the rounds on cable news saying things like, 'It’s horrible to me that a group like Hamas can be respected and people in the United States of America can be carrying flags or supporting them.'

This is Kraft enacting the mission of FCAS: fostering disinformation. He is far from subtle: A Palestinian flag becomes a 'Hamas flag,' and people like the hundreds of thousands who took to the streets of Washington, D.C., last month to call for a cease-fire and end the violence are expressions of the 'rise in antisemitism.' Without a sense of irony or the horrors happening on the ground in Gaza, Kraft says he is giving $100 million of his own money to FCAS, because 'hate leads to violence.'

Let’s be clear: What Kraft is doing politically and what he will be using the Super Bowl as a platform to do is dangerous. He appears to think any criticism of Israel is inherently antisemitic. For Kraft, it is Jews like myself, rabbis, and Holocaust survivors calling for a cease-fire and a Free Palestine that are part of the problem. Kraft seems to think that opposition to Israel, the IDF, and the AIPAC agenda is antisemitism.

... Right-wing Christian nationalists, with their belief in a Jewish state existing alongside their conviction that Jews are going to Hell, are welcome in Netanyahu’s Israel and Kraft’s coalition. Left-wing anti-Zionist Jews are not. The greatest foghorn of this evangelical right-wing 'love Israel, hate Jews' perspective is, of course, Donald Trump. Kraft, while speaking of being troubled by events like the Charlottesville Nazi march and the right-wing massacre at the Tree of Life synagogue, counts Donald Trump as a close friend and even donated $1 million to his presidential inauguration.

No one who provides cover for the most powerful, public antisemite in the history of US politics should ever be taken seriously on how to best fight antisemitism. No one who funds AIPAC and the IDF and opposes a cease-fire amid the carnage should be allowed a commercial platform at the Super Bowl. But given that the big game is always an orgy of militarism, blind patriotism, and big budget commercials that lie through their teeth, perhaps that ad could not be more appropriate. We can do better than Kraft’s perspective on how to fight antisemitism. Morally, we don’t have a choice."

[baylz]

CHAPTER ONE: sneaking out

main masterlist | now playing: See You Later, I'm Gone by Robert Lester Folsom

present time

Sneaking out through the bathroom window wasn’t uncommon. She had done this on more occasions than she can count whenever things just weren’t going so great. Bad dates, her high school reunion, family gatherings, and now she was currently shimmering through a window to avoid her ex boyfriend and best friend.

It was ungraceful, to say the least. Her dress had gotten ripped in the process and y/n silently prayed that she could fix it later. Trudding back to her car, she stopped dead in her tracks to see that it was getting hooked to the back of a tow truck.

oh, fuck.

“Hey!” She sprinted and attempted to get the attention of the large vehicle. The driver came to a stop and rolled down his window, a cigar in his mouth and looked every bit of uninterested in what she had to say.

“Listen pretty lady, your clown car was parked infront of a fire hydrant.”

“Cl-clown car?” She spuddered, completely taken aback. “It’s a Volkswagen Beetle.”

“Yeah, well you can come pick up your beetle tomorrow at the shop.” Y/n cautiously looked around the dark street and back to the trucker. It was the middle of autumn and she had just become aware of the goosebumps forming on her exposed legs. A gust of wind blew passed her and she shivered from the contact.

“Well—” She took another look at her surroundings. There weren’t many people around this part of the city which was a bad sign. Walking home in an empty area like this she would surely get grabbed or followed. Shooting a helpless look at the man she asks, “How am I suppose to get home?”

“You can’t call nobody?” Oh, right.

She embarrassingly pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. Yamaguchi was a no-go since his car wasn’t working right now and Tsukishima always has his phone on vibrate. Fucking asshole. The only person left was…”Kuroo.” She could feel the life being sucked out of her as her thumb hovered over the call button. The thought of doing the walk of shame back to the party didn’t seem so bad compared to hitching a ride with her pesky boss.

Unfortunately, her prayers were heard because the screen turned black before she even got the chance to call him. She mentally cursed herself.

The trucker grew impatient at this point, putting the vehicle in drive and moving forward. Y/n pleaded with him to at least let her hitch a ride but he stubbornly refused. And then, he was gone.

Y/n was slowly making her way down the sidewalk, ocassionally looking behind her. She wearily watched each car that rolled passed her and made sure to keep a safe distance between her and the street. She continued this for a good minute before she noticed a car slowly trailing behind her. Her pace sped up and the car followed suit. She began to panic now. Y/n didn't know whether to run or act as if she didn't see them. It wasn't until the car began getting closer that she bolted.

The car chased after her. Y/n made beeline for a nearby alleyway, hoping the lose the stalker. She ducked behind a dumpster and waited, heels in each hand, and ready to attack. A car had stopped at that moment and the sound of a car door shutting caused her to be on high alert.

They’re coming.

She listened patiently as the footsteps drew closer. Her grip tightened, hands trembling with fear. 

Tut!

Closer.

Tut!

Closer.

Tut!

NOW!

“Hello, is anyone there—OW!” Y/n stood from her hiding spot and threw her pumps at the perpetrator. He stumbled back, broken glasses falling to the ground. “Fuck, Y/n.” The stranger grumbled in pain.

“Who are you? How do you know my name?” She probed, pointing her other heel at the fallen man. She did her best to be intimidating but the not subtle quiver in her voice betrayed her.

He felt around for his lost frames before staggering to his feet, putting them back to where they belonged and faced her.

He held his hands up in surrender. “It’s me. Keiji.”

"O-oh." Surprised but also relieved, she dropped her shoe and let out a ragged breath. She didn't know how long she had been holding it in. Her legs almost gave out from the adrenaline wearing away, leaving her a shaking mess. Akaashi attempted to reach out and help but Y/n braced herself on the brick wall instead.

Keiji couldn’t do much except collect her scattered shoes from the dirty cement. Akaashi was aware that he had frightened her so he didn’t dare move an inch when he asked, “How about I take you home, hm?”

The car ride was quiet and Y/n stared out the window at the passing buildings. New York was always so much prettier at night. Despite its downsides, the city was just more lively and active once the sun had set. Everyone is constantly on the move and you never feel alone because there was always someone walking right along side you whether they were going to the same destination or not.

Keiji would occassionally glance at the brunette next to him, trying to think of what to say first. I mean, what could he say? How are you? Sorry for scaring you? He didn’t see anything good coming out of those. She wouldn’t even look at him so he wasn’t even sure if she wanted to talk to begin with. Akaashi braced himself, clearing his throat and straightening his back. He didn’t even get a chance to get a word in before you said, “Stop here.”

Akaashi parked infront of a small duplex. “Thanks for the ride and sorry about your glasses.” Y/n unbuckled her seatbelt, not even looking at him once. He searched for what to say as a response, but it was too late because she had already exited the car and was making her way towards the front door. He watched as y/n entered the house and leaned his head back against the seat once she was gone. "dammit."

NEXT CHAPTER

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[comment if you want to be added]

© BAYLZ 2024 | PLEASE DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, REPOST MY WORKS ONTO OTHER PLATFORMS TO CLAIM AS YOURS

[girls-alias]

Tease - Robert Chase

Title: Tease - Robert Chase

Words: 1,567

Relations: Robert chase X Reader

TW: Sexual hinting. Sexualising hands. Sub reader.

Masterlist

I pushed the office door open with my butt, careful not to spill the coffees I had just collected. I spun around as I stepped into the office, My eyes instantly landing on Chase as he approached the door. I looked up at him startled by his presence. From his body language, it was clear he was going to open the door for me, I blushed slightly, knowing he had a clear view of my ass pushing the glass door open. I gulped, admiring his freshly trimmed hair, subtle green eyes and furrowed brows. I could read from his expression he was confused and had a hint of another emotion. In others, I would say it was an attraction but the sexy, blonde, handsome, angelic, Australian, smart, did I mention sexy, doctor... wouldn't think that of me. I'm me. Just average me.

I smiled innocently at Chase as he continued to stare at me. His expression showed less of his confusion and more of the other emotion I couldn't place but (somewhere deep inside, I knew it was attraction) (Or maybe wishful thinking) he displayed this emotion more until the confusion had fizzled from his expression.

"Are you going to stand there all day or give me my coffee," House barked grumpily. I shook myself out of it and walked around Chase to reach the table. I placed the drinks down, serving them out to each of the team to make sure everyone had the right drink. I walked around the table, placing Chase's drink in front of him before occupying the seat beside him. He smiled at me, I swooned a little but smiled back. An attempt to play it cool when he makes my spine jelly without trying.

House began the differential by writing on the board the patient's symptoms. I placed my drink on the table as I picked up the file, sitting back to read it. I added comments briefly to dismiss someone's idea if the current test results didn't align with their diagnosis. Finally, I looked up to gather who House's snarky comment was aimed at. Not me, good. As Chase was leaning forward, his elbows on the table, his hands in front of his face, playing with them slightly. I, of course, was now only able to focus on them.

I gulped, my mouth seeming wrong. My breath quickening. The butterflies in my stomach twirling. I crossed my legs, my wetness growing as I watched my crush's hands, the way they moved, the things I had dreams about them doing. I couldn't peel my eyes away even when he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and then smirked when he looked away. His hands didn't stop moving and if anything, they seemed to do more, slow and precise movements. There could be an earthquake in the room and I still wouldn't be able to look away. He has hypnotised me. I watched almost breathlessly as he sat back in the seat and his hand slowly travelled to his thigh. Oh, God his thighs! I took a deep breath, gulping as I watched his hands.

His hands gripped his thigh tightly, and a soft whimper left my lips subconsciously. I tighten my lips into a thin line, the rest of the world coming into focus as I looked around, recognising that everyone had heard me and was confused. I almost lost all of my ability to function as Chase turned to smirk at me. He did it on purpose, he was messing with me. I was annoyed for half a second it took till I realised that he caught me checking him out, sexualising him and he not only knew but teased me. My eyes widened, avoiding Chase's gaze. My brain instantly went into hyperdrive to dismiss this realisation with the most likely factor being that he didn't know and was simply smirking to not laugh at your whimper.

"You must really want to run the labs," Foreman commented sarcastically. I almost applauded Foreman and shook his hand for giving me an easy excuse.

"Yeah, I just don't want to deal with parents right now," I chuckled, realising quickly I was unsure of the files I had read only minutes ago. They all looked a little more confused.

"Our patient is a 32-year-old, male," Cameron clarified but confusion clear in her tone.

"His parents brought him in, it's in his file," I lied. I don't know who brought him in, they could tell me he flew in on a UFO I would agree, I don't know what happened during the differential when Chase's hands were more appealing than the conversation. Foreman looked confused but understood as Cameron flicked through the file. I smiled, my poker face clearing me of questions.

"Foreman and Cameron, you're with the patient," House instructed and everyone stood. Oh, okay we're done. I stood from my seat, and collected my things, realising quickly I would be alone in the lab with Chase. My eyes widened as I grabbed my drink and headed out of the office, Chase held the door open for me, his smirk still gracing his lips. I nodded softly to be polite and began approaching the lab. I gulped as Chase walked beside me.

"I didn't know you whimpered," He teased, his smirk still present. I blushed but rolled my eyes forcing a convincing chuckle.

"I just really want lab work today," I shrugged trying to play it off. A part of me believes the delusion of him possibly not noticing me sexualising his hands. He smirked rushing to stop in front of me looking a little confused but smug.

"I can think of five reasons that's a lie," He smirked, raising his left hand for effect and flaunting the knowledge that he knew what he was doing. My expression faltered at the shocking revelation and realisation he truly was teasing me with his hands, and did for a fact know I was affected. He grinned, turning back to continue his way to the lab. I took a second to compose myself before following. I stopped just before the lab entrance to prepare myself before I was in a room alone with Chase for presumably hours.

I walked in to see Chase already using the computer to get started. He smiled as I walked in, not looking up from the screen. I cleared my throat before taking a seat at the opposite station. I got to work on running labs, reading the file closely to figure out what labs we needed, and Chase offering tests I should take while he did others, basically letting me know what to do. I'm glad one of us was paying attention.

We were working somewhat quietly as we focused on the tests. I was just looking through the microscope when he spoke abruptly.

"Have you always been attracted to hands or just mine?" He asked, I was so startled by his question. I felt called out, seen. I staggered over my thoughts slightly.

"What?" I asked finally, the only thing I could manage to say. Though my tone should have been confused it was more panicked. I looked up at him, watching as he smirked. I gulped, watching as he slowly walked around the station, edging closer to me, my crossed legs subconsciously squeezing tighter.

"What is it about my hands that flusters you?" He asked rhetorically. His tone was mischievous and menacing. His smirk returned. I watched with shallow breaths as his hand trailed along the marble tops. I gulp again to try and maintain some control of my body. My breath quickened the closer he got to me. My breath fluttered as he stood right in front of me. "Is it that they're attached to me or that you can imagine what I'd like to do with them?" He asked, his hand coming under my chin to raise it so I was looking up at him. I breathed in as he raised my chin but suddenly my breathing stopped as I made eye contact with him. My mind cleared. My only thought was that he was going to kiss me. Please, kiss me.

I watched as his eyes trailed to my lips before he smiled. His eyes were deep and dark, full of want. I gulped. "I'm taking you to dinner," He instructed, not a question but an explanation. I watched intently as he searched my expression, it was clear, he could read nothing. He seemed to wait for my response. I nodded softly, his fingers still present under my chin. He smiled with half his mouth. "Good," He added, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. I waited, his eyes once again travelling to his lips as he held my gaze on him. "Your results are in," He commented. My eyebrows furrowed before the timer went off. I jumped at the sudden beeping. Chase chuckled as he walked away to his station. I sighed slightly, hitting the timer off and composing myself. "We'll go straight from work, that shirt needs to be shown off," He added, watching me between the stations. I smiled nervously as I slowly processed the fact I wasn't imagining it like usual.

I looked at the results to distract myself. I groaned as I showed Chase the results. Positive. We quickly headed to the others to inform them.

Masterlist

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Hate

TRIANGULAR THEORY OF HATE

Typically hate is thought of as a single emotion. 

But there is reason to believe that hate has multiple components that can manifest themselves in different ways on different occasions. 

According to a triangular component of the duplex theory of hate, hate potentially comprises 3 components. 

As with love, hate can be captured by both feelings triangles and action triangles. 

Feelings may or may not translate themselves into actions, and actions may or may not represent genuine feelings. 

People may interpret actions as meaning different things, depending on their mappings of feelings into actions and vice versa. 

There are 3 components of hate: negation of intimacy, passion, and commitment.

Negation of intimacy - involves the pursuit of distance, often because the hated individual arouses repulsion and disgust.

Passion - expresses itself as intense anger or fear in response to a threat.

Commitment - is characterized by cognitions of devaluation and diminution through contempt for the targeted group.

The 3 components give rise to 7 different types of hate (plus non-hate), based on the particular combination of aspects involved:

Non-hate: No feelings of hate (none of negation of intimacy, passion, or commitment)

Cool hate: Disgust (disgust of negation of intimacy alone)

Hot hate: Anger/Fear (anger/fear of passion alone)

Cold hate: Devaluation/Diminution (devaluation/diminution of decision/commitment alone)

Boiling hate: Revulsion (disgust of negation of intimacy + anger/fear of passion)

Simmering hate: Loathing (disgust of negation of intimacy + devaluation/diminution of decision/commitment)

Seething hate: Revilement (anger/fear of passion + devaluation/diminution of decision/commitment)

Burning hate: Need for annihilation (disgust of negation of intimacy + anger/fear of passion + devaluation/diminution of decision/commitment)

THEORY OF HATE AS A STORY

The theory of hate as a story proposes that hate emerges from different kinds of stories. Some of the most common stories, deriving from the work of Sam Keene, Anthony Rhodes, Robert Zajonc, and others, are:

Stranger (vs. in-group) - Negation of Intimacy + Commitment

Impure-other (vs. pure in-group) - N

Controller (vs. controlled) - C

Faceless foe (vs. individuated in-group) - C

Enemy of God (vs. servant of God) - Passion + C

Morally bankrupt (vs. morally sound) - N + C

Death (vs. life) - N + C

Barbarian (vs. civilized in-group) - N + P + C

Greedy enemy (vs. financially responsible in-group) - N + C

Criminal (vs. innocent party) - C

Torturer (vs. victim) - N + P + C

Murderer (vs. victim) - N + P + C

Seducer/rapist (vs. victim) - N + P + C

Animal-pest (vs. human) - N + P

Power-crazed (vs. mentally balanced) - C

Subtle-infiltrator (vs. infiltrated) - C

Comic-character (vs. sensible in-group) - C

Thwarter/destroyer of destiny (vs. seeker of destiny) - C

Instigation of hate covers roughly 5 steps. Not all steps need to occur in order for hate to come into being. Indeed, even one step may start the process. The steps are:

The target is revealed to be anathema.

The target plans actions contrary to the interests of the in-group.

The target makes its presence felt.

The target translates plans into action.

The target is achieving some success in its goals.

Finally, perception becomes reality.

There may be elements of truth in some stories.

Example: A particular opponent may be loathsome in any number of ways.

But the power of stories is that their perception becomes, for the individual experiencing the stories, reality.

The individual typically does not question whether a given story is true. For him or her, it simply is true.

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

Writing Notes: Love Click "Keep reading" for more examples. Warning: Very long text.

taxonomy of types of hate

The three components of hate generate, in various combinations, seven different types of hate. They are probably not exhaustive, and, because they represent limiting cases, are not mutually exclusive. Particular instances may straddle categories.

Non-Hate. Strangers on the street are likely to fall into this category, as may members of one’s family or one’s friends. But family members may arouse mixed emotions, so there is the possibility that some degree of hate exists toward family members, even coactively with feelings of love. In a healthy society (and a healthy person), most feelings one has toward other people are non-hate.

Cool Hate: Disgust. Cool hate is characterized by feelings of disgust toward the targeted group. The hater wishes to have nothing to do with the targeted group. Members of the targeted group may be viewed as subhuman, perhaps as vermin of some kind or as garbage. Visceral prejudice may be expressed as cool hate. The Sidney Poitier movie Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner depicted the visceral reaction of disgust of parents of a White woman who brought a Black man (her new beau) home to have dinner with her parents. Because the main feeling is a “cool” one, the reaction may be one of aversion rather than confrontation.

Hot Hate: Anger/Fear. Hot hate is characterized by extreme feelings of anger and/or fear toward a threat, and the reaction may be to run away or to attack (flight or fight). Sudden flare-ups of hate, such as road rage, are examples of hot hate. Gang members may kill others if they feel disrespected by the comments or even gestures of others. Riots often are accompanied by hot hate. People who feel only cool hate most of the time may be provoked and stirred up by the passion of the moment and find their hate converting into hot hate. The conversion may be short-lived. After the mutual egging on of the riot is over, those involved in it may revert to feelings of cool hate.

Cold Hate: Devaluation/Diminution. Cold hate is characterized by thoughts of unworthiness directed toward the target group. There is something wrong with the members of this group. Indoctrination often portrays the group as evil, as in Ronald Reagan’s conjuring up of the “Evil Empire” in referring to the former Soviet Union. This kind of use of metaphor invokes a number of free associations, all of which are stereotypically negative. The indoctrination may be against any group – Communists or capitalists in the Cold War (which was “cold” in more ways than one). Cold hate can be instilled even among those who have never encountered members of the target group. For example, it is not uncommon to find anti-Semitism or anti-Islamic cognitions among people who have never actually met a Jew or a Muslim. People are often unaware of their own cold hate. It is simply too much a part of who they are and how they were brought up. The cold hate may lie dormant unless the people are forced or inadvertently come into contact with members of a hated group.

Boiling Hate: Revulsion. Boiling hate is characterized by feelings of revulsion toward the targeted group. The group may be viewed as subhuman or inhuman and as a threat, and something must be done to reduce or eliminate the threat. The targeted group may change from time to time. In the earlier stages of the Third Reich, the Soviet Union was perceived as bad and revolting. Then, when Hitler made a pact with Stalin, the Soviet Union was perceived as good. Then, later, it was perceived as bad again. There was no sense of permanent commitment to any belief about the Soviet Union and Soviets. Negative intimacy and passion were instilled with a distinct absence of commitment. The change was later captured in George Orwell’s novel, 1984, where the identity of the enemy changed from one day or even one moment to another, and people were expected to adapt their hatreds to those chosen for them at any given moment by the government.

Simmering Hate: Loathing. Simmering hate is characterized by feelings of loathing toward the hated target. The targeted individual/s may be viewed as disgusting and as likely always to remain this way. There is no particular passion, just a simmering of hate. Ruthless, calculated assassinations often take this form. There is nothing sudden about such assassinations, which may be planned over periods of time, as Lee Harvey Oswald’s assassination of President Kennedy apparently was. Alfred Hitchcock’s movie Strangers on a Train depicts an individual who has felt simmering hate over a long period of time, and has devised a plan to have a murder committed without his actually having directly to take part in it.

Seething Hate: Revilement. Seething hate is characterized by feelings of revilement toward the targeted individual/s. Such individuals are a threat and always have been. Planned mob violence, often preceded by fiery oratory, sometimes takes on the characteristics of seething hate. The goal is to arouse the mob to violence, as in the Krystallnacht, where mobs were sent to destroy shops of Jewish shopkeepers who were portrayed as seeking to destroy the economy of Germany. In these cases, the targeted group may be portrayed not as subhuman but as more than human, for example, as being engaged in a worldwide plot of domination or conquest. Fears among U.S. militia groups of black helicopters sent by the forces of world government show this kind of hate. The enemy is not subhuman, but superhuman in its massive organization and conspiracy to take over the world. The Left Behind series of novels, portraying a world very loosely based on the biblical book of Revelations, describes the efforts of the Anti-Christ and his allies to take over the world and the people in it.

Burning Hate: Need for annihilation. Burning hate is characterized by all three components of hate. The haters may feel a need to annihilate their enemy, as postulated by Kernberg (1993) for extreme forms of hate. Some years back, Eli´an Gonzalez, a Cuban boy who was found clinging to a boat off the shores of Florida, was seized from his Miami relatives by the U.S. government. There were massive demonstrations in Miami, Florida, and Union City, New Jersey, as well as elsewhere, against Fidel Castro and the U.S. government, which was seen as in league with Castro. The outpouring of hate was powerful. The targeted group may be viewed as diabolical destroyers, and indeed, a poster shown on CNN depicted then Attorney-General Janet Reno with the horns of the Devil.

relations of the components of hate to terrorism, massacres, and genocides

The triangular theory of the structure of hate speculatively holds that hate is related to terrorism, massacres, and genocides through the number of components of hate experienced.

Danger Level 0: No Hate-Based Danger, results when none of the components of hate is present.

Danger Level 1: Mild Hate-Based Danger, results when one of the components of hate is present.

Danger Level 2: Moderate Hate-Based Danger, results when two of the components of hate are present.

Danger Level 3: Severe Hate-Based Danger, results when three of the components of hate are present.

Massacres and genocides are much more likely to result, arguably, when all three components are present. They are also a product of stories.

stories underlying the development of hate

The Stranger Story. The hated enemy is a stranger. Propaganda typically shows the object of hate as very strange looking. One Nazi propaganda poster shows a Jew with a Star of David tattooed on his forehead, with evil-looking squinting eyes, with a grossly asymmetrical face, with a twisted lip and a double chin, and with large ears notably sticking out from his head. No one can look at this poster and identify with the individual depicted: He is a stranger. We usually think of strangers as people we do not know and never have known. But they need not be. Often the stranger is someone who is familiar to us, and whom we thought we knew, but who, on reexamination, now appears to be someone else – someone strange and perhaps incomprehensible. The stranger story can apply to interpersonal relationships. We may be in a relationship with a partner whom we think we know quite well. Then we discover, to our astonishment, that the partner is having an affair, or has a sizable private bank account that he or she has hidden for many years. The person whom we thought we knew well may now come to seem like an utter stranger, and we may find ourselves wondering what other things about the partner that may be detrimental to our well-being he or she has not revealed.

The Impure Other Story. The hated enemy is impure or contaminated. Typically, the enemy is trying to spread this contamination. The enemy must be stopped before the contamination gets out of control (or to stop contamination that already is out of control). The euphemism “ethnic cleansing” may call to mind images of an enemy that needs to be eliminated from a society that otherwise would be pure in much the same way dirt needs to be eliminated from holy relics. In a close relationship, hate may be generated by the discovery that the partner has been contaminated, as by an extramarital affair or a disfiguring disease. In some societies, it is sufficient for a woman to be raped for her elimination to seem necessary to certain men with this story. The woman now is no longer viewed as pure and therefore may be seen as having ceased to serve her purpose. Curiously, and with unabashed sexism, the impurity applies only to the wronged female, not the male who wronged her.

The Controller Story. The hated enemy is trying to control you and perhaps the world. One German propaganda poster shows a Jew riding on top of the shoulders of Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin, who is knee-deep in water. The only happy face in the poster is that of the Jew on top. Stories, such as the controller story, may have elements of truth. For example, the Sunnis in Iraq, although a minority, controlled the country for a long time. Some of them built up a system of oppression and repression that was, although brutal toward all Iraqis, especially arbitrary and invidious toward Shiites (Ghosh, 2007). But the stories may also be completely false, as when a group is targeted as controlling a society when in fact they are powerless and persecuted.

The Faceless Foe Story. The hated enemy has no face and indeed has few distinguishing human characteristics. For example, one political cartoon shows a dozen Soviet leaders who all look exactly the same, and have few, if any, distinguishing human characteristics. They are faceless and indistinguishable from each other. In a close relationship, one may reconceptualize one’s partner as faceless – as ordinary – and feel one’s love dissipate and even turn into hate if one feels tricked into having (previously) believed that the partner was special. Sometimes, perpetrators seek to be faceless. Torturers may hide their identities so that their victims cannot later identify them. Other times, victims are made to be faceless. Bombardiers may find it easier to destroy a whole town from an aircraft because, to them, the enemy is faceless.

The Enemy of God Story. The hated enemy is not only your enemy, but also, an enemy of God. The stories, as tends to be the case historically, are created by cynical and destructive individuals who seek to use others as their tools for wreaking havoc and destruction. This story can apply to individuals in intimate relationships in which one or both are religious. If one of the partners comes to be perceived by the other as having committed a mortal sin, then a loving relationship can turn to hate as the couple struggles with the (perceived) sin of the blamed partner. In a religion story of love, a reconceptualization of the partner as of the Devil rather than of God can suddenly turn love into hate.

The Moral Bankruptcy Story. The hated enemy is immoral or must be eliminated on moral grounds (as proposed by Zajonc, 2000). The enemy is doing immoral things, such as praying to the wrong god or gods, or to no god at all. Or the enemy is defiling holy sites or simply insulting the morality of God or humans by its very existence. During the Salem witch craze, one excuse for the elimination of alleged witches was their immoral pact with Satan. In close relationships, a spouse who comes to be viewed as immoral may be hated on account of the alleged immorality.

The Death Story. The hated enemy represents death. One Italian propaganda photo shows the Statue of Liberty carrying its torch and igniting a city. At the same time, it is taking off its mask to reveal a skull underneath. Enemies often do represent death. For example, the Janjaweed militias in contemporary Sudan come as close to representing death as any destroyers can. But these militias, following historical patterns, portray themselves as protecting the lives that are “worth” protecting, and the civilization that they claim to represent.

The Barbarian Story. The hated enemy represents a barbarian. Rome was eventually overthrown by enemies that the Romans viewed as barbarians. Today, the world faces attacks on many fronts from enemies viewed as barbarians. The barbarians, in turn, are likely to view those they attack as morally decadent and themselves as saviors coming to sweep away the decadence they believe they see among those they attack.

The Greedy Enemy Story. The hated enemy is exceptionally greedy. When gasoline prices reached high levels in the United States, one oil company produced a greater profit than any U.S. company in the history of the country. A CEO had just retired from this company with an exceptionally generous retirement package. The problem is that sometimes hated objects act in ways that promote rather than destroy the story that they would wish to have dissociated from them.

The Criminal Story. The hated enemy is a criminal, and needs to be dealt with as such. The hated person or group may have stolen something away from one, such as a loved one or some object of value. Propaganda photos frequently are made to look like wanted posters. One such poster from World War II, produced in the United States, shows Hideki Tojo, Prime Minister of Japan during World War II, in such a wanted poster. In a close relationship, discovering criminal behavior on the part of one’s partner may turn love into hate, especially if the criminal behavior is directed toward oneself. The behavior need not be legally criminal. If one perceives it as morally criminal, that may be enough to generate this story.

The Torturer Story. The hated enemy is a torturer. Some propaganda posters show actual portraits of individuals who have been tortured by enemies. In a close relationship, one may come to conceive of one’s partner as a torturer, and come to feel hate rather than love toward the partner. The torturer story is one of the most powerful stories of hate. In modern day Argentina, Chile, South Africa, and other countries, victims and their family are still trying to come to grips with a long history of government perpetrated torture. And attempts are still being made to identify the people responsible for the torture – both the torturers themselves and those who commissioned them to execute the torture.

The Murderer Story. The hated enemy is a murderer. Sometimes actual photographs are used, such as a widely distributed photo of right-wing students hanging and simultaneously hitting a left-wing student over the head with a chair. The right-wing students are smiling and cheering as the act progresses. In a close relationship, sometimes individuals feel that their lives are threatened, literally or symbolically, by their partners, and may come to feel hate rather than love toward their partners.

The Seducer/Rapist Story. The hated enemy is a seducer or a rapist. One German propaganda poster shows an older, ugly Jew seducing a beautiful woman. An American poster shows unclothed women in cages being inspected by Nazi soldiers. In close relationships, an individual (usually a woman) may come to feel that sex is no longer consensual but forced, and may come to experience hate rather than love for the partner. Unfortunately, many hated targets are rapists. Soldiers in war frequently use rape to satisfy their own lust, and to demoralize and humiliate the enemy. Rapes may occur in intimate relationships as well as in any others. They may also occur in families (incest).

The Animal Pest Story. The hated enemy is an animal pest, such as a germ, an insect such as a cockroach, a reptile, or some kind of a beast. One World War II German propaganda poster shows the Jew as a rat, with the heading “Rotten.” A World War II Italian propaganda poster shows the American G.I. as an ape. In a close relationship, one may come to view one’s partner as animal-like – a pig or a rat – and may come to feel hate rather than love for the partner. These stories become more powerful as those who perceive themselves as victims feel that the violations occur on a repeated basis.

The Power Monger Story. The hated enemy is crazed with the lust for power. A World War II German propaganda poster shows Roosevelt embracing the globe, his face crazed with the lust for power. In a close relationship, one may come to view one’s partner as totally absorbed by power aspects of the relationship, and as seeking total domination. One may feel one’s love convert into hate. The leaders of some countries come to be seen as power mongers. Unfortunately, they may act in ways that promote the stereotype. Whatever their intentions, their efforts to combat hate may then be belied by their own actions.

The Subtle Infiltrator Story. The hated enemy is a subtle infiltrator. One British poster shows a group of Army officers talking while a beautiful woman is sitting amongst them, pretending to be “dumb” but listening carefully to all that is said. Stalin used the subtle infiltrator story to induce hate of certain groups. Beginning in 1927, he staged a series of show trials designed to show that various groups were actually subtle infiltrators in league with the enemies of society. For example, managers, engineers, academics of various kinds, people associated with religious movements – all were portrayed as in league with and in the pay of world capitalists to destroy Soviet society (Mace, 1997). Similar stories are still used today to target individuals and groups.

The Comic Character Story. The hated enemy is a comic character. During World War II, American comic books often portrayed comical Nazi soldiers as being demolished by American super-heroes. A Walt Disney cartoon showed Donald Duck throwing a tomato at the face of a comical Adolph Hitler. Charlie Chaplin played a comic Hitler as well. Nazi propaganda portrayed Jewish women as fat, ugly, and stupid. In a close relationship, one may come to view one’s partner as a comic figure – as a buffoon or a fool – and feel one’s love turn into hate. This story may be less effective in inducing hate than some of the other stories, because it is likely to instill neither anger nor fear. Indeed, it may lead people to view a threat as less serious than it is, and, because of its comical portrayal, to dismiss any danger the threat poses.

The Thwarter/Destroyer-of-Destiny Story. The enemy is hated because of its role in thwarting or destroying a certain destiny. For example, the murderer of a loved one may be hated because the murderer has destroyed what should have been the destiny both of the loved one and of the one who has offered the love.

structure of the stories of hate

Because the stories of hate tend to be simple, some people might prefer to view them simply as negative stereotypes, or as negative images of the enemy.

Why use the story concept at all? Because, arguably, each is associated with an anticipated set of events.

The key point is that the threat represents a dynamic story, not just a static image or stereotype.

Whereas stereotypes tend to be somewhat one-dimensional, immobile, and static over time, stories are multidimensional, fluid, and changeable over time.

1. The Target Is Revealed to be Anathema At some point, often long in the past (and probably more often than not, in the imagined past), the target reveals itself to be worthy of hatred. Perhaps members of the group killed God, or slaughtered members of what is now the in-group, or plotted the destruction of the in-group, or revealed themselves to be dirty or greedy or whatever. Although the events giving rise to the groups’ being labeled as anathema may have occurred long ago, they can remain in a metaphorical sort of Jungian “collective unconscious.” In some cases, the events may never have occurred at all. They may merely be imagined to have occurred, such as when they are part of an oral history of dubitable validity.

2. The Target Plans Actions Contrary to the Interests of the In-Group One may not become aware of this problem right away. But at some point, one becomes aware that for some time, often a long time, the target has been planning actions contrary to the best (and often, any good) interests of the in-group. Whatever the problem is, it is no longer historical in nature; it is current. Because members of the in-group often do not realize they have been “plotted against” until what they perceive to be rather late in the plotting process, they may feel a sense of desperation and urgency. Of course, in many instances, the planned actions are imaginary, which does not make them any less ��real” psychologically to those who are being manipulated into hating the members of the target group.

3. The Target Makes Its Presence Felt The story often first becomes perceptible when the target appears significantly on the scene. The target may come from outside, either legally (through legal immigration) or illegally (through illegal immigration, invasion, or imposition by outside powers). But the target also may come from inside. Perhaps it has been there a long time. Indeed, people often feel that they were blinded, and that only now are they realizing the threat that has been there for some time. Now the target is becoming powerful, and hence is becoming a force to be reckoned with, before it is too late. Stalin was notorious for devising elaborate plots that were alleged to have been hatched against the government, which had no more reality than the proverbial will o’ the wisp.

4. The Target Translates Plans into Action Members of the in-group believe they are becoming aware that the period of plotting is over for the target. The target is actively translating thought into action, and thus has become a true threat, not just a hypothetical one. Sometimes the action is now perceived to be already quite far along before individuals realize what is going on; other times the action is perceived to be just starting up. The exact type of action depends on the content of the story. In many instances, the only action is that of the perpetrators against the targets, who were never planning any action in any event. Enemies of God actively work against God. Beasts cause wanton destruction. Rapists, of course, rape men, women, and children. Subtle infiltrators covertly try to take things over. Thwarters of destiny try to make sure that the in-group cannot achieve the goals it deserves to achieve. In each case, the target group works against the in-group. What differs is how they achieve their goals. Often, they may achieve their goals in multiple ways through multiple stories.

5. The Target Is Achieving Some Success in Its Goals Unsuccessful targets may be viewed as pathetic, such as members of very small groups that have dreams of taking over the world. But once the target is not only acting, but achieving some success in its actions, feelings of hatred and perhaps the desire to act upon these feelings become a force to be reckoned with. In sum, the images, in themselves, are the contents that fill in the story schema. In a sense, the precise story is less important than how many of the above steps the target group has (in the minds of the in-group) managed to enact. The more steps the target group enacts, the more of a threat they become, and the “hotter” the hate is likely to be (i.e., the more the number of components that are likely to be operative).

mapping to the triangle of hate

Different stories are likely to induce different components of hate, but which are induced probably depends in part upon the person.

Consider a few examples:

Stories of individuals or groups as vermin or as impure are likely to induce negation of intimacy.

Stories of individuals or groups as murderers or rapists are “hot” and thus are likely to induce passion.

Stories of individuals or groups as greedy or as dominators are “cooler” and thus are more likely to induce commitment.

the relation of hate to love

Often, love is viewed incorrectly as the opposite of hate.

They are thought to constitute just one single dimension on which a person can move from love to hate, from hate to love, and so forth.

Hate is neither the opposite nor the absence of love. Rather, the relationship between love and hate is multifaceted.

Therefore, love and hate can exist at the same time in the same person with regard to the same object.

The opposite of love is rather indifference.

Hate and love have a lot in common. Both involve very intense emotions and attraction of a certain kind.

Love and hate both have three components, which are interrelated.

In one case, the components are inverses of each other. In the other two cases, they are actually the same, but are experienced differently.

Different people have different combinations of these components so, structurally, may experience hate (or love) differently.

The stories of love are also susceptible to turning. Consider some of the stories of love, and how they can contain within them the seeds of destruction:

1. Addiction. An addiction story involves one partner’s feeling addicted to the other, or less frequently, both partners feeling addicted to each other. Addictions are usually, in themselves, love–hate relationships. One feels bound to something or someone, but feels also one’s freedom to escape is restricted. Feelings of love especially can turn to hate if one feels that one’s addiction is self-destructive, as when one feels an addiction toward someone who is abusive toward oneself or others.

2. Business. In a business story, two people essentially view each other as investments, much like they might invest in people in any other business. The difference is that this is a particularly important investment. A business story succeeds by virtue of both partners feeling that the business is equitable and works to their mutual advantage. But if the business goes bad – one partner makes poor decisions that lead to financial or other forms of distress, or if one partner proves to be untrustworthy, the relationship can go bad rather quickly, and turn love to hate.

3. Fantasy. In a fantasy story, the partners view each other much the way characters would in a fairy tale. The success of a fantasy story in love typically depends upon the partners respectively occupying the roles of prince and princess, king and queen, or similar roles. But just as frogs can change to princes, so can princes change to frogs. And just as kings or queens can be perceived as beneficent, so can they be perceived as malevolent or as imperious. The success of the fantasy story thus depends on the partners maintaining positive images in the roles they occupy. Should the images become negative, hate can replace love.

4. Horror. Horror stories are stories based on one partner’s terrorizing the other. Relationships based on horror stories are almost always love–hate relationships to begin with. One is attracted by, and simultaneously repelled by, the abuse that characterizes such relationships. In some cases, the individual who is the object of the terror in such a relationship may come to hate the perpetrator, much as the victim comes to hate the perpetrator in a massacre. There is also a psychological phenomenon called “Stockholm Syndrome,” in which the victim of a hostage-taking develops positive emotions toward the hostage-takers.

5. Mystery. In a mystery story, one partner seems mysterious, and the other acts as a detective trying to solve the mystery. A mystery story gains its interest by virtue of the fascination of one partner with the mystery represented by the other. The individual peels away one layer of mystery after another. But one may find that, at bottom, the story is not a pleasant one. For example, the mystery may be that the partner is exploiting one, or is involved with other people as well. Love can then turn to hate.

6. Travel. In a travel story, two partners travel through life together, trying to the extent possible to stay on the same or at least proximal paths. A travel story can go bad if a partner feels that the other partner has departed from the path they set out together, or has started to regress on the path. If the paths diverge too much, and one partner does not like the path the other is taking, that dislike or even hate may transfer to the partner. This can happen, too, when one of the partners goes through a physical, psychological, or social transformation that changes him or her. When he or she makes new friends his/her partner dislikes or gets on a career trajectory that makes him or her much more successful than the partner and leaves that partner jealous, hate can develop as well.

7. War. In a war story, two partners enjoy fighting with each other. They seem constantly to be at war with each other. Love may turn to hate if the war becomes a serious one, and the partners find that the fights lose whatever good nature they originally may have had. The war story perhaps provides the best transition from a consideration of love to a consideration of hate.

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

Writing Notes: Love

[divine-crows]

🎨✨️Art Magic✨️🎨

Uses, Forms of it, and Why I Think Everyone Should Try it at Least Once.

Foreword

Right before the COVID-19 pandemic hit, I had been trying and failing to rekindle my flame for magic work. No matter what I tried to do I just couldn't get back into my studies and I was reaching a point where I was convinced I lost my spark and was doomed to live an empty life. Then it all changed when a YouTube Channel challenged how I thought about everything: Molly Roberts. That's when I was opened to the possibility of art magic, and I'll now share my love of it with anyone willing to read on.

What Is Art Magic?

A means to utilize art for spellwork, raising magical energy, or for exploring your magical subconscious. It encapsulates multiple different types of art and is generally not confined by conventional expectation (unless that's what you prefer).

You can utilize art magic by. . .

Using traditional art methods

Digital art methods

Collages

Music composition

Jewelry making

Embroidery

And much more!

How do I know if Art Magic is Suitable for Me?

There isn't a specific thing that'll indicate this form of magic is perfect for you, however I have some anecdotes from my personal experience as both a witch, and a regular artist that form a sort of idea on what could denote this being perfect for you!

First off, craving freedom from personal restraints was a big factor that pushed me towards blending my craft with my passion for art. If you want to run from the monotony of life, if you feel trapped by the social construction of boxes, or if you simply want to challenge your own mental restraints... then this idea might resonate with you.

Challenging yourself with a new form of magic, similarly, can also be a good enough reason to try. I'm the type of person who loves to constantly learn new things and I unfortunately get bored really quickly if I can't get new source materials. Using Art Magic has proven a fun challenge for me that allows me to explore a lot more topics you can't just open a book to find.

For those that may not be able to safely perform a lot of traditional style spells, this form of magic provides a discreet way to practice witchcraft. Most people wouldn't really question someone if they picked up the hobby of making art, and even if they did there's plenty of reasonable excuses out there.

How you prefer your spells to manifest themselves can also affect if this journey is a good idea or not. I find that Art Magic is really good when it comes to subtle spellwork that is more longform (though depending on how you construct them you can definitely create a spell that's the opposite).

Catalog aspects of your magical journey. Imagine a grimoire filled with pages of drawings, each one telling a story of something you experienced or learned as a witch. This especially may be more beneficial for visual learners.

You could use it as a means of meditation, sometimes art can be calming and it can open the door to your mind (so-to-speak). Especially if you're like me and struggle with staying completely still while trying to clear your mind, this may be helpful for you.

Trying to better understand archetypes, deities, types of entities, or even your own self can also be a big part of this. I've used art magic as a way to embody the "energy" of something before so I could better understand it. Especially when you're trying to seek knowledge that isn't often written on, it can provide a great way to explore more.

How Can I perform an Art Spell?

I have a step-by-step process that can give you some insight on how you may approach it:

1) Think of the intention you want. I like to close my eyes and meditate on it for about a minute then I write down if my mind wandered to any specific imagery or ideas.

2) Think of visual symbolism and colors that can help you capture the mood you want. Perhaps you need a warm color palette to invoke positive feelings, or maybe there are specific objects or animals you can include on the composition that represent something.

3) If you feel it fits your composition, you can include sigils, symbols of significance, and include shapes that have certain associations. It doesn't even have to be obvious either. You can use a circular composition to convey something endless for example, or a triangular composition to show priority over something.

4) In general follow what your heart tells you. This is a little cliche, but ultimately follow what seems best to you. Art isn't about boxing yourself in and my guidelines are just general ideas for anyone who's lost!

Why do I think that everyone should try it at least once?

From my experiences as a witch, I find that a lot of paths to be followed are quite rigid. By no means am I implying that a rigid structure is bad-- it creates a foundation from which we can work upon. I myself am exploring rigid, 'traditional' (for lack of a better term) ways of working magic. Art magic pushes you out of your comfort zone in a safe way. It makes you consider how you associate things. It makes you create new sigils and makes you research new symbols you previously wouldn't have used.

So next time you're lost on a spell, or you've lost your way in your Craft and you don't know what to do, think about maybe giving Art Magic a try. I hope my guide was a helpful starting point for anyone interested in the topic!

[lxvvie]

A relationship with Russell Mf Adler would consist of the following:

Still trying to figure out how you managed to accomplish it in the first place because it was the quickest slow-burn situation you've ever been in.

In fact, you don't even put a name on what you two have. You just... are? Yeah. You just... are. Together.

Finally getting the courage to ask him how he got his scars. "Ever had someone fight over you before?" ...What?

Snark and sarcasm galore. If y'all ever thought the likes of Ghost or Graves were snarky, sarcastic, and/or sassy, this bastard has them beat. By miles.

Adler showing rather than telling you how much he cares for you. May or may not be unorthodox. Depending.

Realizing that, profession aside, he's also grumpy just to be grumpy.

Him shooting you a look when you tell him he looks like a rugged Robert Redford.

Speaking of looks, Adler also shoots you another one when you start to call him Russ or Robby (because of Robert Redford) but he responds to them anyway.

Adler remarking about how you love to wear his leather coats (because they're badass, especially the red one) but he doesn't do anything to discourage it. If anything, his sarcastic quip is his way of telling you to wear them. Yeah, put the damn coat on.

The same thing applies to his shades that you like wearing so much. He bought you a pair but you insist on wearing the ones he wears. Great.

Finding out that he may or may not have a pet name for you. He'll never reveal it so quit asking.

Getting this feeling that he's always watching you. That's probably because he is. Because he likes what he sees.

Realizing that Adler is more attuned to you, your wants, and your needs than you thought. In fact, this man knows your daily routine more than you know your daily routine sometimes.

Adler not being big on PDA and if it does happen, it's pretty understated and subtle.

[cuubism]

Rock Paper Scissors

Dreamling | Pre-Slash | 5.7k | AO3

Dream suddenly gripped the lapels of Hob's jacket with a startling fervor, arms stretched across the tabletop. His gaze bore into Hob's. "I beg, allow me to represent you instead." "Now what kind of man would I be if I let others fight my battles?" Hob said, prying his fingers off before his endless grip tore through the fabric. "Hard as it may be to believe, I'm actually not a bad hand at chess. Don't worry about me." "I do not find that hard to believe. However, as I have said, this is not chess. It is an intimate and punishing battle of minds." "Alright, so it's like Go Fish."

Hob gets challenged to a duel. Too bad his opponent has it out for Dream, and has no intention of playing fair.

--

the first fic I ever started writing for Dreamling a year and a half ago, then forgot about! 😂 then randomly decided to finish.

--

“ROBERT GADLING,” yelled an individual Hob had never met before in his life, “I hereby challenge you to a duel!”

Hob squinted at him. Said individual was standing across the darkened street, dressed strangely in a white tunic flecked with gold. Then again, Hob’s barometer for strange was a bit different than what was normal, so who was he to say, really.

“What?” he said.

Suddenly this person was much closer to him. Hob flinched back, but couldn’t move much, close as he was to the pub door. “We have business,” hissed his pale-suited challenger. It was a masculine figure, blond hair swished to one side, eyes like fire. 

Hob wasn’t impressed. He’d seen worse. Better, too.

“Listen, mate,” he said, “I don’t really have time for this. I’ve already got something on the books tonight. Come back tomorrow.”

He started to walk through the doorway, but the… creature?—he didn’t think it was human—grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “We have business,” it repeated.

Hob tried to shake off its hand, but its grip was like hot iron. It seared through his jacket and burned his skin. 

“What business?” he snapped. “I’m certain we’ve never met before, and my memory is actually pretty good, long as it is.”

The creature smiled, more like a baring of teeth. “You have courted those who have harmed me—and my ilk.”

“Not clearing it up at all.”

There was a sound like the swishing of a thousand ghosts, and then Dream was beside him.

Dream. How strange, still, to have a name, a history—well, sort of—to put to the face he’d circled back to over and over again for all these years. The name cut his friend into sharp relief—Hob’s shadow, finally united with the being who cast it. 

Where the pale stranger burned white-hot, Dream emanated cold. Hob had always found his friend’s cold aura strangely comforting. It didn’t feel dangerous and biting like the winter wind. Instead, it was the cold of lake water when one dove deep enough, a subtle and quiet draw to the otherworldly. 

Well. Usually it didn’t feel dangerous. Right now, it felt positively hypothermic.

Dream’s presence chilled the air until the stranger was forced to yank his hand away from Hob’s arm, shaking it out with a hiss. Hob’s breath fogged the air in front of his face, never mind that it was summer.

“Phaethon,” Dream hissed on one long, cold breath. “You are not wanted here.”

Phaethon pulled himself up haughtily. “I can go as I please. Night, or no night.”

“You may test that theory if you wish.”

Phaethon faltered, just a bit, before recovering himself. “I am here only to deliver a message. I challenge you, Robert Gadling, to a duel.” His blazing eyes flickered over to Hob, then back to Dream. “I did not believe you were one to violate the old rules of challenge, Lord of Dreams.” 

He bowed slightly. It felt mocking, which rankled Hob, who’d otherwise been keeping his cool. 

“Are you going to explain what this is about?” he said, for the third time. “I don’t appreciate being accused of things I haven’t done.”

Instead of answering, Phaethon said, “I’ve uncovered your history. There’s quite a lot of it, isn’t there? I wager it could make quite a bit of trouble for you, having all of that information turned over to certain parties. Human authorities. Occultists. Vampire hunters, they’ll love you–”

“I’m not a vampire,” Hob snapped.

“Doesn’t matter. Point is, we can do that, or, you can choose to face me directly.”

“What do you seek to gain from the challenge?” demanded Dream. He seemed to know more about what was going on here than Hob, which wasn’t comforting. Hob didn’t particularly want to get drawn into some kind of immortal creature game with obscure rules he’d end up tripping over.

Phaethon’s grin emerged one tooth at a time. “I want… your dreams.”

Hob probably should have been more troubled by this. Instead, he just frowned in confusion. “Not sure that’s in your power, mate. You’re aware who you’re talking to?”

He didn’t need to gesture to Dream looming over his shoulder.

“If you agree to the terms,” said Phaethon, a hiss like lava dripping over stone, “then the magic will bind us.” 

Dream didn’t contradict him, but his anger cooled the air until Hob felt like he was standing atop a glacier.

“I think I’ll pass,” Hob told Phaethon. “Feel free to try to reveal me. I’m good at disappearing.” 

He turned to go—

“Lord Morpheus.” Phaethon turned the beam of his gaze on him, sunlight ricocheting off ice. “Will you stand in his stead?”

Hob grit his teeth and, against his better judgment, turned back around. “Don’t bring him into this. Look, if I win your challenge, what do I get in return?”

“You may request whatever you like,” said Dream. “Such are the terms of the agreement.”

“Fine. If I win, then I want this: you never speak to or of me again. That means no threatening me, no using me to threaten anyone else, no telling anyone about me—nothing. Got it?” God, Hob just wanted to go inside and have a beer.

Phaethon gave him a little bow. “Fair enough. I accept the terms of this challenge.” 

Dream seemed aggravated; a trickle of energy, like black lightning, scurried up the back of his neck and disappeared into his hair. But he didn’t intervene.

Hob and Phaethon shook on it. Then Phaethon retreated into the shadows again, calling, “Tomorrow at midnight, Robert Gadling. I will see you then.” Then his eyes blinked out and he was gone.

Hob shuddered. Good riddance. He rather preferred his eldritch creature to that one, thanks very much.

“What was that?” he said.

Dream’s presence was warming again by small degrees. The atmosphere was now more like an industrial freezer than Antarctica. “A minor demigod.”

“Oh, minor. Alright then.” 

“They are occupied by petty troubles,” said Dream.

Hob looked at him out of the corner of his eye, but elected not to comment. 

“Come on,” he said instead, leading the way back toward the pub. “We’re supposed to be having an easy night of it, dammit!” He wasn’t about to let some minor demigod ruin his night. He never knew how many of them he would get with his friend.

Dream’s gaze lingered on the spot where Phaethon had disappeared, but eventually, like the sweeping of a long coat tail, he followed.

---

"So, a duel," Hob remarked as they sat down across from each other in the pub booth. "I admit, I haven't dueled anyone in a few centuries, but I can't imagine it'll be—”

"It is not what you are thinking of," Dream interrupted. He had folded himself into the booth seat like a stick insect trying to cram itself in a jar. It was an absurd image, the long black coat, the spindly arms on the tabletop. "It is not a fight of the physical form. It is a battle of the mind and will."

"You're going to have to elaborate."

"In such a challenge—” Dream began, but was interrupted by the arrival of a waitress, there to take their order.

"So, what can I get for you chaps?" she said brightly.

The idea of Dream being a chap was so hilarious Hob had to stifle a laugh. Yeah, maybe he wasn't taking the whole duel thing seriously enough. Oh well.

Hob ordered a beer and a plate of chips. When Dream showed no sign of speaking, he ordered for him, too.

“You can order whatever you like,” Hob told him, when the waitress had gone. “It is my pub and all.”

Dream picked up the laminated menu gingerly. It wobbled in his hands. He looked down at it with a flat expression.

Hob realized belatedly that he probably didn’t know what to order. How much had pub food changed since— God, 1910 or so? And it wasn’t like his friend would have had much time to peruse menus since, what with all he’d been up to.

“Just try the chips,” Hob said, taking the menu away from him. “We’ll see how far that gets you.” 

"I have no need of human food," Dream said, folding his hands back on the table.

“Sure, and I technically don’t need my left leg, either, but I do rather like having it.”

“You say strange things,” Dream murmured. “As I was telling you. In such a challenge—” 

The waitress returned with their drinks. Dream glowered at her. Hob thanked her brightly.

"So, you were saying?" he said, sipping his beer. "In such a challenge…?"

"In such a challenge—”

The waitress arrived again with their chips. Dream slammed his hands on the table, shaking the chips in their basket and making the waitress jump. 

"Sorry," Hob apologized, "we've had a bit of a day." Wasn't it always.

"In such a challenge," Dream continued when she had gone, in a tone that suggested he would not be stopped this time, "one must suggest a mind-form, which one's opponent will attempt to surmount and defeat. Then you attempt to defeat their new form, and so on until one challenger is victorious. It is… a predictive game, of sorts. If one can predict what one's opponent’s moves might be, one can choose forms to foil them. This can easily become complicated."

"So, it's like chess," Hob summarized.

Dream stiffened, lips pressing into an offended line. "It is not so simple as chess."

"Checkers?"

"It will not help you to think of it so." Dream took a chip and bit into it in irritation. "You just— oh." He stared at the chip. "These are quite pleasant."

"Can never go wrong with a good chip," said Hob, then furrowed his brows. "Haven't you had them in dreams before or something?"

"Presumably. It has been at least a century." 

Ah, yeah. That. "Well, they're frying them in veg oil instead of lard nowadays anyway. Kind of a different experience." 

Dream stared at him as if Hob made no sense whatsoever.

"Anyway," Hob continued, "am I even going to be able to create these mind-forms? I'm not exactly an otherworldly being." 

"The power is in you, though it may be more challenging to harness. And easier to let slip from your grasp. It is imagination, after all. Humans are good at imagination, though perhaps not so good at holding onto it."

"Hmm." Hob munched on a chip. "Okay. I'll work on my imagination." After seven hundred years or so of life, it was possibly a tool that needed some sharpening. 

"I admit it offends me greatly that Phaethon would presume to ask a human to fight in this way," said Dream. He suddenly gripped the lapels of Hob's jacket with a startling fervor, arms stretched across the tabletop. His gaze bore into Hob's. "I beg, allow me to represent you instead."

"Now what kind of man would I be if I let others fight my battles?" Hob said, prying his fingers off before his endless grip tore through the fabric. "Hard as it may be to believe, I'm actually not a bad hand at chess. Don't worry about me."

"I do not find that hard to believe. However, as I have said, this is not chess. It is an intimate and punishing battle of minds."

"Alright, so it's like Go Fish."

"Do not joke," Dream growled. Actually, he never truly growled. It was more like his voice dropped into a lower register than usual. Which was saying something. Hob interpreted it as a growl, though. "Do not joke when your existence is at stake. Your immortality cannot protect you from this." 

"Are you saying I'd be unmade if I lost?" Hob asked. It was a concerning thought, to say the least. It had been a long time since he'd had to concern himself with his own mortality.

Dream’s tongue ran over his lower lip. "Potentially. The terms of the fight do not state so, but I do not know how such a duel will affect a human. The strain of it may simply tear you to shreds. It nearly drained me, the last time I fought."

"Wait, you had a fight like this? Recently?"

Dream tilted his head, gaze paling in confusion. "I told you that I went to Hell to retrieve my helm." 

"Yeah, but you didn't tell me you had to mind-battle– who'd you mind-battle anyway?"

"The demon chose Lucifer Morningstar as his representative." Dream’s lip curled in distaste. "Hence, the near loss."

Hob looked at him in concern. "Are you alright, though?"

"Of course I am all right." He spoke it as two words, like the phrase had never before graced his tongue. Hob wanted to let out a long-suffering sigh, but managed to restrain himself. "I am Dream of the Endless."

"Mmhmm. Yep. Okay."

"You do not have to worry about me," Dream said stiffly, parroting Hob's words from before.

Hob thought that was evidently untrue, but decided not to mention the century of imprisonment or the multiple near-death experiences— could he die? Maybe it was more like multiple near-misses with eternal agony— since then. To preserve the relative peace of the moment. 

"So how'd you beat the devil, then?" he asked.

"I had everything to lose. Lucifer had nothing to lose, and only a paltry amusement to gain."

Was that an answer? Hob wasn't sure. 

"Okay," he said. "Well, I do have all of my dreams to lose, apparently. Plenty of incentive to win."

Ice crystallized along the rim of Dream’s glass, spreading from where his fingers pressed. “You speak as if you think I would ever allow this to happen.”

Hob raised an eyebrow. “I thought the magic was binding?”

“Only by honor.”

“And so… what would happen if you violated that honor?”

The words trickled out of Dream reluctantly. “One’s word would not be trusted again.”

“Right. Exactly. I can’t let you do that, love. There’s a whole eternity of words needing to be trusted after this.” It was tempting, honestly, to let his more powerful friend step in and handle this—especially as Hob still hadn’t gleaned what the hell he’d even done to piss off Phaethon—but ultimately, it wouldn’t be right. He’d never used Dream as a clean-up tool for any of his problems in the past, and he wasn’t about to start just because he now knew he was the Lord of Dreams.

Dream’s expression darkened further. He truly was capable of embodying shadow when he was annoyed; Hob didn’t know how he hadn’t figured out the extent of his supernaturalness sooner, honestly. “You would not let.”

“Hey. Come on. I’ve solved plenty of my own problems, haven’t I? Have a little faith.” Hob kind of wanted to pat his hand, but wasn’t sure it was a good idea. “You don’t think I can win a duel against this Phaethon guy?” 

Dream seemed uncertain about it, and Hob couldn’t help but feel a little offended. Sure, he wasn’t a supernatural entity, but Hob had gotten himself out of a fair number of scrapes, and without the help of any Endless, thanks very much! 

“His rancor disturbs me,” Dream said at last. “I do not know what you have done to offend him.”

“Nor I. Never met the guy.”

Dream seemed lost in contemplation. Hob let him, and kept eating the chips.

Eventually, Dream said, “Even if this loss did come to pass… you would always have a place in the Dreaming.”

Hob’s breathing stuttered. “With you?” he said, sounding much smaller than he’d expected. It was… an ill-considered response, to say the least. 

Dream shifted in his seat. “I am the Dreaming,” he said. “It is part of me, and I it.”

“I see,” said Hob. But the thought kept turning within him.

---

No more was said on the matter until their beers were drunk and their chips polished off and they were strolling out the door of the pub. 

As they crossed the threshold, Hob was struck by a realization. He slapped Dream on the breast of his coat, stopping him in his tracks.

"I'm an idiot! Of course it's not like chess. It's metaphysical rock-paper-scissors!"

"Are you intoxicated?" Dream asked wearily.

"Nope. Just happy to have my old friend around again."

Dream’s form, unbreakable as the darkness between stars, stuttered. Behind him, his shadow wavered.

Then he swept away, leaving Hob to catch up. 

---

They met again on the field of battle, so to speak.

Phaethon was there before them, melodramatic in his white-and-gold cape. Not as melodramatic as Dream, though, whose eyeliner seemed darker than usual, somehow, and whose cloak swept all the way to the ground, pooling more like liquid than fabric. He was very displeased about these events, Hob could tell.

Hob shook Phaethon’s hand formally. Once again, the touch burned him, but he resisted the urge to shake his hand out in pain. Then they stood across from each other. Hob wished he had a sword, but that was not this game.

"As the challenged party, you commence the duel," Dream told him, standing not far from Hob’s side as Phaethon paced before them, grinning. "You may choose your form and begin."

Hob had thought long and hard about how he would start. He didn't want to go too big, else the fight escalate beyond his control. Obviously, he didn't want to pick something weak either.

What was out there that had tormented mankind, sowing destruction, breeding fear and illness and death, while barely reaching higher than an ankle? 

Hob had lived through it. The choice was obvious.

"I am a plague rat," he started, and saw Dream’s eyebrows twitch. Impressed. Ha! "Hiding in shadows. Letting sickness into our food, homes, blood."

He saw the rats in his mind. Scurrying through tunnels, climbing into grain stores, unaware of what they carried. A seething mass of tails and slick fur and beady eyes, churning, churning, churning. 

Phaethon curled in on himself, limbs creaking, boils popping on his skin and pus leaking from his eyes. Hob flinched at the reminder of those times. Horrible, horrible times.

Mentally, Hob prepared for the counterattack. Paper beats rock. What beats rat? Dog beats rat. Cat beats rat. Famine, extermination fumes, plague doctors, modern medicine—

"I," Phaethon ground out, through the contortions of his body, "am a flood."

Oof. Good one.

"A swelling, raging river, decimating any town in my path. Washing rats down to their deaths." 

A phantom wave smacked Hob in the face and hurled him to the ground. It crashed over him, gallons and gallons of water, surging up his nose, into his eyes, down his throat. He choked on it. He drowned in it. Debris in the floodwaters bruised him till he felt like a branch spinning out in the current, rather than a human.

Then. He managed to take in a breath.

He staggered to his feet.

Dream was standing a step closer, like he'd lurched forward, but he forced himself back into stillness.

"I," Hob said on a gasping breath, pushing wet hair out of his eyes, "am a drought." Phaethon had taken it to another level? Fine. Hob would go scorched earth. "Whisking away all your water. Turning everything into dust."

Phaethon choked, throat suddenly dry. His eyes went bloodshot. His skin flaked and peeled, his lips bled. He clutched at his stomach as it heaved for water.

He could go rain again, Hob thought. Or ice age. Asteroid. Biblical flood—does that count if he already did a regular flood?

"I am famine," said Phaethon, when he'd recovered himself, though he was still rasping. "I wither crops without water. I starve everything that walks."

Hob's stomach caved in on itself. He fell to his knees, retching nothing but bile. His mind flashed back to his decades on the streets, so long without food he'd thought his stomach would start eating itself—and then it had. 

His arms shook. His body felt thin and liable to crack. 

"I," he croaked, still on all fours, "am an oasis. Rising from the desert, real, not a mirage. Offering reprieve." 

Too late, he realized this might restore his opponent. 

But instead, Phaethon creased and cracked, like he was the famine, persecuted by salvation. He clasped his stomach as if it was overfull; water poured from his mouth.

Water filled Hob's mouth, too, but it restored him. He climbed back to his feet.

Dream was definitely closer now. He wasn't imagining it. Still, he didn't intervene.

Phaethon was visibly weakened, but still he said, "I am selfishness. Infighting over limited resources. Society destroying its oasis."

Hob's limbs were torn in opposite directions. He yelled, but the invisible hands on him didn't let up, yanking at him like he was the final piece of food before everlasting deprivation. He pulled at them, but it was no use.

One of his shoulders dislocated with a loud pop, and he bit down on his tongue so as not to scream. Blood exploded in his mouth.

"I am generosity!" he yelled, blood dripping over his lips. "I am brother sharing with brother. Stranger sharing with stranger."

Dream was looking at him now like he didn't know what to make of him. Phaethon, too, was staring at him, but with a look of disgust. 

"High-minded idealist, are you?" he sneered. "What the hell is generosity going to—”

His expression broke in half. His hands shook; he picked at his nail beds until they peeled and started bleeding. His lip wavered and his eyes beaded with tears.

Hob didn't know what was happening to him.

"Shame," Dream breathed from behind him. "So clever, Hob."

Hob hadn't actually known what generosity would do, but he appreciated the compliment nonetheless.

"I," croaked Phaethon, through tears, "am memory. History and anger curdled to a resentment which no generosity can overcome."

He felt Dream’s eyes on him, as he no doubt feared the anger, the resentment he so believed that Hob held over his absence would surge forth again. But it did not, for Hob had never been angry with Dream. Angry with himself, yes, and that he felt acutely, along with the fear and hurt of Dream walking away, the stewing guilt of it.

Memory held more than anger. Mostly, for Hob, it held grief. Grief for his friend who'd been imprisoned for so long, while Hob went about his life, imagining him lonely, isolated perhaps, but never knowing the truth. Grief for himself, too, for he knew that to always blame himself for Dream’s behavior had also been unfair. 

Tears slipped from his eyes. He looked over at Dream, who was still watching him warily.

Memory had far too many facets for Phaethon to use it as an effective weapon.

"I am forgiveness," Hob said, closing his eyes against a fresh welling of tears. He didn't know who he was forgiving. Himself, or Dream, who still seemed to need absolution from Hob, no matter how Hob told him he didn’t.

"I am hatred!" Phaethon snarled. His voice had gone animalistic in a last ditch effort to come out on top. But forgiveness clanged around him, pulling tears from his eyes, undermining his viciousness. "I am division even forgiveness cannot mend."

Just like that, he opened up the path for Hob to take his king. Checkmate. Game over. Rock paper scissors shoot.

"I am love," Hob said quietly, even as a sob caught in his throat as the memory of all the hate he'd witnessed in his life, the hate he'd participated in, and the fear, long-held, that even Dream might hate him, for his wrongs, or for overstepping, pulsed back to the forefront. He could never hate Dream, though. No matter what.

"Love can be easily destroyed," snapped Phaethon, but he was wavering. 

"But it always comes back," said Hob. Unwitting, he looked over his shoulder at Dream.

His friend was already looking directly at him. That tinge of red, so terrible and familiar now, was back along his eyes. He didn't speak, not to Hob. Hob followed his gaze as he looked over Hob's shoulder and spoke to Phaethon.

"Do you have a counter?"

"Love?" Phaethon laughed hysterically. "You brought love to a duel?"

"I believe Hob brings love everywhere he goes," said Dream, and Hob whipped back around to look at him, eyes wide. The tiniest smile was dancing on Dream’s lips.

Then a blade erupted from Hob's chest.

Blood sprayed. His heart stopped beating—actually stopped, he felt it. The sword had pierced right through it. He scrabbled for it with clumsy hands, but the blade shiiiinged back out before he could grab it. 

Blood spattered Dream’s face. Those pretty lips parted, eyes widened, the lordly bearing wiped from his expression leaving only a person, shocked and wounded. Hob would never forget that look of startled horror for as long as he lived. 

Which wasn't looking to be that long.

He fell to his knees, blood pouring from his chest. No use trying to stop it. It would mend itself, in time, but that knowledge did nothing to stop the instinctive rush of fear. He was dying. He was dying.

He fell on his side. Blood soaked his shirt. All told, it took maybe ten seconds after getting speared like a wild hog—

—for the world to completely blink out.

---

Hob's chest ached like a bitch when he woke. 

He was still on the ground, bloody mud around him, soaking his clothes. Oh. That was mud made from his blood. How horrifying. 

He opened his eyes in time to see Dream lifting Phaethon from the ground by his neck. His hand was a vice grip and Phaethon choked, scrabbling at his fingers for breath.

"TREACHERY," Dream snarled, louder than Hob had ever heard him. His voice boomed across the empty park. "I will unmake you."

"I'm not one of your creatures, you can do nothing to me," said Phaethon, but his assuredness flickered.

Dream’s being was a black hole eating light. "Watch it happen."

Hob coughed, dirt trapped in his throat, and shoved himself up on his forearms. Dream froze, and turned slowly to look at him, Phaethon still clasped in his hand like he weighed nothing. Dream’s attention was like being in the path of a comet.

"Hob," he said. "Are you alright?"

Hob knew, in that moment, that if he asked Dream to spare Phaethon from whatever fate he had in mind for him, he would comply. And what power that was. Hob didn't want to be the one doling out mercy or punishment, like a judge at the gates of Hell. But damn if it wasn't a thrill to have Dream look at him like that.

"Of course I'm all right," he said, with a bloody grin. "I'm Hob Gadling."

Dream smiled too, a ferocious smile, like that of a wolf.

Hob didn't tell him to spare Phaethon.

Apparently, they both had some savagery in them.

---

"So why did he kill me?" Hob asked later, when he'd showered all the blood off—God he loved modern showers—and they were both sitting at the kitchen table in his flat, drinking tea. Well, Hob was drinking tea. Dream was just kind of staring at it. "I mean, the cost of losing wasn't even that high. Not on his end, anyway."

"He was not interested in you at all," said Dream, still not looking at him. "I dragged the truth from him while you were… gone. This was all a ploy to get to me. To hurt me—indirectly, of course. Such a lower being could never hurt me directly."

"Wait." Hob tried to grapple with this. "You— are you saying I was like a kidnapped princess?" 

Dream frowned. "If you insist. The point is, he did not plan to let you walk away. By winning, or by killing you, whichever he could accomplish." 

"Damn. Maybe I should have let you fight for me."

"No. You represented yourself admirably. More than admirably. You won the challenge, fairly, and did not try to kill your opponent to do it." 

Praise from Dream always hit Hob somewhere deep. Possibly because Dream only said such things when he meant them. Possibly just because it was Dream saying them.

“Well, thanks for handling him in the end,” Hob said, instead of voicing that sentiment.

Dream nodded solemnly. “I would not allow such harm to befall you without interfering,” he said.

Hob took a sip of his tea to avoid showing how he felt about that quite so obviously on his face.

“Why did he want to hurt you, then?” he asked instead.

“He is the child of a sun deity,” said Dream.

“And… that… means…?”

“Sunlight chases away dreams. We are natural enemies.”

Hob frowned. “What about daydreams?” 

“Daydreams may take place during the daytime, but they exist in the darkness of the inner mind,” said Dream.

“Ahhhh.” Hob nodded sagely. Yeah, sure, that made sense. One hundred percent. Absolutely. “I don’t know, I feel like some dreams can survive in the daylight. Thrive, even.”

“Perhaps next time I have an altercation with a sun deity, I will call upon you,” Dream said, a bite of sarcasm in it. “To see if you can banish them with this mindset.”

“Don’t give me that cheek,” Hob admonished. Dream’s mouth popped open in offense, but Hob plowed on, “Just have an open mind about it, that’s all I’m saying. Who knows, maybe you guys are in a symbiotic relationship or something, instead of enemies. You help people see what could be possible, and they balance it with reality.”

Dream was silent for a moment, thinking. “Perhaps,” he said at last. “But I do not think approaching them in this manner will serve me well, at the moment.”

“Maybe not if they’re going around attacking you,” Hob conceded, and Dream cracked a small smile.

Sun deities, Hob thought. Really, life was full of such strange and interesting things.

“So when you went to Hell,” Hob started. Dream tilted his head, but didn’t seem thrown by the change in subject. “What did you wager in exchange for your helm? The game makes you wager something, right?”

“It was the demon who chose the other side of the wager,” said Dream. “He demanded I remain in Hell and serve him for eternity, if I lost.”

Hob was glad he’d put down his tea, as he’d probably have dropped it. “What? Was the helm really worth that risk?”

Dream leaned back in his chair, lips pressed tight in offense. Or maybe hurt. “I am nothing without my tools of office,” he said.

“That is not true,” said Hob, surprised by his own vehemence. Nothing? He thought he was nothing?

“I could not have restored the Dreaming without them,” Dream insisted.

“Okay, fine. They’re important for your job. But that doesn’t mean you’re nothing without them.” Hob went to lay his hand over Dream’s on the table, hesitated, then decided, fuck it. Dream started when their skin touched, but didn’t move away. Hob repeated his words, with even more emphasis this time. “You’re not nothing.”

Dream met his gaze, challenging. Hob didn’t back down.

“As you wish,” Dream finally said. Which wasn’t actually an agreement. “I can concede that the ruby breaking was ultimately beneficial to my power. But the helm is my symbol of office. To leave it in the possession of a demon is a continual humiliation to my realm and station.”

“Okay, I’m hearing you,” Hob said. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Dream should be able to get his helm back. But he didn’t want Dream to risk horrible punishment for the sake of his pride. Better to slink away alive to try again another day, or so Hob felt. That wasn’t Dream, though.

“Just be careful, okay?” he said. “Even if you lost your helm and everything, and everyone in Hell thought you were pathetic—which, by the way, not sure Hell’s opinion is worth much anyway? but that aside—I’d still rather have you here than the alternative.” He threw Dream a smile, hoping he didn’t take offense to the idea that he could possibly be pathetic. “It wasn’t ‘The King of Dreams and Nightmares, et cetera’ that I missed for all those years, you know?”

“You did not know who I was, then,” Dream pointed out, but he seemed contemplative.

“I liked who I did know,” Hob said. “My friend.”

“Your friend,” repeated Dream slowly. Finally, he did pick up his tea, and took a sip. “A powerful title indeed, if you would have me when it is the only one I carry.”

“If you say so,” Hob said, which brought a small smile to Dream’s lips. If Dream wanted to think of it as a title akin to his kingship and endlessness and whatnot, then Hob would bestow it on him with gladness, and with a warm sense of honor that nestled right in his heart.

“It is…” Dream added, at length, “a meaningful title. To me.”

Rare, those expressions of feeling from Dream. Hob couldn’t help but to bask in them like a cat in a sunbeam. He remembered how Dream had looked at him during the duel. Love always comes back. Worth it, all the strife, to see Dream look at him like that, he thought.

“You defended me,” Dream said. “To prevent me taking the duel in your place. To protect me when it was not warranted.”

Wasn’t warranted. Hob really wished Dream would just learn to let Hob care for him.

"Would have even if I'd known it was you he truly wanted," he said. “I missed my friend for long enough. Wasn’t going to let something happen again when I could get in the way of it.”

“Your friend,” Dream said again. As if savoring the words. His lips tipped up again in a small smile. One just for himself.

Hob squeezed his hand on the table. A grounding touch, a reminder. “And don’t forget it.”

Dream turned his hand over on the table, and squeezed back.

[biahouse]

Waiting for your love, Robert Chase x Reader

When House's first team disbanded entirely, you were hired to help the doctor with the paperwork. After a few years you finally meet the famous Robert Chase, unfortunately not on the best terms.

When you started working with the infamous Doctor House, you didn't know that your life would change overnight.

He was a peculiar man, not to say crazy, but he was an excellent doctor and over time you got used to the man's crazy mind. You knew the names of the doctors who were part of House's infamous first team.

Eric Forman. The man who had returned to the team a few months after leaving and who you had the pleasure of calling your friend.

Alison Cameron. Certainly one of the kindest and bravest women in the world, according to Erick's far from impartial opinions and some subtle comments from House.

And Robert Chase. You had never met the man at any point. It seemed like the universe never put you in the same room together, every time House needed him for a case, somehow you weren't working at the time. But it wasn't uncommon to hear House talking about Chase.

Out of all three of the original doctors, you were pretty sure Chase was the mayor of Gregory.

When House went to a psychiatric clinic because of his Vicodin addiction, you were forced to look for a new job with great reluctance.

You had gotten used to that crazy life in the hospital. Managing documents that House refused to do, the nights out with Thirteen, the jokes in the office, the jokes with Taub.

So the moment Cuddy said House would be returning to the hospital, you didn't think twice about returning to your old position.

Things had changed. It was clear. House no longer wanted to be part of the diagnostics team and now Foreman was the head of the unit.

You tried to convince House to return to the department, and you ate a lot during that time, as the man was committed to his short culinary career. At the end of it all, House came back.

He hated work, but he hated being without it even more. But everything was different once again.

Taub resigned. Foreman fired Thirteen. And now Cameron and Chase were back on the team.

You clearly remembered the moment you were sitting next to House helping him with the patient's medical file and the two doctors entered the room.

You jumped up, observing the two blondes in the room. It was a weird performance and you hated yourself forever.

Meeting Alisson was an honor for you. I knew what an incredible doctor she was. But she felt horrible as soon as she looked at her husband and saw the most perfect man on earth.

Chase was beautiful.

You blushed when you shook his hand and even more so when he greeted you with his Australian accent.

During the entire affair, which took more out of you than anyone else because of all the legal protocols, you somehow ended up becoming very good friends with the MARRIED man (you had to remember) who you had developed a crush on since the first time House described it.

When Dibala passed away, Chase secretly admitted to you that it was his fault. Even though he didn't know you, Chase trusted you more than his own wife.

And that was wrong, but it gave you hope that you knew you shouldn't have. Soon it became the secret between you and Foreman later on.

When it became too much to lie to Cameron, Chase would come to you. So you chatted like old friends at a bar and regularly played bowling to relieve the stress of the secret.

When he finally told Alisson, their friendship didn't change. You were still a confidant to him.

When things in their marriage got complicated, you supported him.

But that was it for him. A friend. A support. And for you it was everything. If you had seen the signs back then things might have been different.

•••

The night Cameron went to the hospital to get Chase to sign the divorce agreement was when everything changed.

Chase desperately wanted to talk to his ex-wife about what went wrong between them, but Cameron was adamant and just made him sign the papers.

He was a wreck and immediately ran to you.

When the entire hospital went into lockdown due to a missing baby, you and Chase got together in House's office and got drunk.

He complained about everything and told you about everything. And you listened carefully. You blamed the alcohol, but somehow you knew you were sober enough not to get into that situation.

That was the first night you slept with Chase.

•••

_ It became a habit.

Almost every night was spent in your apartment.

Chase's hands running all over your body.

His mouth on yours.

His teasing voice in your ear.

The bed hitting the wall.

A vicious habit that you loved more than anything.

It was even funny when you watched him sleep next to you and remember that his relationship with Cameron had started like that, a relationship of benefit.

You wondered if you could be dumber than that. Pretending to sleep every time he left your apartment in the middle of the night. And crying softly hoping that at least once he would stay.

But it was just that, sex.

You wouldn't pressure him, not after all. You couldn't. But I couldn't leave that either.

You preferred just the pleasure you could feel than begging for love you knew you couldn't receive from him.

It was destructive.

But you just couldn't help but love Robert Chase and hope that at some point he would love you back.

[carelessflower]

malec beauty and the beast-esque

just one to draw attention to this subtle scene in the red scrolls of magic that honestly doesn't get appreciated enough

first, it's the perfect setup for later events in trsom when magnus gets confronted with his past, through the cult, shiyun, and asmodeus, and finds that his past doesn't define who he is or who he can love. it's just the past.

and this is still in line to be one of the funniest and most outta pocket things magnus ever thought up. like dude robert threw a knife to your head 20 years ago and now he's not that bad cause you're horrifically gone for his son? lmaooo

then saying without love miracle could never come and literally follows it up by kissing alec hand and saying robert couldn't be that much of a monster if he raises alec. alec is literally the miracle harbored by love from a potential monster. to magnus, alec is his one in a lifetime miracle

also if u think about the fact that magnus sees himself as the demon offspring of asmodeus and how he killed his stepdad and made his mother kill herself. he thinks of himself as a monster that ruins everything. and yet, here he said, if a monster love something, someone enough, a being so pure and full of goodness, they couldn't be that much of monster after all. if a monster met his miracle, maybe there's hope

[steventhusiast]

STWG daily prompt 14/9/23

prompt: "You know what? It's not me, it's you."

pairing/character(s): steddie

-

Steve tries to ignore his father's irritated gaze as he eats his food. Bringing Eddie to a rare dinner with his parents was definitely a bold move, but he knows that if Eddie wasn't here he wouldn't survive it. Steve could barely force himself to come back to Hawkins for it, but his mother had guilted him into it.

It's so hard to pretend not to be hurt when his parents ask him things that prove they know nothing about him. (Especially now that he's nearing thirty and has started thinking about having kids himself.) But it's easier with Eddie's hand on his knee, his thumb rubbing back and forth for comfort.

"Steven, I thought I told you this was a family dinner." Robert says, pointedly looking over at Eddie.

To his credit, Eddie looks very comfortable despite the uncomfortable situation. He's meeting Robert's eyes for the subtle glares, and hasn't toned himself down at all. Steve's so glad he's here.

"Yep. You did." Steve answers his father, voice clipped.

Robert rolls his eyes, and that's when Linda finally speaks up. She's nicer about things than Robert is, but it couldn't be more fake. She offers Eddie and Steve a very tense fake smile.

"I think what Robert's trying to say is that we didn't expect you to bring a friend, sweetheart."

This time Steve rolls his eyes. How many times does he have to come out to them for them to stop ignoring it.

"Eddie's not a friend, mom. You know this."

"Steven." Robert warns.

"No, dad. I'm fucking tired of it." Steve says with an incredulous laugh, and Eddie gives his knee a gentle squeeze to catch his gaze.

"It's okay, Stevie."

The sweet tone of Eddie's voice calms Steve a little, and he's about to take a deep breath when Robert slices through the sweet moment.

"Now you're letting him call you a girl's name? I can't believe what this miscreant is doing to you, Steven."

Eddie rolls his eyes at the comment, and from the set of his jaw Steve knows he's gritting his teeth to hold himself back.

"You used to be such a lovely boy, Steven. But if you're still... Adamant about this lifestyle, then I don't know if we can support it. It's very unreasonable and irresponsible of you." Linda adds on.

Steve laughs again at the insinuation that they've ever supported him at all, and lifts a hand to run through his hair as he thinks through his next words.

"No, mom. You know what? It's not me that's being an unreasonable piece of shit here. It's you two. You practically dragged me back to this shithole because you're 'grieving' grandma. I didn't want to come. I don't want to be here right now. But I am. And you're just..." He trails off and makes a vague gesture to the two of them.

Linda's mouth has dropped open from her own son swearing at her, and Robert's face is twisted into an expression of anger. Steve doesn't know why he thought this was anywhere close to a good idea.

"I mean what is this? Why am I here? I am twenty nine years old, and I will not sit here and listen to you talk to the man I love like this."

He makes direct eye contact with Robert as he speaks, not softening his glare at all. If his parents are going to drop the facade of respect, so is he. In fact, after glaring at his parents for a few seconds, he just gets up, grabs Eddie's hand, and pulls him toward the door.

"Fuck this." He mutters as they leave.

"That sucked." Eddie comments once they're in their car, and Steve huffs out a strained laugh as he nods. Now that they're out of that situation, and his adrenaline is starting to crash, inexplicable tears are starting to well in his eyes, "But you have also never been hotter. Standing up to the man like that? Most elaborate foreplay ever, Stevie-bee."

And then the ridiculousness of that comment shocks a laugh out of him, and the tears are gone. He grins over at Eddie and shakes his head at how Eddie's clearly holding back his own laughter.

God, he loves him.