#compartment number 6

[filmap]

Hytti nro 6 / Compartment Number 6 Juho Kuosmanen. 2022

Pit Mine Kovdor, Ковдор, Múrmansk Oblast See in map

See in imdb

[leflaneurbrutalistedefees]

*It is better to have loved and suffer than to have never loved at all* he repeats to himself, crying uncontrollably

[tctmp]

Drama  Romance

[julymusings]

you're good to me, baby

with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet, like the ashes of ash i saw rise in the heat. settle soft and as pure as snow, i fell in love with the fire long ago.

or; because the red hood bleeding onto your living room carpet is exactly what you need right now [3.6k]

Jason Todd x fem!reader; based on this lovely ask; ngl this turned into a personal vent jason doesn't show up until 1k words in LMAO; warning there’s blood (duh) and reader is suggested to have heavy anxiety; pre-established relationship where reader doesn’t know his identity + muzzle red hood bc HOT

Compartmentalize. Create baskets in your mind. Analyze the situation, and drop the corresponding emotion in the appropriate basket.

One: You had a fight with your best friend. She called you selfish because you weren’t enthusiastic about her new relationship. She just can’t seem to understand that no matter how happy you want to be for her, it’s painful to see everyone find safety in another person when you can’t. Every attempt at romance is squashed by something or the other that you keep doing wrong. I thought you were hot, your latest dating attempt had said when you ran into him and asked why he never texted back. But you’re kind of a lot. Not something I have the space for right now, you know?

Two: There’s an important presentation today, one that could determine the fate of your position in the company. Your coworker, the one who’s convinced you stole his promotion (he just flirted with the higher-ups while you actually completed the requirements), refuses to let you forget how much is at stake. All it takes is one misstep, one stutter, one hesitation, and he will take it as an excuse to demand your demotion— or worse, termination. You’ve been preparing for this presentation for three weeks. If after all that effort it’s still not good enough, maybe you should be fired.

The emotions here? Frustration. Anger. Exhaustion. Jealousy. Just to name a few. But there’s no time to dwell on anxieties right now, so you shove those thoughts aside. Drop them in their compartments and move on because, after all, if you can strip them down to their bones and find where they stem, you can yank those anxieties from the ground before they have the chance to root. And then there’s no need for unnecessary heartache, right?

(Who cares if the baskets are overflowing, crumpled fragments spilling over the sides like garbage in a landfill? Who cares if the room of your mind is so packed that you’re pressed against the wall and breathing becomes painful.)

The digital clock beside your bed reads 6:12. The numbers blink in and out of the window, their red dots and dashes taunting your heavy eyelids. You still have forty-eight minutes of peace before it will scare you awake. Its beeping will ring so loud and angry that the adrenaline from the startle will power you through your morning routine, and your beating heart won’t dare still to entertain wishes of just five more minutes. 6:13 now. You have forty-seven more minutes of peace, minutes which should be spent sleeping, giving your poor brain a break from itself. But you can’t. Every time you close your eyes and begin to sink below the level of consciousness, your heart pumps a house-special cocktail of cortisol that laces through your bloodstream and convinces you that if you fall asleep you will miss your presentation and you will get fired. The off-grid escape plan formulating in your head switches from hypothetical to tentative when your neighbors, apparently awoken to lust as well as tired by it, start going at it again. You want nothing more than to bang on their door and scream obscenities until they hate each other enough to never touch again, but you resign yourself to consciousness, giving up on the dream of what would now be forty-four more minutes of sleep. 

It’s Friday morning; only one more day to get through before the sweet release of the weekend finds you. (The whole weekend will be spent contemplating the start of a project, feeling like two days is not nearly long enough to complete anything, and dreading Monday until it finds you with nothing done and the same, endless cycle awaiting.)

After completing your morning routine 44 minutes early, you use the spare time to go through your presentation once more, just for good luck, wrapping up the third run-through just in time to hear your alarm to leave for work.

The presentation goes decent, at least well enough to quell any doubts about your ability to do your job. Your coworker ate his words for sure, and you might have enjoyed the look on his face had you not mentally checked out as soon as you finished your closing remarks. Rush hour traffic has the ice cream tub you bought at the convenience store dripping condensation all over the passenger’s seat and your hips hurt from being in the same sitting position for most of the day, but you remind yourself that peace is only a few miles out. Stopped at yet another red light, your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Breathe in. Breathe out. The line of cars starts to move forward.

When you get home, your frustration is close to boiling over. You kick off your shoes right at the door, your keys and bag following close behind.

Far be it from you to break down on the floor in the middle of the room, the plan begins to formulate. There’s a box of tissues on your desk– that can go on the nightstand, along with two of the chilled water bottles you keep in the fridge for after you work out. And you’ll need something for the tissues, right? The small wastebasket from the bathroom should be fine. You drag it over to the side of your bed, sitting in your usual spot to make sure you placed it at a reachable distance. You won’t want to get out of bed to wash your face after this, so a washcloth should go next to the tissues. And an extra one, just to be safe.

You keep a set of comfortable clothes ready, the nicest, softest pajamas you own that you only wear after an everything shower. This shower, however, is a quick one, not much more than a few minutes under scalding water to comfort you, if nothing else. The light pink pajamas are a high-quality cotton and you feel like you’re in the clouds when you slip into them. Remaining is the ice cream, which you set out on the counter right before your shower so it would thaw just enough to be soft but not melted, With everything in your room ready, you go to retrieve the ice cream but stop with a startle when you round the corner.

“Jesus,” you mumble.

He’s just sitting there, doing nothing except bleeding out on your cream-colored carpet. He’s spread out on the couch like he owns the place, head leaned back against the wall as he lets his injured arm hang over the armrest and drip blood and dirt onto your cream-colored rug. The liquid seeps into the expensive wool, staining it with reddish-brown hues and the scent of iron, and he doesn’t even notice.

“Hey.” The Red Hood lifts his head when he sees you.

On any other day, you’d be quick to action, hauling him up off the couch and sprinting for the first aid kit under the bathroom sink. Today, your arms are too heavy and your gaze remains rooted on the widening splotch of red against white. Your throat feels dry. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.”

He peers over the armrest. “Oh, shit,” he curses, lifting his arm to hover it over his lap. He sounds robotic through his muzzle mask. His hood, pulled down to reveal his thick black hair curling at the ends from humidity and sweat, rests on his back.

I don’t have time for this, is what you want to say. You want to scream it in his face and kick him out for having the audacity to think he can come and go as he pleases, that you’re nothing more than a drive-through emergency room who will drop everything if he gets so much as a paper cut. But you can’t say any of this, and you do want him to come to you whenever he needs help. God knows he won’t go anywhere else.

Holding back your heavy sigh, you wordlessly walk to the bathroom. He takes that as an invitation to follow. 

It’s clinical. Rehearsed. Neither of you speak. It’s a partnered dance long since committed to muscle memory, steps you can take in your sleep. He knows to seat himself on the step stool you got just for him, for nights like these. He knows where to find the first aid kit and which supplies to hand you first. You know the exact steps to follow. Check the palms for abrasions. Antiseptic to the lacerations. Concussion exam. 

Maybe he can sense the air of tension surrounding you, because he doesn’t say as much as he usually does (though, granted, it’s still not much). It’s a reflection of your dynamic several months earlier when this arrangement began, back before you’d managed to chip away at the surface of his rough exterior. You notice the way his fingers curl against his thighs when you, somewhat carelessly, wipe the dirt from his skin with more pressure than necessary and the way his eyebrows tilt inward when you work slower than usual. You notice, but you ignore it.

We both know you have at least a dozen people who could do this for you. The words echo in your mind. Don’t act like I owe you this. If anything, you owe me a new carpet. These are things you wish you could say, but never will. Being realistic, you’ll probably never be able to say things like this. You’ll be subjected to all the shitty coworkers and unsympathetic friends and exploitative vigilantes of the world for the rest of your life.

This isn’t his fault, you remind yourself, but still, your lips turn down and your jaw feels tight with the effort to keep your face still, to not burst into tears right on the spot. In the second it takes for you to calm yourself, your hands pause. He notices. He says nothing. 

It’s not until you’re finished with cleaning the blood from his arm wound and giving him a wad of gauze to hold against it that he tests the waters and asks, “Is it too bad?” 

He sounds automated, but over the last few months, you’ve learned a thing or two about reading even these robotic actions. There's a certain quietness to the beginning of his sentence like he’s debating if he should say it or not. 

“It’s fine,” you say, shortly. 

“Sorry about your rug,” he says. He tugs at the strap of his muzzle with one finger, rubbing at the skin underneath the leather. “I can get the stain out.”

You retrieve the needle and thread from the kit and don’t respond. You don’t even look at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, he continues. “It’s easy. You just need salt and—”

“Okay.”

He goes quiet.

You don’t mean to be so tetchy, but you don’t have the energy for anything more. Every little thing has you feeling on the edge of shattering. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

It’s when you’re kneeled at his side, staring into the gaping wound on his bicep and trying to thread the needle, fingers trembling from the chill of the tiled floor with nothing but a layer of thin cotton to keep you warm, that it happens. He shifts on the stool, a mere twitch in an attempt to get comfortable, but it brushes his bloody arm against yours. Flecks of fresh red on the light pink fabric. First your carpet, now your pajamas. Your favorite, special, extra soft matching cotton pajama set, a rare splurge after your promotion that stood out among old t-shirts and sweat shorts. Ruined. Again, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did I say something?” Hood asks. He waits for your response, but when none comes, he adds, “I’m sorry if I did.” He speaks so quietly you may not have been able to separate his words from the whirring filter of his mask, if not for the chilling silence of the bathroom floor. The insulating brick walls of your old apartment building are something you’re usually grateful for, but tonight you find yourself wishing for the city’s commotion to seep through the walls. Something, anything to buffer his proximity to you.

You hear his inhale as he prepares to say something else.

“Can you just let me work?” You snap before he has the chance to speak again. It’s loud, louder than you’d ever dream of speaking to him, and he flinches. Your eyes shut in apology, but only for a moment before you get back to it. He looks away. His feet point towards the door.

He wants to leave, you can tell, and you don’t blame him. You just messed everything up. But you started this, so now you have to finish it.

You sit in silence for the several minutes it takes for you to clean his wound and stop the bleeding.

He’s not looking at you, gaze transfixed ahead of him on a chip in the paint. At least, you assume. It’s difficult to guess what’s going on behind the milky white covering over his eyes. His subtle body language can be read if you pay close enough attention, you’ve learned, but that’s not something you care to do right now.

(Maybe you noticed in the back of your mind that he’s not exhibiting any body language since you snapped at him, but the compartment in your head for guilt is already overflowing, so maybe you didn’t notice it, you tell yourself.)

You stare at your sleeve, at the patches of blood blooming like ink blots. The red and pink hues blend together behind your blurring vision. You sniffle.

“Are you—” Hood starts. Because now he’s looking at you.

“Excuse me,” you say, pushing yourself off the ground and stumbling out of the room without so much as a glance back at him. You stagger into your room, needle and thread still in hand, and push the door closed. The lights are off, and the darkness is calming, quieting your buzzing thoughts. You close your eyes and lean against the door. Breathe in. Breathe out. You continue this exercise, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth to soothe your sympathetic nervous system, the same way a therapist instructed that one time you went. You wipe away the moisture that has collected in your eyes, roll out your stiff neck, dry your sweaty palms over your thighs. You toss the needle and thread aside, because they are definitely not sterile anymore, and take a few more breaths before opening the door and going back to the bathroom.

You avoid his face, following the lines of grimy grout between the tiles before resuming to your spot at his side. His inspecting eyes burn on the side of your face. You wipe down the forceps with a sterilizing wipe and rip open the plastic packaging for a new needle, holding it up to the wound, but your hand refuses to steady.

Another deep breath. Then another.

Hood sighs. It’s almost chastising. “I think I should go.”

“What?” You’re just surprised enough to be torn away from your thoughts and look him in the eye (mask) for the first time all night.

“You can’t do this,” he says, gruffly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll let you figure it out.”

You scoff. “Yes, I can. I’m fine.”

Before he can argue, you grab him by the wrist to hold him in place just as he starts moving to get up. He winces, but you keep your grip tight on him. You can feel his scrutiny through the cold, expressionless barrier of his disguise, practically track his pupils as they search your face.

You both pretend he couldn’t break from your hold in an instant if he wanted to.

“You’re shaking,” Hood says. His voice is much softer now.

You follow the turn of his head to your hand where it hovers the needle right over his skin. You are shaking. Trembling, in fact.

“No, I’m not.” It comes out as an empty whisper.

You focus all your strength on steadying yourself, but the harder you try to stabilize, the harder you tremor. Your other hand releases his wrist to clamp over your dominant hand and force it to stay in place. It guides the needle closer to the skin, but now your vision is blurring. You blink rapidly, but it’s not enough. The tears start falling. You look away from him, but a warm hand settles over yours. You don’t dare look at him, unable to bear showing him your shameful face, wet and blushing and screwed up in misery. You turn your face into your sleeve. Clamp your eyes shut tight, thinking maybe if you keep them closed, this darkness will swallow you up and he won’t be here anymore.

But the warmth of his skin on yours is the first feeling of softness, of relief you’ve felt in months, and then it’s gone. Your shoulders are shaking, quaking with the effort to keep your sobs quiet.

One finger ever so gently hooks around your chin, pulling it back up to face him. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see him see you like this, but the tears are still streaming. He brushes them away. Whether that makes it better or worse, you can’t be sure, because you cry even harder, snatching your face away from his grasp to muffle your sobs into the back of your hand. You don’t realize he’s pushed himself off his stool to sit cross-legged on the floor until you feel his hand circling your arm and pulling you closer. The tools in your hand clatter on the floor as your palms come up to press against his chest, fighting against him with half-hearted protests murmured through your cries. But even with only one good arm he’s too strong for you, and you’re pulled into him.

He’s so gentle with you, rubbing your back and resting his chin atop your head while you cry and cry and cry into his shirt. Several minutes pass like this, with your face buried in his chest and his good arm holding you tightly against him while the other dangles lamely at his side, throbbing with an intensity he’s trying to ignore.

When your sobs die down, and you’re sure you’re all cried out, you linger against him. He smells like smoke and gasoline, and his shirt is soft and warm from his body heat seeping through. His hand continues to stroke up and down the length of your back, even after you’ve quieted. The edge of his mask digs into your scalp where his chin sits, but it feels worth it. Your hands, still pressed to his chest, slide higher, completely of their own volition, out of a newfound desire to wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t hear it, but you can feel his sharp draw of breath, his chest rising quickly under your touch. Your hands lose their nerve at his clavicle as you hold your breath for fear of the smallest movement drawing attention to your forwardness. You wait for him to rebuff you, to lean away from your touch, or grab your wrists and pry them off. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. His chest finally falls.

Eyes opening, your thumb swipes over the edge of the red bat symbol just below his collarbone.

His movements pause, lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt for just a moment, before releasing it. “It’s alright,” he tells you.

You pull back from his chest to look at him, the way his cold and unfeeling expression stares back at you. You wonder from time to time what’s under the mask, but tonight the desire is overwhelming; you ache with the want to know what he looks like. The color of his eyes. What his mouth looks like when he winces over a deep cut or chuckles at one of your anecdotes. You wonder if his lips are soft or chapped. If he’d like it if you dragged your thumb across the bottom one.

The metallic odor spreading through the room brings you back to the present, and you hope the flush from your tears hides your cheeks’ growing heat when you realize where your mind had wandered. 

“Oh, fuck, your arm.” You speak in a watery voice, wiping at your face as the urgency returns to your senses. Though you try to move away, his firm hand on your back pulls you back in.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” He says, resuming his caresses up and down your back. “I can take care of it.”

“Then why do you even need me?” You sniffle with a small smile.

He stays silent. But when you search his face, waiting for an answer, his hand moves to your side, palm sliding a fraction of an inch closer to your waist and fingers tensing, you can almost see through the mechanical muzzle to the way his lips shape the words. At least, he wishes you could.

You know why.

this was lots of fun to write and thank u for your patience ik i said i was gonna "knock this out in a day" 2 weeks ago😬😬 also we're gonna pretend they aren't just letting his open wound marinate for half an hour when it should be getting stitched up bc it's fiction ok? everyone say thank you mostly-imagines for proofreading this😚

but anyway happy new year!! it's been barely 2 months but starting this account made my year so much better🫶🫶🫶and ty for 500 followers that's crazy🫣🫢

listen to the inspo song!!!

[wtfaniii]

Letters of destiny

● Summary: You entered the games for a reason, to pay for your husband's chemotherapy, there you meet someone who has a story quite similar to yours

● Note: This language is not my original language but I hope you like this one shot, I am open to recommendations and constructive criticism! <3

● Warning: Nothing, it's just a bit short since I'm not used to writing through this medium yet, but I hope you like it.

You didn't want to die, you had a man at home who adored you and was worried about you and you hoped to arrive with lots of money and a future resolved but the timer of the games only went backwards and you still couldn't find a group to join.

The carousel game had never been your strong suit, socializing was not your role but it was that or die, a group of 7 players and you were still standing there looking in all directions not knowing what to do until you felt someone pull your arm and in the blink of an eye you were in a compartment with 6 other people.

"Thank you..." The girl murmured, releasing the air she hadn't realized she had trapped in her lungs.

"It's nothing" answered player 456 also with accelerated breathing and taking gasps of air while he rested his hands on his knees, when the shots and screams were heard he looked through the half-open space of the door with sadness. You had already seen him, he was the one who guided them in the first game of green light and red light, the one who says he has already participated and won, maybe he tried to persuade people to withdraw from these games but he only encouraged you, it means that there is a chance to win.

"Thank you..." The young woman repeated, giving a slight bow to which he turned to look at her, confused, as did the rest of those who were there. "You motivated me to continue in these games."

You felt another look on you, only this one was full of curiosity and intensity. Without knowing it, you had said the same words as another person, only this time they were sincere.

"Are you crazy, women?" Another man shouted next to him, one with the number 390 "If what we want is for these games to end!"

You just stayed quiet with your eyes open, when your gaze moved towards the one who kept looking at you, you met with an intense and serious look, it made you shrink in your place just a little.

The door opened again and they all left together, happy to have been able to save their lives once again.

You were about to leave but before you could, one of them pulled you over with his arm around your shoulders with great confidence and shouted victoriously. "If we change her mind, we'll have another point in our favor!" he exclaimed, the number 388, pointing at the blue circle on your chest. "I don't understand."

"In the next vote, we want these games to end" said 456.

You remained silent again, not knowing what to answer. You didn't want to leave, or at least not yet. You wanted to gather more than enough money for your husband. Without realizing it, the same look as before fell on you.

[...]

There was a certain tension in the room, the participants had not yet voted but it was clear that the results would be almost even.

"My husband... has stage three lung cancer..." the woman murmured with her eyes downcast. "The doctors say that he can be cured, they would only remove the cancerous tumor but he would have to undergo several consultations and therapies that we cannot afford." The players surrounding her looked at her with pity and empathy. "I have already sold... many of our belongings, I have double shifts at work, I even mortgaged my house but it is not enough... and if I do not get enough money I will lose everything..." She did not even notice when the tears fell from her eyes without stopping.

It was horrible, most of them had debts but she would be left on the street and a widow if she did not get what she needed.

In-ho watched her silently as he bit his inner right cheek, the situation she was going through was not very different from the one he experienced, he knew that feeling of helplessness, of wanting to scream to the world how much he hated it for those cards of destiny "Does your husband know you came here?" he asked softly walking towards her to sit next to her.

She shook her head softly, wiping her tears with the sleeve of his jacket. "I just told him that I had found a way to get a lot of money." Now, that was cruel, even if she didn't achieve his goal and died on the way, her husband would think that she had abandoned him, along with his debts. "I want to go back home," she said after a few seconds of silence. "I think it's time to end this." She would vote to leave. The money they had so far was still not the amount they required, but it would be very helpful.

"You will get out of here," 001 said, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving her a slight closed-lip smile.

It was strange to feel that comforting and warm feeling from a stranger, but she was grateful for it. They say that eyes say more than words, and the look he gave her was one of genuine empathy.

As if he understood her in her current state of life.

"We'll get out of here," 456 now assured her with a nod.

Her knew them very little but without much hesitation her trusted them, even when Gi-hun told them about his plan on how to confront the guards and reach the people who led these games she agreed to help them, she needed the prize but not at the cost of more innocent deaths.

However, In-ho was not very happy about her following them, from the little he had read about her in her file he knew that she didn't hurt a fly, it would be useless to take her. Besides, the time to play in the yard was over, it was time to return to the command where he belonged and he didn't want the girl to be involved in this. But unfortunately for him he had no other option but to say "After you" as they left there being guided by the guard.

He was supposed to keep control over his emotions but it was inevitable, when he realized she was already too deep in his mind to let her die.

It was as if he had a chance to help his past self, that poor man who fell into misery being reflected by the young woman inexperienced in weapons who only sought to keep the love of her life alive.

It was an ironic and cruel letter from his destiny.

[saa-na]

how more train conductors don't write books is beyond me. how do you see so many characters every day without creating little stories in your head ...?

[daydreamkissesxo]

Father Charlie x reader| Sinner pt 6; Death is the only salvation

A/N; this is pure chaos and I am so sorry🫣

Mentions of murder, hospitals, medical terms, kidnapping, manipulation, swearing, blasphemy, dark dark themes (I hope I didn’t forget anything)

It had been seven months since you'd left with your daughter and Father Charlie was still no closer to locating you.

He'd heard from one of the sisters that your mother was just as distraught as she was the first time you'd gone missing, but he was in no position to comfort her this time.

The thought of losing you was painful, but the thought of losing his little girl was even worse.

He'd missed out on important milestones, her first smile or the first time she'd tried a delicious ice cream, he'd definitely missed out on hearing her first word.

He knew what he'd done to you was unforgivable, but he was an attentive father and your decision to kidnap his child was far more damaging than anything he'd ever done.

He'd often lay awake at night wondering where you were, whether another man had taken on the role of daddy to his darling girl.

Every spare minute he had was spent calling every motel in the next town and the town over from that, and despite there being no sighting of you, he never lost hope.

His desperation was so great he even considered leaving the church altogether so he could search for you in person, determined to search the ends of the earth if he had to.

It was a random call at 3am one morning that he'd finally gained information of your whereabouts, a motel owner that Father Charlie had once called and left a description of you with had claimed to have seen a young woman matching it.

Desperate to catch you before you'd inevitably move again, Father Charlie had made the decision to make the journey the very same hour.

The motel was a four hour drive away but he was determined to get there quicker, even if it meant endangering his life by dangerous driving.

He'd regretted not asking if anyone other than your daughter had accompanied you that night, the thought of any man sleeping beside you made him viciously angry but the thought of actually having to see it made him murderous.

While he was regretful of his actions, he was hopeful that they'd have at least ruined any chance of you ever trusting another man in your lifetime.

Father Charlie could tolerate most things in regards to your life after him, but replacement was never going to be one of them.

Father Charlie had arrived at the roadside motel at 6:45am exactly, it wasn't a place you'd take a child but in desperation it would suit anyone's needs.

The run down building and the shady characters that hung around outside were clear signs it was accommodating to all, it left him somewhat concerned about the conditions his dear daughter would be staying in.

He quickly retrieved a cash filled envelope from the glove compartment before slipping it into his coat's inner pocket and exiting the car.

He carefully stepped over the drunken man slumped in the doorway of the dingy motel before entering, the strong stench of alcohol lingering in the reception area was headache inducing.

"You here about that woman and her kid?" A man asked from behind the desk, he looked as rough as the motel itself.

"Yes, are they still here?" Father Charlie replied, stepping closer to the desk before reaching into his pocket for the envelope.

The man glanced down at the envelope with pure greed, he didn't care what Father Charlie wanted or why he was so keen to find you, he was simply after the reward.

Father Charlie watched as the man placed a key onto the counter, the small keyring attached was engraved with your supposed room number.

"Second door on the left." The man informed, sliding the key closer to the edge of the counter.

Father Charlie exchanged the key for the envelope of cash, watching as the man's eyes lit up brighter than a Christmas tree.

It sickened him to know someone was profiting off of his misery, but information of your whereabouts was worth the world's weight in gold.

There wasn't even as much as a thank you from either men, both satisfied with what they'd just received that it just felt even.

Father Charlie left the motel reception in search of your room and when he'd finally arrived, his mind had become torn on how he should approach the situation.

He wanted to punish you for what you'd done, he thought about snatching your daughter and fleeing in the same cruel way you did, or perhaps torturing you into sincerely apologising as he knew no sane woman would be apologetic towards someone like him.

His hand trembled both with anger and fear, fear towards himself as he worried just what he'd do when he'd finally set eyes on you.

Upon entering the damp ridden motel room, father Charlie was left confused as there was no sight of you or your daughter, but there were also no signs to suggest anyone was even staying there.

He was furious, either the shady man behind the counter has taken advantage of his desperation or you'd fled before he got the chance to confront you.

He checked the room regardless, almost breaking the bathroom door off the hinges in a rage as he flung it open.

It was as he was exiting the room that he spotted a familiar plushie tucked away beside the double bed, a small white bunny he'd gifted his daughter the very day she was born.

Father Charlie crouched down to pick it up, he held it in his hand as he examined just how loved it had been, the visible discolouration from the constant cuddling and the tiny little stains probably from all the travels she'd taken it on.

Discovering the bunny felt like a sign from god himself, it further fuelled his determination to find his beautiful little girl as she was now not only without her father but her bunny too.

He held the bunny close as he left the unoccupied motel room, knowing that you can't have gone far given both the time and the fact your daughter would have undoubtedly had you return for her bunny, he headed towards his car.

The distant sound of a young child crying pulled him out of his thoughts, it wasn't a familiar cry but one that would make any parent instinctively turn their heads.

Father Charlie glanced over at the car parked directly opposite his, and in an amazing turn of events, there you stood as you attempted to console your distressed daughter.

The small child in your arms had grown dramatically since the last time he'd seen her, she could now hold the weight of her own head and fit comfortably against your hip instead of occupying both arms.

She had perfectly plump cheeks, and a head of visibly soft hair, enough to tie back in a tiny ponytail.

Father Charlie could wait no longer, he stormed over and pulled at one of your arms in an attempt to spin you around to face him.

Your fear filled eyes met his and your arms instinctively wrapped around your daughter to shield her from the monster in human form.

"Stay away from us." You warned, attempting to sound brave despite the wavering of your voice.

He looked visibly wounded by the fear you displayed, he'd never considered himself as scary as you attempted to portray.

He took a step closer regardless of your warning, reuniting his daughter with her bunny would end her distress and reuniting with her would end his.

"Here, sweetheart. Look.." he whispered softly as he held the bunny up high enough for her to see, he'd noticed the way you flinched as his hand came closer and it made him nauseas.

Your daughter's small hand reached out for the bunny, and in return for her plushie she flashed her father a shy smile, one that made him smile warmly in return.

You allowed your daughter to retrieve her bunny, but you were in no way going to allow father Charlie to force his way back into your lives.

"I mean what I say, stay away from us." You calmly warned once more as you turned away from him, opening the front passenger door to place your daughter into her car seat.

Knowing that your daughter would be safe and secure in her car seat as he unleashed his rage on you was the only reason he hadn't fought to stop you, you just weren't aware of it.

He waited for you to close her door before stepping in front of you to stop you from walking around to the drivers side.

"It's funny how protective you are of her considering I was the one who stopped you from aborting her." He said casually, that same sinister expression staring back at you.

You were horrified at his crass comment, he always had a way with words and he always knew how to hurt you without even getting physical.

"I regret visiting that clinic, I really do." You confidently replied, boldly stepping closer as fear had very quickly been replaced with fury.

"But I regret what I did with you even more."

Your attempt to get under his skin was successful, he was allowed to regret it but you certainly weren't, your entire existence was only meant to be for him.

He refused to believe there was any truth in your words, you couldn't be as brazen as him even in desperation.

"You'd say anything to get me to leave you alone right now, but I'm not leaving my daughter! You can't deny her of a father." He asserted, stepping aside as you did to further block your way.

"This is harassment! I will call the police!" You angrily replied, struggling to push yourself past him as the car parked beside yours left you little to no room.

"Who the hell would believe you over a priest?!" He laughed, finding your threat all too amusing.

The mention of the police made him realise just how much easier it would be for him to retrieve his daughter as he could make any wild claim and they'd be trusting of him, so instead of fighting he simply stood aside.

"Please, call them."

You were naively unaware of his intentions, instead believing that he had finally come to his senses in letting you go.

You stepped around him and he turned to watch you as you began to walk around to the opposite side of the car.

You abruptly stopped and turned to face him once more, every last insult you'd waited to hurl at him springing to the front of your mind at once, and if it were to be the last time you ever saw him you'd definitely want him to hear what you now truly thought of him.

"I pray to god you're struck by fucking lightning one day, that or you're in some freak accident. You're no priest, you're the devil." You harshly spat, your expression both sour and resentful as you glared at him.

The smirk that grew on his face fuelled your rage even further, he was so sickeningly shameless it almost made your skin crawl.

You nervously laughed in response, your feet involuntary took several steps back while your head shook in utter disbelief.

"You need serious help, and I don't mean from the Lord. I mean real fucking help, you're a psycho!" You added, unaware that the distance you'd unknowingly created left you standing in the middle of the car park with a far distance between you and your car.

Father Charlie calmly shrugged off your insults, he took a step closer but the sound of a roaring engine prevented him from taking any more.

You were so preoccupied with your anger for father Charlie that you failed to register the car approaching at high speed, it was a matter of milliseconds before the vehicle's bonnet not only collided with your body but harshly knocked it onto the ground.

The impact was so brutal it left you immediately unconscious, there was a growing pool of blood surrounding your head that coated the gravel beneath it.

Father Charlie froze in shock, the timing was impeccable considering the mouthful you were giving him and your daughter was now free to take for himself.

He glanced over at the clearly intoxicated driver, unsure whether to thank him or curse him for what he'd just done to the woman he cared so deeply for but he was robbed of either chance as the driver reversed before conveniently swerving off.

Father Charlie remained still as he looked over at your lifeless body, his eyes scanned over every inch of you and for a brief moment he felt conflicted on what was best to do.

He could save you and risk losing his daughter once more, or he could simply take his child and allow her to finally live in peace.

Upon arrival at the hospital the doctors quickly confirmed you'd suffered several fractured ribs along with a punctured lung, internal bleeding, bruising to the chest and abdomen as well as a traumatic brain injury.

Your still unconscious body endured several scans before you were rushed into emergency surgery to repair your pneumothorax.

Father Charlie sat patiently in the hospital cafeteria, your daughter had fallen asleep in his arms and the peace had finally given him time to think of his next move, something he did quite often

After your successful surgery, you were then placed in the intensive care unit to be monitored as the doctors waited for you to awaken.

You were placed on a ventilator to aid your breathing post operation, while several tubes connected to your lungs rest across your chest and hung down beside your bed to drain the internal bleed.

Father Charlie sat in the armchair beside your hospital bed, your daughter sat on his lap as he held her close, he was amazed by how quickly she'd grown as the last time he'd held her at your bedside was the day of her birth.

He quickly came to realise that perhaps if he had not lied to your mother that day, the two of you may have been in completely different circumstances, and he wouldn't be sitting beside your now unconscious body.

He slid one of his hands into his trouser pockets to retrieve the small silver cross pendant that he'd hoped to have given you the day you left, he took a moment to admire it before extending his arm to place the pendant into your open hand.

"Mommy's going to get better, isn't she sweetheart?" He rhetorically asked, turning his attention back towards your daughter before lifting his hand to softly stroke her hair.

The gentle moment between father and daughter was soon interrupted by the sound of a loud bang, Father Charlie looked up only to be met with your mother bursting through the door in such urgency that the door handle at collided with the wall.

"Oh my god!" She exclaimed in panic, rushing to the opposite side of your bedside to gain a closer look at the injuries you'd sustained, she was yet to register that your daughter was sat on Father Charlie's lap.

"What the hell happened to her?" She asked, fighting off tears as she didn't want to cause further distress to your daughter.

It hadn't occurred to your mother that Father Charlie was always at the scene of your misfortunes, perhaps she was always too trusting of him, but the way he held your daughter made her question everything she thought she knew.

Your mother glanced down at the small child in his arms, growing increasingly concerned for her welfare as she believed the man that held her was nothing more than a stranger.

Father Charlie held your daughter closer as your mother began to walk around the bed towards him, his one hand gently holding the back of her head while the other hand held her mid back.

"Thank you for all of your help, Father..but I'll take it from here." Your mother said calmly, holding her arms out for him to hand your daughter over.

His resistance was unnerving and her thoughts began to spiral, had there always been a sinister twinkle in Father Charlie's eyes?

"I'd like to take my granddaughter now."

Father Charlie shook his head, standing from his seated position to take several steps back in hope of creating a fair distance between himself and your mother.

"I won't be handing her over to you, She's MY daughter. I've ordered a fast track DNA test so you'll get the confirmation soon enough." He calmly informed her, his thumb softly stroking the small girls back in an attempt to comfort her.

Your mother stared at him in absolute horror, her eyes wide while a montage played within her mind of all the times she'd unknowingly allowed you to be alone in his company.

She very nearly fainted from the shock, her trembling hand reached out for the frame of the hospital bed to support herself as her knees threatened to buckle.

"That day you supposedly found her.."

Your mother was breathless, panicked and in utter disbelief as the man she'd believed helped her daughter was the very cause of her suffering.

"Yes, she'd been there all along. She spent her pregnancy with me." He confirmed, shrugging it off so casually despite seeing the state your mother was now in.

"You didn't look very far, Perhaps you should reflect on your poor parenting skills? Some of us haven't stopped searching for our daughters." He cruelly added, cradling your daughter tenderly as if he were taunting your mother by remaining in possession of the little girl.

Your mother looked at him in absolute disgust, she felt physically nauseas now she'd been made aware of his manipulative ways.

"You chose the wrong family to do this to. I will expose the real you to every single one of the parishioners, to every bishop I can find." She replied through gritted teeth, remaining calm for the sake of your darling daughter.

Father Charlie looked at her in amusement, shaking his head at what he considered a pathetic attempt at a threat.

"Your daughter is unconscious, and I'm currently the only active guardian of your granddaughter..is it wise to make such threats?" He asked, tilting his head very slightly as his sadistic smile grew.

"You should leave, Y/N deserves to rest in peace."

His very clever choice of words paired with the current state of your body left your mothers entire body trembling, she came to the conclusion that Father Charlie was the one responsible for the accident in some psychotic revenge plot.

She feared what may happen if she were to leave, but she also feared what could happen if she'd refused to and given the state you were already in, your daughter's life was her current concern.

"I'll be back later to check on my daughter." She said timidly, raising her hand to nervously pull the strap of her handbag further onto her shoulder as she rushed out.

Father Charlie glanced down at your daughter as she lifted her head to look up at him, her infectious little smile causing him to chuckle despite his anger.

"That grandmother of yours is a silly woman, isn't she?" He asked, expecting no answer at all but a tiny squeal from her took him completely by surprise.

The big beautiful eyes that stared up at him held more light than the entire world possessed, and it was during that moment that he'd finally realised the two of you should have only ever prioritised her happiness irregardless of what either of you felt towards one another.

You woke from your unconscious state later that evening, your entire body ached as if you'd been hit by a ten tonne boulder but your only concern was your daughter's whereabouts.

Father Charlie was sat in the hospital cafeteria with your daughter when a nurse informed him of your awakening, he wasn't in a rush to greet you as he enjoyed the thought of letting you panic, just as he panicked when you'd ran off with his child.

When he did decide to return to your room thirty minutes later, he walked in so casually with your daughter sat on his hip while she held a small bouquet of daisies.

Despite the overwhelming pain in your chest and abdomen you'd managed to push yourself to sit up, ready to take your child from his hands as he walked over but instead he took the seat beside your bed.

"We got you these beautiful flowers." He said as he placed them into your lap, his sinister tone no longer lingering.

"Didn't we, sweetheart?" He asked as he turned to look down at your smiling daughter who sat happily on his lap, he loved how much she cared for him as she was the last thing tying the two of you together.

"Give me my daughter." You demanded through gritted teeth, groaning softly in agony as you attempted to reach for her.

"Did you know that daisies represent a fresh start?" He asked, casually dismissing your demand and clear display of pain.

"You're in no fit state to take care of yourself let alone our daughter, I'll be here to take care of you both." He added, looking up from your daughter to finally see the look of disgust staring back at him.

"Over my dead fucking body will I ever let you back into our lives." You spat back, tears of hatred beginning to flood your waterline.

Father Charlie chuckled in amusement, he could have very easily left your unconscious body on the car park gravel to take your daughter, but he didn't.

"The secret is out Y/N. Your mother knows all about our filthy little secret, so either appreciate my honesty and start complying..or I can make things very difficult for your family."

You couldn't even register his threat, the thought of your mother knowing the truth made your stomach twist in painful knots, your throat felt as if a sharp knife had been wedged into it as it became harder to even breathe.

"You should have seen the look on her face..god, she looked so ashamed."

His tone was so scarily casual as his words carved into your heart, his intention was once again to scare you into compliance.

"Imagine how she'd feel knowing that her daughter was so fickle, that she ruined the life of her church's priest by not only seducing him, but purposely impregnating herself simply for a bit of fun." He added, twisting the truth as he often did best.

You shook your head in disagreement with his false statement, your trembling hand clutched at the duvet beside as you could barely contain your anger.

"That's a lie. It's all lies! You're a liar!" You exclaimed, your free hand held the left side of your chest as it began to throb in pain from your sudden tenseness.

Father Charlie rolled his eyes in annoyance for your outburst, it felt it completely unnecessary given the condition you were in.

"We're going to be a family, Y/N. I'm going to give up my priesthood and renew my medical license. I've found a house in a gated community, it's perfect." He sounded so enthusiastic, oddly prepared considering you'd been in a potentially deadly accident earlier in the day.

Ultimately you had no choice but to comply, you were once again trapped in his web of manipulation as you feared the shame of your mother and your community more than you even feared death.

He was correct, you were in no fit state to take care of yourself or your child so until you were able to plan one final escape, the two of you were left in his care.

Taglist; @targaryenswhxre @psychocitylights @yoongling @malf-azx @laviedemarii @makky444 @melaninjhs @strnqer 🫶🏼

[hasgavlebockenburneddownyet]

the anon that was so quick to answer fell for the fallacy of the mass of the goat divided my the mass of the average human. the hollow compartment in the goat probably can hold 4-6 people (7 makes for a really tight squeeze), though the structural integrity comes into question with those numbers

ah heck

what about the fetus?

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The FTC has Big Pharma’s number

On November 27, I'm appearing at the Toronto Metro Reference Library with Facebook whistleblower Frances Haugen.

On November 29, I'm at NYC's Strand Books with my novel The Lost Cause, a solarpunk tale of hope and danger that Rebecca Solnit called "completely delightful."

The most consistent bright spot in the dark swirl of US politics is the competence of the Biden Administration's progressive enforcers: people like Rohit Chopra, Jonathan Kanter and Lina Khan, who keep demonstrating just how far a good administrator can go. Anyone can have a vision, but knowing how to execute is the difference between hot air and real change:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/23/getting-stuff-done/#praxis

Take a minute to contrast Biden's administrators with Trump's: Trump's administrators had an ideological vision just as surely as Biden's do, and Trump himself had a much more pronounced and explicit ideology than Biden, whose governance style is much more about balancing the Democratic Party's blocs than bringing about a specific set of policies:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/06/personnel-are-policy/#janice-eberly

But whatever clarity of vision the Trump administration brought to DC was completely undermined by its incompetence (thankfully!). Apart from one gigantic tax break, Trump couldn't get stuff done. He couldn't deliver, because he'd lose his temper or speak out of turn:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/14/when-youve-lost-the-fedsoc/#anti-buster-buster

And his administrators followed his lead. Scott Pruitt was appointed to run the EPA after a career spent suing the agency. It could have been the realization of his life's dream to dismantle environmental law in America and open the floodgates for unlimited, wildly profitable corporate pollution and pillaging. But the dream died because he kept getting embroiled in absurd scandals – like the time he sent his staffers out to drive around all night looking for a good deal on a used mattress:

https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/politics-news/epa-s-pruitt-told-aide-obtain-old-mattress-trump-hotel-n879836

Or his insistence on installing a CIA-style "Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility" (SCIF) so he could play super-spy while reading memos:

https://www.cnn.com/2018/04/26/politics/epa-administrator-scott-pruitt-sound-proof-booth-scif/index.html

Or the time he sent his security detail to the Ritz-Carlton to demand that they supply him lots of little bottles of his favorite hand-cream:

https://www.vox.com/2018/6/7/17439044/scott-pruitt-ritz-carlton-moisturizing-lotion

There were other examples in the Trump administration, but Priutt is such a good case-study. He's like a guy who spent his whole life training to compete in the Olympics, and finally got a shot, only to be disqualified for ordering too much room-service in the Olympic Village. Priutt was wildly ambitious, but he was profoundly undisciplined – and wildly incompetent.

Compare that with Biden's progressive enforcers and agency heads, who showed up on the first day of work with an encyclopedic knowledge of their administrative powers, and detailed plans for using them to transform the lives of the American people for the better:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/18/administrative-competence/#i-know-stuff

The Biden administration's competence translates into action, getting stuff done. Maybe that shouldn't surprise us, given the difference between the stories that reactionaries and progressives tell about where change comes from.

In reactionary science fiction, we enter the realm of the "Competent Man" story. Think of a Heinlein hero, who is "able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyse a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly."

In Competent Man stories, a unitary hero steps into the breach and solves the problem – if not single-handedly, then as the leader of others, whose lesser competence is a base metal that the Competent Man hammers into a tempered blade:

https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Creator/RobertAHeinlein

Contrast this with a progressive tale, like, say, Kim Stanley Robinson's Ministry For the Future, where the Competent Man is replaced by the Competent Administration, in which people of goodwill and technical competence figure out how to join forces to create population-scale architectures of participation that allow every person to contribute their skills and perspective:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/03/ministry-for-the-future/#ksr

The right's whole ideology insists that the world can only be saved by Competent Men. As Corey Robin writes in The Reactionary Mind, the unifying factor that binds together conservative factions from monarchists to racists to Christian Dominionists is the belief that a few of us are born to rule, and the rest to be ruled over:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/25/mafia-logic/#mafia-logic

The Reaganite insistence that governments are, by their very nature, incompetent and malign ("The nine most terrifying words in the English language are, 'I’m from the government, and I’m here to help'"), means that conservatives deny the possibility of a Competent Administration.

When conservatives take office and proceed to bungle the most basic elements of administration, they're fulfilling their own campaign narrative, which starts with "We must dismantle the government because it is bad at everything." Conservatives who govern badly prove their own point, which explains a lot about the UK Tory Party's long run of governmental failure and electoral success:

https://apnews.com/article/uk-suella-braverman-fired-cabinet-shuffle-7ea6c89306a427cc70fba75bc386be79

There's a small mercy in the fact that so many of the most ideologically odious and extreme conservative governments are so technically incompetent in governing, and thus accomplish so little of their agendas.

But the inverse – the incredible competence of the best progressive administrators – is nothing short of a delight to witness. Here's the latest example to cross my path: the FTC has intervened in a lawsuit over generic insulin pricing, on an issue that is incredibly technically specific and also fantastically important:

https://www.fiercepharma.com/pharma/ftc-blasts-pharmas-abuse-fda-patent-system-sanofi-mylans-insulin-monopoly-lawsuit

The underlying case is before the FDA, and it concerns the dirty tricks that pharma giant Sanofi used to keep Mylan from making a generic version of Mylan's Lantus insulin after its patent expired.

There's an explicit bargain in patents: inventors can enlist the government to punish their rivals for copying their ideas, but in exchange, the government demands that the inventor has to describe how the invention works in a detailed patent filing, and when the patent expires, 20 years later, rivals can use the patent application as instructions for freely copying and selling the invention. In other words: you get 20 years of exclusive rights in return for facilitating your competitors' copying and selling your invention when the 20 years are up.

Pharma doesn't like this, naturally: not content with 20 years of exclusivity, they want the government to step in and punish their competitors forever. In service to that end, pharma companies have perfected a process called evergreening, where they dribble out ancillary patents after their initial filing, covering minor reformulations, delivery systems, or new uses.

Evergreening got a moment in the public eye earlier this year, with John Green's viral campaign to shame Johnson & Johnson out of using evergreening to restrict poor countries' access to TB medication:

https://armandalegshow.com/episode/john-green-part-1/

The story of pharma is that it commands gigantic profits, but it invests those profits into medicines that save our lives. The reality is that most of the key underlying pharma research is publicly funded (by Competent Administrators who apportion funding to promising scientific inquiry). Pharma companies' most inventive genius is devoted to inventing new evergreening tactics:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/19/solid-tumors/#t-cell-receptors

That's where the FTC comes in, in this Sanofi-Mylan case. To facilitate the production of generic, off-patent drugs, the FDA maintains a database called the "Orange Book," where pharma companies are asked to enumerate all the ancillary patents associated with a product whose patent is expiring. That way, generics manufacturers who make their own version of these public domain drugs and therapeutics don't accidentally stumble over one of those later patents – say, by replicating a delivery system or special coating that is still in patent.

This is where the endless, satanic inventiveness of the pharma sector comes in. You see, US law provides for triple damages for "willful patent infringement." If you are a generics manufacturer eyeing up a drug whose patent is about to expire and you are notified that some other patents might be implicated in your plans, you must ensure that you don't accidentally infringe one of those patents, or face business-destroying statutory damages.

So pharma companies stuff the Orange Book full of irrelevant patent claims they say may be implicated in a generic manufacture program. Each of these claims has to be carefully evaluated, both by a scientific team and a legal team, because patents are deliberately obfuscated in the hopes of tricking an inattentive patent examiner into granting patents for unpatentable "inventions":

https://blueironip.com/patents-that-hide-the-ball/

What's more, when a pharma giant notifies the FDA that it has ancillary patents that are relevant to the Orange Book, this triggers a 30-month delay before a generic can be marketed – adding 2.5 years to the 20 year patent term. That delay is sometimes enough to cause a manufacturer to abandon plans to market a generic drug – so the delay isn't 2.5 years, it's infinite.

This is a highly technical, highly consequential form of evergreening. It's obscure as hell, and requires a deep understanding of patent obfuscation, ancillary patent filings, generic pharma industry practice, and the FDA's administrative procedures.

Sanofi's Orange Book entry for Lantus insulin listed 50 related patent claims. Of these, 48 were invalidated through "inter partes" review (basically the Patent Office decided they shouldn't have allowed these claims to be included on a patent). Neither of the remaining two claims were found to be relevant to the manufacture of generic Lantus.

This is where the FTC's filing comes in: their amicus brief doesn't take a position whether Sanofi's Orange Book entries were fraudulent, but they do ask the FDA to intervene to prevent Orange Book stuffing because "improper listings can cause significant harm to competition and consumers."

This is the kind of boring, technical, important stuff that excellent administrators can do. The FTC's brief is notice to the FDA that it should amend its procedures to ban (and punish) Orange Book abuse. That will make it possible for you, a person who needs medicine, to get that medicine more cheaply and quickly. In America's pay-for-use privatized healthcare hellscape, this could be a life-or-death matter.

There's plenty of things the Biden administration is getting very, very badly wrong, but we shouldn't lose sight of how its progressive wing is making real, lasting change for the better. Competent Administrations are the true peoples' champions. They beat Competent Men every time.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/23/everorangeing/#taste-the-rainbow

[koyagifs]

shattered trust

pairing: Ravenclaw!Hongjoong x Hufflepuff!reader au: harry potter genre: angst | fluff | Summary: as the years go by, you never noticed the dark side of your lover.

Warning(s):

Some cursing, their ages will be aged up a bit! This fic is not meant to reflect how Ateez are in real life. This is a fanfic.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14

st masterlist | ateez masterlist

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖˖☾

Sitting in your compartment, Hongjoong by your side as Seonghwa, Mingi and Yunho sat across from you. The ride back to Hogwarts was always your favorite, the joy of seeing your friends always warms your heart. Hongjoong laid asleep on your lap, his gentle breathing creating a calming rhythm. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him, a stark contrast to the lively chatter of Seonghwa, Mingi, and Yunho across from you.

“Looks like he’s finally out,” Seonghwa teased, glancing at Hongjoong with a grin.

“Someone had to keep him up during the Sorting Feast,” you replied, brushing a strand of his hair from his face.

Mingi leaned forward, a playful glint in his eyes. “You mean you were just talking his ear off? Poor guy!”

Yunho laughed, shaking his head. “Can’t blame him for dozing off. It’s been a long day.”

As the train sped through the countryside, the scenery blurring past, you felt a warm sense of belonging. You leaned back, letting the rhythmic clatter of the train soothe you. The anticipation of a new school year filled the air, and despite the challenges ahead, you knew you wouldn’t face them alone.

“What do you think the new year will bring?” you mused aloud, breaking the comfortable silence.

Seonghwa shrugged, a thoughtful expression on his face. “More adventures, I hope. And hopefully fewer detentions.”

“Yeah, right,” Mingi scoffed. “With Wooyoung around, we’ll probably have a record number.”

You laughed, nudging him playfully. “Not if we stick together!”

Yunho nodded in agreement, and as you all exchanged hopeful glances, you felt a surge of excitement. This year better be less dramatic you thought, remembering the drama that happened since Harry Potter came to school.

You shuddered slightly at the memory of last year’s escapades, from surprise Quidditch matches to that chaos involving a rogue bludger and a rather angry hippogriff. “Honestly, I’m hoping for some peace this time,” you said, shaking your head.

“Peace? In this school?” Seonghwa chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “Good luck with that!”

“Hey, we could at least try!” you countered, your smile returning. “Besides, maybe we’ll get some new classes that’ll keep us busy. I heard there’s a new professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Mingi perked up at that. “Really? What do you think they’ll be like?”

“Hopefully not another one who goes mad halfway through the year,” Yunho added, crossing his arms.

“True, that would be nice,” you agreed, glancing at Hongjoong, who remained blissfully unaware of the conversation, still sleeping peacefully. “But whatever happens, at least we have each other.”

The train rattled on, and you caught glimpses of the lush greenery outside. You could almost feel the magic in the air, a mix of anticipation and nostalgia. The thought of another year filled with spells, laughter, and unexpected surprises made your heart race.

Just then, Mingi leaned back, pretending to think deeply. “You know, if we’re going to have more adventures, we should definitely come up with a team name!”

“A team name?” you echoed, amused.

“Absolutely! Something cool and epic!” he insisted, gesturing dramatically.

“Alright, let’s hear it,” you challenged, leaning in with a grin.

“Um… how about ‘The Daring Duelists’?” he suggested, striking a heroic pose.

You all burst into laughter, and even Hongjoong stirred slightly, blinking awake to the joyful chaos. “What’s going on?” he mumbled, a sleepy smile spreading across his face.

“Just discussing our epic team name!” you said, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Please tell me it’s better than ‘The Daring Duelists,’” he chuckled, stretching his arms.

“Let’s just say we’ll work on it,” Yunho replied, a teasing glint in his eye.

With that, the conversation flowed seamlessly, filled with laughter and friendly banter, as the Hogwarts Express carried you closer to another unforgettable year that is unbeknownst to you all.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁

You sat beside your fellow Hufflepuffs as the sorting feast, conversing this years plan to win the house cup. Feeling a pair of eyes, you looked around until you noticed Hongjoong eyeing you. You waved, causing him to blush as he noticed that he was caught. As you waved at Hongjoong, his cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink, and he quickly looked down at his plate, trying to act nonchalant. You noticed Mingi confusion before he looked where Hongjoong was just staring at before he chuckled, shaking his head as he began to tease Hongjoong. You couldn’t help but giggle at how easily he was flustered.

A felt a tap from behind, turning to see Yeosang, Seonghwa, Jongho and Wooyoung a smirk plastered on their face as they noticed the interaction between you and Hongjoong.

“Looks like we’ve ruined a moment,” Yeosang said, his smirk growing as he leaned towards you.

You turned to face them, a mix of embarrassment and amusement flooding through you. " clearly you Gryffindors have no idea what you're talking about"

They laughed as Wooyoung put a hand over his heart dramatically. “Ouch! A direct hit!”

“Don’t worry, we’re just here to support your blossoming romance,” Yeosang teased, leaning closer. “Consider us your cheer squad!”

“More like a bunch of gossips,” you shot back, grinning despite yourself.

Jongho piped up, “We’re just trying to help you out! Imagine how epic it would be if you two ended up together and we had the inside scoop!”

“Yeah, imagine the stories we could tell!” Wooyoung added, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I can already picture the headlines: ‘Hufflepuff Heartthrob Caught in a Love Triangle!’”

You shook your head, laughing. “You all are impossible.”

“Just remember,” Seonghwa said, a playful glint in his eye, “we’re here to make sure you don’t miss your chance. We’ve got your back!”

As the laughter continued, you felt a warm glow of friendship surrounding you. But then you noticed Hongjoong glancing your way again, his expression more curious than before. For a moment, your heart raced at the thought of him actually being interested.

“Okay, okay, enough!” you finally declared, trying to regain some composure.

They laughed again before they turned back to their table, Dumbledore standing up to give his usual speech before declaring dinner was over.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁

There all 7 of you sat at the quidditch field, watching Mingi and Hongjoong practice as they soared through the air on their broomsticks, the wind whipping through their hair. You leaned back against the bleachers, the afternoon sun casting a warm glow over the field. The rest of your friends—Seonghwa, San, Yunho, Yeosang, Jongho, and Wooyoung—were scattered around, chatting and enjoying the show.

" i think Ravenclaw has the quidditch cup this year. Better watch out Gryffindorks," You said, smirking at the four proud lions that huffed in annoyance.

"laugh it up little badger, we have Jongho on the team now," Yunho said.

You turned your attention back to the field, where Hongjoong was effortlessly gliding through the air, weaving around Mingi with impressive agility. There was something mesmerizing about the way he moved, his confidence radiating as he practiced his shots on goal. You couldn’t help but admire his determination.

“Look at him go,” you muttered, a small smile creeping onto your face. “He’s really in his element.”

San, overhearing you, smirked. “See? Even you can’t deny he’s got skills.”

“Fine, I’ll admit it,” you said, half-heartedly, glancing back at your friends. “He’s good.”

“Good? More like phenomenal!” Wooyoung shot back, laughing. “Just wait until the first match. He’ll have all the Ravenclaws trembling.”

" just admit it ynie~ you have a crush on our Hongjoongie" Seonghwa said, tickling your sides making you squeal.

You burst into laughter, squirming away from Seonghwa’s fingers. “Stop it! I do not!” you protested, though your cheeks were undoubtedly flushed.

“Oh, come on! It’s written all over your face,” San chimed in, his playful smirk growing wider. “You can’t hide it from us!”

Just as you were about to deny once more, Mingi and Hongjoong landed near by. Wooyoung was going to tease you once more before you took your wand out and casted out Silencio. With a flick of your wand, the spell took effect, and suddenly, the teasing voices of your friends fell silent. They looked at you in surprise, their mouths moving but no sound escaping. You couldn’t help but grin at the success of your spell.

You smiled, blowing them a kiss as you began your decent down the stairs to met Hongjoong and Mingi. Wooyoung, ever the dramatic one, pretended to act out a silent scream, clutching his heart. You couldn’t help but giggle at the sight. You pulled Hongjoong by his practice shirt, giving him a peck on his cheek that made him blush profusely. Mingi let out a whine, " where's mine little badger?"

You turned to Mingi, placing a kiss on his cheek as well. Both boys now blushing profusely. The footsteps of everyone launching from their seats, their voices coming back as you lifted up the spell from them. As the spell lifted, the air filled with laughter and playful banter once more. Wooyoung dramatically clutched his chest, feigning a swoon. “What is this madness? Kisses flying everywhere!”

You couldn’t help but giggle, enjoying the moment as both Hongjoong and Mingi tried to hide their embarrassment. “Just spreading some love!” you said, a mischievous glint in your eye.

The boys all crowded you, begging for a kiss from you as Mingi and Hongjoong howled with laughter.

[millie-multifics]

Though I Yearn • Part 6

Masters of the Air

Secret Admirer x Reader

A string of anonymous letters causes a stir at Thorpe Abbotts. Who could be the author of the tender correspondence you have been receiving?

Warnings: Mentions of blood, death, war.

Word Count: ~1k

Masterlist Previous Next

x x x

Weeks had passed since the Bremen raid and the subsequent mission that had greatly knocked down the number of original men at Thorpe Abbotts. With each passing day the letters from your secret admirer, including the final one that had been delivered to you the day before the mission, grew more wrinkled with each reading- though now you could picture his face clearly as his words pierced your soul so profoundly.

Each time you read that the final letter you were transported back to that day, the moment the breath was torn from your lungs as so many friends, so many brave souls failed to return to the safety of the English fields.

Your tendancy for isolation had been the main reason for a weekend pass to be handed to you on a days notice. You slipped a few of your belongings into a bag, the bag remaining light as there were very few items that you were allowed to own besides a spare uniform and simple compact.

You were driven to the closest train station, it would be your mode of transportation to London. You settled into a compartment with your unexpected travel companian, Major Egan. It was quiet as you both avoided speaking of the reasons why you were practically forced to leave Thorpe Abbotts for a few days. You glanced at John, finding him immersed in a tattered paperback before you dug through your bag for the letter that had been delivered that morning.

“Being in a plane had always provided me with a sense of freedom, it has began to feel like a cage, trapping brave men for their inevitable demise. It feels like it would be cruel to reveal myself to you now as each mission carries a sense of finality after we have lost so many. I hope that I can convince myself to walk up to you in my true form before I depart, no paper or ink between us to hide my cowardice. If not, farewell for now.”

After locating housing for your stay, which you and Egan would be neighbours, you went your separate ways. He moseyed into the pub across the street while you wandered the city, stopping in small shops to spend the little money you had on trinkets and sweets. When the bit of sun peaking through the clouds had begun to set you went back to the hotel, drawing a hot bath to ease the stress from deep within your bones. You settled into the water, a sigh escaping your bitten lips as the warmth overtook you for the first time since you had been home. You wondered what your author was doing now, would he be writing your next letter? Or were the men at base preparing themselves for a raid in the morning? You pictured a faceless man sitting on the floor beside the tub, convincing yourself that you could feel his fingers tenderly brush against your scalp. Maybe one day you would share a moment like this with him, a serene scape where war was merely a torid memory of the past. You were broken from your fantasy by an air raid siren before loud booming and panic filled the streets, a peak out the curtain revealed an attack just across the city.

Sleep evaded you in the large bed, you had gotten used to small, hard beds with scratchy sheets- it felt like a luxury you did not deserve. With the inconsiderately vulgar sounds emitting from your neighbour you tossed and turned until you came to the conclusion that you would not be falling asleep anytime soon with all the noise. You quickly dressed and hurried across the city, knowing that even if not at Thorpe Abbott you could still help someone in need.

The sun had risen long ago but you had yet to sleep. You ignored the stinging from the cuts and scrapes across your fingers and palms, you had been helping a weeping mother find her child burried among the rubble of a collapsed builiding. With the child being found meraculasly with only a few cuts and bruises, you spotted a man passing reading the recent paper. You quickly located a stand, using the very last of your pocket money to purchase a copy of the Daily Herald, the headline was clear about the destruction of the 100th. Eighth Air Force Smashes Bremen- 30 Bombers Lost.

You hurried to find the one other person you knew was also in London for the weekend.

“John!” You shouted, pushing your legs harder to catch up with the man in his all too familair dress greens. “Major Egan!”

He paused just in time to catch your hurtling body as you tripped on the curb. His hard look of determination told you he had already heard the news. “I’m going back.”

“I’m coming with you.”

You did not question where John had procured the jeep from or the speed at which you barrelled toward the countryside. Exhaustion from your lack of sleep was catching upto you but the worried hammering of your heart in your chest for those who had not returned kept you awake.

“You’re still bleeding.”

You glanced down, finding drops of blood and dirt covering your once clean blouse. You regretted not carrying a medical kit in your bag as you inspected the wounds on your hands, most were superficial but there were a few spots that would require proper tending. You shifted in your seat to remove the hoissery from under your skirt, “Keep your eyes on the road.” You teased the Major, trying to lighten the tense atmosphere as you wrapped the pantyhose around your bleeding hand.

“Blakely’s fort went down, with Dougie and Cros.”

You swallowed thickly to clear the emotion tightening your throat with the thought of the loss of your friends, “Buck?”

He nodded erratically, “Benny too.” He confirmed, pausing as he contemplated his next words. “Your writer… I think I know who it is. I think you should know too, now that he won’t be able to tell you himself.”

x x x

I appreciate everyone’s patience!! Reveal imminent in Part 7! ❤️❤️🫣

@jointherebellion215 @orchiidflwer @probabydeadbynow @claireelizabeth85

[meri-l]

I saw "Anora" today

It's the first time I'm watching a foreign movie where Russian guys are played by Russians. I'm really tired of movies where instead of Russian speech I hear just a set of sounds unrelated to each other, or so terrible Russian that I have to re-listen several times. And yes Mikey Madison's Russian is great ♥️.

I fell in love with Yura Borisov all over again. Everyone recommends to watch Compartment Number 6 after Anora, but I would recommend to watch Silver Skates, it's the most Christmas movie I rewatch every year.

Speaking of which, Mark Eydelsteyn opened with a new side. In Russia he usually plays teenagers, quiet, shy and experiencing inner drama. So to see him in a new character is a bit unusual, but cool

[quinloki]

Elevator Music

Fem Reader x Eustass Kid

One Shot - 2,956 words

CW: Language, sexual themes and situations, semi-public sex, elevator sex, rough sex, consensual, modern au, Kid has both arms. 18+ only

-:- Table of Consent -:-

Inspired by this tumblr post about being trapped in an elevator with the person on your lockscreen.

“Floor?” You ask as the tall, broad shouldered young man stepped into the elevator. He looked like he could be the poster boy for punk rock. Wild red hair, golden brown eyes, scars that did nothing to detract from his looks, and a confidence in his step you had to appreciate.

“Eleven.” He answers. His voice is a little like gravel but not unpleasant.

You press the button and return to your phone, stealing a few sideways glances as politely as you could. Shame you didn’t have business with him, but the elevator ride was improved at least.

Around the 8th floor there was a jolt, not a hard one, but it was unnerving in the otherwise smooth ride. You both flinched a little and exchanged glances, and you nearly said something when another harder jolt shook the elevator carriage. You can’t help the surprised squeak that escapes you, and you grab onto the bar.

The elevator doesn’t move. Smooth, jerkily, or otherwise.

You and the punk exchange glances before looking around the compartment. There’s an emergency box he pulls open and an old style phone with no buttons. He picks it up and you can hear it ringing even after he puts it by his ear. You’re still looking around for the little red button, or anything that might be useful if no one picks up the phone.

But after a few rings there’s a voice. It’s too muffled to make out, but you can hear your fellow trapped passenger.

“Yeah, the elevator’s stuck.” There’s muffled talking and he looks around and looks at you. “See anything that says what car this is?”

“Six?” You prompt, pointing to a number just under the floor button.

“Probably. Yeah, we think it’s car 6… yeah, ‘we’, there’s a lady in here too.” There’s a long silence, and he rolls his eyes. “Am I staying on the line for this, or can you call us?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sure, sure. Here.”

He hands you the phone and you make a face before taking it. “Yell-o?” You say, unsure what was going on.

“Ma’am, we need to know if you feel threatened.” The voice on the other end of the line says.

“Huh?”

“If you feel unsafe we can probably get authorization to break the doors open and getting you out before the fire department arrives.”

“Hang on.” You put the phone to your chest and look at the big guy with you. “If I tell them you’re making me feel scared they’re willing to break the rules and get us out of here faster.”

“… You’re not afraid of me?”

You tilt your head. “No, why would I be?”

He grunts. “It’s fine then, you can lie, it won’t bother me.”

You speak back into the phone. “Hello? Yes, uh, yes, I am so if you could-.”

“For insurance reasons you’ll have to officially press charges ma’am.” The man on the other end of the line explains. “My supervisor just informed me.”

“Oh. Well, no then. Just get us out of here as fast as you can. I was on my way to an interview.” You reply. “I’d rather not miss it. Did you need to speak to him again?”

“No ma’am. We’ll call once we have an ETA for you. You can hang up for now.”

“Alright, thank you!” You say cheerfully and hang the phone up. “Sorry, we’ll probably be here for a while. They wanted me to file actual charges.” You grouse, clicking your tongue. “How useless.”

He shrugs and sits down in the corner by the phone. “What’s your name, doll?”

“Anything but that,” you say with a smile, sitting down across from him, being mindful of your interview outfit. “(Y/N). What’s yours, red?”

He grunts. “Anything but that.” He echoes. “Eustass Kid.”

“Well, Mr. Eustass, my apologies for not pressing charges on you.” You say with a grin.

He grunts a laugh, and leans his head back. “Hope you make your interview.”

“Ha! Thanks.” You sigh. “I’m kind of glad to be missing it, but it won’t matter. I’ll just have to try again tomorrow.” You admit with a sigh.

“Oh?”

“Yeeeeeah, it’s my dad’s company. I could give two shits less about it, quite frankly, but I’ve been black listed.”

“Huh?” Eustass looked at you with actual interest for the first time since he got into the elevator. “Are you saying your old man kept other companies from hiring you?”

You nod. “Dad doesn’t have a son. Someone’s gotta take over, and if I don’t then I don’t get to work at all. I spent the last two years job hunting, and he pulled the plug on everything. I can’t even get a job as a newspaper boy, and I don’t have enough personal funds to get out of the range of his reach.

“Ahhh, sorry, a bunch of rich kid drama, isn’t it? I have it so hard.” You try to laugh, but frustration makes it hard to be flippant. “If I play along for a couple years I can bounce. That wouldn’t be so bad.”

“… You don’t have to have it hard for something to suck ass.” He says after a moment. “Your dad’s a real bastard.”

You grin. “Thanks.”

A few more minutes pass and the elevator phone rings. Eustas picks it up and listens for a few moments before replying. “Sure, we’ll be fine. If anything changes we’ll call.”

He hangs up the phone and settles against the wall more. “Get comfortable, it’s gonna be an hour at least. Says the fire fighters are busy, and once the emergency calls are cleared they’ll send someone over.”

You lean back with a bit of a sigh. You weren’t sad to be missing the interview, but you also weren’t thrilled to spend an hour or more in a box, eight floors off the ground.

You take out your phone and putz around on it for a while. After a few minutes you find yourself stealing glances at Eustass Kid. Punk rock r-shirt, work boots, dusty jeans. He smells of grease and oil and metal and chocolate. In the enclosed space it doesn’t take much to notice it all.

He’s thick and muscular. Probably could do all manner of unspeakable things to you without breaking a sweat, but something about him left you feeling safe around him. Safe enough to fantasize a little, even if you felt a bit guilty. You two barely knew each other’s names, but it was easy to imagine what was under that well-fitted shirt.

It was easy to imagine the things you’d let him do to you, too, and not just because you were wholeheartedly rebelling against dear old dad, but also because he was just hot.  From the sound of his voice, to how he was relaxing right now, to - what you were sure - was a fiery personality he’d been suppressing for your benefit.

“Like what you see, sweetheart?” He asks, not even looking up from his phone.

“Yes.” You reply with a smile, watching a grin cross his face before he looks up at you.

“Not what I expected.”

“I get in trouble for that a lot,” you admit, letting your eyes shift down before looking back at him. “I’m reminded repeatedly that my behavior is terribly unladylike. Honestly though, who should care?”

“You sound like you’re looking to get into trouble.” He says, sitting up a little and giving you more of his attention.

“Are you offering to help, Eustass Kid?”

His grin turns toothy, you’d almost call it a smile except it was just so wolfish. “Planning on setting a date, or are you going to walk into the trap right now, mouse?” He asks, opening his arms and motioning you over.

You glance around the elevator again, checking to be sure there weren’t any cameras in the car with the two of you, and then stand up. He adjusts a little more, legs closed, slouched just a little, hands out on either side of his waist, at the perfect height to help you steady yourself as you step over him, foot on either side of his hips.

You pull your skirt up a little as you sit in his lap, a small approving hum from him as the tops of your thigh-high stockings come into view for a moment. Settling into position in his lap you shift and let out and involuntary gasp. The bulge in his pants is already pushing the zipper of his jeans into you.

“You really want this, huh?” He muses, shifting his hips into you and nearly pulling another sound out of you. Your face is hot and red, and you’re not having second thoughts or anything, but you’re surprised at your own arousal.

“Seems so,” you admit. “I’d blame you, but I’m worried your ego would fill to bursting.” You rock your hips against him and feel his straining under the denim. “Though it seems to be mutual.”

“Whatcha looking to get out of this?” He asks, hands gripping your ass and squeezing it.

“An orgasm comparable to that cocky look on your face.” You muse, causing his grin to twist perfectly.

“Ha! Alright,” he grabs your hair and pulls you close, but not quite enough to kiss. “I meant past those doors opening, but I can work with that.”

“Ask me something like that after those doors open,” you answer, biting your lower lip and pulling against his grip on your hair. You shift against the erection straining in his pants and rut your clit against the coarse fabric more than you meant to.

The sweet mewling gasp that escapes you is devoured by Eustass as he pulls you into a deep kiss. There’s no tenderness in the passionate kiss, no ode of love or promise of tomorrow, but it’s as greedy and needy as you are and you sink into it.

Your fingers fumble with his belt as heat builds between you, a pleased hum is all the consent you need as you begin to undo his jeans.

“Normally I’d say something about dinner and a movie first,” Kid teases, lifting his hips and helping to put the waistband of the jeans down a little. “I ain’t got any condoms on me though.”

“Honor system then,” you practically pant the words. “You clean?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too, and I’ve had IUDs since I was sixteen, so no worries.” Your fingers run along the length of his cock, still under the fabric of his boxer, and you’re already impressed. Licking your lips involuntarily you reach in through the front opening of the boxers and wrap your fingers around the hard, thick flesh and pull if free.

Eustass’ hips buck and he hissed against the sensation of it, but he doesn’t move to stop you. Your eyes go wide at the sight of the beast at this man’s disposal, and you wonder if it’s going to fit. It’s thick and long and a little intimidating, just like the punk it’s attached to.

“Jesus.” You mutter.

“Having second thoughts?” He seems pleased instead of concerned.

“Minor logistical concerns.” You say, but your voice isn’t nearly as confident as your words. You pull your skirt up and hear him swear under his breath. “Ha, thing for thigh highs, Mr. Eustass?”

“Fuck yeah,” he answers, hands sliding up your thighs, snapping the garter straps playfully. “Goddamn. What were you interviewing for with this on?” He asks, his fingers hooking around the front of the thong and tugging it up a little.

You gasp and arch your back a bit at the sensation, chuckling in a mix of pleasure and nerves. “Just rebelling where I can.” You admit as he tugs the thong aside and you push your soaking slit against his rock hard erection.

You’re so wet you slide against him easily. You both take a moment to enjoy the pleasure from the contact and you can feel him twitching against you.

“Hells you are soaked.” He licks his lips and leans you back a little, lining himself up with your entrance. “You can go at your own pace, but I want to see this.”

Your whole body twitches and your face heats up. Your reaction doesn’t go unnoticed, and those golden brown eyes seem to look into your soul. You steady yourself with your hands on his thighs, slowly lowering your hips onto him. If you weren’t practically dripping with desire you don’t think you could take him without a lot more prep, but you slowly work him in and out, stretching yourself against his thick cock and reveling in how full you feel.

You don’t hold back the airy moans and needy whimpers that escape you as you work him in deeper and deeper. The elevator phone rings, and the only look you give him is one filled with lust. You shift your hips and moan as he reaches for the phone.

His right hand goes over your mouth as he picks up the phone with his left. “Yeah?” He prompts, voice steady. His eyes are still on you, and a slight shift of his hips is all the motivation you need to continue taking him in.

He smirks as your tongue slips along his middle finger. “Yeah, okay. Thanks for the update.” He replies to the voice on the other end of the phone. His middle finger is slipping against the tip of your tongue as he hangs up the phone.

You lean forward, pushing his finger into your open mouth as you take the rest of his cock into your pussy. You kiss the base of his finger lightly, before leaning back, running your tongue along his finger playfully. You put your hands on his shoulders, struggling a little to get the leverage you need to move. He’s so broad your knees don’t reach the elevator floor, so instead you hook your feet over his legs and begin to ride him.

“Got about twenty minutes.” He says, hands on your hips, helping you move once you set your pace.

“Ah, damn,” you gasp, grinning at him salaciously. “A quickie then, eh?”

He nearly barks a laugh, before giving you an amused grin. “If twenty minutes is quick in your book, I’m curious what a proper amount of time is?”

“Mm,” you grind into him a little. “An hour at least.” You muse, riding him as you talk. “Foreplay, teasing, as many toe-curling, throat-shattering orgasms you can rip from one another, aftercare. A good proper fuck in the morning should wreck your whole day.”

You can hear him growl in approval, hands tightening against your hips, dick twitching inside of you. His hips move to meet yours as you come down, pushing him into you deeper and faster. You moan for him to do as he pleases and the restraints he’d put on himself snap.

You went from being on top of him, to being under him, to being up against the elevator wall in just a few minutes. Every time you got close he’d shift to a different position. The grin on his face let you know he knew exactly what he was doing, the bratty bastard.

Pushed up against the elevator wall, legs hooked over his arms as he brings you close again. Something in his demeanor promises release at the end of this, and you’re holding onto him in need and desperation. Moans and grunts mixing with the shiver and creak of the elevator car.

The elevator phone begins to ring.

“Ah-aan-answer that – hnggh! – and I w-will kill you!” You gasp as you can feel yourself nearly there.

“Cum for me little mouse,” he growls, tongue teasing your neck.

Pleasure rushes into you, tensing your body and causing your fingers to dig into him through his shirt. He speeds up a little and the pleasurable mewling sounds coming from you turn into gasping pleas as you clench against him sending you both over the edge.

There’s a quiet moment, a couple rings from the phone the only thing marking the passage of time, shared between you both before he pulls out and sets you onto shaky legs. He’s reaching for the phone before he’s even tucked himself back into pants, practically snarling.

“What?”

There’s a moment of silence before you can hear the voice on the other side start talking. You’re adjusting your clothes, and trying to tidy yourself up a little when you feel something leaking down your thighs. Your hands go between your legs as your face turns red.

“Yeah yeah, thanks. Look just get us out of here, it’s getting hot in this box.” He grumbles into the phone before hanging it up. Zipping up his jeans he pulls a rag from his back pocket. “It’s clean.”

You take it and clean up the leak. “Thanks.” Your attention is turned away as you clean yourself up. “Want me to dry clean it before I return it?”

Eustass laughs. “Nah, keep it.”

“A memento then?” You muse with a chuckle. “Oh, hey, I never did ask - what’re you here for today?”

“Finalizing the paperwork on the shop.” He says. “Starting my own business.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “Oh? Congratulations.” You offer a smile. “I’m sure it’ll succeed.”

“Mm, thanks.” He replies absently.

There’s a moment of silence between you and you hear people outside the doors working on getting you out. You and Eustass take turns tidying one another up, since there’s no mirror to use, and make yourselves as presentable as possible.

As the doors open, Eustass turns to you with a grin. “So, I hear you’re looking for a job?”

[bigalockwood]

Simon's Month Day 30 - Home

Simon opened the SJ app and checked for which compartment he was in – and stopped in his tracks. Where he knew a number for a six-bed sleeping compartment should be, was an entirely different ticket than he’d bought and paid for. Sleeping compartment first class. That wasn’t right.

On his way back home to Stockholm, Simon encounters a tiny problem. And then he encounters a not-problem. Travel-Interrail!Wilmon return!

I can only repeat what I said yesterday. I seem unable to let go of my favorite AU's. Which is why Travel!Wilmon make a reappearance in this one. The travel prompt is here.

Prompt 30 for Simon's Month (hosted by @youngroyals-events) is here!

My other drabbles and ficlets for Simon's Month:

Day 1: Pencil Case

Day 2: Food

Day 3: Dodgeball

Day 4: Beach

Day 5: Towel

Day 6: Sara

Day 7: Purple

Day 8: Identity/Discrimination

Day 9: Anime

Day 10: Travel

Day 11: Revolution

Day 12: Music

Day 13: Hoodie

Day 14: Senses

Day 15: Secrets

Day 16: Venezuela

Day 17: Friendship

Day 18: Pride

Day 19: Fish

Day 20: Nightmare

Day 21: Red Light

Day 22: Labor Day

Day 23: Parents

Day 24: Winter

Day 25: Soulmates

Day 26: Dancing

Day 27: Physical Touch

Day 28: Birthday

Day 29: Stars

Day 30: Home

[lookingforhappy]

transcript of Five's case files on the Hindenburg, the case that he solves for the Commission while working in management:

MEMORANDUM ON INTENDED EVENTS RE: HINDENBURG DISASTER May 6, 1937 The airship will complete its first scheduled demonstration flight for the 1937 season, between Frankfurt, Germany, and Lakehurst. It will depart from Frankfurt about 8:15 P.M, G.M.T., Monday, May 3, and will be due at Lakehurst on the morning of Thursday, May 6. It will be due out of Lakehurst at 10:00 P.M E.S.T, that night. Because of unfavorable winds encountered en route, its arrival at Lakehurst will be deferred until 6:00 P.M, Thursday evening, and departure will be postponed until midnight or later in order to reservice and prepare for the voyage. The ship is owned and operated by the Deutsche Zeppelin Reederei, G.m.b. H, of Berlin, W8, under den Linden, Germany. The flight, which is intended to be one of a series to be arranged into the United States territory during 1937, will be authorized by a provisional air navigation permit from the Secretary of the Navy to the American Zeppelin Transport, Inc., of 354 Fourth Avenue, New York City, as general United States agent of the Deutities at the Naval Air Station at Lakehurst. On March, 1937 the German Government will renew the airworthiness certification of the aircraft, reporting that all of its safety devices had been inspected and found satisfactory. Personnel, including officers, numbered 61, will be on board, of whom 22 will die as a result of the accident. Passengers, 36 persons besides the Crew will be on board. Of these, 13 will die as a result of the accident. Other passengers and members of the crew will sustain serious injuries. Total weight of the freight carried will be 325 pounds and will be stowed in the main freight compartment at Frame 125; 2 dogs will be kenneled at Frame 92, and 3 packages will be stowed in the control car. Mail will be carried in a compartment on the top of the control car. Of the freight and mail on a few pieces of mail will be recovered. The ground personnel will consist of 92 naval personnel and 139 civillians. Practically all of the gorund crew will have previous experienve landing airships. One member of the ground crew will die as a result of burns received during the accident. Across the Atlantic from Germany to the United States, the flight will be uneventful, save for retarding winds which will not be unusually turbulent. The route traveresed by the ship on this side of the ocean will be from Nova Scotia, vis Boston, Providence, Long Island Sound, New Forks and thense cruise along the coast for a few hours before retracing its course from Tuckerton N.J., to the naval Air Station.

ATMOSPHERIC ANOMALIES PRESENT The 7:30 A.M, EST. U.S. Weather Bureau map of the vicinity, including the northeastern tier of states, Shows a disturbance over central New York and northeastern Pennsylvania, with a cold front extending from this center Southwestward to West Virginia. This front separated neutralized polar air to the east of the cold front which had become warmer and more moist and neutralized colder air to the west of the front. The warmer and more moist mass of air covered the Middle Atlantic states, southeastern New York and southern New England. --- The cold front advanced eastward during the day from central Peensylvania at a rate of 12 to 15 m.p.h., passing Lakehurst shortly after 3:30 P.M There was not quite sufficient surface heating during the early afternoon to set off a thunderstom at Lakehurst, and it was not until the front passed and some slight lifting of the air mass occured that a thunderstorm began, The records of the Naval Air Station show that the thunderstorm began at 3:43 P.M and ended at 4:45 P.M --- Telegraphic reports indicate, the thunderstorms in and to the west of New Jersey were not severe; nor were they of a well defined squall character. Between 12 P.M and 1:30 P.M E.S.T., these storms extended in a definite belt over the region of Harrisburg, Pa., northeastward to Bear Mountain, N.Y., and New Hackensack, N.Y. Between 1:30 and 2:40 P.M, none was reported. Between 2:40 and 3:40 P.M, Camden and Fort Monmouth, N.J., only reported thunderstorms. Between 3:30 and 4:30 P.M, Lakehurst, Mtchel Field, N.Y, and Floyd Bennett Field, N.Y., reported them. Between 4:40 and 5:40 P.M. none was reported; and betweeen 5:40 and 6:40 P.M, Floyd Bennett onlt reported one. Summarized, the thunderstorms in eastern New Jersey were of a local character and not severe. --- The New York Weather Bureau office bulletin issued at 1:20 P.M, May 6th, follows: "1800 G.C.T. Moderate wind shift with increasing and lowering clouds possible thundershowers New York and vicinity expected in middle or late afternoon Stop New York Scattered cumulus and small cumulo nimbus approaching from west - visibility excellent surface wind south 12 miles - barometer 29.68 falling steadily temperature 66."

DATE: May 6 1937 0725 EST OPERATION: Hindenburg Disaster DAMAGE: Catastrophic PLACE: Lakehurst, New Jursey, 40.026088, -74.316592 LOCALE: Open air field WEATHER: Light rain PILOT: Commercial TOTAL HOURS: 567 ALL 63 NO TYPE LAST 90 DAYS: 179 ALL 62 NO TYPE CASUALTIES: Crew: 23; Pass: 13 OCCURENCE: Numerous expert and lay witnesses on the field testified as to where they first observed the fire on the ship. There was great diversity in this testimony for reasons that are very apparent. Among the most important of these reasons were the extreme rapidity with which the fire spread, the different positions of the witnesses with respect to the ship, the size of the ship, more than one-sixth of a mile in length, and an over-all height, equicalent to a twelve story building, and the fact that the interval between the first glimpse of flame and the impact of the main body of the ship with the ground was 32 seconds. The great majority of the ground witnesses who testified as to the first sppearance of fire were looking at the port side of the ship. After carefully weighing the oral evidence and transcribing to a master diagram the numerous disgrams on which the gound witnesses indicated their first observations of fire, we conclude that the first open flame, produced by the burning of the ship's hydrogen, appeared on the top of the ship forward of the entering edge of the vertical fin over Cells 4 and 5. The first open flame that was seen at that place was followed after a very brief interval by a burst of flaming hydrogen between the equator and the top of the ship. The fire spread in all directionsmoving progessively for ward at high velocity with a succession of mild explosions. As the stern quarter became enveloped, the ship lost boutanct and cracked at about one-quarter of the distance from the rear end. The forward part assumed a bow-up attitude, the rear appearing to remain level. At the same time the ship was settling to the ground at a moderate rate of descent. Whereas there was a definite detonation after flame was first observed on the ship, we believe that the phenomenon was initially a rapid burning or combustion - not an explostion. From the observations made, is appears that there was a quantity of free hydrogen present in the after part of the ship when the fire originated.

HINDENBURG DIASTER INTELLIGENCE SUMMARY Place | Date | Hour | Summary of Events and Information | Remarks FRANKFURT April | 2. | A deviation occured in the subject's plot to detonate a controlled explosive device on the rear fuel tank of the zeppelin. An alternate plan is underway. | EF 5. | Progress in the creation of the subject's explosive device has stalled. An alternate catalyst is still viable. | SB 7. | The zeppelin has successfully completed it's seventh cross-continent trip carrying 19 crew members | - LAKEHURST May | 9. | Lakehurst Nacal Air Station recevied 8 new directives in preperation for the first cross-continent civilian flight of the zeppelin. German and American organizations continue to increase communications. | EF 12. | Progress continues on the controlled explosive device. Another player emerges in America, a linesman from New York. | SB 15. | The zeppelin is grounded for 2 days as high winds buffer the Western coast of the English Isles. FRANKFURT June | 29. | 300 feet of steel is salwed and loaded up at Frankfurt for repaits to the central gangway after miscalculations in the rate of expansion cause cells 15 and 16 to bend 4 degrees outside of normal variation. | EF Instructions regarding Intelligence Summaries are contained in Regula II and the Management Manual. Title pages will be prepared in manuscript.

The airship will be placed in service early in 1936. It will bear the builder's numer LZ 129 and have been constructed by the Luft Schiffbau Zeppelin of Friedrichschafen, Germany, and organization which also built the 118 Zeppelin type airships. Briefly described, this type of design provides for frame work of duralumin metal girders with tension wires. There is division by fringe wirings of the bosy into different compartments, into which the gas bags are placed to received the lifting gas; a keel walkway to take certain load; a framwork with an outer cover of fabric to give form, and engine cars suspended from the frame outside the ship. The Hindenburg is a Zeppelin type airship, having an axial corridor constructed longitudinally through the center of the hull. During its 9 months of operation in 1936, this airship will make more than 55 flights; flying 2,754 hours, cruising 191, 584 miles, crossing the ocean 34 times, carrying 2, 798 passengers and more than 377,000 pounds of mail and freight, all without mishap. The Hindenburgs length is about 803.8 feet; height, 147 feet; maximum diameter, 135 feet; fineness ratio, about 6; total gas volume, 7, 063, 000 cubic feet; normal volume, 6, 710, 000 cubic feet. Weight of the ship with necessary equipment and fuel is 430, 950 pounds; maximum fuel capacity, 143, 650 pounds; total payload 41, 990 pounds, and total life is 472, 940 pounds. Cruising speed is about 75 statute m.p.h.; maximum speed is slightly over 84 m.p.h. Passenger space is entirely within the hull. The control system is the conventional Zeppelin type control, with two rudders acting as a Unit for horizontal control, and two elevators acting likewise for veritcal control. Emergency elevator and rudder control wheels are installed in the stern of the ship. An electrical gyroscopic device attached to the forward rudder wheel provides automatic steering.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1957 Chevy

The Legendary “Black Widow” 1957 Chevy: A Piece of Racing History

When it comes to legendary cars, the 1957 Chevrolet, also known as the “Black Widow,” holds a special place in the hearts of car enthusiasts. However, few people know the intriguing story behind this iconic vehicle. In this article, we will take you on a journey through time and explore the fascinating history of the Black Widow.

The Secret Support Behind the Scenes

In the 1950s, car manufacturers were prohibited from directly promoting racing. Nevertheless, behind closed doors, Chevrolet found a way to support the racing community. They collaborated with a company called SEDCO to build a limited number of race-ready 1957 Chevys. Only 18 of these incredible vehicles were ever produced.

Unleashing the Beast

To create the ultimate racing machine, Chevrolet started with the lightest model available, the no-frills 150 utility sedan. They then equipped these cars with high-performance drivelines that would leave their competitors in awe. The Black Widows proved to be astonishingly fast, setting records and securing multiple victories on the track.

Restoring the Legend

One particular Black Widow has undergone an extensive body-off-frame restoration, meticulously recreating its original glory. The attention to detail is impeccable, resulting in a pristine body that is arguably even better than when it first rolled off the factory floor.

Exquisite Exterior

Painted in the iconic Black Widow colors of Onyx Black and India Ivory, the exterior of this restored beauty is nothing short of breathtaking. Every panel is laser straight, and the gaps are precise. There isn’t a hint of rust or damage to be found. The flawless paint job has been polished to a mirror-like finish, allowing you to see your own reflection. It’s like holding history in your hands.

Interior Simplicity

Inside the Black Widow, you’ll find a minimalist design that emphasizes performance over luxury. There are no frills, not even a back seat! The rear windows are stationary, and amenities such as armrests, visors, and even a dome light are absent. However, this simplicity only adds to the car’s authenticity and racing pedigree.

Attention to Detail

No aspect of the Black Widow’s restoration has been overlooked, including the trunk compartment. Painted in glossy white, it exudes cleanliness and attention to detail. A reproduction mat, seat divider, and weatherstrip have been added to complete the authentic look. Even the spare tire matches the original style with its 6 lug pattern and reproduction Firestone tire.

The Heart of a Champion

Under the hood lies a highly detailed engine compartment that exemplifies show-quality craftsmanship. The 283 cubic-inch V8 engine has been built to its original 283 horsepower specifications, complete with a correct factory fuel injection setup. Not only does it look stunning, but it also performs flawlessly. With a responsive throttle and a distinctive idle, this powerhouse truly embodies the spirit of a race car.

A Masterpiece Underneath

The detailed restoration extends to the underside of the car as well. The chassis has been meticulously prepped and painted in a smooth gloss black finish. Every component has been rebuilt, replaced, restored, and detailed to match the original specifications. The Black Widow features front and rear sway bars, as well as the unique duplication of two shocks at each rear wheel for enhanced performance.

A True Muscle Car

With its completely rebuilt brake system, all-new fuel system, and Flowmaster dual exhaust, this Black Widow not only looks and sounds like a classic muscle car but also performs like one. The spotless Chevy Orange engine block, lower plug wire shielding, canister-type oil filter, restored starter, and dated 1957 transmission all contribute to creating an authentic driving experience. The floors, braces, and rockers have been meticulously restored to their original factory red oxide primer finish.