#if a Christian is mean to me then maybe God is that way too

[13thpythagoras]

lollll yesss #omnist vibes...insert spirituality/religion rant below

I mean when you look at the evolution of so called "Indo-European Language families," it also might make sense to consider the notion of "Indo-European religion families," with Hinduism being the primary oldest tree in that forest, with Buddhism branching off specifically from Hinduism in a loosely similar way to how, perhaps, Christianity and Islam branched off from Judaism(?). It's all part of the same living tree of spiritual truth to me, perhaps a coral reef of spirituality, ultimately united with African spiritual beliefs too when you look back far enough into the past lives scene. I don't see any of it as wrong, perhaps except for the mean exclusionary caveats that might assert "only one is right and the others are wrong," to me is like saying Spanish is wrong and English is right- when these religions are really more just spiritual languages, which can be used to communicate higher-vibrational truths. I don't see any genuine religion, or language, as wrong, and it's so fascinating to consider that even early Christianity held that reincarnation was the case, and that one of the early-midieval councils struck this from the Christian dogma, perhaps under Justinian and Theodora circa 538ce (?) roughly the same decade the bubonic plague made inroads to Europe by historical coincidence / for ease of reference. So perhaps here with one revolutionary idea or anarchist spirituality mindset bringing reincarnation back into a religion from which it's been banned is a bit soulpunk mayhaps😂😅🫠... (balancing no Gods no masters with the fact that I've also just soberly and literally at about 8:15am on roughly April 9, 2012 while leaving home on my work commute, seen a point of light flitting through the leaves of a dying oak tree like a busy hummingbird in fast forward 2x, and after 30 seconds of me gawking and my mind being totally shattered by something that defies all laws of my known physics, as I pull out my phone for a video this badboy flies up and the fuck away over the damn horizon in less than a second, and it's so fkn bright, and I'm in a hilly area so the horizon's maybe an 8th of a mile away, but I can still see this thing easily flying as it crossed the horizon...it was that bright. Yet dimensionless apparently. So go ahead and continue not believing in God (I'm also not saying what I saw was omnipotent or omniscient, but I could feel it inspiring new ways of much faster thinking in my brain, it was like I was intuitively reading its body language somehow, there may have been some telepathy going on with this buddy, maybe not, tough to say if it was me or it thinking the new thoughts this new experience inspired in my head...felt like a hyperfast oscillation of disbelief and belief. Many dozens of times a second...) but that's still a true story, just cold hard facts, so I do know we need space in leftism for spiritually charged revolutionary energy, let's keep the antiracist mindset and constant improvement mantra.) I'm always open to learning more and evolving and changing and adapting, let's fkn goooooo!!!

Italian Nirvana

[ivan-fyodorovich-k]

I think if being an incredibly unpleasant and judgmental person is not integral to Christianity and its vision of Divine Love we need seriously to question how it came to be that those rank among the main things for which Christians are known.

And it is not as though they are just rumors and slander and you meet Christians and they aren’t that way at all, we have all seen and felt this version many, many times.

[orcelito]

Don't know whether it's a product of my upbringing or just part of who I am, but I really do tend to shrug off things that seem to send others into massive guilt spirals. Like, what's the point? Either you meant to do it or you didn't. If you meant to do it but regret it now, make what amends you can & resolve to do better, then move on. If you didn't mean to, be honest about it, apologize if need be, & try to do better. Then move on.

Beating yourself up truly serves no purpose. What are we, catholic? If there is a god, I truly don't think they'd care, anyways

[snekdood]

me when i'm romanticizing what it'd be like to live in india...

[karinyosa]

.

[teaboot]

One of the biggest eye-openers for me back when a I went to church was that like…

Oh man how do I explain it.

There’s this prevalent idea I see a lot in Christian circles that if you pray right, if you follow God correctly, if you’re a truly virtuous person, your problems will be solved, right?

If you suffer, if you fall ill, if bad things happen, it’s because you aren’t good enough. You don’t need medicine because if you’re worthy, if you’re faithful enough, God will reward you by healing you. Right?

But like. Discussing this with my mother, and travelling out east with our pastor… Jesus didn’t spend all his time with perfect, virtuous people. Jesus didn’t seek out and heal well-to-do, faithful, perfect Christians. In fact, there’s a specific story in which he straight up doesn’t travel out to heal a believer’s dying daughter, because she’s already “saved”. Her earthy death is okay because she’s going to heaven already.

And like… coming from our Pastor, who is one of the best guys I’ve ever met- there seems to be an ongoing, underlying message of, “Jesus doesn’t care about you if you’re a good Christian”. If you’re a good Christian, if you’re living a virtuous life on earth, then any suffering you experience is only temporary- your ETERNITY is secure. Jesus goes out of his way to meet with sinners and the unfaithful because those are the people whose souls are in danger.

So like. In that perspective, being good doesn’t make your life better, it’s just good for others and good for your soul. Praying and doing good probably won’t cure your cancer, but it may mean you don’t have to worry too much about your death.

And like. I dunno. I wouldn’t call myself a Christian, but I find myself thinking about that concept a lot

Does suffering mean you deserve a reward?

Is suffering proof that you’re unworthy?

Or is suffering just an unfortunate facet of life that doesn’t reflect on your worth, that you still have to deal with as best you can?

Maybe suffering is just suffering.

Maybe the bad things you experienced weren’t about you

And maybe you just gotta try your best and be kind anyways, so you can rest easy when you go

[fakebwitch]

we share the same sins

— pairing: father charlie mayhew x fem!reader

— summary: as usual you go to church to say your prayer, father charlie says something that catches you by surprise, shortly thereafter you find yourself discussing it in his office and things escalate quickly.

— warnings: very smutty

you sat on one of the long, dark wooden benches, your hands held a gold and quartz rosary that your parents had given you on your previous birthday, your index finger and thumb turning one of the many balls that made up the necklace, your eyes closed as your mind repeated the usual prayer.

it was a wednesday, 5 p.m. you had finished all your studies concerning school and had walked toward the church of your small town to perform one of your weekly prayers.

you smelled a familiar scent flooding your nostrils, but you kept your eyes closed, determined to continue your prayer. the scent grew stronger and stronger as you felt a body sit down next to you. no longer able to maintain your concentration, you opened your eyes, turning to the left, meeting father charlie's gaze.

before you could utter a word he anticipated you, "shh... keep your eyes closed, go on" he guided you, you hesitated for a second, scanning his beautiful features, you decided to listen to him by closing your eyes, moving your head to the altar, clutching your rosary tightly as you resumed your prayer.

you tried, but your mind had abandoned you by then, all you could think about was whether he was looking at you at that moment, watching your hair, the way you were dressed, the way your well-manicured fingers played with the rosary or maybe scrutinizing your profile, your nose, your lips... and then there was his strong scent, you let it go as you opened your eyes. you moved your head toward him and saw that he was looking straight ahead, you were a little disappointed.

fortunately he was able to anticipate your movements and shifted his gaze from your face, to the altar in front of him in time, so that you wouldn't catch him staring at you.

"i'm done" you lied crossing his gaze, biting your lower lip, "are you really?" he said, "yes" you lied again. charlie knew inside that you weren't telling the truth, you were far from done.

you knew he knew, in fact you were ready to get a rebuke about not lying in the house of God, but he didn't say anything about it.

"good," he nodded, shifting his gaze elsewhere, unable to look you in the eyes for too long.

"what are you doing?" you asked him, watching his concentrated face, you realized how stupid your question sounded at that moment and before he could answer ironically you added "in your mind."

he looked at you for a few seconds, "brooding over my sins," he said with a sigh, he indeed was doing it.

"in that case who do you confess to? should i be your priest?" you said the last sentence with a smile, charlie couldn't help but laugh as he shook his head, "i don't know if you should listen to my sins" he said becoming serious again, wetting his lips.

"why not? i mean you've heard all my sins... i think we share the same ones" you said shrugging your shoulders, not thinking of a possible meaning behind those words, father charlie raised an eyebrow scrutinizing your profile as your fingers tightened around your rosary beads.

"yeah? like watching porn videos?" he said.

your head turned sharply toward him, widening your eyes at having so openly said such an impure word in the house of God, you looked around worried that some poor Christian might hear the words that just came out from the mouth of the priest who every sunday morning did mass in front of all the citizens, but luckily the church was almost completely empty except for a few ladies but they were sitting something like 7 or 8 pews away from the two of you.

"charlie..." you said in a whisper looking at him bewildered, he looked down, a small smile on his face, "what, I mean you said that we share the same sins and that's what you confess to me" he said simply shrugging his shoulders as he crossed his arms. "don't say it out loud” you scolded him as you asked God for forgiveness internally.

"don't worry, I could have said worse things you confessed to me" he said by now chuckling, enjoying teasing you, you glowered at him as you pushed his shoulder, "will you stop it" you said trying to keep your tone low.

"the truth is you're a nasty gir-" before he could continue this dirty little game you grabbed your bag getting up from your seat, "you're really absurd" you said as you walked down the long aisle.

"wait, I was just kidding" he said as he chased after you, not caring what the few people in the church might think. he reached out and grabbed your wrist, leading you to a hidden corner.

"you should not say out loud what I confess to you, it should stay between you and me" you scolded him, in fact it was the truth, a priest should not have said what was confessed to him, it was confessional secrecy.

"well you are right, but I can assure you that no one heard what i said" he said trying to reassure you. by now he knew you well enough to know that there was something wrong with you and when he saw that you did not respond he added "is something bothering you?".

he was surprised by your reaction, you used to always joke together, about anything. it had been weeks since you had grown close, if you can call it that; on days when you went to church to say your usual prayer, he was there, and when you finished you would stop to talk to him, or even after sunday mass, after dismissing everyone, he was more than happy to spend time with you. he was always available, answering any of your doubts or questions.

you were so familiar with each other that he didn't even want you to call him father charlie anymore, just charlie was fine.

"yes... maybe I am," you admitted biting your lower lip, "would you mind telling me what it is about?" he asked as his gaze softened, a slight pout on your face.

as you were about to respond he interrupted you, "we can go to my office if you prefer, so we can have more privacy" he proposed, you looked at him taking a few seconds to decide. it wouldn't be your first time in his office, but the idea of being alone with him made you so self-conscious.

"yes that's fine" you nodded, he gave you a small smile and then started walking, you walked alongside him as you silently made your way to his office. he opened the door to the room, put a hand on your back as he guided you inside, closing the door behind him. you tried to ignore his gesture as you took a seat in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

"can I offer you tea... or perhaps you would prefer coffee?" he offered, "coffee would be fine, thank you" you replied with a smile, "no problem" he replied returning your smile, turning to a cabinet, taking the carafe with coffee and pouring a little into a cup.

"thank you" you whispered again taking the cup from his hands, your fingers brushed against his in the process.

"so... do you want to talk about it?" he urged as he sat on the corner of the desk, a few feet away from you, you sent down a long sip of coffee and then set the cup down on the desk. "it's just that this is the last year of school, and I have so many important tests coming up, I haven't started studying yet, and I'm so scared of failing..." you blurted out as you played with the flap of your skirt, charlie looked at you nodding at your every word, he really did listening to you when you spoke.

"it's okay, there's no need to stress so much, trust me... I've been there too, and I survived" he said with a slight smile making you laugh, "how did you do?" you asked as you met his gaze, "not exactly well, but the important thing is that it's over" he replied shrugging as you both laughed.

"but I know it's different with you, I know you're smart and you have all the skills to get the most out of it, you'll be fine, don't stress that pretty head of yours too much" he reassured you giving you a wink, you smiled lowering your gaze. his words were serious, he really meant what he was telling you, it wasn't just said to please you.

"I hope you're right..."

"you know I am" he said as you took the cup back into your hands to take another sip.

"about before- I wanted to apologize for what I said, I shouldn't have done that, it was unkind of me-"

"it's okay really, don't worry about it” you said interrupting him, "I just overreacted" you continued moving a strand of hair falling across your face.

"no your reaction was more than correct, what you confess to me should remain secret, and I should not have allowed myself to say it out loud" he insisted. "i promise, it's okay... just hearing it out loud was a little... you know, awkward" you confessed feeling your cheeks heat up, feeling weak in front of his gaze so intense. he looked at you for a few seconds as you cursed yourself entirely for opening that speech.

"awkward you say?" he urged you raising an eyebrow, having full interest in the conversation you were engaging in. you took a long breath thinking about the right things to say, in the end he was a priest anyway.

"yes, talking about that kind of thing so openly... it seemed unfair" you admitted crossing his gaze, his mouth slightly open as he listened to your words, you seemed so unsure about it.

"why? it's normal, it's part of being human to take certain actions" he said wetting his lips, waiting for your next answer.

"yes it's true..." you nodded agreeing with him.

you looked at him, but really looked at him. he wasn't wearing the usual tunic he wore when he was performing mass, but a black shirt, as well as pants and shoes, and a matching belt. your eyes lingered on his chest, the shirt was quite tight and you could imagine his trained physique underneath the fabric, his arms looked so muscular and you could just imagine how worked out his abs could be.

you weren't stupid, you had heard the rumors going around, about him being a personal trainer before he took up the seminar. you couldn't help but think about what his life was like before he devoted himself to god, whether he had been with so many women, whether he was good at it.

"have you ever done it?" you asked him voicing your thoughts, capturing his attention even more than you had before, "done what?" he incited you. he knew what you meant, but he wanted to hear the famous word leave your lips.

you looked at him feeling like you wanted to sink to the floor below, it made you so self-conscious.

"sex" you finally said it.

he held back a smirk as he looked at your embarrassed face.

"well yes, I did it before I went down the path," he admitted as you nodded silently, you didn't know exactly what to expect, but the idea of him performing such an act made you more and more excited. "what was it like?" you asked boldly meeting his gaze, you had never had any kind of relationship that led back to sex, other than watching porn videos, as you had confessed to him, and touching yourself a few times.

even though you had never done anything with a man, you knew how sex and all the other kinds of gratification you could receive and give worked. your mind wandered, imagining him gratifying the women he slept with, his head between their thighs as they screamed his name.

you certainly should not have thought such things about a priest.

"the best feeling ever" he replied to you, and you could tell by his tone of voice and expression that he was probably going over such events in his head, that he wasn't lying. you couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy for the women who had been lucky enough to sleep with him.

he looked at you, your expression more thoughtful than ever. "how come you're so interested in this?" he asked you curiously as he lifted his shirt sleeve, up to his elbow, in full view the veins on his forearm as his fingers clung to the desk. you looked unashamedly at the scene, his veins so thick you just wanted to run your fingers over them. of course charlie noticed.

"I've never done anything like that" you replied looking into his eyes, oh trust me he knew. he knew you were an innocent little girl, still untouched, and that drove him crazy.

"mhm" he nodded inciting you to continue, he could tell by your expression that there was something else you wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out. "I've been thinking about it a lot lately" you said, your eyes shifting to his bulge for a split second, you hoped it went unnoticed by him, but it didn't.

you were almost 19 and hadn't had any kind of relationship yet, was it so wrong to fantasize sexually every night?

"don't feel wrong about that, I get it" he said, his voice almost in a whisper. you were already aroused and his attractive voice wasn't helping.

"I just want to know how it feels."

and that was the last straw, all he needed to take the decisive step. your pretty eyes looked down at him, looking so innocent, his impure thoughts took over his mind as he felt his cock twitch.

he swallowed as he moved closer to where you were sitting, he couldn't miss this chance, it was all he had wanted from the moment his eyes had landed on you.

"I could help you" he offered as he looked down at you, nothing but lust in his dark eyes. you didn't think for a second about the fact that he was a priest, that he wasn't allowed to give in to temptation, it was a sin, just as it was a sin for you too, to lose your virginity before marriage to the person perhaps least suited.

you nodded, unable to utter a word under his gaze, "use your words” he intimated, "I want you to” you replied, deglutinating, no longer able to hide the discomfort in your lower abdomen, all you needed was him.

his large hand rested on your soft cheek, his thumb rubbed the soft skin and then went down to your lips, settling on your lower lip, bringing it down.

he lowered himself just a little so that your faces were inches from each other, you knew what was coming, you closed your eyes as your heartbeat quickened unnaturally. you'd never kissed anyone, except for a little kiss you'd shared a long time ago with a friend of yours, but nothing that could remotely lead back to a real kiss.

his lips collided gently with yours, and he swore that he had never committed a finer sin. he broke away after a few seconds, looked at you as you opened your eyes, your pupils dilated, he could mirror himself in them.

"get up."

he stepped back a little so that you had the space to stand up, you did as he ordered. he was much taller than you, your head met his chest as you looked up at him. "haven't you ever kissed before?" he asked you, his voice barely audible, your eyes were fixed in his as his hand rested on the side of your neck, pushing you toward the desk.

"no" you shook your head, keeping the same tone of voice as his, you worried thinking that through a simple kiss he had caught your inexperience and was already tired of you, "don't worry, it's okay" his voice reassuring as your ass was pressed against the desk, "just follow what I do, it's nothing your pretty head can't learn" you nodded letting his voice guide you and before you could think of anything else his lips returned to yours, this time however his lips moved slowly parting, you copied his own movements, finding your rhythm.

"just like that, you see" he whispered on your lips with a small smile pulling away so that you could catch your breath, his free hand moved to your hips bringing you closer to him. his lips found yours again, resuming the same rhythm as before, this time feeling his tongue slip easily between your lips.

you copied his movements, letting your tongue make its way between his mouth. you were by no means an expert kisser, but for what it was worth you could tell he was an excellent kisser.

he broke away to catch his breath but your hand grabbed him by the collar, making his lips smack against yours, he laughed in the kiss at your desperation, "calm down pretty girl, i'm right here" he said as the hand he had on your hip moved to your thigh pushing it onto the table so that you were sitting on it now.

he made space between your legs as your hands played with his hair, you heard little sounds escaping his lips and they were the most beautiful things you had ever heard.

as his hand was steady on your hip, yours moved to his arm, feeling his bicep. you don't know how long you dreamed of doing this.

his lips, his hands on you, his grunts, it was all so new to you that it got you overwhelmed, you couldn't wait any longer, you needed him now, your pussy was aching for him.

"i need you" you said pulling away from the kiss, taking one of his hands and bringing it to your center, there was no more room for shyness. charlie swore he could cum at that exact moment at the sight, your desperate face, your hair disheveled as well as your lips flushed, and his hand on your panties, "fuck me..." he whispered feeling through the thin fabric how wet you were.

"is that what you want? me to touch you?" he asked, his other hand grabbed your neck, you nodded frantically, your pussy clenching around nothing, "I want you to touch me" you said as his hand cupped your pussy, you let out a soft moan.

"tell me exactly what you want" at this point he was merely pushing you to the edge, he knew you had never done anything like this so it took little. he wanted it as much as you did, but he couldn't fight the urge to hear your sweet voice begging for him to do something.

"I want... I want your fingers inside me" you didn't even know where you got the courage to say such words, "not so innocent huh?" he taunted with a grin, his hand lifted your skirt as his fingers slowly slipped through the elastic of your panties.

"faster" you begged as he slid the panties down your ankles, ignoring your prayers as he looked them once removed, light pink with a white bow, "these are pretty, i might keep them" he said almost as if he was talking to himself as he put the panties in his pocket.

you felt yourself wet even more at what you had just witnessed.

he rested his lips on yours as his long fingers met your swollen clit, you couldn't help but let out a moan, your fingers were nothing in comparison. your head fell back as his mouth moved to your neck, licking and sucking your skin. "oh charlie" you moaned as his fingers continued to play with your clit, you had never felt a better sensation.

"i'm going to put a finger in" he warned you as his thumb took the place of his index and middle fingers on your clit. he played with your entrance a little and then inserted a finger inside, you let out a moan at the stretching, how were you going to take his cock.

"so wet baby" he whispered in your ear as his finger began to find its rhythm inside you. he noticed that you were feeling nothing but pleasure at that moment, and he slid a second finger in, "fuuuck" you moaned as you felt him stretch you, his big fingers filling you so well.

you cried out as his thumb found your clit again, pressing it and tracing circular motions on it. his lips on you, the way his fingers moved quickly inside you, it all felt too much.

"c-charlie… i think I'm-"

"I know baby I know, give in to it" he cradled you by rejoining your lips, the weight you felt in your stomach more and more persistent, you clung to his biceps, your nails dug into his skin as you felt dizzy.

with almost a pornographic moan you cummed on his fingers, which slowly helped you ride out your orgasm. you felt powerless after cumming hard, your grip on his bicep diminished as you rested your head on his shoulder.

you closed your eyes feeling tired, you could sleep just like that. you let out a sigh as he pulled his fingers out, feeling empty.

you pulled away from his chest, your mind still clouded as you saw him bring his fingers covered in your cum to his mouth, he sucked his fingers as he rolled his eyes, savoring your taste, "so fucking good pretty girl" he murmured removing his fingers from his mouth with a "pop".

he grabbed you by the chin kissing you, his tongue slipped into your mouth so you could taste yourself.

with a quick movement he put his hand on your hip and turned you over, your back now against his chest. as one hand clung to your hips, his other hand pushed down your back, you released a little cry when your chest came in contact with the hard wooden surface.

with a quick movement he lifted your skirt, his hand landed with a violent slap on your ass, making you moan. "charlie I don't know if-" you made to speak but he quickly interrupted you, "shh, shh baby... you're okay, you can take it" he murmured as he continued to grope your ass, voice low and hoarse, his hard cock was screaming to be released, he couldn’t wait any longer, he had to be inside you.

you remained still as you felt him unbuckle his belt, he lowered his pants just enough along with his underwear, his hard cock came out. with the palm of his hand, he cupped your pussy, gathering your wetness, a whimper left your lips at the contact, still sensitive from the previous orgasm.

he began rubbing the tip of his cock in front of you, your pussy in perfect view in front of him as you were bent over his office desk, waiting for him to fuck you… how was he going to explain to God the reason for his sin?

"please... need you" you begged, your pussy clenching around nothing as you heard the wet sounds of his hand jerking on you, wanting nothing more than to feel his cock split you open.

"I'm here baby, I got you," he shushed you.

shortly after you felt his tip rubbing between your folds, you whimpered at the sensation as you heard him moan behind you, you thought it was a torture not to be able to see his beautiful face in pleasure at this moment.

"could cum just by this..." he said in pure bliss, his head fell back as the tip of his cock indulged on your entrance, pushing just enough to make your walls squeeze him like he had never felt before.

"fuck so tight, I thought I had prepared you well... squeezing me so well" he praised you as his hand tightened on your hips, you let out a huge moan as you felt your pussy welcome his cock, his fingers were nothing in comparison.

"it hurts" you moaned almost on the verge of tears as he pushed himself just a little deeper. your little hole was so hot, squeezing him so tightly, he was holding back with all his might not to push himself hard into you and fuck you out of your head.

"I know baby, it will feel better in a little” he reassured you, his hand found your clit, rubbing it as he calmly slid his cock a little deeper inside you.

he wasn't even halfway in and you felt so full already, his fingers on your clit and his cock filling you so well made you moan repeatedly. as he gave you time to adjust to the new intrusion, you began to adjust to his cock inside you, wanting nothing more than for him to move.

"move."

that was all he needed to hear. with one swift move he thrust quickly into you, "fuuuuck" he moaned as you felt your walls suck him in, your hands clinging hard to the desk beneath you, your knuckles turning almost white as you gritted your teeth, feeling your skin burn.

"too much" you moaned, "it’s ok, I'm here" he told you trying somehow to reassure you, but really all he could think about was how good he felt inside you. respecting your limits he slowly pushed himself out then back inside you, as he did this several times you felt the pleasure take over from the pain.

"faster,” you urged him, and he was more than happy to oblige.

his thrusts increased dramatically as his hand left a big slap on your ass. all you could think about was his cock inside you, touching you in all the right places.

"ohh fuck charlie... feels so good" you said as the sound of your body slamming into each other flooded your ears. "just like that, you see? you were made for this cock" he said as he watched your ass bounce each time it came in contact with his body, a moan left his lips at the sight.

you released a loud moan as you felt his tip touch your cervix, in a quick gesture he grabbed both of your wrists holding them tightly with one hand as he pushed you toward him, "keep your fucking mouth shut, or do you want everyone to know that you are being fucked dumb by your priest."

you couldn't help but get even more aroused at hearing his dirty words, you clenched around him and he noticed. "you like how I talk to you like that , don't you? dirty just like I thought" he said to you.

"you are my dirty girl, aren't you?" he asked, balls deep inside you, "y-yes i am your dirty girl" you nodded quickly, too fucked up to even understand what you were saying.

leaving your wrists alone he grabbed you by the hair, so that your back was against his sweaty chest. his hand slid down finding your overstimulated clit. another moan escaped your lips and charlie didn't like it.

he grabbed you by the neck, "the fuck did I say to you? keep your mouth shut" he scolded you, you didn't understand how he wanted you to be silent when he was abusing your hole, making you feel so good. you wanted to answer him but you were too gone to be able to formulate a sentence, in response you couldn't help but let out another moan.

"you want the hard stuff" he murmured slipping two fingers into your mouth, you were quick to wrap your lips around his fingers, sucking on them.

charlie couldn't help but grunt as you squeezed him tighter and tighter, his other hand grabbed your tits as he felt himself getting closer and closer to his orgasm.

"mhm" you murmured around his lips, your hand touched his chest, "what is it baby? you close?" he asked, you nodded euphorically as you rolled your eyes, resting your head on his shoulder.

"cum baby, cum all over my cock" he incited you and within seconds you were cumming hard on his cock, you felt yourself squirming as you slowly returned to normal, his cock thrusting into you hard, you felt your legs shaking.

"good girl... f-fuck i'm gonna baby, you want it? gonna fucking cum inside you" he managed to say between moans, "yes I want it all inside me" you urged him as he took his fingers out of your mouth.

a few thrusts later you felt his hot seed spreading inside you, you couldn't help but whimper at the sensation. low moans kept coming out of his mouth as with slow thrusts he finished inside you, making sure not a single drop was wasted.

he pulled out of you slowly as you suddenly felt empty, let yourself fall back into the chair where you had just sat as you entered his office exhausted.

"I've been waiting to do this ever since I saw you."

[harrywavycurly]

I just read the bumble story and I love how reader talks to Harry and the “we listen and we don’t judge” thing about his hands😂 I can see her saying that to him all the time and maybe he even says it to her a few times as well!

Hiii babes!!! Awe thank you for reading the Bumble Fumble!! I loved writing their dialogue, it was so fun because she just says exactly what’s on her mind and you know Harry was probably thinking “what does that even mean?” when she said that to him the first time!! But this made me think of some random convos they’d have where you use that phrase so I hope you enjoy!!💖

You can find the Almost Bumble Fumble: here✨

*these are just conversations so it’s pure dialogue*

Summary: You teach Harry how to properly use “we listen and we don’t judge” ✨

“I lied to Jeff and told him I had an appointment this morning so I could get off the phone with him because I didn’t want to listen to him tell me about his weekend because I knew it was going to be a bit boring and I wanted to make sure I had your coffee ready by the time you got here and I can’t fake being interested in what he’s saying and making coffee at the same time.” “We listen and we don’t judge. But thank you for putting my coffee so high on your list of priorities.” “Well I just know how you get without it.” “Kinda the same way you get when you can’t journal for ten minutes every evening before bed.” “Exactly.”

“Wait you said what to her?” “Harry you’re supposed to listen and not judge…and that face you’re making is telling me you’re totally judging right now.” “What? No love I’m not judging I’m-I’m listening. Continue please.” “Right well I told her that her dress wasn’t very cute because I just couldn’t let her walk out of the house not looking her best so she got mad and broke my favorite pair of sunglasses so I cut the straps off all her purses.” “Jesus remind me to never upset you.” “I was in high school Harry it was just normal teenage angst that’s all.” “Well uhm we listen and we don’t judge.” “Too late Styles…you already judged but nice try.”

“Niall told me he’s reading fifty shades of gray but told from Christian’s point of view. I didn’t even know that was a thing?” “We listen and we don’t judge. It’s good. I mean as good as fifty shades can be..” It’s good? I didn’t-wait you’ve read it?” “Harry…” “Sorry sorry. We listen and we don’t judge.”

“I cry every time I watch Taken because-” “We listen and we don’t judge. You can cry at any movie you want sweetheart it’s fine.” “Oh my god.” “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” “You really meant it! I didn’t feel any judgement from you at all!” “Crying is cool so of course I’m not going to judge you for it.” “I feel like a proud mom right now this is great.” “Glad I could make you proud but I don’t know…m’not really into the mommy thing.” “We listen and we don’t judge so that’s fine you don’t have to be into the mommy thing.” “Oh that was good…you’re quick.”

[hardlyinteresting]

Love, Guilt and Other Wounds

Aaron Hotchner x female reader

When Aaron and his partner are taken hostage, he has to break her heart to save her life.

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, a little bit of domestic fluff, mention of blood, injury (non-graphic), hostage situation, knives, cannon-compliant themes of violence, non-detailed discussion about religion (Christianity), themes of childhood abuse, please let me know if you want me to add anything else.

Word count: (less than I expected, sorry) 3.7k  Request here! | Masterlist

"Of course, I’ll hurt you. Of course, you’ll hurt me. Of course, we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence". - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Aaron isn't sure if he believes in a God or a higher power. He was taught to read scripture; and spent Sunday mornings perfecting his posture in church pews-- starched shirts and neckties pulled too tight. The preacher's sermons left him wanting-- wondering how this man of God could stand over his congregation preaching every week, and not see all the lies they were holding back. How could he not see the secrets Aaron seemed to read so clearly? At just fourteen Aaron knew who was having an affair and with whom. He could see which children feared their fathers. Every pew had another story, another family growing together, or falling apart. The hypocrisy of it all drove him mad, and he imagined standing from his seat to shout it, overwhelmed as he realized he had unintentionally become the keeper of everyone's secrets. He learned that everyone in that church was a liar in their own right, and he hated it. But, when he left for college, his mother called to ask if he was still going to church on Sundays, and he lied and said yes. 

He should have paid more attention. Maybe then he'd understand how he ended up here. Perhaps it's some sick retribution. A cosmic evening of the scales; his penance for his sins. He just wishes you weren't here with him. How dare he think he could love someone when all he's ever done is punish those who love him? His hands are stained with blood; he taints everything he touches. 

Very early on in his career, Aaron learned he couldn’t take cases personally. As devastating as it was to have another victim show up while hunting a killer, it wasn’t a personal failure. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. He repeated the process again and again. Logically he knows that he is not responsible for the actions of the aggressive sociopath who is now holding the two of you hostage; but, he blames himself for not keeping you safer, for bringing you with him, and for putting you in harm's way. He knows he will not recover if you don’t make it out of here. He won’t forgive himself. 

The profile said this man would be anti-social. Physically, he’d be small in stature. It was clear he’d been sneaking up on his victims. He had been taking couples, knocking out the men with a blow to the back of the head, and then the women. It’s a method that the team had seen before, common for UNSUBs without the social ability to lure their victims, or the physical strength or confidence to attack head-on. But they had not profiled that he would escalate to taking out his targets with a taser. 

After six days in San Diego, the team finally had a lead on two rental properties in the UNSUB’s comfort zone. One was an old tyre factory, listed as a multipurpose warehouse and storage space; the other was a large storage facility in an industrial neighbourhood. Both units had been paid for in cash, both offered the privacy and space required to hold and torture two people for days at a time. The team split up, Hotch and you arranged to meet the owner of the factory space to find out more about who the renter was and gain access to the property. With no response from the owner of the second property, Morgan, Prentiss, and Rossi headed over to check it out. 

The two of you had only been on the property for five minutes before Aaron had been incapacitated and taken out. He had foolishly made his way into the building while you ran back to the SUV to grab your jacket. Out cold, there was nothing Aaron could do to stop you from meeting the same fate. 

It’s not his fault. But he feels like it is as he watches you shiver from across the room. He can’t be certain how much time has passed, but it feels like hours. He can only hope that you’re being kept in the building you were attacked in, that the team will connect the dots and come and get you, but until then you’re stuck. He watches, nauseated as your eyes flutter open, and then shut again. You’re concussed, he doesn’t need to be a doctor to know that. His ears are ringing, and he’s sure the blow he took to the head has at the very least temporarily worsened his hearing. 

“Doesn’t the FBI have rules against fraternization?” The UNSUB wonders out loud, waving a knife around as he walks towards you. 

“What makes you think we’re a couple?” Hotch asks, as he tries to work his hands free from the rope that binds them behind his back, “She’s just a colleague”. 

It’s a lie. But it needs to be said. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. Buy time, shift the UNSUB’s interest away from the two of you. Ruin the fantasy.

“I think I’ve been doing this long enough to know a couple when I see a couple, Aaron,” the man taunts, obviously proud of himself. He’s feeling emboldened having taken two FBI agents, but that works in your favour. He’s getting cocky, too full of himself. It’s a level of confidence he isn’t used to having, it just gives him a higher height to fall from. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. “I think it’s time we wake your girlfriend up,” the man says, his hand gripping tightly at your hair, your head tugged back without remorse. 

Aaron resists the urge to cringe as he hears you groan, your face twisted with obvious pain as you’re rudely awakened. “She’s pretty. What’s she doing with you?” 

“I told you. She’s a colleague”. 

Your eyes are unfocused, scanning the room trying to make sense of what is going on. 

The man raises the knife, holding it to your throat. This time Aaron blinks, desperate to control his expressions and micro-expressions. In this scenario, the less he cares about you, the safer you are. 

It’s the burden of being tied to him. Time after time his love destroys people. 

The blade presses closer to your throat. Aaron controls his breathing. 

“Impressive agent Hotchner. But I’m still not convinced,” the UNSUB moves the blade but pulls your head back further. Your eyes meet Aaron’s, “Do what you’re going to do, he doesn’t care,” you say. You’re speaking to the man with the knife in his hand as much as you’re speaking to Aaron. He weighs his options, his heart pounding as he watches you hold your breath, willing the tears to leave your eyes. It’s the permission he needs but doesn’t want.  Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. He knows you’re doing the same, telling him to break your heart to save your life. 

“Please, Hotc--”. 

He doesn’t let you finish, “Just shut up for once. Please,” he thinks the words cut through him more than they cut through you. Knowing his cruelty is a lie does little to soften the blow, and it breaks his heart to be the one throwing it. 

But this is all he’s good for, isn’t it? Letting people down. Surely it’s not just coincidence that so many of those who have dared to love him end up damaged. One way or another he destroys people. Who is he to say that he’s the one who is suffering when it’s he who does all the damage? 

Even as a child, he couldn’t help it. He thinks perhaps he inherited his sharpened tongue and lack of patience from his mother. She loved him in her own way but could never show it without first tearing him apart. Her biting words, and regular beatings. Prentiss had been right when she once said he was distrustful of women-- unfairly so. Not all women carry the hateful, spiteful heart his mother had. Very few had ever turned their rage at the world and their shortcomings into a personal and violent rage against him. He grew weary nonetheless. Better safe than sorry.

 At a young age, it became clear to him that there were few things, if anything, as important to his mother than appearances. On Sundays, she fussed over his clothes and his posture. She lectured him on table manners from the moment he could hold a fork. His room had to be spotless. His grades had to surpass average. Long before his brother was ever born, he learned how to live up to her expectations. But still, there was always something she could find him lacking in, an excuse to take her open fist or wooden spoon to his skin, a reason to send him to bed without dinner. He remembers crashing into the china cabinet trying to escape her one night. She was mortified on Monday when he had to walk into school on Monday with a cast around his arm. “Make sure they know this was your fault,” she told him. Perhaps I was built to fail, he had thought. She loves me and I embarrass her. I will only ever let her down. God, how disappointed she would be to see him now.  

Seconds feel like hours as the UNSUB leers expectantly. The man's mouth twists into a smile when he sees the tears forming in your waterline again. Aaron watches your fist clench presumably to distract yourself from the migraine that matches the pounding in his head, just as much as it is to pull your attention away from the hurtful lies he's about to weave. 

“You were supposed to have my back,” Arron spits with faux vitriol. “You had one job and couldn't even manage to do that”. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. 

“From the moment you showed up I knew you'd be a problem”. 

He continues to try to work his hands out from the binds. He can feel the knot loosening as he continues to buy the two of you time. “Aaron,” you beg, tears slipping down your cheeks now. 

“Following me around with some school girl crush. Look where we are now,” Aaron breathes. 

He can feel his father’s rage resting on his shoulders, as heavy as his hands were when he used to pat him on the back. It’s a quiet burning, far more silent than his mother’s anger, but it’s there and threatening him all the same. A silent shame; a fear induced by the knowledge that he’s failing but not being able to stop it. His father lived like a ghost in their home, just as Aaron has learned to haunt his life. He only ever raised his voice when he drank, but even then his hatred was self-directed. A sorrowful self-pity. A cry for help. The affairs, the gambling, the drinking; the man punished himself, stumbling home to a house with a vengeful wife, a silent boy, and a crying baby. It was a heart attack that finally killed him, but Aaron never doubted his father had stopped living long before that. 

Aaron breaks his own heart as he delivers each verbal blow. He hopes you understand. He prays that just maybe your concussion might leave the memories of this moment blurry. Selfishly, he begs you to forgive him, because he won’t forgive himself. 

He can see the way your wrists strain against your restraints. The UNSUB adjusts his grip on your hair as you struggle to distance yourself from him. Your eyelids flutter and he knows your vision must be swimming but you don’t give up. With a sadistic grin, the UNSUB wipes at the tear stain on your cheek with fake sympathy, grasping your jaw roughly he forces you to look straight at Aaron, “Poor girl… guess boss man doesn’t care about you after all. What a waste,” he sighs his breath heavy against your cheek, as he moves to hold the knife to your throat again, “She’s so pretty,” he directs his commentary at Aaron this time. 

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ve slept with her. How couldn’t I when she was practically throwing herself at me?” The words taste bitter on his tongue as he speaks them. His stomach churns as he continues, “But what we have certainly isn’t love”. 

It couldn’t be further from the truth. Aaron grounds himself choosing to remember the quiet morning you two had shared only a few days earlier. Waking up without an alarm but with Jack sneaking in to jump up on the bed. As he watches you cry now he recalls how you had smiled so brightly at the little boy, ruffling his hair and cuddling Jack into your side. He had watched with a smile of his own as you bargained with his son, promising pancakes in exchange for ten more minutes of sleep on your shared day off. 

You crept into his heart so slowly he had hardly noticed. Until one day, he looked up from the bright pink sticky note you'd left on your recent report, reminding him not to work too hard; he knew, without a doubt, he was in love with you. 

For so much of his life, Aaron conditioned himself to expect a fight around every corner. He learned to make sacrifices from his happiness in fruitless attempts to keep peace. For the first time in forever he's been feeling like maybe, just maybe, he's enough. You’ve been more than patient with him; understanding his hesitance to open up to people again. You don't get upset with him for working late, but you scold him for not getting enough sleep and skipping meals. 

He smiles more. He cracks jokes the way he used to. You've helped him see the forest from the trees--  healed parts of him he didn’t know needed mending. He's tried to do the same for you. He's watched you open up and trust the team more. He's seen the way your confidence has grown and he can't take credit for your growth, but he's enamoured by the transformation just the same. 

You deserve better. You deserve better. You deserve better. The thought echoes in his head the same as it does most days. But now, it’s louder. The voice in his head matches the volume of the ringing in his ears, and the rushing sound of his pounding heart. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. He fights to remind himself, but the UNSUB is laughing now. Taunting you and your emotions, and there’s nothing Aaron can do but sit there and watch. He struggles to feign indifference, watching as you continue to make yourself smaller. It’s only then that he notices that you too are working your hands out of the rope that restrains you. The UNSUB was stupid enough to tie your wrist in front of you.

Aaron’s eyes focus on the bandaid wrapped around your index finger. You cut yourself making dinner last week. He could have sworn his heart melted when you turned to him holding your hand out, blood beading already. “Aaron, where do you keep your first aid kit?” you’d asked. Your brows furrowed, and your lips pouted. “In the bathroom, the cabinet under the sink,” he’d answered with no intention of letting you go off and tend to your wound alone. Instead, he guided you down the hall, his left hand looped in a gentle hold around your wrist, his other hand on your waist. 

Once you were sat on the countertop he took great care, making sure the wound was cleaned before he bandaged it. “My hero,” you teased, leaning in for a kiss. 

A simple cut he could manage to fix. Jack promised you could use as many of his Star Wars bandaids as you wanted while you healed as well. A little love and patience could make it better, a philosophy he adopted to heal Jack’s scraped knees, and schoolyard bruises. But the sight before him now is far worse than any kitchen mishap could be. 

Your nose is still bleeding. Bruises have already begun to form, red marks turning deep purple with every passing minute. He knows that your concussion is something you'll recover from. The contact burns from where the taser touched your skin will become new skin someday soon. The cuts and scrapes will scab over and then disappear. 

Aaron worries the damage he's done can never truly be ameliorated. Your compassion is unmatched. It’s what makes you a good agent, a good partner, and someone Jack can turn to. You are forgiving. God knows you've excused enough of his behaviour. But, he doesn't deserve to be absolved of this guilt. He will carry this day around in the darkest corner of his heart; the same place he holds the memory of Haley and how he failed her. The words “what we have certainly isn't love,” will linger uneffaced by time or kind words. 

The squeak of an old door opening piques Aaron's interest. The UNSUB doesn't react. Seemingly only interested in tracing the tear tracks on your cheeks. Your eyes are closing again. It's over now, he wants to tell you. He wants to hold you; comfort you; to apologise because you deserve to hear it anyway.

“Paul Simpson. FBI,” Morgan’s voice booms, “drop the knife and put your hands where I can see them”. Prentiss and Dave come to stand next to Morgan, their guns trained on the newly identified perpetrator. Aaron bites his tongue so hard he can taste blood-- it's all he can do to stop himself from bursting into a fit of bitter laughter. We win, he wants to say. 

Disarmed and handcuffed, Paul is escorted outside by Morgan and two members of the local police. Prentiss and Rossi make quick work of untying you and Aaron. 

“Aaron?” he can hear you mutter, breathy and quiet. 

“Yeah, I’m right here,” he promises kneeling at your side. Your eyes are glazed and unfocused as you nod and tip forward. Unconscious, your entire body falls forward into Prentiss’ arms. Aaron’s voice joins Rossi in calling for a paramedic. 

The doctors assure him that you’ll wake up soon. They dealt with his injuries quickly. Bruised ribs are the worst of his injuries. A cut at the back of his head and the taser burns were patched in only a few minutes, though he’ll readily admit he was far from a good patient. Too anxious to keep still much to the nurse’s dismay. 

You’re still asleep. A major concussion will have you out of the field for much longer than he knows you’ll be happy with. He makes a mental note to start setting aside some extra paperwork for when you inevitably start hounding him for something to do. With the lights in the room dimmed, and a comfortable silence settling he allows himself to indulge in the illusion that everything might be alright between you. 

With your hand in his, he breathes deeply trying to focus. He prays to a God he’s not sure he believes in. And when the quiet starts to get to him, he speaks out loud, as silly as he thinks he may look. He tells you about the phone call he had with Jack earlier and lets you know that Jack has a new painting he can’t wait to show you when you get home. Your hand squeezes his, encouraging him to keep talking.

“Aaron?” your eyelids flutter as you adjust to the light. The nurse had them turned to the dimmest setting but it’s still far more than you feel immediately capable of coping with. 

“Yeah, honey,” he affirms. You release the breath you’re holding your brow relaxing.  

“I love you,” you tell him. Your voice is steady and steadfast. Your resolve is impressive, unwavering and determined as you focus on making eye contact with him. “It’s not your fault,” you promise. He’s sure you don’t expect the weight on his shoulders to lighten instantaneously. You’ll tell him every day that he’s not to blame; intent on chiselling away at his guilt, shrinking it down before it manages to consume him. 

“I love you,” he swears. He knows it won’t squash any of the doubt he’s planted. Aaron knows there will soon be days that the niggling insecurity threatens to break what you’ve managed to build together; when the worry that you aren’t enough seems louder than it ever has before. He won’t blame you if you decide it isn’t worth the pain of staying with him. But, he’s hell-bent on loving you through it. He can only hope that it’s enough. 

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter 11

Series Masterlist

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You don’t know if working with world champions is always like this, or if it’s just a Verstappen thing, or if he’s just a special breed of asshole- but God help the people who have to see Max Verstappen every day. You’d probably kill yourself.

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The morning had been strange. Not hostile. Not loud. Just... off. Max hadn’t spoken to you beyond that cold little dismissal when he decided he’d be taking the first run, hadn’t so much as looked at you since. But you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Some drivers were like that- singular, focused, not particularly social. Maybe he was jet-lagged. Maybe something at home was off. He wasn’t rude, not exactly. Just... unavailable. It was fine. He’s a world champion. He’s allowed to be tightly wound. You’re just here to do your job.

Still, something about the afternoon settled differently.

There was a current beneath the day, low and thin and sharp, the kind of unease that clung to the back of your neck like static. It wasn’t anything specific. Just a hum. A pressure. A presence. Something sharp tucked into the edges of every exchange that didn’t quite belong, like a stone in your boot- small enough to ignore until it wasn’t. You kept feeling it on your skin, just behind your ear, like breath. That inexplicable weight that made you check your posture, your volume, your notes twice before speaking.

The problem was you.

You told yourself that was ridiculous. Paranoid. Entirely self-centered to even think. There’s no evidence for it. He hasn’t even spoken to you directly- which is fine. Max wasn’t doing anything to you. Not really. You barely interacted. He was a world champion. You were a dev driver with a three-month contract and a pile of debt. You weren’t important enough to be hated. The idea of some kind of vendetta was absurd. Hilarious, even.

Was. Key word, that one.

Because it had started small.

When you got the call to prep for your run, you had expected to hear GP in your ear. He was the only true race engineer on the wall today, and this braking system was half-baked at best. Standard protocol said put your most experienced guy on the radio.

But it was Christian’s voice instead. “Hang tight,” he said, too casual. “Max wants GP to go over some things with him. We’ll find someone to run your comms.”

It caught you off guard, but you didn’t flinch. Not out loud. Of course Max wanted GP to go over that dogshit data, find some way- any way- to improve on it. It was his team. His program. No one was being slighted. You’d told yourself that twice before Christian even asked, “Any preference?”

“Put Gavin on,” you’d said. “He’s done some of the sim work with me.”

It wasn’t a problem. It worked. Gavin was bright and eager, and you two had already found a rhythm. Still, there was a tiny tug behind your ribs as you rolled toward the track. You’d told yourself it was nothing. Just a shift. A reshuffling. The kind of thing that naturally happened when someone more important stepped into the room.

Strike one. But you were still giving him the benefit of the doubt.

The laps had gone well. Not flashy, not dramatic- but clean. You didn’t drive to impress. You drove to inform. And it worked. You found the edge of the system’s instability, adjusted your style, made the system come to you. Lap after lap, you gave clean data. Gavin worked alongside you like a real engineer, asking sharp questions, tracking every delta. You brought the car in, rattled off notes, sometimes with your hand literally shoved into the brake casing right beside Alessandro’s. It was fast, dirty work. Real work.

Then back in.

Then out again.

Then back in.

It wasn’t perfect, but by the time you stepped out of the car, the system wasn’t dragging nearly as bad. It was rapidly approaching not-dogshit territory, even, if you were feeling generous. The team had done well. You’d done well. You knew it in your bones.

Max got in next. Grip from the jump. Smoother transitions. Consistent laps. Not fast, but stable- good data. When he came back in, his tone over the radio was easy, calm. “Good changes,” he said. “Front balance is better. Rear’s still loose, but predictable.” In the huddle, he gave a quick nod to Alessandro. “Appreciate the work. Gavin, good notes. GP, thanks for the prep. This is getting closer.”

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t thank you. Didn’t so much as acknowledge that you’d been in the car at all. You stood there- still zipped to your neck, still flushed, still holding the note sheet he’d used without knowing. You told yourself he probably didn’t realize. Maybe he thought Gavin had done the legwork. Maybe he just missed it. Maybe it wasn’t personal. Just tunnel vision. Just focus.

You told yourself these things.

And yet.

Strike two.

The debrief was where it truly started to slide. The folding table was the same mess it always was- printouts, water bottles, someone’s stray protein bar melting in the corner. You took your usual seat, corner spot, notes in hand, ready to walk through the flow of your runs.

Max went first. Flat, clean terminology. No fluff. Then GP. Then Gavin with a note about load transfer. Then a pause. You leaned in, hand brushing the page. “I think the lateral grip improvement post-tweak four is- ” 

“I think…” Max cut in like you hadn’t spoken. Talked right through you. Didn’t glance over. 

You blinked. Sat back. Told yourself maybe he hadn’t heard.

Then Alessandro asked a question about wear across the stints. You had clean data on that. You tried again. “I actually noted- ”

“But the feel it has on an approach…” He spoke over you again- an entirely different train of thought. Louder. Deliberate.

This time, you didn’t make excuses. You didn’t try again. You just folded your notes slowly, the page edge crisp under your fingers, and sat up straighter. “Well,” you said, tone bright, razor-clean, “since Max has limited time with the dev team today, I’m happy to let him take the floor. I can always catch up with y’all at the factory.”

Max just kept talking. Like you didn’t exist. And still- you told yourself it didn’t have to mean anything.

Maybe it was just ego. Or pressure. Or some outdated sense of hierarchy that let men pretend rudeness was efficiency. It didn’t feel good. But it wasn’t the worst you’d been through.

Not the first time you’d been interrupted. Not the first time a man in a meeting talked over you. Not the first time you swallowed it and smiled like it didn’t scrape going down.

Strike three. But you still hadn’t said the word targeted. Not out loud. Not even to yourself.

You could still pretending it was about something else.

But now? Now? Right now?

Your right hand is still curled around the door handle when you see them. Right there. Exactly where you left them. Exactly how you left them.

Your fireproofs.

Folded neatly on top of your bag. Sleeves crossed. Neck rolled down. Still holding the bend from where your fingers pressed into the fabric that morning. Your mouth goes dry. No. No, no. That’s not possible.

You had checked. You know you did. Stared into the open bag, flipped through your gear like a frantic traveler getting accosted by a TSA agent. You’d stood right here, right there, trying to remember if you’d somehow left them in the trailer or the laundry or the van you had hitched a ride over in with the dev team.

They were gone. You know they were gone. You feel something cold spread behind your ribs. Because this? This is not the same as losing something. This isn’t absentmindedness or a misstep or a rookie mistake. This is a message.

I can fuck with you just because I want to.

You don’t move. Not right away. You just stare at the folded bundle of fabric like it might blink back. The silence buzzes in your ears, heavy and loud and flat. You scan the room. Nothing’s out of place. Your civvies are where you left them. Your bag hasn’t been touched. But the fireproofs... they weren’t here. They weren’t.

And now they are.

You squeeze your eyes shut, just for a second. It would’ve almost been easier if they’d never come back. If they were just... gone. A missing item you could write off. Shit happens. Tracks are chaotic. Things get lost.

But this? This is a ghost. And the worst part is the questions start to stack in your head, one after the other, soft as bruises:

Who else has been in this room? Who knew your kit was missing? Who knew you’d still get in the car anyway? Who needed to see you squirm?

And who the hell else spent the entire day pretending not to see you, not to hear you, not to care if you were there at all?

The answer curls low in your gut. You don’t say his name. Not even to yourself. But you feel it. It hangs in the air like heat off tarmac.

He is arguably the most powerful driver in the world right now.

And you are the girl in the wrong locker room with the missing fireproofs, now neatly folded back into place, like someone’s idea of a sick hazing joke.

Like a warning.

And suddenly, for the first time all day, it doesn’t feel like you’re being paranoid.

It feels like you're in danger.

Not physically. But professionally. Personally. Quietly.

It feels like someone with everything has looked at you- your little crayon contract, your borrowed space, your narrow lane- and decided that even that was too much.

And for a moment, standing there in the stale air of the locker room, that realization doesn’t make you angry.

It just makes you tired.

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Max has been at the factory more in the last few weeks than he has since his rookie year. Not that anyone’s called him on it. Why would they? He’s winning. He’s dominant. He’s Max Verstappen.

They’d throw a parade if he showed up just to eat breakfast. And sure, maybe it started out circumstantial. First the braking test, then a quick check-in here or there, ‘for morale’, for press. For whatever. They don’t care. It’s RedBull’s castle, and he’s the fucking king. 

Max always shows up for development. Max always cares about next year’s car. Max is serious. Meticulous. It’s the story they’ve always told about him.

Never mind that for most of his career, he’s only showed up when it mattered. Rare visits. Focused feedback. Let the engineers engineer. That’s what they’re there for.

But now? Now he’s here. A lot.

And not because he’s got anything new to offer. Not really. He sits in on meetings he doesn’t need to be in. Nods through debriefs. Watches the same telemetry four times in a row and acts like he's seeing something new.

And absolutely none of this has anything to do with you.

Definitely not.

Not with the way you breeze through the aero department, sharp and direct, arms full of printouts. Not with the way the guys in CFD light up when you bring coffee to your morning meetings, pretending it’s nothing, pretending you’re not already working two hours longer than anyone else before the sun even comes up.

It has nothing to do with the fact that your data notes now arrive in the inbox labeled “priority review.” That Christian calls you by your first name without the usual clipped edge. That a new junior prospect asked you a question in the sim bay and you answered so confidently, like you belonged there, like this was your garage and everyone else was just borrowing space.

It’s not about you.

It’s just... quieter here. Cleaner.

There’s no Kelly, not anymore. No slammed doors. No constant questions that he doesn’t want to answer because he doesn’t know how to form the words. No apartment that feels like an abandoned tomb- silent and echoing, with one toothbrush left by the sink and no towels that smell like her hair.

And sure, maybe it’s easier to stay in another country than deal with the mess he left behind. Maybe it’s simpler to pretend this is about next year’s car, about being a leader, about taking responsibility.

But really?

It’s about control.

Because if Max can’t keep you from being here- if Max has to watch you glide through this place like you belong here, like you’ve always belonged here, then he’s going to be here to control the pace of it. To monitor. To watch every move. To pull every string he can reach. To press every pressure point until you break.

Or at least until you look like you might. You haven’t yet. And he hates you for that. God, he hates you for that.

Max knows he’s not like his father in the way Jos can look at a man and dismantle him in a conversation. Can see five moves ahead, speak in riddles, lay traps with a smile. Chess with real lives. Psychological warfare as fluently as breathing.

Max didn’t inherit that part.

He’s reactive. Blunt-force. He knows it. And as much as he hates to admit it, he’s not as good at the long game. Not like Jos. He doesn’t understand people the way Jos does. But he’s not stupid.

He knows he can’t do the fireproofs thing again. Not right away.

That had been reckless. Bold, maybe. Stupid, definitely. It had worked- rattled you, shook your confidence, even if you hadn’t said a word- but it was too obvious. Too risky. He can’t keep pulling stunts like that and expect no one to notice. Even he knows that.

He has to be smarter. So- he starts slow. Testing. Not you, exactly. Everyone else. The team. The factory. The threshold for what people will let him get away with.

He has a hunch it’s a lot.

So- it starts with your desk. Nothing major. Just petty. Just small.

A paper out of order. A USB cable unplugged. A sticky note taken and returned half an hour later, just crooked enough to bother you. Your pens turned the wrong direction. The plastic tab on your headphones flipped up instead of down. Nothing that matters. Just enough to make you pause.

Just enough to fuck with your rhythm.

Just enough to make him feel better.

Not better like good. Not like he’s resolved anything or found peace or grown up or moved on. No, not that kind of better. Just a split second of relief. A little satisfaction curled behind his ribs, like taking off tight shoes.

He doesn’t touch anything important. Yet. Not the data sets. Not the signed-off revisions. Not the feedback you leave overnight for the engineers to sort through in the morning.

Just…little things.

Things that make you stop and blink. Things that make you wonder if you’re tired. If you’re slipping. If maybe you are stretched too thin.

You notice.

You always notice. Max sees it- the pause, the half-second of uncertainty before your fingers move, before you reset whatever he’s tweaked and go on like nothing happened. Like it’s not worth making noise about. Like it’s beneath you.

He hates that.

Hates the way you recover.

Hates the way you don’t make a fuss.

Every time he gets a rise out of you- a twitch, a frown, a blink- he thinks, finally. But then you smooth it over and get back to work like he’s not even a factor, like none of this touches you, and the pressure behind his ribs starts building again.

So he keeps going. Your folders- swapped. Your chair- too low. The SIM rig- just a little off. Gremlins. Glitches. Ghosts in the machine.

Except you know they’re not. And somewhere inside, Max knows you know. But he also knows you’ll never say a word. Not about this. Not yet. And that’s what keeps him coming back.  Because this isn’t a strategy. It’s a compulsion. It’s a way to bleed some of the pressure before it breaks him in half.

He’s not his father. He can’t manipulate. Can’t scheme. Can’t trap you in a perfect web and pull the strings until you cry.

But he can erode you. One day at a time.

And no one’s even noticed him yet. Not really. People smile at him the same. They ask about the car. The standings. Laugh at his half-hearted jokes in the break room. He’s still Max Verstappen- unshakable, untouchable, the face of the empire. Nobody blinks when your name doesn’t come up. Nobody asks why you look a little tired. Why your folders are always in your arms instead of on your desk, like you don’t quite trust anything anymore.

Because what is there to stop? A crooked sticky note? A misplaced file? They’re too busy. Too trusting. Too comfortable with the idea that Max Verstappen- nearly two-time world champion, team golden boy- doesn’t have the time or the need to be petty. They don’t realize that pettiness is the point.

So Max stops holding back. If no one’s watching, why bother with caution?

Starts “accidentally” leaving you off email threads. Moves meetings to different rooms and doesn’t update the calendar. You show up late, or worse- don’t show up at all, because you never knew they were happening.

When someone notices, Max tilts his head. “Was she not on the list?”

Mild confusion. Plausible deniability. You’re left apologizing. Again. And not once do you lose your temper. You step into the new conference room like you’d meant to be there all along. Ask for the agenda in that same even, courteous tone. Pull up your notes like they’ve been rehearsed. Slide into your chair with a soft apology and a calm nod, as if this is just part of the job.

And maybe it is, now. You act like it’s fine. Like it happens all the time. (It does.)

He meant for it to sting. To knock you off your balance. To put you in your place- just a little late, a little wrong, a little off-rhythm. But somehow, it stings him. Because it means you were ready.

Not just aware- but prepared. Braced. Armored. As if you’ve built a fortress around your schedule, your reputation, your entire fucking personality- just to deal with him. Like his cruelty is no longer surprising. Like you’ve categorized it. Labeled it. Filed it away in the same drawer as your calendar invites and telemetry notes.

You meet every offense like it’s a weather report: expected. You don’t flinch. Don’t freeze. Don’t raise your voice or roll your eyes or even glance his way. You absorb it, adjust, and keep moving.

It’s starting to piss him off.

Because this isn’t nothing, anymore. He’s doing this. Putting in effort now. It takes time to manufacture the right gaps in communication. To reroute calendar invites, to casually mention a room change at just the right moment that you won’t hear it. To find out which meetings matter most and sabotage just enough to make you look slightly disorganized.

It’s not just pettiness anymore. It’s labor.

And if all that- every cold jab, every careful cut- isn’t doing something to you, then what the fuck is the point?

You’re not ignoring it. He knows you’re not. He sees it in the way you sit a little straighter now. The way you double-check your messages, the way you carry your folders pressed tighter to your chest like armor. He’s gotten under your skin.

But not in the way he wants. You still smile when you talk to people. Still nod politely at him, even. And that- that- drives him insane.

Max thinks the others are starting to see it too.

Not clearly. Not enough to say anything. But there’s a flicker sometimes- a glance passed between engineers, the slight tightening of Christian’s jaw when Max cuts you off mid-sentence. Even GP is quieter than usual, like he’s running the math in his head, trying to determine just how much of this is deliberate, how much is personal.

They’re noticing.

But they’re not stopping him.

And maybe that’s all Max needs to know.

Because noticing and acting are two different things. People see all kinds of shit they never do anything about. Especially when they’re chasing trophies. Especially when the golden goose is laying eggs on schedule.

It’s Japan next. Then Austin. Two races to lock down everything: the drivers’ title, the constructors’. Legacy stuff. Max Verstappen- undeniable. Unstoppable.

And when that kind of noise is in the air- when the entire factory is humming with the urgency of domination, of making history- who’s going to pause the celebration to ask why the junior dev driver always looks like she hasn’t slept? Why she’s always apologizing? Why her sim settings keep getting wiped, her notes misplaced, her name left off just enough invites to mean something?

No one.

Not when their job is to make Max faster. Better. Happier.

All that noise makes a lot of cover.

And Max- he’s nothing if not opportunistic.

He’d actually been annoyed about the overseas leg. Not for the travel, not for the schedule. But because he thought it would let you breathe. Thought you might get rest. Time off. Space away from him. He didn’t like that.

He’d built something back at the factory. A rhythm. A pattern. You, flinching in micro-reactions. You, tired. You, careful with your words. He could feel it tightening around you, like a string wound inch by inch. And now he was supposed to just… go to Japan? Let it all loosen?

It had made him sour. Restless.

Until Christian said it. Offhand, barely worth noting. Not even to him, just to GP, in the car on the way to the hotel. “- and if you need anything from the factory, same as usual. She’s got the emergency line covered.”

Max hadn’t even looked up at first. But then the words had processed. She’s got the emergency line. He blinked. Turned to the window. Felt the heat rise slow and electric in his chest.

The emergency line.

You.

Behind, while the whole circus traveled forward.

On call. Always on call. Of course. Of course you are. Max feels it hit in his chest like the perfect apex.

The phone rings, and you’ll answer. No matter the hour. No matter the timezone. No matter if you’re halfway through a four-hour SIM data stitch or if it’s 3:42 AM and you’re dead asleep. You’ll answer. You’ll have to.

And it’s almost better this way. Because now he can do it without anyone watching. No Christian. No Gavin. No GP narrowing his eyes across the table. Just Max, with a hotel phone, a thin voice of irritation, and a dozen fake reasons to need revised torque mapping or driver fit delta sheets.

Even from half a world away, he still has you. Even from Japan, even from Texas, even from thirty-thousand-fucking-feet-in-the-air- he still owns the lever. Still has access. Still has control.

He’s not going to stop. Not until you lose it. Not until you break. Not until you unravel in a spectacular, public, irreparable way.

Or until someone finally stops him.

But god, he really, really hopes it’s the first one.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The jet slices through the sky like it knows it’s carrying royalty.

Max sits stretched out in his seat, one ankle propped on the opposite knee, champagne still drying behind his teeth. The cabin hums soft and steady around him- low lighting, expensive silence, the kind that costs more per hour than most people make in a month. There’s a plate of untouched fruit on the tray beside him. A pair of noise-canceling headphones he isn’t using.

And beneath his seat, he taps the side of a cheap plastic bag with the toe of his trainers. Just once. Light. The contents rattle softly, like a secret.

Anyone who looked at him right now would assume he’s glowing from the double-title sweep. His second drivers’ championship in the bag. The constructors finally secured in Texas. The season sewn shut with a bow made of pure dominance.

And yeah- sure. That’s part of it. Winning always burns clean. But there’s something else humming under his skin. Something sharper. Meaner.

Texas had been a fucking masterclass.

He could barely sit still on the podium, couldn’t focus during the post-race interviews, because all he wanted was a readout of your emergency call log. Every time you answered. Every time you picked up on the first ring. Every time your voice cracked, just a little, from being dragged out of sleep to deal with another one of his so-called crises.

God, it had been perfect.

The way you’d sounded on the phone in the hours before the race. Voice hoarse. Barely keeping up. Answering every call like it might be your last thread of usefulness, like you knew you’d be crucified for missing one.

He’d paced his hotel room with the phone tucked under his jaw, fake questions and useless requests spilling from his mouth while the Texas sun came up over the blinds. Could you reprocess the tire data? Could you double-check the sim overlays? Could you recompile that setup file you both knew was already fine?

You had done it all.

Every call, every time. No complaint. No hesitation.

He didn’t even have to say much- just enough to get you out of bed. Just enough to make your heart rate spike. Just enough to keep you from falling fully back asleep before he called again. Nine times. Between eleven and six, your time.

Borderline Geneva Convention shit.

And the best part?

You didn’t say a word about it. Not to him. Not to Christian. Not to anyone. But he knows it fucked with you. He knows it landed.

Max can practically taste it. That need to see. The slow-fuse thrill of imagining what he’s done to you. The bags under your eyes. The brittle smile. The tremble in your fingers. Maybe, if he was really lucky, the fray in your voice when you tried to pretend you were fine.

Beautiful. He’s practically buzzing in his seat now. Almost giddy.

Because he’s going to see you again soon- back at Milton Keynes. Just a small sponsor celebration, nothing wild. Most of the team’s still in transit, logistics buried in crates somewhere between Texas and Mexico. But you’ll be there. You always are.

And he’s bringing you a gift.

Well. Your gift.

Because beneath his seat, nestled in a plain plastic bag, is the next play.

Six cans of Diet Coke.

American Diet Coke.

He wouldn’t have even noticed it, if Gavin hadn’t made a whole thing of it at the end of the weekend. “She begged for it,” he’d laughed with one of the teardown guys, hauling the six-pack from his carry-on. “Said she can’t live without it. Euro Coke Light just doesn’t cut it.”

Max hadn’t even needed to ask who is ‘she.’ He’d just smiled.

And later, when Gavin left it sitting unattended in the chaos of re-packing, Max had calmly scooped it up so smooth it didn’t even register. Quiet. Painless. Now, he rolls one of the cans beneath his palm. Cold. Ribbed aluminum.

Everything you want. Everything he doesn’t need. God, he can’t wait to drink it in front of you. Slow. Casual.  He’s going to walk into that break room and sit down across from you like it’s nothing. Like you’re just coworkers. Like he didn’t spend all week carving the flesh out of your spine and waiting for you to break. 

He’ll pop the tab with one hand. Let it hiss like punctuation. Smile like he’s being friendly. Lift the can to his lips and take the slowest, laziest sip of his life while you watch- while you sit there and realize, right there in real time, exactly what the fuck is happening.

What’s he going to say if you call him out? It’s just soda. What, are you going to cry about a Diet Coke? 

He rolls the can in his hand now, still beneath the seat, still unopened. Cold and perfect. The condensation dampening the edge of the bag. It’s nothing. It’s everything. You’re so close.

He can feel it, humming like voltage beneath his ribs. The break is coming. It has to be. The unraveling. The part where the polished, press-trained, infuriatingly professional version of you finally cracks wide open and shows him what’s underneath.

You’ve held out longer than he thought you would. Weeks. Months. But the threads are fraying now.

And Max? Max is giddy. He wants to see it. Wants to taste it. Wants to feel the air shift when you finally snap- when the smile slips and the mask crumbles and the fire comes roaring out.

He deserves this.

After everything.

After Kelly.

After the silence in his apartment- the kind that doesn’t just sit still but echoes, bounces off the marble and glass like a scream he’s too tired to make. After her clothes disappeared in the over a race weekend and the toothbrush by the sink went dry. After the reporters started sniffing around. After he stopped answering the phone because he didn’t have the words- or worse, because he did, and they were all the wrong ones.

After the shame.

The rage.

The hollow fucking nothing of being exactly who he was supposed to be- world champion, golden boy, living proof of the ‘brutal, but it works’ Verstappen doctrine- and still being so deeply, gut-twistingly, viscerally, miserable.

And then there’s you.

You, with your press-polished voice and your humble little nods, your fucking notebooks and 80-hour weeks and the way the entire goddamn factory seems to orbit just a little toward you when you enter a room. You, who look at Christian when you talk like you belong in that seat, like your notes are gospel and your presence is earned. You, who Jos talks about like you were born from some higher stock, like you’re what he wants to see in a driver.

You, who didn’t fall apart.

Not when you got shuffled off the grid. Not when he turned the full weight of his pettiness and cruelty on you. Not when he spent weeks dragging you across the coals of your own job, picking at you like a scab, waiting- begging- for you to bleed.

And still. You smile. You hold it. You act like you’re better than him.

Maybe you are. But he can’t accept that. Because if you’re as perfect, composed, untouchable as they all seem to believe- then what does that make him? What’s the excuse for everything he is? For everything he’s not?

So no. No, you don’t get to be the exception.

He needs to see it. Needs proof. That you’re not who you pretend to be. That under all the polish and posture, you’re just as sick as he is. Worse, preferably. That you’re human. Ugly. Flawed. Wrong. That you don’t deserve the soft words and familiarity you think you’ve earned. That people should shut the fuck up about you already.

And if the only thing in this whole joyless, champagne-drenched, hollowed-out circus that still makes him feel anything at all is watching you crack- watching you lose your shit in front of the people who think you walk on water- then that’s what he’s going to take.

He deserves something. And if it’s not peace, not love, not pride- then let it be this.

Let it be your undoing.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

It goes exactly to plan, and that's what pisses him off the most.

Max palms a single can, cold against his fingers, the aluminum slightly damp from the condensation. He slips it into his jacket pocket. Feels it press against his ribs like a loaded chamber.

He doesn’t even hesitate when he walks into the break room.

There you are.

Exactly where you always are when you can spare twenty uninterrupted minutes- tucked into the far corner, lunch balanced neatly in your lap, notes beside you, brows furrowed as you chew and read at the same time.

There’s no one important in the room. But there are just enough people to witness. Just enough to pass the story down the corridors and into the engineers’ lounge and onto the production floor like a cigarette passed hand to hand- did you hear? did you see?

Max doesn’t look at them.

He walks straight to the seat across from you, shrugs off his hoodie, and-  Crack.

The tab on the Diet Coke hisses, sharp and sudden in the quiet room. It echoes. You freeze for just a breath. Just a beat.  You look up. Your eyes flick from the can to his face, and then down again. You don’t say a word.

Max lifts the can, sips. It’s fucking awful. Like licking static. Syrupy and thin. But he swallows it with gusto- because it tastes like fuck you- lets the carbonation burn its way down, and watches.

Waits.

Come on.

Your hand tightens slightly around your fork. There it is.

Come on.

Your posture shifts- not tense, not yet, but alert. Like you’re registering what’s happening, like you know this is a game and you’re just deciding how to play it.

Come on.

But you don’t take the bait.

You just reach for your notes, the motion fluid and practiced. Your voice, when it comes, is measured to perfection. Not too loud. Not too soft. “We should probably get to the Mexico readout,” you say, snapping the lid back on your lunch with a neat little pop. “We’ll be late if we don’t go soon.”

That’s it.

That’s all.

No fury. No outburst. No public tantrum. Just a steady look, one that passes through him like a clean knife, and then back to your salmon or rice or whatever the fuck it is you’re eating like he didn’t just spit in your face.

The can sweats in his hand. His tongue curls in protest.

He takes another sip. It’s worse.

It’s not the taste, not really.

It’s the complete and total nothing he gets from it. He was sure. Positive. This was going to be the moment. The crack. The slip. The humiliation. He pictured it a dozen times- your voice raised, your hands shaking, Diet Coke flying across the table. Something. Anything.

But instead- this. Your back is straight. Your lashes still thick and curled, your lipstick perfect, your movements smooth and mechanical as you stand. A doll, wired too tight.

And maybe that’s why he misses it.

The tremble at the edge of your thumb as you flip a page. The way your jaw flexes when you exhale. The too-quick breath you swallow before you speak. If he had just looked a little harder, a little longer- he would’ve known. You're right there. Fraying. If he had just seen how close, if had just known-

But he doesn’t. He didn’t. He’s too busy trying to choke down the most bitter, unsatisfying drink of his life, stewing in the sting of a victory that doesn’t feel like one. Not even a little.

He trails behind you, the half-finished can of Diet Coke still cold in his hand, the aluminum buzzing against his palm like it might vibrate straight through his bones. Every step is a tick louder inside his skull. Every breath you take might as well be a challenge. He stares at the back of your head like it’s a target, vision narrowing until the only thing in the world is you- and the quiet, seething, insufferable grace with which you carry yourself.

He hates it. Hates you.

How dare you walk like that. How dare you smile. How dare you pretend like you won when he was the one who laid every trap.

And yet you hadn’t tripped.

That’s what’s driving him mad. That he gave you the perfect moment to crack, handed it to you gift-wrapped, and you didn’t take it. That should have been it. You should have screamed. Thrown something. Cried. Given him anything.

But you didn’t. You collected your lunch and asked if he wanted to go to a meeting.

That should’ve been checkmate. He designed it that way. Perfect set-up. Perfect delivery. Right place. Right people. Enough eyes to witness your unraveling, to whisper about it later in the halls. And what did he get?

A fucking smile.

A tight-lipped, pristine little let’s get to the readout smile while you flipped your lunch lid like you didn’t even see him sitting there with your fucking soda in his hand.

This isn’t control. This is defiance.

This is you thinking you’re better than him. Above him. Like you’ve risen above all this petty shit he’s been building, like you’ve already written him off. And he can’t stand it. He can’t stand the idea of you walking through this building, collecting praise and soft looks from Christian, from Alessandro, from everyone- while he’s losing sleep over how to hurt you next. That, more than anything, makes Max want to rip something out by the root.

You reach the door to the conference room first, pulling it open with one smooth, practiced motion. The air inside is cooler, quieter, full of the low hum of laptops and shuffling paper. Alessandro and his team are already seated, thumbing through a printed analysis. GP offers a half-smile from where he’s standing by the projector. Christian sits at the head of the table, scrolling through something on his phone, but he looks up when the two of you walk in.

“You made it,” Christian says mildly, to both of you.

You smile like nothing’s wrong. Like you’re not one whisper away from absolute combustion.

Max grunts something like a greeting, flings himself into the chair beside GP. He tosses the half-empty Diet Coke on the table, lets it roll to a stop just shy of your elbow. You glance at it. He watches for your reaction. Nothing. Just a neat little adjustment of your notes, shifting them away like it’s a piece of trash.

Like he’s a piece of trash. Like all his effort is pointless, and wasted, and it fucking boils Max alive. He leans back in his chair, eyes flicking to Christian, then to Alessandro, waiting for them to speak. But something in the air has shifted, and it’s not just him.

You're quiet. Too quiet.

Your pen rests in your hand like a blade you haven’t chosen to use yet. And Max, for the first time, feels it in his gut: the wrongness. The coiled, humming wrongness of this room. Like the lights are too bright. Like the ceiling’s too low. Like two wild animals have been shoved into a cage and asked to behave.

Christian doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.

“All right,” he says, opening the meeting. “Let’s go over the Mexico packages, then we’ll do a quick review on the RB19 concepts.”

Max keeps his eyes on you. He watches your hands. Watches the way you smooth your papers. The way you draw a small, even breath before speaking- measured, careful, every word of your project update lined with velvet.

Max watches you with a feverish hunger, that same sick glee curling in his gut. You smooth your notes with the back of your hand, scoot forward with quiet composure, and begin to speak- something about updated tyre wear patterns on high temp tracks, your voice so evenly modulated, Max wouldn’t have believed it if someone told him you’re seconds from snapping in half.

You look... perfect. Hair smooth, papers stacked, expression soft.

Until he ruins it.

He doesn’t even try to be subtle.

“I’m sorry,” Max says, loud and flat, slicing through your update like a blunt knife. “Didn’t we already cover this in Austin? With the real team?”

Your words collapse into silence. Not a stumble. Not a gasp. Just a clean severance mid-sentence. The whole room pauses, startled- GP’s eyes flick up, Alessandro stops tapping his pen. Even Christian looks mildly annoyed, but no one speaks. No one stops him.

You inhale. Not fast. Not loud. Just a small recalibration, like you’re accounting for turbulence. You pivot. Begin again.

And Max does it again.

“I just think maybe we should move on to something relevant,” he says, this time with a shrug, voice maddeningly casual. “We’ve already accounted for this. Unless you’re just repeating yourself for fun.” He knows what he’s doing. He knows it’s a fucking grenade. And still- you don’t raise your voice. You don’t snap. You don’t even look at him.

Not yet.

You go still. Chair tucked under you, spine stiff, eyes locked on the edge of the table. Your fingers close over the top sheet of your printouts. Smooth. Deliberate. One hand slips beneath the stack, pages aligned perfectly against the pad of your thumb. You gather them all like you might excuse yourself. Like you’ve decided to walk away.

Max holds his breath.

Then your head lifts. And you look at him. It’s not a glance. Not a passing irritation.

It’s a fucking furnace behind your eyes. Years of forced poise and practiced smiles and smothered rage lit in an instant. For a moment, Max thinks he sees something almost monstrous beneath your skin- some terrible, searing truth that’s been burning just under the surface this whole time. Your voice when it comes is low and sharp, the kind of quiet people listen to.

“I don’t know what your problem is,” you say, tone like glass about to crack. “If it’s because I’m a woman, because I’m new, or because you just fucking hate me. But- ”

“You’re being emotional,” Max says smoothly, leaning back in his chair.

And the silence that follows is different this time. It’s not discomfort. It’s a goddamn fuse. You drive your finger into the table, hard enough the plastic lip clicks.

“Oh, fuck you,” you breathe- and then your voice breaks wide open. “Emotional? You want emotional?” 

Your volume rises like a siren. You stand, every inch of you charged with lightning, raw and feral in a way no one at the table has ever seen. “I work EIGHTY FUCKING HOURS A WEEK.”

Your voice doesn’t crack. It detonates. Like a starting gun fired into the ceiling, like the first blast of a demolition. Sharp. Violent. Unmistakable. It’s not just the volume- it’s the force of it. It’s the sound of a woman that has had it up-to-fucking-here.

“I don’t leave this building. I don’t sleep. I answer your calls at 3am like I’m your fucking secretary. I redo data because your gut doesn’t like it- even when it’s right. Even when you’re wrong. And I do it without complaint. Because I believe in this team. I believe in this car.”

Your hands are fists, white-knuckled, your papers crushed in your grip like you could tear the numbers out with your bare teeth. Your chest rises in uneven, ragged swells. It looks like something inside you is breaking open- and all the sharpest pieces are aimed directly at Max.

“And I don’t ask for praise. I don’t even ask for fucking respect. All I’ve ever wanted is to do my job. That I am excellent at. And be left the fuck alone.”

You step forward. Not a stumble. Not a lunge. A step. Controlled. Dangerous. The kind that precedes war.

And suddenly, Max sees it. Really sees it. Everything that’s been gnawing at him for months. The thing he couldn’t name but couldn’t stop chasing.

The reason the factory fucking loves you. Why Christian bothers. Why even the most vicious engineers- the ones who chew interns alive and keep a hit list of PR liabilities, who eat steel for breakfast and sleep beneath whiteboards- seem to pause when you speak. Why you’ve made it this far. Why no one’s ever questioned whether you belong here.

Because you're not harmless.

You're not soft.

You’re not even nice.

No. That part- that easy smile, that gracious nod, that perfect press-ready tone- that’s a choice. A tactic. A precision-forged instrument of restraint. You’ve worn it like a fitted suit- polish, poise, pleasantries. That gentle professionalism. The way you listen, nod, follow up. Every smile. Every “no worries.” Every apology that you didn’t owe. It’s a leash you keep on yourself, every second of every day. It’s restraint. It’s a mask. It’s the tightrope walk you’ve mastered so cleanly that no one notices you’re balancing on a blade.

You’re a monster in makeup. Sharp teeth behind lipstick. Rage under silk.

You are exactly the feral, unhinged thing he’s always thought you were.

And now? Now the leash is off.

“But you- ”

Your hand slams the table, full palm, loud enough to rattle the pens and send GP’s rolling to the floor. A sound like gunfire. It echoes in Max’s bones.

“You have made it your goddamn mission to make this unbearable. You’ve fucked with my desk, my data, my hours, my sanity- for what? Because I’m new? Because I’m not from money? Because I’m a fucking woman? I don’t know. And honestly, I don’t fucking care.”

You point at him. Dead-center. Fire in your veins, lightning in your spine. Not trembling. Burning.

“You’re a spoiled, insufferable, nepotism baby who’s never had to fight for anything but a fucking podium in his entire fucking life. That seat? The one that makes you a god? Is built by people like me- engineers, analysts, dev drivers- who work themselves to the edge of collapse to build something that matters. And we don’t even get a fucking thank you.”

No one breathes.

You’re glowing with fury. Radiant. Terrifying.

And beautiful in a way that makes Max feel like he’s holding something raw and livewired in his hands. It’s not love. Not respect. It’s something more visceral. Something like awe.

“And that is fine,” you spit. “I don’t want your thank you. I don’t want your gratitude. I don’t want your fucking approval. I want you to leave me the fuck alone. I want to come in, run my numbers, build my cars, drive my tests, and I want to do the thing I love without you poking at me like a goddamn child lighting ants on fire for fun.” There’s a ringing in the air, the radioactive particles of a nuclear fallout settling around the table.

Max watches you, completely still. Every hair on the back of his neck is standing up. And then- God- his mouth curls. Slow. Savoring. He leans back, that slow smile pulling higher like smoke rising from a lit match.

“Thank you,” he says. Quiet. Measured. Real. 

Because goddamn, he means it. This is what he’s been waiting for.  This- this moment- is everything. The first real thing he’s felt in weeks. You, wild and unmoored and screaming like your throat was made for fury. He’s dizzy with it. Drunk. Absolutely electric with the joy of seeing you finally, finally, fall apart.

You blink.

Then you howl.

“UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE!”

It tears out of you like a wolf breaking from a trap- feral, instinctive, lethal.

Your arm swings, and your entire stack of papers becomes shrapnel- exploding against the wall behind Max’s head. One page sticks to the whiteboard. Another flutters down and lands directly on Christian’s lap. You don’t wait. You slam the door. It shakes the frame. The sound echoes through the hallway like the aftermath of an explosion.

Silence. Total. Absolute. 

No one looks at Max. No one dares to. But he’s smiling. Smiling like a man who just got exactly what he wanted.

Oh, yes, he thinks.

That felt good.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist HOLY hell, what a chapter. Please please please let me know what you thought!! Also, officially starting a taglist for Reset (I had to look up how to make one), so if you would like to be added, please shoot me an ask and I will get you added. Asking again, too- do you think I need a signature pic for the story or is it fine to upload without media? Teaser for next chapter: Jos, cowboy hat, lots of bs boardroom politics. All your favs. 

[ivan-fyodorovich-k]

This is an impossible desire, because of survivorship bias, but I detect in most popular Christian thought we are presented with an implicit, sometimes explicit, suggestion that if we surrender to God, amazing things will happen. They point to Hebrews 11 and other famous passages, the Gospel of John’s promise that Jesus offers us life “to the fullest” and that that life starts now and not later.

For the last several years I’ve countered this with the second half of Hebrews 11, which is to say, well yes sometimes God uses people for amazing things, but God also allows very terrible things to happen to people.

But now I think the piece that I have never had shown to me, that I now realize is my own fate, is that it is very possible that God will have what feels like absolutely nothing at all for you to do.

“Many are called, but few are chosen.” I’ve thought about this through the lens of salvation for most of my life, but it occurs to me that it can relate just to the monotony of our earthy existence.

Gideon gathered thousands of Israelites for his army—when he told those who were afraid to leave, ten thousand Israelites remained, willing to face death. God sent away nine thousand seven hundred of those volunteers.

[fullfriendnerdclutch]

In collaboration with @malehypnofantasy

"As I said before, son. There's no better blessing other than being enlightened. Your strength came from Him. Your good look came from Him. Your wealth came from Him. Spreading His word is only right as a way for you to thank Him for his blessing. So, if I ask your purpose in life, it is--"

"To serve all His needs,"

"And, my words are--"

"Your words are the extension of His will and desires, so it's only right for me to obey you too as His communicator to the masses,"

"Perfect. Your reformation is a true showcase of His work. Bless Him,"

"Bless Him,"

"Okay, now you are discharged, son. Make me proud,"

---

Looking a bit too proud with himself, but why shouldn't he? He's finally the perfect son his father always wished for, and he's more than happy to oblige to his father's needs and demand. He spent way too much time defying the old man orders throughout his juvenile years until his latest semester in college, it's good to finally conform to his father's traditional patriarchal value rooted in Evangelical Christianity. After all, that's the kind of value needed in the community among its youth if the family-run megachurch wanted to remain flourishing for years to come.

Now, he needed to ensure that the app his father installed to his phone ended in every townies phone, including the upcoming students getting back for summer break so his father can be even more prouder to him for making sure that the community outreach worked well. Maybe he should start with the bartender, he's 21 now after all so he can definitely just slide into the bar with no problems. Make him another followers to the cause and then proceed to use his help as they are working on dual operation to convert everyone to join the megachurch through the app's subtle yet effective impact. The townies love to get wasted with their drinks, must be easy to install the app into their phone when they are not even sober. When it's on their phone, it's going to do its job and they just need to sit back, relax and wait for the stream of proud, strong and devout masses beelining their way into the service every Sunday

----

"I don't know how you did it, but your words really reverberated with me. Truly a blessing to be your converted puppet, you know?"

"I mean, talk about perfect takeover. Like, you, a fat pathetic nerd taking over my mind and make me do your bidding? Blasphemous!"

"But well, I'm just your mic now, but you clearly doing a better job than I do. Only because of you my son can be brought back to the right way like that, all my efforts were futile all these years but with you in control, poof, he's becoming someone that I can proudly call son. Really crazy how effective you are in making me your puppet and delivering all your demand as if it's God's commandment. It really is a perfect revenge for this fucked up townies. Serves them right. I really am pleased to be used by you to achieve your goals,"

[crafty-butch]

Embalmed

A short story by me (tw: body horror, self-harm kinda)

Did you know embalming isn't actually that common, worldwide? I didn't. Sure, there are some famous exceptions–looking at you, pharaohs–but embalming random schlubs is mostly a US thing. Plenty of religions ban it outright. Islam, Judaism, several branches of Christianity…

Bear with me. I promise I have a point.

Anyway, I've got no opinion on what God wants us to do with our corpses. I've never been religious. I'm still not, weird as that sounds. But I'm with Islam, Judaism, and several branches of Christianity on this one. Just skip the embalming and bury the body before it starts to rot. It'll be easier for everyone, on the off chance someone decides to bring them back.

No, this isn't a joke. Look, I'm not saying it's likely, okay? I know the stats. Less than twenty confirmed resurrections in the last half-century. Maybe twice that many ambiguous cases. Actually ambiguous, that is. Just because someone is flaired “unconfirmed” on r/Resurrected doesn't mean there's a chance in Hell they're legit. So, yeah, I get it's unlikely. But let's jump back to embalming real quick.

You know how it works, right? At least vaguely? Blood goes out, formaldehyde goes in. Well, that's step one. Step two is sucking all the non-blood fluids out of your body cavity and swapping those for embalming fluid too. They also sew your mouth shut, stuff some cotton in you to stop any leaking–I could go on, but I won't. Like I said, I don't have any issue with embalming from a treatment-of-the-dead-body standpoint. I'm not trying to make anyone feel bad for embalming Great-Aunt Edith, here. I'm just saying, if the dead body becomes an alive body, you can see why there might be some issues.

Yeah, yeah, I know what you're going to say: “It's magic, dumbass.” And, yes, it is. That's why waking up with your mouth sewn shut and your body stuffed full of formaldehyde doesn't immediately kill you again. Doesn't make it fun, though.

Okay, maybe I shouldn't focus on the mouth thing. I'm sure it's happened to someone, but my sister cut the stitches out before she brought me back. She was thorough like that. I just feel like it's easier to picture, you know? Mouth won't open and hurts when you try. The rest of it's harder.

I don't blame my sister for not dealing with the formaldehyde. I know there wasn't much she could do about it. If she'd had more time, I'm sure she could've come up with something, but once you've dug up a body, you're kind of on a (ha) deadline. If someone sees you, you're done. So I get it. I've had a lot of time to think it over, and I'm still not sure what she could've done better. Other than just letting me stay dead.

I don't want to sound ungrateful, but…maybe I am? A little bit? I know that's an awful thing to say. It's not like I wanted to die. That's not what this is about. It's also not about how super amazingly great the afterlife is. Sorry to disappoint, but I have no idea. I don't remember anything between the hospital and waking up on the grass with a chest full of embalming fluid. Does that mean there's nothing after? Or did coming back just give me amnesia? No idea. I leave that one to the philosophers.

My sister probably would've had an opinion.

She was always…

Let me tell you about my sister.

She was great. I'm not saying this because of what happened. She really was incredible. Almost perfect. One of those people who's so smart and so kind and so beautiful and so goddamn humble but not so humble you can even accuse them of humblebragging, to the point where you can't help but hate them a little for making you look so fucking shitty in comparison and then you feel like the biggest bitch in the world and that just makes you hate them more.

Okay, maybe she wasn't quite as perfect as all that. After I came back, I learned some things. Turns out she was just as much of a fuckup as me, in her own way. She was just better at hiding it. But I never met that version of her. In my memories, she's still just Little Miss Impossibly Perfect. I wish she'd told me about any of it. Maybe…

No, that isn't fair. Why would she tell me anything that could get her in trouble? Maybe I would've hated her less, or maybe I would've just gone and told our parents. Even once we grew up. Would I really have been able to resist knocking her off that pedestal? I'd like to think I would, but come on. Look how I'm talking about her. And that's after she sold her soul for me.

If you're thinking right now that the world probably would've been better off with her instead of me, you're not the only one. Don't worry, I won't take it personally. Or maybe you're not thinking that at all. I've been told I project onto other people.

Maybe you're just confused about why I'm talking about her in the past tense. After all, it's not like selling your soul kills you, and you've probably never met someone unensouled. Or maybe you have, and you know exactly why I'm talking like this. Probably not, though. There are a lot more unensouled than there are people who were resurrected–people sell their souls for all sorts of reasons–but there are a lot more fakers too. Pro tip: if someone claiming they sold their soul gives any sign of caring about literally anything, including whether you believe them, they're lying to you.

So, yeah, she's still here. I know I keep saying it, but I'm not religious. I don't think my sister is burning in Hell while her empty husk sits up here, and if you ask me, that's just a real convenient excuse not to help the person who's still right there in front of you. Whatever a “soul” actually is, there's clearly someone here.

Sorry, I might be preaching to the choir here. And I don't want to sound like I think every religious person thinks that way. I just made the mistake of talking to my parents this weekend, and I'm still a little mad. Or a lot mad. Look, I know I'm getting off topic. Just, real quick, I want to explain.

She's still my sister. I'm not denying that. I keep saying she was this or she was that because she's not really any of those things anymore. She's not cruel, but she doesn't care enough to be kind. I'm sure she's still smart, but she doesn't actually want to use her smarts for anything. She barely eats if I don't pester her into it. I don't think she'd have an opinion on what my lack of memory says about the afterlife anymore. But, hey, maybe she would. Maybe I should ask.

Anyway. None of this is really my point. My point is, waking up next to your own open grave is freaky enough when you're not choking on formaldehyde. It took weeks before I was mostly bleeding blood again. (Yeah, I checked. Don't judge. You'd be curious too.) I coughed up embalming fluid for months. My insides still don't feel quite right. I could get them checked out, but I'll be honest with you. I don't want to know. I haven't been anywhere near a doctor since I got back.

I know, you don't think this will happen to you. No one you know is the right combination of smart enough to wade through all the bullshit to figure out how to revive you and stupid enough to go through with it. And you're probably right. But I thought that too.

[flagellant]

It's funny. Maybe it's the way and the place I was raised but Spanish is, and always will be, the holiest language of Roman Catholicism. Ecumenical Latin, Greek, even Aramaic, the original languages the Bible was written in--I get it, I really do. But I wasn't raised in Christianity reading, hearing, singing Ecumenical Latin, Greek, or even Aramaic. And while a lot of it was in English, I'll admit, my strongest memories of my time in religion will always be in Spanish.

There's this musicality to it that I don't think I know how to fully comprehend how I can explain. Because it isn't about the musicality, really, though religious Spanish is a beautifully lyrical language. If I'm being perfectly honest, it's that I hardly speak any Spanish at all. I would often go to Spanish mass with my best friend growing up because we'd hang out on Saturdays and I'd go back home Sunday afternoon--after I went to church, of course. I didn't comprehend the language in the slightest (though I learned some through rote repetition, of course). But hearing the passion, the adoration--in the truly Biblical sense of the word--of the voices of the (my) abuelas around me raised in song, Señor, ten piedad, Cristo, ten piedad, Señor ten piedad de mí? How could I forget that in my life?

Maybe it's the history of it, y'know? Maybe it's the little ember of Marian heresy I'm convinced exists in the heart of it. Sure, Jesus and the Father and all that, but I mean, it's practically sacrilege to act like it isn't the Mother who rules the house of God in Guadalupe, right? I still remember the smell of the tamales I was too picky to eat. Every week for years. After a certain amount of time it became habit and sublimated, misplaced pride rather than any actual desire to not try them. I still never did, though. Somewhere inside me there is a little boy who made his first friend in the world and a second family refused to let him try and pretend that he wasn't that. Maybe one day I'll forgive him for not knowing any better and being too scared to try new things. Who knows? Maybe one day he'll forgive me for growing old. I tried pizza for the first time a couple months ago. Twenty-eight years of fear and pride and resenting all the other little boys for loving something but hating me. It's just bread and cheese and pepperoni, kiddo. Ain't nothing to be afraid of. Ain't nothing to be afraid of.

[ceilidho]

exit, no entry wound joe bear graves x reader; part 1 (3.8k)

-

Local time at destination: 0500 hours.

And then the world rushes back to him like the culmination of a terrible dream.

Bear wakes up in another rosebush outside the front steps of the local library worse for wear. Blinking out of sleep-crusted eyes, shapes diverging in blurry unfocus before slipping back into material objects. A bench. A door. The thorny stems of roses already on their way out, already depetalling, the ground below covered in a thin layer of them. One petal even sticking to his cheek when he pulls himself off the ground, wincing at the branches that crunch around him, that tug against his skin and clothes.

His clothes smell of cheap liquor. Gin. Bourbon. It hurts to open his eyes, to sit up. 

“Morning, sunshine,” someone says. He remembers hearing it in his dream too. 

He looks to the source of his awakening, blanching when he notices the man staring at him.

Rip sits on the other side of the bushes on his haunches, looking deeply unimpressed. Hair slicked back for a change. “This what you get up to when I’m gone?”

Bear doesn’t respond. He struggles to his feet instead, hangover only just creeping in. Still drunk, to an extent. His knees threaten to buckle under him, forcing him to lay a hand flat on the wall to keep himself upright. One foot in front of the other. The walk home feels endless in the hour before dawn, hardly any light to guide him. 

“Pretty pathetic shit, Bear,” the man says, trailing along behind him. Not quite mockingly, but bordering on it. “Getting piss drunk and passing out in a bush? Really? C’mon, man. You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

There’s no sense in responding, Bear knows that now. No sense in even turning around to look. One foot in front of the other. Stumbling home alone under the cloak of night, dawn just around the corner; terrified that one day he’ll have to see it—the sun coming over the mountains, over the horizon. 

It’s been less than a year. He hasn’t yet made his amends with God. Forgiveness sits outside of him. Not quite the right time to let it in. Maybe that time passed a long time ago, a small aperture that shuttered closed at the approach of his eyes. He missed it sometime between killing a boy and losing his mind.

A man cannot hold himself up on the scaffolding of the world alone. There has to be something beneath him. There is no sense in repeating the horrors of the world back to him; he’s already lived them. He’s got something of a Midas touch for death. 

The months have been long since the divorce was finalised, since Lena left for good, since Buckley died, since Rip—since it all went down. If he thinks about it for too long, it seems like a nightmare that he woke up from still mad about; a nightmare he had no choice but to drink himself into a stupor over to escape. That’s the reality of the world. 

“You know, Bear, you’re not the one that’s fuckin’ dead,” Rip spits as he follows behind, matching Bear’s stumbling gait stride for stride. “So you can stop acting like it.”

There’s a truth in Rip’s words and it leaves him feeling nauseous. There’s also a kink in his neck and a headache threatening to split his forehead open. In the belly of him, he has a truth that says that the firmament of heaven is beyond his reach. When he looks up and the sky is void of coruscating light, the meagre stars like an exit with no entry wound, it doesn’t surprise him. Of course there wouldn’t be anything there.

On a good day, his heart feels like it’s weathered a siege. 

“So she left you! It’s time to fuckin’ move on. Go to a bar—I mean, you already are, so step one done—and pick someone up. Go on Christian Mingle or something. You keep living your life like this and you’re going to wind up killing yourself. And then the fuck good that’ll do?”

It takes everything in him to not turn around and do something rash. Only the nausea keeps him from making any sudden movements. Even if he were to turn around and do something, his knees would probably buckle under him. Probably throw up the contents of his stomach. Not much in there either. It rumbles when he thinks that, clenching at the thought of food. Then it twists, the nausea returning. 

One foot in front of the other. The walk home takes twice as long, his whole body aching.

“Heard you almost quit. Wouldn’t be the worst idea you ever had. Let Buddha take over—he’s earned it. Get yourself a nice piece of land in fuckin’…Montana or something. Couple cows, maybe some chicken—you could get a dog, Christ. You look like a guy who’d have a dog. Why don’t you have a dog, actually? You would’ve told me if you didn’t like dogs, so it’s not that.”

His forehead is greasy when he touches it to rub his head. Body secreting poison in his sleep. Oily. The corners of his lips crack when he yawns. It’s not like he’s never thought about a dog, about having something to care for, another living thing in his house. 

But—

(“Bear? …I don’t think we should have a child.”)

What he wants often falls to the wayside, slides off him like a glancing blow. 

Her old, familiar shape appears at the sudden loss of a dream: one where Lena’s gaze lingers on him long enough to burn; but then it is the sun.

Bear watches dawn break. Sunday morning. In a different life, he would’ve squinted into the light of a new day and closed his eyes against it, curling into the slighter body tucked into his chest for another hour of rest. Felt the rise and fall of her chest. Woken up to a hot mouth on his cock or fingers curling in his chest hair, petal lips seeking him out. Church after that, showering off the remnants of their morning, solemn in their pews with their chests still holding the laughter of an hour previous. Light as air, as a feather. 

He won’t go to church today; hasn’t in months. Not with the guilt of missing it the week before trailing after him, each missed week compounding month after month. The cracks in his faith webbing. Splintering out like stepping on the lake when it freezes over in the winter, crunching under his boot until he holds his place. Conscious that it could break under his feet.

“I grew up with a dog,” Bear finally responds, voice hoarse. First thing he’s said since last call at the bar. 

“Yeah. Figures. What kind?”

“Black lab. We called her Daisy.”

It’s another lifetime ago. Still living in his parent’s house, Daisy curled by his dad’s feet, her favourite spot to sleep. Television playing at a low volume, mom at the kitchen table doing her crossword, ink bleeding into the side of her hand. It’s been a long time since Bear buried all of them. He’s buried countless people since. 

“What—can’t get another? One and done? That’s how everything works for you?”

Teeth raze across his skin again. Trust Rip to always cut to the quick. Finally back in his neighbourhood at least, the street empty apart from the cars parked in their driveways or along the sidewalk. Bear’s stomach rumbles something fierce now, entreating him to eat. Worse than hunger is how he’d kill for a glass of water though. Anything to settle his head.

“Haven’t wanted a dog,” Bear grumbles, then clears his throat.

“Yeah, you have,” Rip scoffs. Bear hears him kick a rock, sending it skidding across the asphalt. 

“Fuck off.”

Heart silicified in his chest, composed of fossilised shells and rocks and bones. It feels heavy in his chest. 

He turns down the street leading to his house. 

“Gotta let someone else in, Bear. Girl, dog—whatever. You can’t keep this up forever or it’ll kill you.”

When he turns around at the door, fishing in his pocket for his keys, the sidewalk beyond his house is empty. 

(So a man lies down and rises not again; till the heavens are no more he will not awake or be roused out of his sleep.)

Every Friday like clockwork, Bear stops at the diner down the street for a coffee and a slice of cherry pie before heading to the bar. 

Today is like any other. He leaves the house with only his keys and wallet and walks the long twenty minutes to the diner. Every time he fights the urge to drive, but there has to be something holding him in place. A reason not to throw it all away. 

It’s never completely empty when he shows up, but it’s never full either. His seat at the back of the room is open as usual, like they put up a sign before he comes ambling down the street that says Reserved for Joe Graves and then pluck it away before he opens the door. It’d be nice if that were the case. Nice to have something just for him for a change. The thought comes with its accompanying pang of shame. Desire is a dangerous thing; anything he’s ever wanted has come at him with sharpened teeth, clamping down on his leg and ripping through the flesh. Bear trap for old Bear. 

He slides into the booth and waits for someone to notice him. Never bothers to flag someone down—if it’s ten minutes or even half an hour before he’s served, that’s fine by him. 

“Hiya,” a clear voice says to his right, pulling him away from staring through the blinds out the window. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea?”

The face Bear turns to meet is pleasant, smiling. Wide and untroubled. It’s not a face he recognizes though, despite months coming to this diner and becoming familiar with the staff. If he had to guess, he’d bet she only started a few days ago, maybe a week at most. She still has the sparkle of someone who hasn’t had the goodness beaten out of them yet. 

“Coffee,” he says, his own smile strained. “And a slice of pie.”

“Sure—we have key lime, blueberry, apple—”

“Cherry,” he interrupts, not letting her build steam. The wick in his chest burns too low for any conversation. The quick flicker of her brow makes the shame in his chest swell again. Forgive me sitting on his lips, unsaid. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I do this. 

She nods and scurries off to the back, skirt swishing with her movements. Bear notices only because his eyes get stuck there, somewhere between the curves of her hips and the roundness of her ass. When he realizes where he’s let his mind wander, he pulls it back, flattening his lips into a hard line. Any sort of indulgence feels wrong, a taking that shouldn’t be taken. He hasn’t even begun to pay penance for all the damage he’s wrought. 

It’s only on her way back that Bear notices the small bump protruding from under her apron. His mouth goes dry. When she reaches him again, he wordlessly accepts the cup of coffee and her reassurance that the pie will be out in just a minute. For a moment, he can hardly meet her gaze, eyes locked on the gentle curve of her belly, caught off guard in a way he hasn’t been in months. 

The first thought with any clarity is, what is she doing working here? A crummy diner on a Friday night. Down the street from an even sleazier pub. His second thought is to look outside at the poorly lit stretch of road and think that this is no place for a pregnant woman to be alone. He recognizes each car in the parking lot save one, likely hers. Drove herself here with the expectation of driving herself home at the end of the night.

If it had been Lena—well, he never would’ve let it be Lena, but if it had been, Bear can’t imagine letting his pregnant wife drive herself home in the middle of the night. Can hardly stomach the thought. 

She’s not Lena though, so he has no right. 

She’s gone before he has time to say anything else, skirt swishing behind her. It catches his eye again. When he tears his gaze away for a second time, he swallows back the metallic taste of self-loathing. It curdles in his mouth. It’s the sign telling him to stop coveting, stop looking out into the world and wondering what he can take. It’s his hamartia, his fatal flaw; thinking himself above the reproach of God. Thinking that he can kill, fuck, curse, and stray farther and farther from the light only to find his way back in the dark. 

The bell above the door rings when someone else comes in and Bear tenses. His shoulders only relax when two older women step in and head to a table. 

He watches as she picks up a plate from the pass-through window and heads back towards him. When she places it in front of him, he draws a deep breath in, trying to catch more than just the aroma of fresh baked cherries. 

“Here we go…one slice of cherry pie, straight out of the oven.”

“Thanks, honey,” Bear rumbles, smile finally meeting his eyes. 

“No trouble. The guys in the back said they make it special for you. Joe, right?”

That gets him to levy her with the full weight of his attention. The thought of her asking about him. “I go by Bear.”

“Oh. Alright, Bear.” She twists the word around in her mouth and seems to find it satisfying. “I think I’ve heard your name before. You were—I mean, you’re part of Pastor Adams’ parish, right?”

He clears his throat, cutting off the triangle point of his pie with the side of his fork. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Me too,” she confides, voice a low whisper. A secret between strangers. She doesn’t glance around though, doesn’t bother to draw out the ruse. “Or, I was, anyway. Haven’t been to service in awhile. I, um…I remember you. From a year or so back. You and your—um…you and your wife used to always sit up at the front.”

The fork scrapes against the plate. “Ex-wife.”

He catches her wince from the corner of his eye. “Oh. Sorry. You just—” She doesn’t have to say it. The slight dip of her eyes tells him all he has to know, and besides, it’s his own fault for still wearing the ring. Even with the paperwork signed and dated, even with Lena in another state now, starting a new life without him, the thought of taking it off makes him break out in a cold sweat. 

“It’s not—” Bear starts before giving up. He curls his fingers into a fist on the table. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. Not a big deal.”

She fidgets in the silence. Bear can’t bring himself to break it or make the atmosphere less oppressive. He tenses under it, the ache in his low back worsening. These days, he always aches. Nerve damage, a disc on the verge of slipping, an old ankle injury that flares up whenever he goes running. A ghost that follows him from haunt to haunt. The ring on his finger is just another old ache. 

“So, uh—” he clears his throat, nodding to her belly. “Your first?” 

It’s inappropriate, hardly his place to ask. Incredibly intrusive for someone he’s met for the first time, a stranger just trying to do her job and serve him coffee and pie before he goes off to drink himself half to death again at the dive bar down the road. 

Still, he asks. 

Only the faintest wrinkle of her nose betrays any embarrassment. “Oh. Yeah. First one.”

“Congratulations.” It’s sincere. The envy in his gut is old, but it’s a manageable pain. 

“Thanks,” she says, with a small, private smile, hand resting absently under her belly. “I’m excited. I’m only a couple months along, but, uh…it’s been a journey. Just me and baby against the world, you know.”

That stops him in his tracks. Screws up the whole course of his evening because suddenly the sound of the bell over the door jingling doesn’t draw his attention away. It stays fixed on the smiling girl to his right that just opened her mouth and said something unacceptable. 

“Where’s the dad?” he asks, far too bluntly. 

She shrugs. “Somewhere. Didn’t stick around long enough to tell me where. It’s fine though—I’ve got my little peanut. That’s all that matters.”

“You told him and he left?” 

The pie sits cooling in front of Bear as a pit in his stomach opens up. It’s a terrible, empty hole that holds truths like the fallibility of the body and the good shouldering the burdens of the world.  

He only regrets being so direct when her lip quivers, a little motion that betrays her until she wrests control over her face again. “It’s not his fault. I don’t think he was—well…you know, it was a surprise.”

“That’s—” he struggles to find his words, “—that’s not right.”

Again, she shrugs. “That’s life.”

Bear feels his eyes go hard. A coldness settles under his skin. 

In the deep, dark gut of him, only anger lives. He spends his days questioning why God has allowed everything else in his life to fall apart, has allowed countless other people to die, but refuses, for reasons unbeknownst to him, to kill him. He’s given him enough opportunity and enough reason. 

The answer he circles back to time and again is the same. An eye for an eye. Divine wrath. The litany of his sins could be sung until the end of time and there’d still be more to sing. It’s only right that there would be consequences for him. 

The rage that simmers in his blood now is twofold. It begins with the sharp pang of injustice, of witnessing a punishment meted out to someone innocent. The girl standing by the booth he’s shoved himself into, almost too small for a man of his size, cannot be deserving of the same punishment that he’s brought upon himself. She has never killed. The babe in her belly has never killed. The two of them should never have to meet at the point of two paths converging with the likes of someone like Bear and proceed down the same road together. 

Then it sinks into a familiar territory. A place at the core of him where righteousness gives way to envy, as it always does. After what he's been through, the thought of someone having everything that he's always desperately wanted handed to them on a silver platter and then sending it back leaves him feeling a bit off-kilter. Not quite right. 

“Bear?” Her voice breaks the silence. When he blinks, concerned eyes stare down at him, brows furrowed. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, dragging a hand down his face. Shaking it off. “Sorry, I—got lost in my head. Sorry.” 

“That’s alright,” she says, again gentle in her voice and smile. “Easy place to get lost in, isn’t it?”

He makes a sound in acknowledgment. Drags the silence out. Her mouth twists shy under his scrutiny. 

“Anyway, I have a few other tables to get to, if you don’t mind. Enjoy your pie. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

He eats his slice of pie in silence as she leaves, eyes following her to her next table. Rage still sizzles under his fingertips. It makes his hands shake, old nerve damage and anger problems. 

It’s like a gun punch to think of her all on her own. It’s not right. For someone like him, well, it’s—deserved, earned. Inevitable, even. Every step taking him further away from grace, from its light. No one who knows his story would think otherwise. 

She’s a pretty thing though, this new waitress. Too tired, the bags under her eyes testament to that, no matter how well she hides them with makeup. Slightly puffy anyway, maybe from a lack of sleep or too many tears. His stomach aches at the thought. It must have come as a shock, the bottom of her world dropping out from under her when the baby’s father took off. Dragged away from the church not through her own doing, but the fault of another. Not her shame to bear, and yet. 

He forces the pie down. Bites that taste like nothing, 

Bear hears the lilt of her voice from two tables over. “Refill on your coffee, hun?” 

A supplicant sits in his place as he sips his coffee. The hour slips by into the next and it starts to come together in his mind. Why he's been forced down this long road alone, why God hasn't struck him down yet despite every terrible thing he's done. His eyes follow her flit across the diner, the light seeming to bend around her like a halation. 

When Bear looks across the room at her, he thinks, Lord, do not think I am waiting patiently for your hands. Every part of me trembles with anxiety.

(O Lord, show me I can fall apart together again; but not just yet.)

He stays until the last customer has finally left, waiting for her to come back to his table with an apologetic smile. When she does, Bear hands her his empty plate, watching her take a step back when he scoots out of the booth, rising to his full height. He makes note of the way her eyes round as they follow him up. Taller than her, unsurprisingly. Surprising though, the way her bottom lip droops just the slightest bit. 

“Is it just you closing up?” he asks, voice a tad too gruff. He clears his throat again, looking around for anyone else. 

“Well, the chef’s cleaning up in the back, but, uh—” she looks around the diner, conspicuously empty apart from the two of them. “Yeah. Just me.”

Bear gestures with his chin towards the door. “I’ll wait ‘till you’re done, then walk you to your car.”

“Oh, Joe—”

“Bear,” he corrects.

“Bear,” she amends, fingers twisting together now. He relishes the sound of it on her lips. “You don’t have to. I’m used to it, honestly. I know I just started here, but I’ve done closes before, you know.”

“I’ll wait outside.” A statement now. Stubborn. He’s always been a bit mulish, hard to shake off. 

He can tell the second she relents, shoulders slumping. “Alright. I shouldn’t be too long…you can leave if you get bored though. Won’t blame you.” 

He fights the urge to tilt her head up by the chin to make her meet his eyes. Just barely restrains himself. 

Leaning against a tree out front, he twirls the ring around his finger as he watches her clean up. For the first time in a long time, he slips it off.

[redpill-tfs]

Phew... I'm pretty much done with college now. I'm excited to start my teacher training! Hopefully I can be a great role model and make every student feel welcome in my science classes. If I can even encourage a few students with open minds and diverse thoughts to get into STEM, maybe the future of the US and the world won't be so bleak. Looks like I've got an email from the high school I'm set to teach in, and they wanna have a meeting with me soon... something about the school's values?

You arrive at the principal's office a few minutes early, your polo shirt neatly tucked into your khakis. You have to look good for your first day after all, especially when you have a meeting with the head honcho himself. Your shirt is a little big on you, but you don't exactly have much muscle. You were too busy studying nerdy subjects like chemistry, calculus, and physics to make it to the gym or do any sort of sports. Not that it was your scene anyway. You give two quick knocks on the door.

"Enter," his deep booming voice calls out from within.

You quickly enter the room, sitting down in the chair across the desk from Principal Reece. With his muscles bulging out of his dress shirt and commanding presence, he's exactly the type of man you'd never be in a million years. You remember him saying in the interview this is his first school year here too, and he has a vision for how his school should be run.

"I know we discussed a bit about your teaching philosophy in your interview, but I just wanted to make sure we're on the same page about a few things. This school has a certain atmosphere we'd like to keep.

You hesitantly nod and give a verbal approval. You really need this job, and surely it can't be that bad, right?

"First, I want to reiterate that this is a private Christian school. That means everything we teach is through the lens of the Bible. I'm sure that's okay with you."

At first you're confused. You swore this was a public school when you applied. But the more you thought about it, the less sense that made. Why would you want to teach anywhere you couldn't spread the word of God? Your religion is extremely important to you. Your parents enrolled you in private school as soon as you were old enough for school and you thank them every day for it now. You think everyone should have the opportunity to go to a school like this one.

Principal Reece barely acknowledges your reply before continuing. "We also want all of our teachers to coach a sport or lead an after school club. Looking back at my notes from your interview, it looks like you want to coach football?"

You remember them mentioning that in your interview, but you swore you had put down D&D club. But why would you have said that? You weren't some type of nerd! Sure you have a bachelor's degree in science, but you're a jock through and through. You were the quarterback all throughout high school and college, leading your team to countless victories. All that gym training stuck with you and you've continued to go every morning. The muscles bulging out of your polo show what hard work can do to a man. You couldn't wait to share your passion with the next generation.

"We also have a strict dress code for faculty. Good to see you got that email."

You take a look down at your outfit, confirming you meet the standards. A crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to show off your arms. A red striped tie around your neck, going down to your belt buckle as is standard. Dark blue dress pants and brown dress shoes complete the look. It feels good to dress formally. You wanted to talk with Principal Reece about implementing a similar dress code for the students as well.

"Most importantly, this school teaches conservative values. We have no desire to cave to the woke mob and indoctrinate children and demand our instructors feel the same way."

You earnestly agree. That's why you decided to teach history. America is the greatest country ever created and the kids deserve to know that! Too much of science has been taken over by liberal propaganda anyway. Those snowflakes say to "trust the science" but you know better than that. You have a no nonsense policy for that woke crap in your classroom. You run your classroom like a tight ship. It's either the Right way or the wrong way, and you don't have patience for the wrong way.

Principal Reece gives you a smile that seems more like a smirk, but you're probably just imagining things. Great to see we're on the same page. I'll let you go to your classroom now. I have a few more one on one meetings before classes start.

You head off to your classroom and sit at your desk, going over your lesson plans for the day. After the Pledge of Allegiance (which you'll proudly lead the class in reciting), attendance, the syllabus you're going to start off the year with the Revolutionary War. You hear the first bell ring and hear the students starting to shuffle in.

It's the start of another school year, and you have work to do.