#you are so nice franz

[waterlilyvioletfog]

Finally finished the Rome segment (woo 37% of the way through my audiobook!! The loan is due tomorrow 😞) of Count of Monte Cristo and. Dumas. DuMAS. This man is just a vampire I love it. Albert is all “dude don’t be so classist the Count is obviously just a weird eccentric millionaire but he’s totally cool and there’s literally no reason for you to be weird about me inviting him to hang out with me at the bachelor pad my parents pay for” and Franz goes “I mean you give plausible explanations but he still seems sketch” yeah Franz it’s the vampirism. Your brain has noticed that the hot smart misanthropic millionaire asking to be introduced around Paris is also basically just a vampire. A vampire with a legitimate and specific revenge mission, but like. Definitely a vampire.

[schadenfreudich]

In a weird way, I resonate with the transmasc experience.

It's mostly weird because I'm a cis man in a transmasc system/body. I still absolutely feel like I'm cis, my source is a cis man and my gender doesn't differ from that. It's the same. Mostly. And maybe it's just gender feelings from other headmates that make me feel trans in a way.

[adridoesstuff]

Elisabeth das musical Czech production appreciation pt. 15

Streit Vater und Sohn and Wie Du (reprise) with Pavel Klimenda as Rudolf, Jozef Hruškoci as Franz and Soňa Hanzlíčková as Elisabeth

[starlene]

Here's a nice story I learned in the Norwegian ski museum:

In 1895, polar explorers Fridtjof Nansen and Hjalmar Johansen were having a bad time. Their expedition had faced some hardships and they were forced to stay on Franz Josef Land in a little hut they built out of mud and stones. In their hut, they slept for circa 20 hours a day, and spent the remaining four hours watching the northern lights or reminiscing about the comforts of home and the books they had read.

After several months of this, and nine months of sleeping in the same sleeping bag to stay warm, on New Year's Eve, Nansen finally gathered his courage and asked Johansen if they should start adressing each other with the informal you.

This is where the story ended in the museum, so unfortunately, I can't tell you whether Johansen answered yes or no.

[loriache]

"I've been waiting for ages for somebody to unmask them."

This moment tends to elicit negative reactions in a first read through, and I've got some opinions about why where Kabru is coming from here actually makes a lot of logical sense. So I thought I'd elaborate on that.

I think people hear this and go, "He thinks they must be hiding something because they gave money to someone? What a cynic." Or "he dislikes them because they did charity?? What's wrong with this guy!". And obviously, a lot, a lot is wrong with him. But I think this makes more sense than it seems at first glance! What people evaluating this judgement miss is why Kabru is paying attention to Laios and co to begin with.

Kabru knows of the Touden siblings because (he's a little bit of a stalker-) he is keeping an eye on all the relevant parties in events developing on the island, in order to be able to guide them to his preferred outcome. This includes adventurers because they are the ones actually exploring the dungeon! He's well aware that something as minor as internal tensions between party members could be key to the historical events that are developing. (He would love the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.)

His desired outcome is that whatever the rewards are of breaking the dungeon's curse, whether that's kingship or the ancient elven secrets of dungeons, are claimed by:

A) a short lived person

B) Someone who will be a good, effective leader and/or use those secrets and the power they carry wisely, with foresight, and to establish a political bloc for short lived people.

The person he can best trust to do this is, of course, himself. But due to his PTSD regarding dungeons and monsters, he's not able to develop the necessary skills to conquer the dungeon. Once he realises this, he starts looking for someone else who he can support to that end.

But most of the adventurers don't have any intentions of conquering the dungeon, don't have the skills, or are unsuitable in other ways. In fact, it seems like some potentially suitable people are the Toudens. There are a lot of good rumours about them going around - they actually seem to have a very positive reputation! That's what Kabru means when he says "unmask".

So when Kabru is observing something like them giving money to an old comrade from their gold-peeling days, he doesn't consider it a problem because "they're giving money to this person who doesn't actually need it" or because they must have some dark secret if they act superficially nice. I think he actually understands this situation and what it implies about Laios (in particular) perfectly well.

Laios and Falin gave money to an old comrade who got injured and couldn't work. That person then healed up but kept taking their money. Then he used the money to start smuggling illicit goods to the island.

The key is that for Kabru, the problem here is the same as with the corpse retrievers - people using the dungeon's resources to fuel dangerous, selfish, or violent pursuits cause problems for the island, attract more criminals and people with motives other than breaking the curse, and increase the chances of the whole situation ending in tragedy.

Kabru is willing to work with the Shadow Lord of the island if it gets him to his goal - he isn't scrupulous - but the criminal element of the island increasing is something he sees as a major issue.

Also, when you're evaluating someone as a candidate for power, riches, secrets, potentially kingship - then being curious about how the money you give to people is going to be used is kind of a relevant trait!

Interpersonally, Kabru's actually very easygoing - I mean, Mickbell isn't exactly an upstanding guy, is he! But Kabru likes him and they get along well. These traits wouldn't be a problem at all in a friend, or a comrade, or someone Kabru was confident he could use. But he can't get a handle on Laios, and Laios is someone who has the potential to be a major player!

On Laios' end, this is the same as with the marriage seeker who joined their party. She kept asking for things and he gave them to her, because he tries to be nice to others. He even gives her money! It's the exact same thing.

That's fine, but it became a problem because he basically wasn't interested in her motives, didn't notice she was trying to manipulate him, and it also didn't occur to him that the other party members would notice or be affected. We can assume the situation with the gold peeler is the same. When Kabru says that "It's not that they're bad people, they just aren't interested in humans," he isn't wrong.

The extent to which this is true of Laios is linked to his autism imo, (because it isn't just disinterest - he genuinely isn't able to notice nonverbal cues that people are lying to him or have ulterior motives) but to a greater or lesser extent I think it's a very common trait. Most people aren't actually that interested in other people who aren't close to them. Kabru is the weird one here. It isn't an issue except as a leader - which is why we see an immediate comparison to the Island's Lord, because that's how Kabru is evaluating them.

And disinterest in/lack of ability with people to the extent Laios exhibits it, it does, actually, make him a worse leader... it's just that as we see in the story, people can help him out. The rest of the party tell him the marriage seeker is taking advantage of him so he tells her he can't give her special treatment anymore. They're pissed and it's a crisis point - he couldn't have recovered their trust without Marcille and Falin - but that's exactly the point. With Marcille and Falin, he was able to recover their trust.

And he has other good traits that make up for it, such as his intelligence, strategic knowledge, open-mindedness and sense of fairplay.

Kabru doesn't disqualify Laios as a candidate based on what he sees about him from afar, though - he still tries very hard to get close to him, obviously hoping that if he manages he can steer Laios to defeat the dungeon and make up for his lack of people-skills in the aftermath. (Which... he does eventually achieve that goal!) He completely fails until the events of the story, so... definitely I think "They just aren't interested in humans" could also partially be a stung reaction to Laios' complete disinterest in him.

Anyway, that's my read on what exactly Kabru's "issue" with Laios is. Obviously, once he does find out what Laios' true nature is like - about his love for monsters - he develops an entirely new set of fears about Laios' priorities. But since Laios kept that a secret until the start of the story, he has no idea of that yet.

Given all that, I think it's interesting that he says that he doesn't think that the Toudens are suitable to defeat the dungeon, and that he's hoping they'll turn out to be the thieves. As some of his few potential candidates, people who he thinks may play a big role in the island's future, you'd think he'd hope they would be good people!

I suppose it's better, in his eyes, because it means that he's involved in something "interesting". They haven't just had their stuff stolen by regular criminals (boring, puts them further away from his goal) - they've been caught up in the beginning stages of "a historic event". The desperate and dwindling group forgetting morals in their quest to retrieve their lost comrade probably appeals to his sense of melodrama. Because he also just... loves drama.

Despite it being "uglier than anything he was expecting", he still pursues Laios as the person he wants to conquer the dungeon pretty much as soon as it becomes clear that he won't be able to do it himself and they are out of time. That's because... well, to be fair, there aren't any other options. And he fits standard A: he's short-lived!

and Kabru still hopes he can fit standard B, too, and be persuaded to use the power he wins for good. No matter how many nightmares he has about Laios, or whether he thinks about killing him. He doubts him, but ultimately he puts his faith in him and seems happy after the manga's ending that he made the right decision.

[hiiikiko]

𝖘𝖕𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖆𝖓!𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖎𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖓𝖘

tlou m.list | caught in your web m.list

[a/n]: hi! i hope you’ll all accept this, i hv work today n i’ll be workin until like 9 p.m but i’ll make sure to write tmrw !! n ty for all the likes on this series ♡

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

♰ before ellie got bitten, she wore glasses but after she didn’t need them anymore. she still wears them with the lenses popped out though because she thinks she looks weird without them, although she doesn’t wear them at school that often

♰ when she gets in a fight with tommy or maria, she sneaks out her window and finds a nice quiet roof to sit and listen to music, sometimes smoke but she’s cut back since her vigilante career began

♰ she has backpacks hidden all over the city so she can make a quick change. there’s one at school, the library, oscorp labs, the planetarium, and your apartment

♰ she knows you can handle yourself but that doesn’t stop her from following you home, like, come on! new york city is pretty dangerous and don’t you like having your very own vigilante??

♰ might be a little stalkerish but she sometimes hangs out on the roof of the building across your apartment building so she can watch you go about your evening, she doesn’t mean to do it but somehow she always ends up there

♰ she carries pepper spray even though she has literal superpowers

♰ she’s trained her spider sense to be even more heightened so that she can fight with her airpods in

♰ she has a playlist for fighting bad guys

♰ even though she’s city renowned spiderman, she still helps the elderly cross the street and help cats out of trees (she’s a little hesistant to help the cats because of how hard it is to mend scratches on her suits fabric)

♰ she owns a spiderman figurine like what did you expect? she’s a fan girl of the avengers, she owns all their figurines and they are in mint condition so why wouldn’t she own her own?? like that has to be the coolest thing to her

♰ concert tickets are expensive so sometimes she uses her powers for “bad” and sneaks into venues (she says it’s anti capitalist but really, she’s just being cheap)

♰ she has nightmares about turning into a real spider, kinda like franz kafka (she actually read this book in freshman lit and it scarred her)

♰ another one of her biggest fears is like what if she’s having sex with someone and she’s fingering them and her webs somehow shoot up into them?? like how do you explain that to a doctor?? this keeps her up at night

♰ seeing you in spiderman merch makes the tips of her ears go red and her heart race

♰ she cringes whenever she sees spiderman edits on her fyp

♰ onlyfans ppl who make content in her suit kinda scare her LMAO

♰ she actually doesn’t mind that everyone assumes spidey is a man, it helps her hide her identity but it kinda pisses her off that people can’t tell she’s a girl?? like do you not see the boobs . (her suit actually flattens her and all the protection gear inside gives her a pretty boxy figure so you can’t really tell)

♰ she has a hate/love relationship with her webs because on one hand she’s scared of touching people and on the other, she likes that she can ‘glue’ her camera to her hands when she’s on more dangerous photo ops and that she doesn’t have to get up from her bed to get her guitar (although, one time she hit herself in the face because she didn’t get it fast enough)

♰ ellie’s a different type of spiderman.. she’s actually very violent! especially against criminals who hurt others just for fun, she’ll beat them to a bloody pulp and leave them their for the ambulance to find (she leaves a note apologizing to the emts and sheriff, but it’s not like she killed them! nobody thinks that spiderman could do this so they assume there’s another vigilante out there, a more violent one *ahem* deadpool)

♰ she met deadpool once.. never again

♰ much like her infected bite from the game, her spider bite has caused cobwebs to grow in her veins

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

HONEY, I’M HOME ─── jackson rippner ✧♤

ೃ⁀➷ “You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.” — ‘Letters to Milena’, Franz Kafka

pairing. jackson rippner x assassin!reader

summary. jackson hires a prostitute the night before meeting his target. only thing is, you’re not a prostitute— you’re an assassin hired to kill him. but he catches your eye, and instead, you keep him for yourself.

warnings. swearing, creampie, p in v, unprotected sex, slight housewife kink, kidnapping, drugging, pretty toxic relationship lmao, somnophilia, dubcon, hate-sex kinda, guns, choking, stockholm syndrome, cervix fucking, jackson gets a taste of his own medicine basically😭, SMUT UNDER THE CUT! 

word count. 6.1k

a/n. OKAY i know i said it was going into the direction of dom!reader but i got possessed and now,,, now we have this hate sex filth🫡

i. 

When Jackson comes to, the very first thing his mind registers in your perfume. It’s sweet and vanilla-y and entirely intoxicating, sending his mind whirling back to prehistoric days, childhood days, a vague mother figure he’d long forgotten about pressing sugar cookie dough onto a metal pan. 

Instead, as Jackson’s eyes fluttered open and adjusted to the bright, warm lamp-light curling around him and the various furniture in the room, he sees you, sitting in front of him on the floor. 

Your knees are pulled up and tucked under your chin, and it seems you’ve fallen asleep, your face peaceful and serene as soft inhales and exhales of breath leave you. 

You look like a pure angel, dolled up in a silk lace dress and neat bows so pristinely Jackson swore he could see a halo resting above your soft locks, but he knows you’re someone who can kill — has killed.

Jackson had been staying in a motel, readying himself to meet the target he was stalking the next day — some politico's daughter, y’know, perfect blackmail material — when you’d knocked on his door, dressed in a skanky skintight dress and garter belt, promising some fun for a flimsy fifty. 

Prostitution was illegal in this state, but Jackson had some money and time to kill — plus, if he didn’t get something now he’d probably fuck his target, which wasn’t really encouraged considering he could get attached, all that bullshit job professionalism. He wouldn’t, obviously, but his higher-ups didn’t think the same.

So he agreed; you looked stupid enough, and with that nice pair on you, those sweet curves, you were bound to be a good fuck. And you were definitely enough for him to handle— handle killing, he meant. It’d be easy: get you a little tipsy ‘cause it was his “kink” or some shit like that, kill you when you’re coming, dispose of your body, and meet the target in the morning. 

But then you’d kissed him, hungry and desperate and rough, and totally, completely, slipping the pill tucked under your tongue down his throat. 

Jackson realized immediately, his hands darting to the gun he had tucked in his belt, but you punched him in the stomach and the jaw before he could even undo the safety. And then he’d done it: he’d swallowed the drug, and the effects were instantaneous, the connection between his thoughts and his limbs losing focus, body sluggish like he was wading through water.

So suddenly had the situation had gone from him hiring a prostitute to getting fucking drugged by one, and he felt his composure slipping, the outrage burning in his lungs. Jackson thought himself to be a logical, well-thought out man who planned things to the tee, and this was not fucking following his plan. 

“What did you - do t’ me?!” He spat, voice growing slurred, bent over and clutching his stomach. 

“Mm,” you considered telling him, pursing your lips and watching him sway back and forth, “just a little something to calm you down. But, honey, I think you better sit down… it's not a mild drug.” 

“Answer my fucking—“ Jackson started caustically, then felt that familiar pins and needles sensation appear in his arms, then spread to his legs, before finally falling to the floor. 

“See?” You cooed, standing above him. You watched him struggle against the drug for a moment, before grinning and pulling him up off the floor onto the bed. 

Jackson listlessly fought your touch, slowly thrashing and kicking at you; his limbs may have grown numb, but his inhibitions had not lowered whatsoever, nor his paranoia. Good paranoia, in this situation, just not so good that it kicked in before you shoved a paralytic down his throat. 

You rolled your eyes, sitting down beside him and pushing his head onto your lap, digging your elbow into his chest to make him stay in place. 

Jackson choked at the pressure, blinking rapidly. “Who th- the -- fuck are you?” 

“I’m an assassin, honey. I’m gonna kill you — or, y’know, I’m supposed to kill you.” You beamed at him, “but I can’t do that, now can I? That’d be a waste of such a pretty face.”

Jackson’s brows knitted exasperatedly, mouth contorting to speak, but nothing came out. In fact, his mouth hadn’t been moving at all— his face had grown numb, now blankly staring up at you. 

“There we go,” you said happily. “The drug’s all kicked in now, hasn't it? I’ll speak freely, ‘cause y’can’t answer me anymore, not even scream or cry.”

You sighed, your shoulders slumping like you were finally able to fucking relax, and began petting his hair before continuing. “You’re a naughty one, aren’t you? Stalking that politician’s daughter… were you gonna fuck her? Threaten her dad, have some fun, then kill them both?” 

Jackson’s breathing grew more furious, eyes widening— or, they would’ve, if he could move. This was about his job, about the target, not just some fucking freak accident and a crazy prostitute. 

You frowned, shaking your head. “You’ve gotta do more research on the people you blackmail, honey— Mr. Politican’ll do anything to keep his little princess safe. Even murder.”

You then got up, and Jackson watched you pull something out of your tights, unable to respond or protest or even fucking move, frozen still on the cheap motel mattress.

“But like I said, you’re too cute to die like that. I think I’ll keep you for myself.” You winked, before pricking him in the neck with the needle that was hidden in your tights. 

His breath hitched, but there was no use: black quickly curled into the edges of his vision, and one second passed, then another, then he was out. 

That brought him back to now, waking up with his arms handcuffed behind him and his legs tied roughly to a wooden chair. He rustled, pulling against the cuffs as quietly as possible, gaze still obsessively trained on your every micro-movement.

But it didn't matter: your eyes opened the moment you’d heard his breath catch and stutter, and you got up lightly, dreamily, like you were some figment of Jackson’s imagination rather than a psychopathic kidnapping assassin. 

“Morning, honey,” you whispered, getting up off the floor, rubbing your eyes and yawning. But he didn’t respond, still pulling at his restraints, eyes thinned and focussed. 

“Are you mad at me?” You whined with a frown, circling around his chair and playfully covering his eyes. “I’ll make it up to you, don’t worry. I’ll buy some cute lingerie, give you a little show… do you like lace? Or maybe leather?”

Jackson’s nostrils flared, growing irate and incredulous at your antics, and he snapped. “Do you really think you can keep me here? Make me play fucking house with you?” He shouted groggily, body still feeling the aftereffects of not one, but two, drugs. 

You blinked numbly, hand finding his face, and you pressed his cheeks together, making him look up at you. “I won’t make you play house with me, Jackson. But it's the only thing you can do. You’re dead.” 

Your tone had gone cold, using his real name instead of your pet-one, expression going blank and completely unfeeling at his words. Then, you fumbled for something on the wooden vanity beside you two before lifting it up to his face. 

It read: TERRORIST GROUP LEADER’S REMAINS FOUND IN RED-EYE FLIGHT WRECK.

Jackson’s lips parted, feelings riddled half in shock and half in utter fury, gaze shaky as it flitted back and forth between you and the newspaper you were holding up. “I’m fucking—“

“Alive, I know. That’s kinda the point,” you finished his sentence with a chuckle, shaking your head like any of this was a joking matter. “When a plane goes down and catches fire, burning everybody, they won’t individually check who's who, honey. If there’s a name on the seat, there’s someone in it, and they’re dead… you’re as good as dead.”

Jackson’s eyebrows were still knit, but he suddenly stared straight ahead, listening to you silently and trying to make sure you were still too focussed on explaining theatrically to realize he was about to dislocate his thumb. 

He could deal with the stool later — he just needed to get his arms free and escape. What with your grating voice and the fucking pronunciation of death you’d forced upon him, god, his fury was rising quickly, and he wanted nothing more right now than to fucking kill you. 

You finished your explanation, peering deeply into his bright blue eyes, and you were about to wrap your arms around his neck and press him comfortingly to your chest when he successfully freed himself, and his hands shot out from behind him to strangle you. 

His fingers curled around your neck extremely easily, tightening and contracting around the thing snugly. Jackson was seeing red, the anger accumulated from every little insane fucking thing you did to him bursting. 

You struggled against him, your mouth opening and closing pitifully, leaning down into his grip— until your lips tilted upwards, a devilishly cheshire smile digging into your cheeks like it was an expression God never intended you to make. 

Jackson only realized you’d taken his gun away from him when he felt the tip of the barrel kiss his temple, cold and clammy. He was still disoriented, and didn’t exactly comprehend all the facts ‘till they fucking punched him in the face. Or, in this case, threatened to shoot him point blank. 

“L’mme - l’mme go, h’ney,” you whispered raspily, your eyes stuttering in their socket as he pressed deeper. Simultaneously, completely on instinct, you pressed the gun further into his skin.

“You’re too fucking weak to fire that gun,” he growled, digging his thumbs into the neat notch in the middle of your neck, his fingernails scratching bloody marks into your sensitive skin.

But you frowned weakly, and then Jackson heard that all familiar click, making him blanch. The strength in his hands didn’t falter, however— it got angrier, more desperate, like you wouldn’t automatically shoot him if he just translated his wrath into his grip.

“I d’nt- w’nna k-kill you,” you shook your head a bit, but both your threats remained the same: his hands making you go lightheaded, go blue, and the gun in yours making him sweat, the image of you splattering his brain against the wall clear as day. 

Jackson felt your finger twitch, and he closed his eyes, grip going tense then faltering completely: if you shot him now, there was no point holding on. But you did the same— you thought he’d snap your neck right then and there, so you pulled away.

Just as quickly as you two had attacked one another, your resolves’ had crumbled, murderous intent clearing the room like someone had opened a window and let it all out. Silence filled it back up instead, a steady tension permeating with it, and it was fucking suffocating. 

“What do you - want from me, exactly?” Jackson questioned first, several long moments later, words slow and collected. He’d try to calm himself and hide his anger away for later, because he now knew that you meant for him to meet only two ends here: forever with you, or forever dead— and neither were ends he was intending to have.

To escape, crawl under your nose and perhaps kill you along the way, he’d need to know the rules— play your little game. This cat and mouse mess could be done in a flash, and he fucking knew you had a weakness. He could feel it in your touch, how you gripped him, the lonely warble in your insane words. 

Sure, you kidnapped him and were calling him honey, treating him like he was your plaything, but Jackson had always been good at reading people, even before he’d become an amalgamated mess of an assassin, terrorist and blackmailer: you needed someone in your life— be it a husband or a hostage.

You got down on one knee, looking up at him through your wet lashes, breathing still ragged. One of your hands took his own dislocated one, while the other fished through your silk dress pockets, pulling out a gold band ring identical to the one gleaming prettily on your left hand. 

You didn’t answer his question saying for you to marry me or for you to love me— both things Jackson would expect you to say, especially with your oddly profound obsession with him (despite the fact he was positive you’d only known him for a few weeks at most.) No, you’d smiled, a lovely duchenne one, rosy-cheeked like a fucking schoolgirl confessing to her crush, not an assassin who’d kidnapped him, and said, “For you to be mine.” 

Your hand curled around his dislocated thumb and quickly snapped it, cruel and rough but perfectly back in place, before you slipped the ring onto his finger shakily, and brought his hand up to your lips to press a kiss to his knuckles. 

“You’re mine,” you repeated in a whisper, sounding every bit like a warning rather than a celebration. 

ii.

After a few days of living with— or, more accurately, being held captive by you, Jackson thought he had you all figured out. It usually only took a few days for him and a target to become acquainted anyway; mutual acquaintance or not.

He found that the warmer he treated you, the more freedom he’d have. Like, after you slipped the ring on his finger, you undid the ropes tying his legs. A reward, you’d said, for accepting your… unity. 

But you still switched out the clinky metal cuffs for zip ties. “I can’t have you doing that nifty little thumb trick anymore, can I?” you explained. “But I still want you to walk around. Take a tour of the rest of your life, honey.”

Then, you told him you had to go to work — to which Jackson rolled his eyes, considering assassination wasn’t exactly what he’d call work, though, he would also have to call himself a hypocrite — and left. Jackson wasn’t shy about roaming about the house, especially to look for a fucking escape, but he was firstly confronted with the sheer size of the place you’d locked him in. 

Where he’d first waken up was the master bedroom, long and wide with a king poster bed and canopy, a pair of couples vanities side by side, two walk-in closets and one large ensuite. The rest of the house was the same, being two stories tall and terribly extensive: Jackson ran out of fingers on his hands to count how many rooms were in it. 

By the time he’d combed through the entire house — discovering a measly two possible escape routes in the process — it was dark outside, and you entered through a front door Jackson couldn’t find for the fucking life of him. 

It was appalling, firstly how spontaneous and carefree you were whilst simultaneously thinking of everything that could go wrong, and secondly, how up to par your skills were to his. He wasn’t one to gloat, but he knew just as well as his coworkers that he was a large step above the rest— and it seemed you were, too, the only equal he’d encountered in his line of work… and the only person who’d bested him. 

“Honey, I’m home!” You sing-songed in the hallway, poking your head into each and every room for Jackson’s familiar form. 

Jackson had settled back in the master bedroom, sitting on the very chair you’d untied him from that morning, and when you finally found him you cooed. “Aw, baby, you don’t hafta’ stay here all day.” You said, lifting his chin to look up at you.

Jackson grit his teeth, his temper suddenly getting the best of him, and he spat at you. But the effect didn't work nearly as well as intended: you didn’t even wince, merely blinking and bringing two fingers to your cheek and wiping the slick off. You pouted at him for a second, made your eyes real big and pitiful, before kissing him on the cheek… and shoving your spit-slicked fingers into his mouth, making him gag. 

It looked like you were enjoying his suffering, before pulling away a moment later. “Well, no matter,” you said, brushing his actions off and regaining your happy mood. “I know you weren’t really here all day, honey.” 

Jackson’s lips parted, eyes thinning suspiciously. “What the fuck are you—“

You suddenly pulled out your phone, showing camera angles from all throughout the house… and more startlingly, previous footage of him, scouring the house’s windows and poking through the various furniture and rooms earlier in the day. “You are quite the curious cat.”

“You have a camera?” He asked indignantly. Honestly, he should’ve expected it: it’s like, what do you get when you have a captive itching to escape and an obsessive, head-over-heels captor with plenty of money on her hands? 

“Several,” you preened, “so don’t bother escaping.”

Then, you hooked your arm into his and dragged him to one of the (many, many) dining rooms.

“Now, I’ve never exactly had a hostage before,” you offered, pushing him into one of your cushy walnut dining chairs, “so I just realized you haven’t eaten. God, I’m so sorry, honey, you must be starving.”

With that, you ducked into the large kitchen a room away, and then returned holding a steaming plate of something, setting the dish down in front of him. “It’s not exactly, y’know, fine dining,” you said, picking up the spoon hidden in the food and scooping up some peas, “but it’s home-cooked. Not my home cooking, obviously, it is -- was, a target’s. I had a plate earlier, don’t worry, it’s good.”

Jackson stared at you, mind spinning with the information you were nonchalantly throwing at him: you were feeding him, your hand holding the cutlery, his mouth around it like he was fucking six, and the person who had made this food was dead, having had their throat slit or something. 

But there was another thing in Jackson’s mind, a tiny, weak voice within him that told him to just shut the hell up and eat the damn food. His survival instinct, probably, but then it went on to think that you weren’t that bad, feeding him and keeping him safe from the police in this nice, grand house— and Jackson squished the voice. No fucking way in hell was he experiencing early stage stockholm syndrome. 

At his reluctance, you frowned, and forced the spoonful in his mouth. “Eat,” you scolded, and fed him till the whole plate was finished. 

He ate, of course, not because of the little bitch voice in his head, but because of the fact that he actually was really fucking hungry. The gesture seemed to warm your heart, for some fucked up reason, and you later sat in the livingroom with him and loosened his zipties. 

There was a brief moment, however, that Jackson felt even an iota of fear: when his hands were slightly free, he immediately reached to grab you— he was taller, stronger, and could certainly defeat you in mere moments. 

But your sneaky fingers tightened his restraints at the drop of a hat, your head butting his jaw so he fell back on the couch. “Try anything,” you warned, tone suddenly dark, “and I will break your fucking wrist.”

At his tentative, jaw slightly dropped, shaky nod, a cold sweat beaming down from his temple, you dissolved into a fit of laughter at his expression and undid his ties once more. This time, your hand held his in an intimate death grip, thumb curled sweetly around the wrist, that warning still ringing in his head.

He was learning how to play the game, though. His captor’s behavior. What you liked, what you didn’t. The extent of your mercy. 

Jackson cleared his throat, searching for a question that might make you open up. “…What’s your name, anyway?” Yes, he didn’t even know your fucking name, and he doubted that the tacky prostitute name you’d given him initially was your real one. 

You looked up at him, surprised he’d speak first, nonetheless to know more about you. So, you indulged, and told him your name, things you liked, didn’t like, your hobbies… all normal people stuff— y’know, first date stuff. 

“I keep forgetting you don’t know a thing about me,” you confessed, leaning your head on his stiff figure, “‘cause I’ve known you for a very long time.”

Jackson’s breath hitched. “How so?” he said, trying not to give away his eagerness; he was going through all the steps he did when first meeting a target, like being kind and sweet, respectful and attentive, really buttering them up and coaxing information from them, before going in for the kill. In Jackson’s current case, the “kill” was a kiss. 

It’d be something chaste, nervous, like he was unwittingly slipping into your trap and couldn’t help the warmth bubbling within him toward you, so you would fall into his; hook, line, and sinker… and maybe completely undo his zipties. He’d have to lay low for a few days, obviously, and build up that obsessive trust of yours, before going in for the literal kill. 

But then again, Jackson, with that delirious little ego of his, kept forgetting your skills were up to par with his, and you were the first and only person to ever fucking best him. 

You grinned thinly, knowing exact what he was doing, noticed the pattern his words went in, trying to shepherd the conversation to get the answers he wanted, and you pulled away from him. “I’ll tell you another day, honey. M’gonna go to bed,” you whispered sleepily, redoing his zipties. “Join me. I don’t like it when you tire yourself out.”

And so you left, and Jackson watched your hips sway, legs carrying you down the long hallway into the master bedroom. As soon as you were out of direct view, he sucked in a sharp breath, seething angrily. 

Fuck, he thought, the realization of his predicament settling within in him at last. He’d always been told this: if you didn’t believe you could escape your situation within the first day, you would never escape at all. He thought it a silly mantra, because he’d always devised an escape plan after thinking on it for a few long moments. 

Never did he think he’d find himself in a situation where that actually fucking applied, never did he think he’d meet his equal, and never in his entire, terrorizing existence, did he think he’d be helpless.

But Jackson had to persevere. Had to. He had not survived every terrible incident thrown at him in his tired lifetime, just to accept this. And so, he went to bed with you, the zipties rubbing his pale skin raw, and he watched the shadows on the roof shift with every hour that passed. 

He did not sleep, certainly not with you by his side, and though it looked like it, you did not either. It was the paranoia of two terribly similar people; gaze dancing in the dark and never finding each others, waiting for the moment one of you snapped and you had to attack or defend. 

The next day, and the next day after that, he went to bed beside you. Just like that, turned into weeks turned into months turned into seasons changing, and the zipties became cloth became your hand holding his. 

It was a culmination of feigned loving, fake vulnerability, and pretending he’d gotten Stockholm syndrome that got him to this point. Every “honey, i’m home,” or kiss or hug or pet-name you stabbed into him, he returned with a “welcome home, honey”, a peck on the cheek, a hand holding yours, his venomous tone switched like a light into something sweet, soft. 

One night, with his newly ziptie-free arms wrapping around you, your back nestling sweetly against his torso, he has to remind himself that it is not real. None of it was real: he was not your husband, you were not his wife, you did not love each other, you were not normal fucking people— you were the captive and the captor. 

Jackson had to remind himself he didn’t actually love you, because that night he thought: if you used him, he would use you. He would take you whenever he wanted, like how you used him. A man has needs, he thought, and being trapped in this house with you meant those needs could be met. 

It reminded him of when you first met— not the kidnapping part, of course, but of the kissing and the touching, your tits pressing softly against his chest, his hands following the swell of your ass. 

With a start, he realized he’d had some kind of unintentional celibacy enacted upon him: he couldn’t fuck anyone other than you, obviously, having been trapped in that house, but he never entertained the idea of fucking you because he hated you. You don’t fuck the bitch you’re planning to kill any day now. 

But your warm body against his awoke something in him, his forced celibacy unable to survive against the pure lust he felt filling him now. You were beautiful, undeniably, with pliant thighs and delicate curves he could see himself getting between animalistically, roughly, a kind of morbid sexual revenge against your captivity of him. It helped entirely that this was the most vulnerable he’d seen you, completely without any weapons, curled warmly into his side. 

After studying your breathing for a few seconds, ensuring you were still asleep, Jackson carefully slipped away from you to kneel in front of you in the middle of the bed. He admired your night getup: those silk dresses you adored to wear at home, and absolutely no underwear. 

He then pried your soft thighs open slightly, dipping his head between them and losing himself in the sweet scent of your cunt, before chancing a stripe up to your clit. He flattened his tongue, wanting to collect your taste on it completely, and you merely sighed, turning over slightly and widening your legs in your sleep, like you somehow knew what he was doing and wanted it. 

He pressed his mouth up to your cunt fully now, his nose hitting your mound as he devoured you, tongue filling every crevice and fold you had like he was starving. Your small whimpers and breathy sighs grew louder now, more frequent, and then Jackson suddenly pulled away, satisfied with how he readied your hole.  

Jackson shimmed himself out of his boxer shorts, a pair with silly little hearts he’d never seriously buy for himself— you bought them, as soon as you’d captured him, clearly having fun with the utter control you could display on him, down to his fucking undergarments. 

He shook himself slightly, refocussing on the matter at hand: fucking into your glistening cunt. There was something oddly empowering about doing this to you when you couldn’t protest, regaining some control over his own fucking life by terrorizing yours. 

But he wasn’t sure you’d fucking care anyway: he knew you liked to peek around the corner when he was showering, “accidentally” walking in when he was in the middle of changing, not-so subtly bending down and pressing your ass to his crotch. 

He sighed slightly, rubbing his hand up and down on his hard length in the dark, before lining it up with your entrance. Jackson muffled the groan that curdled in his throat with his large hand, breathing shakily and finally pushing past your slick folds. You were soaking, and he didn’t know if it was because of his previous foreplay or if you were just naturally like this, all horny because he slept beside you at night. He wouldn’t put it past you if that was the case: your obsession with him was clear in every single way. 

You made a noise in your sleep, and Jackson froze, hands instinctively coming up to press lightly against your throat — an unconscious thing on his part, formed when his hands had been zip tied and the only thing he could do was choke you, unable to grip any weapon properly. But you didn’t wake up; your face merely screwed together, before smoothing out and returning to blissful unconsciousness. 

Jackson let out a sigh of pleasure and relief, your walls clenching around his pulsing cock. He gripped the sheets beside your head and began thrusting in and out of you: at first gently, afraid to wake you up, but as the minutes dripped past, Jackson grew desperate, fucking into your cunt roughly. He wanted to abuse your tight little pussy, stretch you wide open and take you for everything you had. 

“Fuck,” he grunted under his breath, snapping his hips harder against yours, “Fuck!” 

His exclamation of sexual satisfaction startled you awake, but he didn’t notice how your eyes moved behind your eyelids, too focussed on pounding his rock-hard cock into you. For all the insanity and behavioral issues God gave you, he certainly made up for it in the way he crafted your cunt: extremely warm and easily wet, a sticky hole that sucked him in but was still cramped, like it was begging him to force your walls open. 

“Honey?” you murmured foggily, wrapping your arms around his neck. You were about to speak again, when Jackson suddenly found your g-spot, and rammed continually into it, making a filthy mewl leave your lips. 

“Fuck, you woke up?” Jackson cursed, looking at you for the first time. His thrusts were unrelenting, though, now not caring if you’d woken up and just wanting to feel your hole squeeze around him again. 

“Jackson, I was - sleeping,” you squeaked out, hands moving to his back and digging your nails into the skin.

“That’s kinda the point,” Jackson mocked, tone sarcastic and peeved like you were interrupting him. “And don’t fucking fight it,” he warned angrily, hand leaving the mattress and roughly squeezing one of your tits through the fabric of your nightdress, “‘cause I’m not stopping ‘till I come.”

You pouted fake-sadly at his words, but your back arching gave you away, keening when he kneaded your tit too meanly and made a shock of pain run up your body. “Feels so good,” you grinned sweatily, but he just rolled his eyes.

“Shut up,” he sighed, throwing his head back, “didn’t fucking ask what you thought.” 

He pushed your face to the side so he was looking at your jaw, more content with treating you like just some hole, but you didn’t care: he, your darling, was fucking you. He wanted you so bad he fucked you when you weren’t even awake. God, you could’ve kissed him right then and there, but he probably would’ve hit you. (Not that you would mind… but you wanted your honey to take control, have it his way for a bit.)

Jackson rutted into you fast and selfish, your eyes rolling to the back of your head at the violent way he fucked you: your sick pleasure came at the expense of your weeping cunt, which was trembling in the stinging pain he was inflicting, cockhead stretching you wide. 

Then, Jackson’s hands slid down to your hips, so he could shove his cock deeper into your cunt, pressing his weight so heavily onto your chest you could barely breathe. He groaned; you were clearly affected by the action, bearing down on his cock suddenly, and he reveled in the ecstacy. 

He fucked you slightly and slower, and you only realized what he’d been doing when he leaned down to get a better angle, bullying the head of his cock against your cervix: he was trying to fuck into you further, push his dick so close, so snug against your womb that there was no doubt in hell his load would impregnate you. His actions were dictated not by any sense of reason, but by a crude, carnal desire, wanting nothing more but to make you scream. 

And you did scream alright, a breathy, brutal scream; a mix of whimpering pain at the way his head pushed against you, and of shameful, drooling pleasure, his delicious length making you feel fucking bloated, you were so full.

One of Jackson’s hands reached up to your head to pull your hair, making you whine at the pain of the tug, and he growled out a string of curse words, before thrusting his cock so angrily it was like a punishment, surely bruising your cervix, and releasing his thick load deep inside. His come flooded your cunt, pumping you full of his salty cream, fucking you still. 

Jackson then panted raggedly, feeling your gummy walls tense at the pain of him pulling out, flopping down beside you. “Does it hurt?” he asked you absently, pulling his boxer shorts back up to his hips. 

You bit your lip as you clenched your thighs together, whining slightly at the pain blooming deep within your abused cunt, and at the loss of pleasure— you hadn’t come after all, Jackson being entirely selfish in his fucking. “Uh-huh,” you murmured weakly, feeling the strength in your body leave you completely. “You’re a mean one, honey.”

“Good,” Jackson said, chuckling darkly. It was the first laugh you’d heard rumble out of him the entire time you’d held him captive, and you drank it in: it was pleasant and breezy, like cold water on a hot day. It was certainly out of place, such a gleeful laugh after savagely fucking you, but you welcomed it anyway. 

Jackson suddenly grabbed you by the waist, pulling you flush to his chest. “M’gonna use your hole whenever I want, and you’re gonna take my cock no matter what, ‘till you’re begging me to stop,” he growled in your ear, making goosebumps break out on your clammy skin. “Least you can do for fuckin’ kidnapping me, you psychotic bitch.”

“Oh,” you purred, batting your lashes up at him, “it’d be my pleasure to be your fucktoy.”

Jackson grinned, at you, for you, and you thought to yourself that kidnapping him was the best thing you ever fucking did. 

iii.

Somewhere, muddled between you kidnapping him, the two of you almost killing eachother, and him fucking you dumb, Jackson caved, and he started to believe he actually loved you. His mind didn’t have any qualms accepting that you were his new life— living in your house, only knowing you, and only ever talking to you. 

Maybe it was stockholm syndrome, or those delicious fantasies you’d whisper in his ear at night (“Y’know, honey, it’s really you who should be saying you’re home. What do you think, huh? You coming home from a long day of work to me, in my panties and an apron, no bra and a sweet, home-cooked meal on the table. Dessert’ll be, of course, me,”) or maybe it was just you.

You, despite your terrible job and seriously obvious insanity, being the epitome of fuckable: horny when he was, a talented, needy mouth, able to take anything he gave you to while always going back to being tight as fuck, and intensely eager to have him.

You, who controlled his life, and he, who controlled you. The way you treated each other was probably illegal somewhere, but in that house not even the fucking law mattered. (You still remember when Jackson got his gun back, and he teased your clit with the cold tip till you creamed down the barrel… a terribly memorable story that always made you groan.)

Jackson was extremely well aware that there was something strange about your relationship, and not just the fact it occurred in the strangest way possible, but that he was essentially giving up to you— losing his inhibitions, at least against you. Something about… putting his well being in your hands. His needs. His wants. His life. Spending the rest of his life with you; in this house, accepting life and no escape. 

But still, for a man like Jackson, who had long since accepted that he wasn’t cut out for a life of normalcy, a life of love, this certainly wasn’t a bad way of living. He had a house nicer than anything he’d ever lived in, didn’t have to work, could do whatever he wanted all day, and got to pound his cock into your perfect little pussy every single night. 

[chosopie]

BOOKSTORE - SATORU GOJO

Satoru can read but he just prefers not to.

One day, Suguru decided to bring Satoru to the bookstore with him. “It’ll be fun,” he said.

“Come on, Satoru. You might even find something you’d like.”

“I don’t get the point of books when there are movies. Movies are so much easier to look at and less time-consuming,” Satoru groaned.

As he walked through the aisles, lazily scanning books, he saw you pass by him with a couple of books in your hand.

Satoru was stunned. How could someone be so pretty? Your hair nicely framed your delicate face and your eyes shone with excitement while your looked through the shelves. You were a sight to behold.

“Hey, Suguru. You didn’t tell me this was the place to find hotties. I can’t believe you’ve been gatekeeping this from me!”

Suguru stared at him, unamused. “It’s a library, for fuck’s sake. This isn’t Hooters. People actually go here for the books because, again, it’s a fucking library.”

“Calm down, Suguru. I know you’re mad, but I’ll save the rest of the ladies for you. This one though,” Satoru stared you. “I like her.” His gaze averted to the book you were holding. It was The Picture of Dorian Gray.

He walked closer, his figure towering over your figure. You couldn’t help but turn around and face the guy. “Do you need something?” You asked.

“Ah, I love that book,” Satoru said.

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to read this book. What’s it about?”

There was silence. “Dorian Gray.”

“Yeah… what about him?”

“His picture.”

“Okay,” you turned away from him and carried on.

“Goddamnit!” Satoru cursed.

A few days later, Satoru came back to the library, hoping to find you and maybe woo you over. He searched aisle after aisle, but to no avail, he couldn’t find you. He huffed in defeat, his teeth grinding against each other in frustration. He looked down and headed towards the exit. Just when he was about to step outside, he saw you through the corner of his eye, walking towards the tables.

He quickly turned around and ran to the tables, earning him a lot of stares and shushing. You narrowed your eyes. You disregarded his odd behavior and opened the book you had just bought.

“I see,” he pushed his shades up to the bridge of his nose. “Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka.”

You sighed, mentally preparing yourself for whatever stupid remark he was going to make. Deep down, you found his stupidity amusing and entertaining. You also thought he was cute, but really annoying and stupid. Sure, not everyone likes books, but why pretend? Was he into you?

“It’s about a salesman who turned into a cockroach and becomes a huge disappointment to his family because he is no longer able to make income,” he proudly smiled. “In a deeper sense, it could be about the absurdity of social roles.”

“Oh, wow. You read it?”

“Yes.” He searched up the summary to impress you.

“Come sit with me. We could read together,” you smiled.

Let’s fucking go.

“Sure. Can I get your Instagram though?”

[vincentbriggs]

Hello! Transfem person here. I haven't started HRT yet, but want to procure a 1730s menswear suit (actually decided based on your video). I would prefer not to wait for it if possible, since I don't know when HRT is going to be possible. I am, however, a little concerned about my bust size changing and affecting the fit of the waistcoat. Is that decade usually pretty forgiving in it's tailoring? I am also considering having the upper back tie like some later waistcoats to accommodate if necessary (even if it's not entirely historical), but I figured I would ask you.

Thank you!

Hello! Ooh yay! Not enough people do early 18th century, so I'm delighted to hear that! (Link to the 1730's suit mentioned.)

I think the fit would be affected, yeah. The sides of the waistcoat are easy enough to let out (and we have extant examples of waistcoats with an extra strip of fabric added into the side seam) but the curve of the front is pretty important to how it sits on you. But then, it is fashionable in that era to leave quite a lot of the top portion unbuttoned, so maaaybe you could get away with it not fitting as well, depending on what changed and how much?

Regarding the adjustability of waistcoats, some of the earlier ones actually do have lacing in the back! This red one is an especially nice example, and it's separate all the way to the top.

(c. 1740's, V&A) (Though you also do see ones with the back hacked up and a bunch of ties that were likely added by Victorians for their fancy dress parties.)

The breeches also have adjustable waistbands, of course, so I think the hardest part to alter would be the coat. The back vent is edge to edge, so there's no overlap to sneak a bit more width out of, and letting out the side seams would require re-doing those massive pleats, which were the part I found the most difficult when making my coat. But fortunately those coats were worn open a lot of the time, so even if they're not quite right when buttoned, they should still look ok unbuttoned.

It's very difficult to predict how the fit will be affected, since HRT is different for everyone and things keep changing years down the line. (One comment on this post talks about suddenly getting more breast and hip growth after 7, 12, and 14 years.)

I only have experience from the transmasc side of things, and alas, I very much did outgrow all my old waistcoats and coats. My 1730's suit needs alterations, because the waistcoat is a bit too small, and the coat seams could use a bit of letting out too. (I made those the year after top surgery, but my ribcage kept expanding and my posture improving for quite a while.)

I've been putting it off because alterations are boring :/ My pre-top surgery waistcoats are all way too small across the chest even though material was removed, because my posture was kinda bad and I didn't even notice it, and I expect that the opposite could also lead to the same sort of better posture from more confidence & comfort.

But bodies keep changing forever anyways, even without transitioning. Plenty of cis people can't fit into the things they sewed when they were younger, so we may as well make things to fit us now. Perhaps you could make the suit now, but use a not-too-expensive fabric, and then maybe alter it later, or make a newer and better one with the experience you gained from the first one!

Also I know you specifically said menswear suit, but I want to add the fun fact that women's riding habits in this era looked extremely similar to men's suits!

(Left: Maria Amalia von Habsburg by Franz Joseph Winter, right: Member of the Van der Mersch Family by Cornelis Troost.)

As far as I can tell, the main differences are that the riding habits have a petticoat instead of breeches, and are made to fit over stays.

(Empress Elisabeth Christine in riding costume, unknown artist.)

So similar, in fact, that this portrait of a young lady in a riding habit was misidentified as a young man!

Most of the petticoat is out of frame, but you can still see that it's not beeches, and the stays shape is pretty obvious. Very silly of Sotheby's not to notice!

I have no idea if you're interested in wearing a riding habit, and I'm not sure how difficult it would be to alter the somewhat looser men's coat to fit over stays, but thought I ought to mention it.

[amourluvie]

Eyeless jack x reader headcanons

Since the last ej post got nice recognition, I thought why not write more stuff for our fav demon ? >< . . .

- first of all he's a very introverted and quiet person who hates loud people and loud noises + blasting music is a big no no aswell since he has sensitive ahh ears, so please try to be calm around him

- he loves learning new stuff about you and of course spending time with you everyday , oh you got a new hyperfixation? Talk to him for hours about it, oh you got a new favourite colour/food? He's writing that down in his diary as we speak, u want to watch a new movie? Hes now interested in it aswell and will watch it with you.

- his love language is physical touch and gifting, he loves feeling ur touch in every way possible,like holding ur hands,hugging you, holding you by waist, and loves kisses aswell ofc !!

- can get jealous easily mainly due to the fact he's really insecure and doesn't want to lose you.

- sometimes he thinks if u really love him, considering he's a cannibalistic monster. Pls reassure him that you love him lots and will stay him until the day u die.

- also please don't get weirded out whenever u see him eating raw human flesh, or him bringing you kidneys.

- if u gift him organs , specially kidneys he will literally melt.

- also pls read to him , such as old literature because he loves it and metamorphosis by Franz Kafka is his fav book,he relates to it lots.

- another thing that will make him melt will u calling him pretty boy , he has 0 self confidence so calling him that really boosts his confidence

- he's a monster but he's YOUR monster too right?

꒰⁠⑅⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠꒱⁠˖⁠♡

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Puppygal Sluts

Garrett Cook: Submitted for the approval of the midnight society, i call this the tale of the harem of trans puppygirl werewolf sluts Barker: yes… ha ha YES! Barker: there isn't a word in that sentence that i dislike

Cook: so sometimes you're just a trans puppygirl in search of a polycule Cook: and sometimes you're a polycule in search of a trans puppygirl Cook: sometimes things just work out like that

Cook: so Daddy has this harem of trans puppygirl sluts Cook: whom he keeps constantly coked out of their heads all the time Cook: it's the worst thing, to be a trans puppygirl slut suspended in a state of eternal bliss Franz Kafka: yeah it sounds terrible! Kafka: i would totally not want that!

Kafka: i would never want to be a trans puppygirl slut suspended in a state of eternal bliss King: Koontz: Poe: Barker: Lovecraft: Barker: when did you get those gamer socks, franz?

Kafka: oh i get it Kafka: ha ha clive very funny Kafka: for your information, i only wear these because my legs get cold while i game Barker: and the cat ear headphones? Kafka: Kafka: junji ito said they look cool Junji Ito: nya ^_^

Fitz James O'Brien: hey man i hear someone here wants to be a trans puppygirl slut in a state of eternal bliss O'Brien: i got everything you need right here to be a trans puppygirl slut in a state of eternal bliss Kafka: no no i'm saying i DON'T want- Kafka: wait, everything? O'Brien: EVERYTHING

O'Brien: i got coke O'Brien: ecstasy O'Brien: dog tranquilizers O'Brien: estrogen O'Brien: this stylish choker collar O'Brien: it's all yours my friend as long as you have enough rubies

Koontz: golly franz Koontz: i think that if you want to be a puppygirl, you should just be a puppygirl Kafka: Poe: dean don't say that to franz Koontz: but i thought- Poe: it was a very nice thought dean Poe: but you can't say that to franz Poe: those words are too powerful

Garrett Cook: now daddy thinks he's got his trans puppygirl slut harem under his thumb Cook: but what he doesn't know is Cook: THAT THEY'RE ALSO WEREWOLVES! Barker: this is so hot Cook: and they're gonna rip out some throats Barker: this just keeps getting hotter!

Cook: so they're werewolves Cook: and these dogs don't play nice Koontz: i would play nice with them Poe: no dean that's not what he means Poe: i'm sorry, we really should have saved this story for after he goes to bed

[cherie-doll]

𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰

This blog will be where I dump my stories & fics.

♱ about me: unemployed graduate with too much creativity, she/her, aro/ace, mexican-american, intj, goth/alt, visual-kei lover, metal and kpop enjoyer, rural/small town girl who deep down likes country music, likes to play video games, writer, adores reading & literature, into anything vampire related, art & history, ex-horse crazy girl, certified loser and an oxford comma enthusiast

♱ (im ageless to reduce the chances of ppl ik irl finding my acc again, but im not a minor dw)

♱ fav book shelf: The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho, Valerie and Her Week of Wonders by Vítězslav Nezval, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, Eleven Minutes by Paulo Coelho, Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Emma by Jane Austen, East of Eden by John Steinbeck, The Judgment by Franz Kafka, Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones

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[schadenfreudich]

This is somehow a very funny way of getting rid of a significant amount of my intrusive thoughts, because I didn't even do it on purpose. I wasn't thinking about my intrusive thoughts I just needed to know this because I was already hyperfixated on it before I decided to read the entire wikipedia article.

And then it took me almost two days to notice that I had a lot less intrusive thoughts.

[sebscore]

LUCK OF A CHAMPION | SEBASTIAN V.

pairing: sebastian vettel x fem!reader 

warnings: swearing. 

time - place stamp: september 14, 2008 - Monza, Italy 

author's note: AAH !! already on the second chapter!! the first time seb and reader meet at the italian grand prix!! the dialogue in bold is german and the dialogue in cursive is french!

masterlist 

• • • • • • •

''Miss Y/L! We are so happy to have you here,'' an older man approached in front of the Toro Rosso garage, ''It's really nice to meet you, I'm Franz Tost- the team principal of Toro Rosso.'' He introduced himself, sticking out his hand. 

A warm smile appeared on the young woman's face, she confidently shook his head. ''It's very nice to see you, Franz. Thank you so much for having me.'' 

''It's our pleasure! We're very big fans and the team is very excited to meet you.'' The French athlete had her doubts about the F1 team being ''big fans'', but Franz's words came across as genuine. 

She nodded her head, the PR-friendly smile still glued on her face. ''Well, that's very kind.'' 

''I was informed this is your first time at a Grand Prix?'' He asked, slowly guiding her into the garage. ''Yes, it's my first time attending a race.'' She confirmed with a small nod.

''Fantastic!'' An Austrian accent slightly coming out. ''We're very honoured you chose to be with us today, Miss Y/L.'' 

''You can call me Y/N, Franz. I'm not an old lady or anything, you can relax.'' The tennis star assured him, not a big fan of the formalities the older man was using. 

Franz chuckled at her words, a bit embarrassed. ''My apologies! We don't often receive young women into our garage so it's a habit.'' He clarified. 

''It's okay, I understand.'' Y/N brushed it off. 

''Anyway- I'll explain some things. So, here,'' he pointed towards a few men who were seemingly doing some work on one of the cars, ''we have the mechanics, they're currently working on Sebastian's car.'' 

She politely nodded along, paying attention to his words. 

''There you have the engineers, they talk to the drivers while they're racing and keep them informed about a variety of things.'' Franz further explained, pointing to some guys that were observing the computer screens. 

Y/N glanced around the quite busy garage, spotting a familiar face. ''There's Sébastien!'' She signalled to the older Frenchman to approach them. 

The pair had met on numerous occasions, both being French athletes. She had been the one to reach out to him regarding her attendance, hoping he'd be able to get her a ticket to one of his races. Sébastien happily agreed to fix her a special pass, delighted to invite her to the Italian Grand Prix. 

''Y/N, how are you? Happy to see you here.'' The driver greeted her in French, a kiss on both of her cheeks. ''I don't have much time, but they told me you arrived so I wanted to quickly pop in and say hi.'' 

''I'm good, thank you for asking and also thank you for getting me here,'' she grinned, making the Frenchman laugh, ''good luck with your race, I'll be rooting for you.'' 

''Merci.'' He thanked her, nodding his head to Franz who seemed quite clueless about their conversation- his understanding of the French language not being advanced enough yet. 

The team principal awkwardly scratched his voice as Sébastian left them alone to prepare for his race. ''You would like a closer look to the car?'' He asked her, pointing at the machinery with the number five on it. 

''Yes, please.'' At her confirmation, he led her to the car. ''This is the cockpit,'' Franz motioned his hands over the area, ''and as you can see, the drivers are basically laying in there.'' He simplified. 

''Is it comfortable?'' She asked the team principal, genuine curiosity audible. 

Franz excitedly nodded his head. ''Yes, very very comfortable! The seats are custom made for every driver on the grid so they fit perfectly.'' 

''Do they ever fall asleep?'' Y/N chuckled, a joking tone to her question. 

The man laughed at the inquiry, surprised by the woman's sense of humour and unfeigned interest in the sport. ''With our two drivers it hasn't happened, but with others it has definitely happened before.'' Franz answered. 

''But not during a race!'' He quickly added, not wanting her to think that drivers have fallen asleep while driving the fast cars. 

''I hope not, that would be tragic.'' Y/N commented, a laugh attached to her words. 

Franz snickered along with her. ''It would be indeed. The mechanics wouldn't be too happy with that either so we're happy it hasn't happened yet.'' 

''But to continue- this is the steering wheel and as you can see, it's quite complica-'' 

''Hey Franz, are you rea- oh…'' 

A curly-haired young man appeared next to the team principal, taking the young woman by surprise. The unknown man's eyes widened as he stared at her, the tennis star becoming slightly uncomfortable by the guy's gawking.  

The older man in-between them seemed to grasp her uneasiness. ''Oh. This is one of our drivers, Sebastian Vettel. He scored our first pole position yesterday and hopefully, our first win today.'' Franz introduced him. 

Y/N stuck out her hand, intended for him to shake it. ''It's nice to meet you, Sebastian.'' He instead grabbed her hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. ''It's very nice to meet you too, Miss Y/N Y/L.'' 

The woman was impressed by the greeting, raising an eyebrow at the gentleman in front of her. ''You know me. Are you a fan of tennis?'' There was a surprising tone to her voice, his boss hadn't introduced her by name. 

Sebastian shook his head, dropping her hand. ''No, I'm just a fan of you.'' He proudly grinned, crossing his arms. 

''Well, thank you very much. I'm flattered.'' The athlete would be lying if she said she wasn't intrigued by the man's confidence, her interest in getting to know who this Sebastian Vettel was growing by each passing second. 

The German driver unsubtly looked her up and down. ''As far as I know, this is a Formula 1 event, right? You're not gonna find any courts around here.'' He joked, glancing around the garage and pretending to look for a tennis court. 

Y/N laughed at his antics. ''I must have gotten the wrong memo, I was promised a rematch with Venus,'' she feigned annoyance, placing her hands on her hips, ''but, uh, your teammate actually invited me.'' 

''Sébastien?'' He frowned. ''I wasn't aware he knew you. He's been hiding you from me, I can't believe it.'' It was Sebastian's turn to pretend to be agitated, although there might be a truth to his annoyance. 

Sebastian wouldn't describe himself as a tennis fanatic, but whenever the French prodigy in front of him would play, he would find himself clinged to the television. Was it her genuine skills as an athlete or the fact that he fancied her in a short skirt? Who would know. 

''We've met on a couple of occasions.'' Y/N explained her history with his Toro Rosso teammate. Sébastien and herself were French athletes so they have had a few run-ins with each other at dull award shows. 

''I see,'' Sebastian nodded, ''he just didn't want to share you with me.'' 

His flirtatious remarks not only surprised Franz and Y/N, but himself as well. The 21 year-old had always seen himself as quite a flirty pal, but he had never gone to this level with someone he had just met. It didn't help much that the woman standing opposite him was seemingly enjoying every word he said. 

''I guess that's the case,'' she matched the light smirk on his face, ''but I'm very happy he didn't, cause otherwise I wouldn't be here.'' 

''I'll make sure to thank him after the race.'' Sebastian chuckled, shyly breaking the eye-contact they had been holding for what seemed like forever. ''But, uhm, you're still in recovery? From Roland Garros?'' He asked, dropping the grin as he asked about her injury. 

''Yes, I had a surgery in June.'' She confirmed. 

The tennis star sustained a back injury at the French Open of that same year. It happened quite early in the tournament, but she continued playing instead of retiring from the competition. It was the first time in 3 years that she managed to make the final at Roland Garros, she couldn't win last time and wasn't going to let that opportunity slip again- even if it cost her the rest of her season. 

She did manage to win the final, winning her first French Open title of her career. However, there wasn't much of a celebration as she collapsed after taking the championship point, the pain in her back too much to bear. She was brought to the hospital and was informed she would need to receive surgery and a long recovery process. 

''Have you been training again, or how is it going?'' Sebastian continued, interested in her physical state and when he would be able to see her play again. 

Y/N unsurely shook her head. ''Uh, I've had some training sessions with my coach, but nothing too serious.'' She answered, an unconscious pout present on her face. 

''That's a good start,'' Sebastian encouragingly smiled, noticing the slight decline in courage, ''too bad I won't see you compete soon, though.'' He frowned, genuinely downhearted by her recovery break. 

''You'll have to wait until January.'' 

That's when the first tournament of the new WTA season took place in Australia, something she had been working towards for the past 2 months. Y/N had always been a self-assured person- some of her competitors might say ''arrogant'', but she knew her worth. Still, 2 months of not picking up a racquet had seriously messed with her mentality and doubts had formed in her mind about her future performances as a professional athlete. 

Those doubts were visible to Sebastian even if she didn't vocalise them. ''I know you'll make a great comeback, tennis isn't the same without you.'' 

''My lovely colleagues would happily disagree with you.'' The sarcastic comment made him laugh, taken aback by her sense of humour. 

He shook his head. ''They're just jealous! They actually have a chance now that you're not playing.'' 

''That's very sweet of you, thanks.'' Y/N brushed it off, the amount of praise he was giving her making her a bit shy.

''You know what? I think having a champion here will actually give me some luck for the race, don't you think?'' He told her, her presence giving him all the energy he needed before the Grand Prix. 

Y/N snickered at him. ''You got pole position yesterday! I think you're doing fine on your own.'' 

''No, seriously! You being here will definitely have an influence- I can't embarrass myself in front of a Grand Slam champion, right?'' Sebastian's words lifted her spirits, not used to athletes of other sports speaking and thinking so highly of her. 

''You're flattering me, Sebastian.'' Y/N moved a few strands of hair out of her face. 

''Seb.''

''Pardonne?''

''Call me Seb, Y/N.'' 

A tingly feeling settled in her stomach as he asked her to call him by his nickname, meanwhile the way he said her name send goosebumps down her neck. 

She timidly nodded her head. ''Alright… Seb.'' Y/N couldn't help but match the smirk on his face, taking way too much joy out of this interaction. 

''Uh,'' Sebastian looked next to him where Franz previously stood, but now nowhere to be found, ''oh, he's gone.'' He chuckled, feeling slightly guilty for leaving his boss in the dark. ''I have to go, though, but I'll see you after the race?'' He looked at her with a hopeful glance, not wanting this moment to be the last time he saw her. 

A smile slowly formed on her face, his attempt at nonchalance malfunctioning. ''I'll find you on the podium.'' Y/N winked. 

Sebastian's cheeks heated up at her response, her confidence that he would finish in the top three flustering the Toro Rosso driver. ''Yeah, yeah- I'll see you there.'' With a final long glance, he made his way over to his engineer. 

The Toro Rosso garage erupted into chaos once the German took the chequered flag, their and his first F1 win in the pocket. Y/N observed the mechanics falling into each other's arms and yielding their fists into the air, meanwhile the pit wall yanked their headphones off and jumped up from their chairs in overjoy. 

As a fellow athlete, she understood the excitement that came from winning your first big achievement like winning a Grand Prix. You work almost your entire life for just an ounce of success and when it finally pays off? It's a feeling you can't describe. 

Y/N was guided to the podium ceremony by a staff member, standing behind the team as Sebastian appeared from the inside of the building and strided to the top step while the team and crowd cheered him on. 

The tennis star chuckled at the driver holding up his index finger, a symbolised No. 1, and the way he seemed to be poking it in everyone's faces. 

Despite standing at the very back and doing her best efforts to let the Toro Rosso crew have their moment, Sebastian found her in the mass- pointing said finger at her and threw her a smug look as if to say ''I told you you would bring me luck''. 

The woman nodded at him, raising her arms above her head and applauding him. 

Y/N flinched when the German national anthem ended, and the drivers started spraying each other with their champagne bottles. She turned to the staff member next to her. ''Do they always do this?'' She asked. 

The staff nodded, amused by the athlete's shock. ''Yes, every race!'' 

''Wow… a nice combination with the sweat.'' Y/N was quite disgusted by the stank that would come off from the drivers- champagne and sweat not being a satisfying mix. 

After the ceremony was done, she was brought to the Toro Rosso hospitality. Many of the mechanics, engineers and others were, contrary to what she first believed, actual fans of the young athlete and wanted the chance to grab a picture with her. 

Y/N didn't mind sticking around a little longer than what was planned. She appreciated the support she was given, especially now that she's injured and might have already passed her prime. Besides, the Toro Rosso team had been extremely kind to her the entire day and it was only right of her to reciprocate the kindness. 

A tap on her shoulder made her turn around right as she handed one of the strategists their napkin back that she had autographed. 

She was met with a smirking Sebastian, holding a small camera. ''Can I get a picture as well?''

The 21 year-old woman lightly pushed his arm with her hand, laughing at the question. ''Hey, congratulations, Mr. First Race Win.'' Y/N bowed her head. 

''Thank you, thank you, but what about my picture?'' He brushed her congratulations to the side.

The athlete jokingly scoffed. ''They already took one of us in the garage, you've had your chance, Vettel.'' She figured he was taking the piss out of her and all the people that wanted a photo with the tennis star. 

''But that's for the publicity, this is just for me.'' He contended. 

There was a certain tone to his voice, one that explained to her that he might actually wanted a photo with her- and not to just be funny and tease her. 

Y/N sighed, but agreed. ''Alright then. If it's just for you.'' 

Sebastian held up his fist, the same way she did after winning a point in a tournament. ''Yes,'' he glanced around, his eyes falling upon a man sitting at one of the tables, ''Riccardo!'' He called him over. 

Riccardo was surprised by the sudden call of his name, but stood up anyway once he noticed Sebastian waving at him. 

''He's my engineer.'' He quickly told Y/N, seeing her confused expression. ''Hey, can you take a picture for me? Of us?'' The German asked his engineer, who nodded at the request. 

Sebastian handed him the camera and stood next to the tennis player. He rested his hand on her back, but swiftly retreated it. ''Is that okay?'' 

Y/N moved her head towards him, surprised by his concern over touching her. ''It's okay, don't worry.'' She consented, putting her own hand on his back. 

''1, 2, 3. Cheese!'' Riccardo counted down and snapped a few pictures, knowing Sebastian would appreciate a couple of candids. ''Can I get a picture as well?'' The engineer asked, smiling when he saw Y/N nod. 

''Here, Seb.'' Riccardo gave him the device back and the two men switched roles. 

Sebastian had an indifferent expression on his face as he took the pictures of them, a vast difference from just a few seconds before when he was grinning from ear-to-ear. ''Okay, I got it. Don't want my card to be full.'' The driver put the camera down and back into his bag. 

''Thanks, mate,'' Riccardo warily glanced at Sebastian, ''it was very nice to meet you. You should invite the entire team to a match next year.'' The older man joked (but not entirely), looking at Y/N. 

''Thank you all for having me, I had a really nice time,'' she thanked them, ''and about that- I'll see what I can do.'' The Frenchwoman chuckled. She was fond of everyone, but fitting an entire Formula 1 team on the courtside? That would be a guaranteed challenge. 

''Hopefully see you soon, then. Seb, see you tonight.'' Riccardo bid them goodbye, walking towards where the other pit wall crew members were seated. 

At his engineer's ''tonight'' a ring went off in Sebastian's head. ''Oh, uh, we're celebrating tonight with everyone- would you, uh, like to come as well? It would be really cool if you were there.'' He uncharacteristically stumbled over his words a bit, barely managing to get the question out. 

''I don't know,'' she hesitated accepting the invitation, ''I have quite an early flight tomorrow and I really can't miss it.'' 

There were more reasons behind her uncertainty than a simple worry over missing her flight to Paris the next day. She liked socialising, but she had only met everyone for the first time today and most of them were panicking about being in her presence. 

The doubt in her mind was clear to him. ''You don't have to, but the option is there. How about you give me your number and I'll send you the address and hour- you can decide for yourself if you want to go.'' 

His suggestion was reasonable, she figured. That way she also had the young man's phone number, something she wouldn't hesitate taking. ''Okay.'' 

Sebastian quickly reached for his phone in the back of his jeans at her agreement, unlocking it and opening his contacts app, and handing the device over to her. 

''There… you… go.'' She bit on her lip as she concentrated on typing her number in, unaware of Sebastian's unsubtle fascination with her action. Y/N gave the phone back once she was done. ''I already send a message to myself so I'm sure it's your number.'' 

''Great! So I'll maybe see you later.'' The young man didn't want to say goodbye to her, but he still had things to discuss with the team and not even a Grand Slam champion could make him escape out of his responsibilities. 

Y/N nodded at him, an enchanting smile hanging on her face. ''Maybe, yeah,'' she smirked, ''again, congrats on your first win. I'm sure many will follow soon.'' 

''Let's hope there will be more,'' Sebastian had gotten the taste of success now and he wanted more, way more, ''but, uh, in case I don't see you again- it was very nice to meet you, Miss Y/N Y/L.'' 

''It was nice to meet you as well. You have my number so if you miss me too much you can just give me a call.'' She grinned, throwing out the flirty remark. 

The German licked his lip, taking a few moments to compose himself. ''I'll definitely keep that in mind.'' He smiled to himself. 

Y/N chuckled at his shy state. ''Bye, Sebastian.'' At the mention of his full name, he was about to correct her to use the shortened version, but she beat him to it. ''Sorry- Seb.'' 

''Goodbye.'' He bid her farewell. 

Sebastian watched her leave, his eyes following the woman like a puppy when their owner leaves for the day. As soon as she was out of his sight, he pulled his phone from his pocket again and opened his messages. He knew he should have waited a little longer before sending her the address and hour of the meet-up, but he couldn't help himself. Perhaps the young man didn't want her to forget him, he wanted her attention. 

While in the debrief with his team, he kept taking glances at his phone- something unusual for him to do, especially during discussions about the race that had taken place. 

Her response came in the middle of Franz's opinion on the tyre management, causing Sebastian to make a surprise jolt in his chair, receiving a few side-eyes from the others. ''Sorry… a cramp.'' He apologised, making up an excuse. 

| Y/N Y/L: I'll stop by :) I can't stay for too long, but I won't say no to a good celebration! 

| Seb Vettel (the flirty f1 guy): Nice! I will see you there then :) 

| Y/N Y/L: is there a dress code? 

Sebastian loudly chuckled at her question, making him apologise again for interrupting the team boss. ''Sorry, sorry!'' He put his phone away for a minute before sneakily grabbing it again to answer her. 

| Seb Vettel (the flirty f1 guy): I don't know

| Seb Vettel (the flirty f1 guy): casual, I guess. 

| Y/N Y/L: boring, but alright :) 

''No dress code?'' Y/N mumbled to herself, frowning. ''Pinnacle of motorsport my ass.'' The young woman had eventually agreed to go, planning to stay for about an hour or two. She wasn't going to drink any alcohol, because she had a practice the next day and a potential hangover isn't something she needed. 

She considered it a night-out so usually she would go for something more elegant, but since Sebastian told her it was casual, she went for a simple pair of jeans and a blouse. 

The young athlete couldn't get the German gentleman out of her head in the hours leading up to the celebration of his first win. Some time had passed since she last felt intrigued by someone on this level and that had been her former boyfriend. 

There was something about Sebastian. 

Was it the way he treated her like she was the queen of the universe or the way the man couldn't take his eyes off of her? Either way, she liked it. 

Y/N walked into the Italian establishment with excitement, curious to see what a night with a Formula One team looked like. The space was mostly filled by the Toro Rosso Team, most of them already having had some drinks. She could see some of the mechanics dancing and other crew members cheering them on. 

Unsurprisingly, Sebastian was the first person to notice her arrival. He immediately stood up from his chair, making the people around him flinch due to the suddenness of it. He didn't hesitate in walking over to her, grabbing her attention by waving and a call of her name. 

He greeted her with a hug. ''Hey, you actually came!'' Y/N was taken by surprise, not expecting him to embrace her. 

''Of course, wouldn't want to miss it.'' She smiled. 

''Can I get you something to drink? They have a bunch of good stuff here.'' Sebastian politely offered, pointing at the bar. 

Y/N glanced to where he signalled. ''Uh, do they have non-alcoholic drinks?'' She hesitated. Sometimes people can act judgemental when someone doesn't want to drink alcohol, especially at parties. 

''Sure, I think they have mocktails actually.'' He answered, not making a big deal out of her not wanting to have any strong drinks. 

She nodded, appreciating his nonchalance. ''Great, I'll have one of those then.'' 

Sebastian guided her to the counter, his hand on her lower back. Y/N kept a strong hold on her bag with her two hands, trying not to start acting giddy at the physical contact. 

''The menu is on the wall,'' he signalled to the board in front of them with all of their drinks and prices written in chalk, ''let me know when you've chosen something, I'll pay for it.'' The German concluded. 

''You're paying? Shouldn't it be the other way?'' Y/N chuckled, wanting to buy him a drink since he was the one who invited her- out of politeness. 

Sebastian brushed it off with a wave of his hand. ''No, I'm feeling generous tonight.'' He said, a wink following his words. 

She raised her eyebrow at that, sensing an innuendo behind the sentence. ''Well- I'll just have a mojito mocktail, can't go wrong with that.'' She chose her drink, looking from the menu back to Sebastian. 

He nodded at her choice, and waved the bartender over. ''A mojito mocktail and a beer, please.'' The older woman behind the bar praised their options and got to work on their drinks. The pair sat down on the stools at the counter as they waited on her. 

''So how does it feel to be a Grand Prix winner now?'' Y/N turned to him. 

Sebastian laughed at the question. ''I feel really great. If someone had told me going into this week that I would cross the line first, I wouldn't have believed them.'' He answered, still in a state of shock about his performance today. 

''I know I haven't been watching the sport for that long, but you did really great today.'' The tennis player complimented him, sincerity flowing from her lips. 

''Thank you,'' the German smiled in appreciation, ''how long have you been into the sport?'' 

''After I was done with my surgery, I had to stay in the hospital for a few weeks and my doctor was actually a huge F1 fan,'' she explained, ''and I was really bored, cause I laid in my hospital bed all day and couldn't do anything, and he came into my room and I told him how bored I was, and he told me the qualifying of the Canadian Grand Prix was on tv. I didn't have much better things to do so I put it on and I liked it. I watched the race the next day and have been following the season since then.'' She recapped how her interest in F1 came to be. 

''I think your doctor just wanted to use your tv to watch the race.'' Sebastian laughed, finding humour in the origin of her curiosity in the sport. 

Y/N laughed along, admiring the way his eyes smiled. ''Yeah, maybe- oh, thank you'' the bartender set their drinks down in front of them, giving them a polite grin, ''uh, yeah, he suddenly did a few more check-up visits than were necessary.'' She chuckled, finishing her sentence. 

''I think Robert won that race…'' Sebastian thought out loud, trying to recall the results of the Grand Prix in Montréal. 

''Uh… Kubica, yes- I'm still trying to learn the names.'' Y/N said, feeling slight embarrassment of not being able to recognise Robert's right away. 

The German gave her a comforting smile. ''That's okay, there are 20 of us, it's hard.'' He assured her. 

Y/N thanked him and took a sip of her drink, needing some refreshment. 

''You already know my name and that's the most important one, if you ask me.'' Sebastian added, the smirk making a re-appearance. 

''Sure,'' she responded with a small laugh, ''but, uh, is this your first season in F1?'' 

Sebastian hesitantly answered. ''Uhm, it's my first full season in F1. Last year, I was a reserve driver first, but then I replaced someone else mid-season.'' He explained to her. 

''Oh, okay cool. How long have you been racing?'' She continued, curious about his history with the sport. 

''I started karting when I was 3 year-old.'' 

''Wow, that's young,'' her eyes widened at his answer, ''how did you get into it? You have a family that races?'' 

''I think it was my dad- I'm not too sure, I just loved it. At first, I wanted to be a singer like Michael Jackson, but I quickly found out I didn't have the voice for it.'' He took a big gulp from his beer, the coldness visibly relaxing him. 

Y/N chuckled, not expecting Sebastian to have wanted a singing career. ''That's surprising, wouldn't have gathered you for a singer.'' 

''Wait until you hear me in karaoke, you'll change your mind,'' he grinned, ''but, what about you? How long have you been playing tennis?'' He turned the curious interrogation on her. 

''Since I was 4,'' her response was equally surprising to him as well, ''my dad was a big tennis fan and we would watch matches together on the tv. I would like- copy the way the women were playing and would pretend the remote was my racquet.'' She tittered, the image of her younger self appearing in her mind. 

''That's cute,'' Sebastian felt honoured to get such a personal answer from her, the female athlete often coming across as closed-off, ''so your dad got you into it?'' 

''Yeah, and not too far from where we lived was a tennis club so he signed me up for lessons.'' She replied. 

''And the rest was history, as they say.'' He smirked, making a weird gesture with his hands. 

''Yes,'' she beamed, a certain pride filling her as the talked about her career, ''but it's a little complicated now.'' An injury in your back is a huge setback for an athlete, especially a tennis player. 

''I'm confident you will recover- everyone sees how much you love the sport and how much the sport loves you back.'' 

Sebastian's words meant more to her than she could express in that moment so she hoped the appreciative look on her face told him enough. 

Luckily for her, he did understand. The comfortable silence that followed was one of two people connecting in a room full of people, but their eyes and minds were only on each other. It was something new for both of them; it was intriguing. 

''Your partner must be proud of you, you've achieved so much already.'' Sebastian did a horrible attempt at trying to find out if the woman in front of him was in a relationship or not. 

Y/N snickered at his words, immediately figuring out what he's trying to do. ''I don't have a boyfriend, actually- I don't know where you got that from.'' She teasingly smirked, his red ears and cheeks working wonders on her confidence. 

''I think I read something about, a Spanish footballer or something.'' It had been a rumour a few months ago, splashed on the cover of a gossip magazine he had passed in the supermarket. 

''Oh, that,'' it hadn't been the first time she was linked to an athlete she had coincidentally been in the same room with, ''no, that's not happening.'' 

''Good.'' A flash of relief went through his body as she denied the relationship, a deep breath leaving his body. 

His physical response didn't go unnoticed and a coy smile played on her lips. ''What about you?'' 

Sebastian should have seen the question coming, yet he was surprised as she asked him about his love life. ''Oh, uh, actually-'' 

''Excuse me… are you Y/N Y/L?'' One of the waitresses interrupted Sebastian, glancing at the young woman with nervous eyes. 

Y/N's gaze went from the driver to the, what she presumed, 18 year-old girl who held a notepad and pen in her hands. ''Yes, that's me.'' She confirmed her identity with a polite smile. 

''I'm sorry to bother you, but could I get an autograph? I also play tennis and you're one of my favourite players.'' She asked in a very small voice, scared the athlete would reject her. 

''Of course, what's your name?'' Y/N took the notepad and pen from the waitress' hands. 

''Chiara.'' 

''To Chiara, thank you for the support! Keep playing!'' She wrote in small letters on the piece of paper, adding her signature at the bottom. She gave it back to Chiara who was grinning from ear to ear as she read over what she wrote to her. 

The waitress let out a squeal, surprising both Y/N and Sebastian. ''Thank you so much, I really appreciate it! I hope to see you next year when you're playing in Rome!'' 

''I hope to see you too! Have a nice night, sweetie.'' She bid the fan goodbye, a bright smile on her face. 

''You too, thank you again.'' Chiara quickly turned around, running over to one of her co-workers and showing the autograph off. 

Y/N moved her focus back to Sebastian, who waited patiently for her attention. ''Sorry, what were we talking about again?'' She couldn't remember what they were discussing before they got interrupted. 

Sebastian knew he should have spoken the truth and answered her question on if he was taken or not. He knew that. ''We were talking about your recovery.'' 

Yet, he didn't. 

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[closetdbisexual]

coworker: so anyways yeah we went to the ball game over the weekend it was really fun, took my kid hes 10 now, it was really nice yknow. hes starting to get into sports and stuff they grow up so fast

me: [just learned about the franz ferdinand assassination and trying desperately to find a way to bring it up in casual conversation] yeah it sounds like you had a really nice day. unlike franz ferdinand, archduke of austria, on june 28th, 1914,

[deadpanwalking]

dpw I am finally dedicating some time to reading poetry and have been knocked on my ass by a few lucky finds (Franny Choi, CD Wright, the new translation of Vulturnus!), but I feel like I don't have a great sense of where to find more. not that the world is short of—I mean, I haven't forgotten about google or anything—what I mean is, do you have any especially mindblowing collections you'd personally suggest? something that was influential to you at some point? I'm in a fertile headspace for it, and you're the poetryposter I follow on here and I trust your taste

It's August, so you're spoiled for choice. Elizabeth Bishop (Questions of Travel) for mornings when it rained overnight, Pablo Neruda (Residencia en la tierra) for mornings when it's going to rain; Robert Hayden (The Night-Blooming Cereus) for mornings when it's drizzling and you hear birdsong, but can't see birds. Maya Angelou on the bus to work (Complete Collected Poems), and Walt Whitman (Leaves of Grass) on the bus home; T.S. Eliot (Prufrock and Other Observations) if you're taking lunch at your desk, Billy Collins (Picnic, Lightning) for eating lunch outdoors. Charles Simic (A Wedding in Hell) before dinner, Charles Baudelaire (Les Fleurs du mal ), postprandially, if the peach you'd been saving for dessert got overripe and has to be reclaimed from fruit flies and eaten over the sink. James Baldwin (Jimmy's Blues and Other Poems) to go with chardonnay and the smell of petrichor, Franz Wright (Walking to Martha's Vineyard) on nights when the moon seems too big for its own good. If you can't get to sleep, try a nice epic, say, Derek Walcott's Omeros, but if you wake up suffocating from the heat, crack open Matsuo Bashō's The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches.