#IT MADE ME FROTH FOR SO MANY DAYS AND I JUST | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

avelera · 1 year

Text

Hob Gadling - the absolute maddest of immortal lads

One of the things I love most about Hob Gadling as a character (and as a result, do my best to capture in fic) is how unique his reactions are to immortality and to Dream, and how he so often does the opposite of what one would expect from the genre of "humans granted immortality" but also what the average person and most of the audience expects that they would do with immortality, lending well to the concept that Hob is, genuinely, unhinged and a truly supernatural creature in his own right, which is often lost when the character we see him most often juxtaposed against is Dream, who is even more odd and unhinged if in very different ways

(I've decided to be systematic about this and go through meeting by meeting so strap in, folks it got long, as usual!)

1389 - First of all, Hob simply bragging at all that he doesn't plan to die. OG hipster right there, loving life before it was cool. But also, ok, loving life after being born less than a decade after the Black Plague ended. And in the midst of a great many Black Plague aftershocks! The latter half of the 1300s was a truly abysmal time to be alive, with huge social upheaval, war, plagues, "two bloody Popes fightin'" and in the midst of all this is Hob motherfuckin' Gadling, cheerfully announcing that death is for suckers and he doesn't intend to ever do it.

The man is a soldier! You'd think he'd be more accepting and philosophical about his inevitable death given the time he lives in, the profession he has chosen, the fact that most young men his age were wiped out at age 9 by the second wave of the Black Death, and just, in general, doing all of this while having the misfortune to live in England at the time.

And then when Dream comes up to him, like a complete weirdo, and challenges him on this, Hob is actually pretty nice to him! He gives him a side eye but he also goes along with the question, tells him to ignore his friend's jibes, and cheerfully accepts the wager! I cannot express to you how many turns in the road there are between what a normal person would do and what Hob Gadling does in that moment.

1489 - This one bugs me because the most unexpected thing Hob does is seemingly regress in maturity despite now being 100+ years old.

Now, I'm a huge fan of the theory that he's conning Dream right now and putting on the innocent chucklehead routine to put Dream off from kidnapping him to Faerie Land in exchange for his immortality. HOWEVER, since that's just a headcanon, let's take Hob as he is on the page!

Hob has a job. A Freaking Job. He used to be a bandit and a soldier, things that kind of make sense to do as an immortal (like The Old Guard) when you can't die! You could theoretically make BANK there just by taking dangerous jobs. But Hob doesn't?? He gets a normal-ass job, though in that day's equivalent of getting a job at Microsoft or Apple before they became big, Caxton is like one of the first modern startups in essence, a new technology that made TONS of money once it was imported, and Hob was on the ground floor. Still. HE GOT A JOB as an IMMORTAL. He doesn't seem to have this immortality thing figured out yet? And he doesn't ask Dream hardly any questions about it either! You'd think he'd be frothing at the mouth to better understand wtf happened to him, but once Dream clarifies that he's not the Devil and Hob's soul isn't in danger, that's it! No further questions, your honor! WHAT??

Also, just when you WOULD expect him to beg for death (that IS the genre savvy thing to do, Dream's not wrong!) he DOESN'T. He's more in awe than ever, he seems to be experiencing a second childhood over the fact. He's just vibing and living life. That's so, so unusual in this genre.

Hob also hasn't done any of the savvy things an immortal might do after 100 years! He doesn't actually seem all that angsty about why is he immortal, beyond a bit of fear he might need to pay the piper (Dream) now for this gift. Most vampires in an Anne Rice novel would have gone through about 20 stages of grief after they dealt with the first 100 years of everyone they know and love dying but Hob seems to not only be unbothered but actively gearing up for the next century. It's so bizarre. IT'S SO BIZARRE and I love it because I LOVE characters who DON'T do what you'd expect!

1589 - Hob has a family. HOB HAS A FAMILY. Who in their right MIND would start a family, knowing you'd have to bury your spouse and your children? HOB MOTHERFUCKING GADLING that's who! It's incomprehensible! He does it anyway! It's why I headcanon that he planned to support and nurture his family throughout time, like it was all very deliberate to found a dynasty, but it need not be! Knowing him, he just saw a pretty girl and married her! He didn't even CONSIDER his own wife and children getting angry and jealous with him for having immortality he can't share with them? He didn't even CONSIDER the heartbreak?? WHAT?! Who knows! He just did!

Now, this Hob HAS begun to do SOME of the things one would expect of an immortal - like build up generational wealth, BUT he has a KNIGHTHOOD. What immortal in their right MIND would draw that sort of attention to themselves?? HOB, THAT'S WHO. What are you ON, man, that's INSANE! No wonder he got drowned as a witch the man had ZERO CAUTION AT ALL.

1689 - the man is destitute. HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN IF YOU'RE AN IMMORTAL? This is AS puzzling as anything else. Theoretically, Hob could just take a dangerous job with a high fatality rate for quick cash and rebuild his fortune pretty quickly, but he DOESN'T. What went wrong? The possibilities are tantalizing and painfully human that maybe he did do that and failed anyway, or hit even WORSE strings of truly abysmal bad luck.

But somehow, at 300 YEARS OLD it's not until 1789 that we hear Hob has begun socking money away for a rainy day! How does it TAKE YOU that long, sir?? How is that NOT something you figure out in your first century? I've seen a lot of fan writers ascribe a certain amount of immortal savvy to Hob but it's REALLY not there on the page! The guy is NOT genre savvy about immortality AT ALL he doesn't do ANY of the things one would expect, it's absolutely WILD that he falls this low after 300 years after completely failing to, theoretically, CONSIDER this possibility! And then, AND THEN, the guy STILL wants to live. I mean, this one hardly needs saying, that's nuts after what he went through, it's on the page that he's NUTS for this. But the guy is literally in the gutter dreaming of the stars, he is unstoppable I love him so fucking much what a force of nature.

1789 - OK, we've already mentioned that it took until 1789 for Hob to start saving money for a rainy day but let's talk about the fact HE'S NOT ACTUALLY CAREFUL ABOUT BEING CAPTURED?? Again, least genre savvy immortal EVER. You can't die so you'd THINK that being captured or imprisoned or god forbid, thrown down a mine shaft would be the SCARIEST possible fates when you don't have death as an escape, but the guy doesn't even blink at the thought of getting captured by an occultist like Johanna Constantine, dude's totally unbothered! DREAM has to tell him after 400 YEARS that maybe he should be worried about this? THE GUY GOT DROWNED AS A WITCH, picked himself up, dusted himself off, got into some crimes against humanity, and MOVED ON apparently without learning a single goddamn lesson he hasn't had since 1389 which is how to kick ass and look good doing it BUT HE'S NOT EVEN A PROFESSIONAL FIGHTER AS A CAREER, he's just a gentleman of means!

He just... lives a normal human life and seems to expect weird things like being kidnapped by occultists to not happen so long as he stays within those boundaries and you know what? IT SEEMS TO HAVE WORKED! Because to be fair, how many of us outside the bounds of fiction would ever expect the wild stuff like kidnapping to really happen? It's statistically quite vanishingly rare! And that's been all Hob has needed, presumably, to not need to stress since the damn witch trials about his immortality! So yeah, I read fic where Hob is like this very savvy immortal but by 400 YEARS he's BARELY learned to have a savings account under a different name and he STILL doesn't seem too bothered by the possibility of getting hurt or captured! Like, AT ALL?! Absolutely class act right here, top lad, unbelievable, no notes. HOW do you SURVIVE like this as an anomaly, Hob?

1889 - By now, it SEEMS like Hob has bought a clue. He's pretty understated, he's made some amends, SEEMS to have resolved to be less of a shithead, and he's got this immortality thing figured out. It only took him 500 FUCKING YEARS. But again, Hob ISN'T fabulously wealthy as far as we can tell. He's not a megalomaniac and he STILL seems to be vibin' as just a dude doing Just A Dude things like HAVING A JOB and if we borrow from Hob's Leviathan a bit, he's STILL just jumping between industries, just living life down at the normal human level. He hasn't detached from humanity, he lives in the day to day on a level that's just INCONCEIVABLE for a being that's 500 years old.

1989 - Ok, moving on a bit from Hob being an immortal, because getting excited about technology like his brick phone is absolutely so charming I want to squish his cheeks, but he's hardly the only immortal to get excited about that. What I want to talk about is how HOB FORGIVES DREAM for 1889. Because, look, Dream is a prick there. Hob could have been more diplomatic but Dream could have waited for the apology and he didn't.

I have seen SO MANY TAKES where Hob would be MAD after 1889 and RIGHTFULLY SO. But he's NOT. He's not! There are so many fics where he has lingering hurt over it but that's just NOT what the character does! He blames himself! Guy did pretty much nothing wrong except maybe choose his words poorly, but he's blaming HIMSELF for making Dream uncomfortable. Absolute legend. Saints have nothing on this man, that is saint-like behavior. I'd be furious. Hob just misses his friend and BLAMES HIMSELF that Dream isn't there. Not an a single, microscopic trace of anger in sight.

2022 - And then, AND THEN, when he has EVERY REASON to flip out when Dream shows up, finally, after 133 YEARS, after Hob has APPARENTLY stuck around the area just in case, WAITING for him, what does this fucking legend say? "You're late."

THAT'S IT! He's not mad, he totally has a right to be! He doesn't jump out of his chair in shock, that would be a totally expected reaction to! He glances up! He acts like Dream is 5 minutes late instead of over a century WHAT IS THAT?? WHAT IS THAT?! HOW?!! They just settle back with a pint after that like it's nothing. That's not what I would do. I don't think that's what almost any human would do after a shock like that. I still can't wrap my head around it.

So anyway, Hob Gadling, absolutely FASCINATING character from the perspective of just not doing a single fucking thing you'd expect an immortal Just A Dude to do. Goddamn legend right there. Worth remembering for those like me who are obsessed enough to write this guy in fic. He is just so... opposite of everything you'd expect and that is so fucking sexy of him wow

#hob gadling #the sandman #sandman meta #dreamling

1K notes · View notes

leclsrc · 1 year

Text

stay, at least for breakfast ✴︎ cl16

genre: angst, just. angst, fluff

word count: 9.2k

You love once and miss always.

notes... internet translated ita/fre, non linear format so might b a tad confusing but thats it

auds here... this fic is a tad long sry. many thanks to mack who recommended the most painful songs to me that got me through writing the last couple of scenes. ik i said i wasn’t sure when i’d release this but here it is :)

You’re the only person Pierre knows in New York, so you’re the first one he calls. You suggest you meet just at your place, so you can smoke more freely, because so many people complain about the smell these days. You stall. You say the L train is broken. You say you’re tied up with work at the firm. But Pierre sees through you and eventually you meet anyway.

He looks the same, and just seeing him reminds you of so much. Shadows and outlines of memories long gone. You try to keep up the pretense of being okay, to remember that truly, your mind has been elsewhere lately—off everything, off the memories, on work, on cases. You try not to bring him up, even if it’s inevitable that he arises; you keep conversation to a polite minimum.

Pierre offers a cigarette, a Camel light. You’re a fourth’s way through the stick.

“He asks about you, sometimes.” And then just like that, your world has ceased to turn.

“Oh?” A beat. “What do you say?”

“Just the usual. You’re working on this and that case for the law firm… you went to Greece in the summer.”

You and Pierre are still close, but it’s difficult to forget why. You two are connected by Charles, by a friendship so sacred it warranted a dinner for a Pierre-exclusive introduction. You’d grown close then, and when the breakup happened, it became hard for Pierre to maintain close contact with both of you.

Selfishly, you wanted him to see how broken you were, so he could report it all back to Charles, etch every last detail of your pain. But Pierre is more mature than he’s given credit for.

“Okay.” You say blankly, unsure of how to bridge a less tense topic.

Perhaps sensing the apprehension, Pierre does it instead. “Do you remember when we bought shaving cream and made Charles look like Santa?”

It was in here in Manhattan, you recall, when Charles had dragged Pierre along with him to visit you over winter, when he’d been dating you for nearly two years at the time. Your flat was just above a bodega that had a comical amount of cheap cans of shaving cream that you and Pierre had found so absolutely silly, birthing a series of Charles-related pranks. After your grocery run, you’d returned to your place, where your boyfriend was fast asleep, mouth half open.

Shh. Quiet, you’d said, spurting shaving cream along his chin, his jaw, laughing silently.

Pierre had followed suit until finally, a beard of Nivea Men bounded down to Charles’ torso. You’d snapped a picture; the shutter sound had woken him up to a red-faced you and Pierre.

He was a good sport about it, kissed you with laughter, so you, too, had a beard of froth. Pierre took a Polaroid with a gifted camera of you on Charles’ lap, arms entwined around his neck, both of you bubbly with the cream, cheeks achy with smiles and laughter. You pretend to forget where it is, to forget that it’s tucked in a box you open once in a while.

“I miss him sometimes, you know.” The confession rips through you, exacerbated by the cigarette.

“I know.” Says Pierre, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You realize maybe it is.

I still have so much love for him, you wish to say. But where will I put it? Will I keep this inside of me forever? A great, monstrous, shameful thing it is, to love somebody who’s left. But here I am doing it, trying to fill a void that feels like a crater. Where do I put this love? Maybe I can give it to somebody else, somebody new—but I’d say it’s not the same.

You think you’ll always hold a torch to Charles, even when the fire burns through the wood, ash trickling onto your arm until it hurts. And even then, when the light’s gone, when the flame’s wounded you and licked deep into your heart and bones, like it has now, you’ll linger, still holding this torch, still yearning, still unwanting to let go. Still loving. How desperate, you think. How human.

You clear your tobacco-flavoured throat. “It’s em—it’s embarrassing,” you say instead, throat closing up midway, in a futile attempt to water down your intense emotions. They threaten to crawl up your throat, force secrets out of you with the ease of ripping a piece of paper in half.

“Is it?” He asks, open-ended. “N’est-il pas honorable d'être si aimant?”

“Pas si ce n’est pas réciproque.” You scoff.

But he’s relentless, persistent in his pursuit to prove a point. “No. Love isn’t embarrassing, or pathetic, when it’s one-sided. It means more that way, when it’s not reciprocated. It means you’re selfless. It means the love is real.” He turns toward you, and in a billow of smoke, asks, “Does it not?”

You stare, left speechless. All you muster is: “Va te faire foutre.”

—

You exit the room at eight-thirty with your toothbrush still foaming in your mouth. You stretch your arms over your head, combing a hand through your bedhead. Your eyes are half-shut, and already you smell it before you see it.

Pausing in your tracks, you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Charles?” You call out, still out of the kitchen’s view. You try to remember if he was in bed when you crawled out, but your mind was still cloudy then, and the desire to pee took precedence.

You turn toward the bedroom door. “Charles, come out here. I think something’s on fire in the kitchen. Babe!”

You speedwalk, concern taking over—you didn’t pay enough attention to fire drills in primary school, clearly. Once you peek into the kitchen, however, your concern is only exacerbated, but not nearly as much as the extreme confusion that begins to well up inside you. There, at your stove, is your boyfriend himself, clearly fully awake and conscious, and holding a frying pan in mid-air that’s billowing smoke.

Having heard your voice already, he feels your presence and turns slowly. His gaze blinks from the pan in his grip to your totally incredulous stare.

“I can…” He pauses. “I’ll try to explain.”

“Very smart save, babe,” you say, but it’s muffled by your toothbrush.

“You sound stupid,” he retorts.

You remove the toothbrush and try to speak as coherently as you can through the spearmint foam. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be giving me criticism right now.”

“Fair,” he says, flitting his gaze over to where he holds the frying pan in mid-air. “I will explain as soon as you rinse your mouth. I promise.” You narrow your eyes, wondering if maybe this is another tactic to get himself out of trouble, but you figure it makes sense. If you’re going to scold him, might as well not spray toothpaste everywhere.

You grab your phone on your way back, where the disarray has not subsided in the least. He’s wearing your kiss the chef apron, stained with grease and pancake batter, both vital ingredients to bacon and flapjacks, neither of which are to be seen anywhere.

“What’s going on, Charles?”

“I wanted to cook you a surprise breakfast. But I can’t get the stove right.”

“Tu es fou.” You laugh, inspecting the smoke-scented pan. “Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas simplement pris à emporter?”

“Je voulais être pensif!” He defends, pouting. “Sorry. I’ll clean up the mess.” He deposits a batch of dishes at the sink as you watch in amusement. Your boyfriend is usually a good cook, you’ll say—he makes a mean stack of pancakes, and anybody can cook bacon, really. You suppose this is all just one honest mistake, born from a desire to surprise you on this morning.

He’s scrubbing at the pan when you wrap your arms around him in a backhug. “Thank you anyway. You’re the sweetest, Charles.”

He turns, a bubble of dish soap on the tip of his nose and hums. “Does this get me boyfriend points?”

“Alright, Jesus, a hundred of them.” You smile fondly, meeting his lips in a soft kiss. He makes you toast as compensation, takes the time to cut the crusts off the bread and the pulp out of the orange juice and the big bits out of the jam. He does his best, perfecting the art of toast and breakfast and, by extension, making you happy.

—

“Un amaretto sour, une bouteille de rose et un dirty martini,” you order smilingly in smooth, sure French.

The waiter nods and after thanks are exchanged, he leaves your table alone. In your limited knowledge of Paris, you’ve chalked it up to a few things: many people will be rude, the serving sizes will be petite, and the men will be anything but trustworthy. You’ve tried them before and they all go the same way, slipping out of hotel rooms with disarming desolés, buttoning their polos as they go.

So here you are, characteristically silent, because your friend is flirting with a guy and you refuse to do the same.

“You speak French?” The guy across you asks curiously. He talks like he’s always smiling, eyes turning into half-crescents. He’s accented, but you’re unsure of the origin—it sounds French, in the same way it kind of doesn’t. You nod politely.

“Ah? Où est-ce que vous l'avez appris?”

“Université,” you respond. “J’ai etudie le langue français, mais… est trés difficil.” He laughs, nodding like you’ve said the funniest thing in the world. Half-crescents.

“I’m Charles. I grew up—I’m from Monaco, so I speak it. And Italian. Joris and I.” He elbows his friend, who your friend is flirting with. Oh, Monaco. So… not French.

“I’ve never been,” you say, letting yourself loosen up a bit more.

“It’s very small. You should go sometime.” An implication of something hangs in the air, like clouds over France. You smile, bashful, nodding along.

“I’ll make sure to.” The drinks arrive and flow through the night, laughter passed along the table like wine. At some point you and Charles get up to dance, but are quickly put to your chairs by the waiter—you mutter some slurred remark about how why play music if you can’t dance?!

But he is funny, and charming, and pretty. You find yourself staring at him in a very desperate, schoolgirl crush way, lip bitten and cheeks warm when he catches you.

Later that night, tipsy off the alcohol, Charles the Monegasque presses a kiss to your cheek and asks, shyly, if you’d like to come to his hotel. You tease him, just to see the half-crescents again, and then you’re in his car and in his room, top pulled off and bra unclasped, laughing drunkenly into his neck when the pleasure reaches its crux. And you hope he doesn’t ask you to leave the next day, drifting into sleep with his arm slung over your waist.

—

You like Charles’ voice in real life.

This is because it means you feel it more than hear it, a low thrum through his chest and into your ear. It lets you know he’s close by, which is the best kind of reassurance, because he never usually is. It doesn’t matter what he talks about—the day past or about to begin, racing, family—all you can really digest is the amount of love and care he puts into his words.

Most of the time you hear his voice through the layered, stuffy audio of your phone or your laptop, when they can’t quite catch up to his lips, when the Internet lag is just that awful. If you’re lucky, he sounds more like himself, but nothing compares to hearing it for real, the whispers and murmurs and roughness of it all. He’s here, and you’re home, content just to listen.

You’re in Monaco; it’s your fourth day here. You’re off school for two weeks before you dive into midterms, so you spend it in Europe, because you haven’t seen Charles in ages. Lately he’s been pixels, voice memos, bubbles of words. But now he’s Charles, real, tangible, yours.

Life has become easier when he’s around, a fact wholly owed to his presence. When he’s here, you feel at ease, like laughter is effortless and loving is natural. But there is a ticking timebomb you sleep on, and it’s your impending departure, your flight back to the city, your resuming of normal life. Of life without him.

“I’ll be in Geneva next week,” he tells you, voice throaty from having just woken up. They’re the first words out of his mouth after he hangs up the early morning phone with Andrea. It’s an invite, even if it’s phrased as a statement; he awaits your affirmation, should it come. He invites you to these things often, as a way to introduce you more into his world. The words rumble through him, slowly onto your fingertips that waltz silently across his bare chest. They skate while you formulate a response.

“Okay,” you say quietly, half-asleep still. “I have… a huge recitation coming up, so I don’t think I can make it. Criminal law.”

He tenses, and you feel it. But his words say something else. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I wish I could,” you say, as compensation. It’s what you’ve both grown used to lately, wishing. Wishes that, for all your trying, never seem to come true. I wish I could make it. I wish I could visit. I wish we could celebrate together. I wish I was there for the podium, or the grades release, or the job offer phone call. I wish, I wish, I wish, and not much of anything else. Just wishing. Wishing, wanting, never getting.

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “I wish you could, too.”

The dissonance between the voice that rumbles through him and into you—comforting—and the words that leave—a touch too sharp—strikes through you like electricity. “I’m sorry,” you say achingly, and the morning is silent as you both fall back into ignorant, blissful sleep.

—

“Aaaaand that pretty much evens us out to a solid 12-3.”

You finish tracking the score on your Notes app, closing your phone and facing your boyfriend’s pouting face of defeat.

As always, the loser packs up the chessboard first—the wooden pieces click noisily against each other as he folds up the game, to be won (by you, no doubt) another time. Between work and the general upkeep of a relationship that’s constantly long distance, you and Charles find it difficult to begin and maintain romantic traditions.

But there’s always the assurance of chess. To air out grievances, to pass the time, to play footsie under the table. You and Charles always play, keeping a seasonal tally of near-daily games—during flights, pre and post race, after sex, at brunches with family.

“You’ve been cheating,” he accuses jokingly, storing the chessboard and inviting you onto his lap.

You’re in Nice today, housesitting for a friend while Charles spends time off racing. He claims it’s sufficient practice for when you one day buy a place together; two, at that: one in New York and one in Monaco. The days have passed in chess games, pots of coffee, and slow dances in the kitchen while you wait for pasta to boil or rice to cook.

“You’re just jealous,” you tease, clambering atop him. Your arms loop around his neck, his around your waist. “Don’t worry. The tally will restart in September.”

“I’ll best you then.” Here, in this still moment of silence, where the sunlight from outside filters in just right and illuminates every detail of Charles’ face, you can almost feel your heart swell to an unimaginable size. You connect the moles and freckles with the tip of your pinky, traveling lower until it rests softly against his lips. He smiles, flexing against your touch.

“Sore loser,” you say, flirtatious, playing with his hair.

“I think I keep losing,” he starts, hands tightening around your frame, “because every time I see you, I forget how to do the most ordinary things.”

You bite back a smile. “Hey, don’t try to charm yourself into a win.”

“Can’t help it, the winner’s too pretty,” he teases back; your lack of retort leads you to press your face into his chest. He smells like he always smells, clean and woody and a bit like your own perfume, your pretty boy. You inhale, breathe him in and ground yourself. Here, miles away from Monaco, even farther from Manhattan, you are home.

—

“How do you tell people you broke up?”

“I say we wanted different things,” you reply, two puffs into your second Camel.

A white lie, a half-truth, a rehearsed answer after being asked the same repetitive question so many times. You and Charles broke up because at that point, nothing about you made sense. You were growing older, and with age came the stupefying realization that nonsense wasn’t always romantic. If it didn’t make sense, it never would. But you did want the same things, you suppose, at least to some extent.

You know you wanted marriage. After law school, it had to be, and in Europe, somewhere sunny and windy and flowery with a sea nearby. A small affair, family and friends. You know you wanted kids, two or three, a bunch of Charles lookalikes, tufts of light hair and bouts of crazy energy. You know you wanted a house—not a flat, a house, a brownstone in Manhattan, a big property in Monaco. You wanted so much of the same things.

Perhaps that is why Pierre will never understand the magnitude of the way you miss Charles. You dream of him when you’re awake, of the times you spent together that finished abruptly. You look for him in everyday objects. You keep the tissue paper conversations, you want to say, even if it’s so, so mortifying, so raw to admit it.

“But you didn’t,” says Pierre, because he knows it.

“We didn’t. But what other explanation is there?” Where a concrete summary of your breakup is supposed to be, there lies grey matter, webs of explanation spanning years and months and questions unanswered.

“I get it,” he replies. But he’s not you, or Charles, so he doesn’t.

—

Charles looks at you and imagines your smiling face in every moment of his future. Holding a child, under a veil, half-asleep in the morning, flushed and warm after a few beers.

You’re—you’re you, and he just loves you, in a way he will never be able to articulate. He drives for a living—he looks at all kinds of statistics, worded and encoded onto machines and computer screens. But this love isn’t quantifiable. Not in numbers, not in speed, not in words, stanzas of Italian. His love for you is indescribable; it exists in a wordless plane, massive and all-encompassing, carved and chiseled finely.

When you’re absent, the world seems duller, a bit more empty. But it’s okay, he thinks—you’re here now, across the room, in nothing but lingerie, your dress pooled at your feet. You’ve both just arrived from another social gathering, with so many people, and an afterparty arranged by Max.

You’d utilized your well-used secret signal for parties that directly translated to “let’s go home”—bringing up peanut butter meant you were well past exhausted and needed to leave. One “the dessert would’ve been so good with peanut butter” later and you’re here. Years of being together means you’ve both created a vocabulary all your own, lexicon and phonetics making up a language of love and familiarity. Nobody else will ever get this, he thinks. It’s just yours.

You’re removing your makeup in the mirror, and oh, well, you’re beautiful. He wonders what he has to do now to be able to find you in the next life, to be able to meet your eyes again for the first time and fall in love with you the way he did.

You’re what he looks for after a race, after a win, after a DNF. So he can, if just for a moment, let his guard down and allow himself to be yours, yours and only yours, collapse into your arms from ache and overwhelm and find reprieve there. With you, he lets himself go, lets the façade fall, lets himself stay in your touch before he deems himself ready to be with the rest of the world.

“Hey, you,” you call, and he blinks. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

“I just love you,” he says sleepily.

You tug on a nightshirt—his, from ages ago—and crawl into bed beside him, raising a teasing brow. “Sex is off the table.”

He laughs. “I wasn’t trying to get into your pants.”

“Good,” you half-yawn, yanking the lamplight closed and nestling yourself beside him. “I look horribly un-sexy.”

“The shirt’s kinda doing it for me.”

“Go to sleep.”

—

It’s raining today, for the first time in a dull stretch of weeks. The fall comes in angry, noisy sheets, made more furious by the wind. Wrapped in one of his hoodies, you clasp a mug in your hands, staring sullenly out the window, wondering when Charles will be home. Something has shifted in the weeks since you last saw each other, since you flew back out to New York and Charles didn’t finish in the last race.

Sometimes everything feels impossible to touch, like you don’t know what the next step is, let alone how to take it. There’s a certain uncertainty to where you stand, a possibility that, if the seconds tick just right, everything will crash down. This isn’t a feeling you’ve ever had before, but you suppose this is the only way to learn how to deal with it.

It’s comforting, then, when you hear the keys jingle at the door.

Your flat, as expensive as it is, has a quirk to it; the door only opens when you jerk it with your knee twice. You hear it, the double thump, and in almost childish excitement, you set your mug down and pad gently over to the foyer, so you’re ready for him when the door opens. Everytime you’re apart for this long, the routine is standard, and first thing you do is hug—so hard, so tight, your legs wrapped around his waist, his face in your neck.

“Hey,” Charles says, seeing you wait idly by the front door. You inch forward, but freeze. He heaves his luggage in, smiling softly, tiredly almost, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek and then disappears into the bedroom. The lump in your throat doesn’t go away when you slowly realize the hug you’d awaited, prepared for even, does not come.

You follow him instead, to the bedroom, where he’s still quiet, shirtless and picking out something from the drawers. He turns when he hears you. “Have you seen my grey hoodie?”

“Yeah, it’s in the wash.” You pause. “I used it last week, sorry.”

“I tol—it’s,” he says, inhaling, “it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, taken aback by how affected he is. “I can get it dried.”

“It’s okay.” He insists, a bit sharply, tugging on a different shirt instead.

The air is thick, threatening to break, and you’re hopeless, lost, left wondering—what the hell is going on. You try your best anyway, humming as you take a seat on the bed and fold the bits of laundry you’d abandoned in the morning.

“Pascale’s inviting us over tomorrow,” you open, finishing a pair of shorts and depositing them into the drawers. Your arms wrap around him, and he holds them there. This is good, you think. This is okay. “For brunch, because Arthur’s going to be home. I told her okay—since I’m back in New York by Tuesday and you’ll be in Italy then, too. We haven’t had brunch with your family in forever. God, they’re going to be asking questions about marriage, and engagement, and ki—”

“Stop.” The room goes still. “Why did you tell her okay?” He asks, disengaging the hug and turning toward you fully.

You’re like a deer in the headlights, confused, lost all over again.

“Charles?” You prod, gently. “Is… are you okay? I mean, we always greenlight brunch.”

You watch him pinch his nose bridge, exhale, close his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” You echo, stepping forward. He steps back, avoidant.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please, just… don’t.”

You’ve heard this often lately. In fact, no—you’ve maybe felt this more than heard it. This—this distance, this space, this push. Every call unanswered, every flight missed, every text answered with a brief, apathetic OK. You can’t quell the fear, the panic swelling in your chest, because you can feel him floating away, just out of grasp.

“Talk to me,” you say, because it’s the only thing that can bring itself to leave your mouth. It’s weak, it’s desperate, lacking composure and firmness. “Nous pouvons travailler à travers cela.”

“Non,” he says, as if he knows it already. “This, I—I just. I think I just need some space.”

Space.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll be in the living room.”

“No, I’ll go,” he insists, like he’s doing you a favor. I’ll save us the nasty fight, he seems to convey. I’ll go. So he does—grabs a coat and wrestles himself out of the door, with barely anything left to reassure you, just a short kiss and a hand on your hair. It’s performative, you know this, but you’ll take it. You don’t have much to accept these days.

The night passes, still and quiet, without the jingle of keys or the double thump at the door.

Even in memory and introspection you will come to find this moment and remain capable of recounting every thread of detail, ones as small as the eyes of needles, every prick of pain that pokes at you. Because even if you see him the day next, and even if he greets you with a kiss, and pulls you aside to apologize profusely, and even if you feel so loved in this very moment, with hugs from Pascale and jokes from Arthur and check-ins with Lorenzo, the fact has secured, burrowed itself into the dark crevice of your heart.

You will look back on this one day, and think, with the kind of certainty so crushingly absolute: yes, this is when it all went wrong.

—

“Is he seeing anybody?” Halfway through the third stick.

“No,” Pierre says, blowing smoke out into the air.

“Be honest.”

He snorts. “D’accord. An Italian girl, few months ago, but it’s over. It was quick. Very. And you?”

The information makes you weak in ways you refuse to share. “Just… testing things out with this guy.”

“Does he know about Charles?”

The silence is telling. “About Charles” is an awfully broad topic.

Charles was such a big part of who you are, and who you’ve been, and what you’ve been through. How would you even begin telling somebody about you both? The bits and pieces, the great figure eight, the tiny infinity. The moments within the moments, memories within memories. The love. The way you loved, the way you sought him, the way you have yet to replicate the feeling of loving him, the way you wait for the next life, so you can seek him all over again.

There is “does he know Charles,” and there is “does he know about Charles,” and the two are so cruelly separate and different. Anyone can know Charles; he is, after all, world-famous. You don’t know how he’s doing in motorsport these days, because a lot of the time the Google search for his name suggests ex girlfriend right beside it, and that’s enough to stun you into not searching again. But still he’s famous and renowned, so of course he’d be known. But for someone to know about him, what he meant to you—it feels like you’d be reciting a novel in an effort to explain how the both of you began, became, and ended. Reciting sonnets and stanzas of prose, of moments painfully intimate, of habits that have yet to die, of things you wished to be taught by him.

“So, no.” You nod softly.

—

The possibility of spending Christmas with either of your families grows thin as December begins. Between final exams and racing meetings, neither of you give, discussing over hours-long calls and coordinating calendars. You find that your only common free day is the seventh of January, which is effectively well past the holidays. You’ve sunk into a pile of misery at the very real chance of spending the holidays by yourself. It’s not a pretty idea, despite the fact that you’ve befriended loneliness lately.

Outside your window, Manhattan is caked in snow; it reminds you of Santa Claus Charles, with his foamy frizzy beard and kisses of froth and the Polaroid on the fridge. You wonder if Charles, wherever he is in Europe now—traveling multiple times a day—remembers you, too, in these little mundane things.

He’d called on the third of December, when it was three in the morning in New York. You picked up after two rings, busy studying, and mumbled a sleepy hello into the receiver.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, clearly excited over something.

“Bit early, honey.” You’d said back amusedly, highlighting phrases on the textbook.

“Just saying it now, because the next time you hear me say these words, it’ll be in New York.”

You didn’t register his words until you realized you’d tinted two entire paragraphs fluorescent yellow.

You blinked. “Wait, what’d you say?”

“I’m there by the twenty-fifth, evening. Found a sweet spot in my calendar thanks to Joris.”

“If you’re joking, Charles, I swear—”

“I’ll see you then,” he had said; even then you could hear his smile through the scratchy audio of international calls.

That’s what you’re doing here, over your stove cooking chicken to commemorate your first Christmas together. You stick a thermometer inside it, busying your mind with thoughts of dinner instead of the fact that you haven’t spoken to your supposed guest in over a week.

Like many fights lately, this began over something irrational and grew into a serious, temperamental discussion about your future.

About moving in together and how impossible it seemed. About raising kids or getting engaged. Everything was written on different pages for the two of you. Your plans were always years too early, years too late, never aligning. Bilingual paragraphs eventually devolved into exhausted intermittent texts, check-ins if it mattered, and barely any concrete discussion at all.

It’s mortifying to have to say the phrases “like many fights lately.” You wonder what it proves about the two of you, about the relationship you share. Has it gone sour? No, you tell yourself. But this yogurt dip will, if I don’t put it in the fridge. You wipe your hands off after you do, rechecking your phone; still no texts or calls or updates. He’d texted this morning, a brief and simple see you soon, but hadn’t responded to your text.

Chicken, mashed potatoes, candles ready to be lit. You fiddle with the pink Bic, lighting and unlighting, sighing.

You dial the airline eventually. They man both public and private flights, so they should know something about his jet. Something, anything—any tidbit of information is useful to you right now. You’re embarrassed, alone on Christmas in a dress you thought was beautiful hours ago but now only seems over the top and mocking. A woman picks up your call after it’s transferred thrice.

I just need to know the ETA of this flight, you say. Under Charles Leclerc. He gave me the flight code.

Silence. You hear the bustle of the airport on the other end and wonder if Charles is there in that bustle, in his puffer jacket he uses in the winter, holding a suitcase and waiting for the delayed plane. Or maybe he’s already here in your timezone, in a cab bumbling with excitement, or in the elevator, or right outside, fist posed in front of the door—

A snowstorm, she says, her voice tinny through the phone. The pity in her voice makes you want to smash the landline to pieces. So sorry. If you’d gotten your husband to book just two days earlier, you two would’ve been together. Why don’t you call him, sweetie?

She is right about the unsolicited booking advice, wrong about the title. Charles is not your husband. You hang up after mumbling something you can no longer remember, too exhausted to be rude or polite at this point, and turn to face your dining room. Your texts go unanswered, and in your earlier effort to save energy, the lack of heating has caused your phone screen to grow cold to the touch. The roast chicken is getting cold now, too, the mashed potatoes cool, the sourdough stale, the butter melted into ugly coagulated puddles, the wine sweating all over the table.

You eat two bites before depositing a clean plate at the sink. The flat smells of pine and citrus; it’s stronger because you’re by yourself, with no Charles to cloud the room with his own scent. Your phone remains silent, your heart drowning slowly in a cloud of imprecise sorrow. And you realize, remembering the airline officer’s words as you unplug the lights from the Christmas tree and let the moonlight swallow the room, that Charles is not your boyfriend, either.

He texts the morning next, says he’ll make it on the next flight, twenty-six. He doesn’t apologize and you unwrap presents alone, from friends, shipped from family. You wallow in your loneliness, humiliated by your need for him, a need that is met only on the seventh of January.

—

“Are you and Charles okay?”

Lorenzo is always the first to ask. He’s intuitive, and you think maybe it comes with age, but damn if it isn’t infuriating when he knows something is up before anyone else. You purse your lips, hope your laugh is a good enough substitute for an answer.

“Are you?” Obviously, it’s not.

“We’re… we’re just working through things.” You’ve had two glasses of bourbon, and your eyesight is blurring the way your words do. You’re in a big Manhattan ballroom, just several floors underneath your hotel room. Charles is somewhere socializing, because of course he is, and you can’t take your mind off school, because of course you can’t.

“But you’re good, right?” He sounds hopeful, like your answer is the only thing that can convince him. Does he think you aren’t? What has Charles been telling him? Your breathing quickens, grows frantic.

“Yeah.” It convinces nobody, not even yourself. He nods, smart enough to drop the subject, and you’re alone again. This is the umpteenth gala you’ve been to this week alone, all for something or other along racing. You grow used to the faces, the introductions, the gentle nos when asked if you two are engaged, because why would you be? It’s a farfetched idea, engagement.

The bathroom is half-full when you usher yourself inside in your gown, almost tripping with how fast you try to make it to the mirrors. There are two middle-aged women beside you lazily drawing lipstick onto their faces, their French accents thick as they converse.

“…So I decided to divorce him.”

You stare deep into the mirror. You look like a caricature of yourself, a puppet. Where is Charles? He overestimates your capability to be alone.

The other woman goes, “I can’t believe he didn’t see it coming.”

“I know! You’d think he would notice, no? Bah, men.”

“You’d felt it for a while then, too.”

“Tch, I really did. Just goes to show.”

Before you digest it, you’re turning and intrusively asking: “How did you know you wanted to divorce him?”

They exchange a look that’s as condescending as it is patronizing. Here you are, a naive twenty-something asking for relationship advice like you’re some know-it-all. You feel like a child suddenly, meek and curling in on yourself. Answer me, you want to say, tell me how it feels, tell me how you knew. You look petulant.

“Well,” she says, eyes meeting yours as she closes the tube of lipstick, “sometimes, dear, you just know.” It clicks closed.

“Yes,” says the other. “You just know. When you wake up one day and you feel it, that’s just it.”

Bullshit. Easy answer. You won’t know, you want to say.

No matter how stupid, how cliché, it sounds, you’ll never know this feeling. This feeling of nonchalance over a relationship lost, of laughter over unsuccessful love, of casually coloring the same lips that talk so abrasively of a lover. Because you have Charles, and Charles has you, and what else is there to know?

The rest are candles on a cake, kisses under a blanket, orange juice served over toast, arguments that end with compromise and a hug. The rest is love. These two know nothing about it. They know hurt and heartbreak and denial. They know nothing but this sad, sad feeling.

It must be sad to know, you think, even if the exact suffocating feeling crawls up your spine and wraps around your throat on the elevator ride back to the room.

—

This is boring

You scan over the scribbled phrase on the embossed, no doubt above asking price, tissue paper given at this (granted, boring) charity ball. Stifling a laugh, you fish a pen out of your purse, rereading the words and judging your outgoing response. In neater penmanship, you quickly write a message below it.

OK let’s end things.

He laughs when he reads it, eyes crinkling into half-crescents, mouth in a wide, silent smile. He mulls over a response and when you get it—

No goodbye sex? Quelle poisse. You giggle, rolling your eyes and squeezing his hand underneath the table, putting your little game on pause lest you get in trouble for not listening to the speaker onstage. This kind of lovely, comedic push and pull is what keeps you always entertained with Charles; he always, without fail, manages to make you laugh. Your easy, instant, but equally profound connection to one another constantly has you revisiting the idea of soulmates, of destiny.

Prior to meeting, your and Charles’ lives were barely entwined. You were a law student in America, Charles a racing driver based in Europe. A year ago, to the date, you’d been in Paris on vacation, when a friend invited you out to get drinks somewhere along the Seine. You had three case studies waiting on your laptop, but something tugged at you to accept the invite.

Had you not been up for drinks in Paris that night, for instance—you’d never have met. And the drinks wouldn’t have been suggested in the first place if Charles got home from a meeting early, expressing boredom over the phone to Joris, who relayed it to the girl he was currently flirting with, who relayed it to you. You would never have talked if you didn’t order cocktails in French, prompting him to ask where you learned the language.

And if you hadn’t, in a haze of rosé and amaretto sours, accepted the handsome guy’s invite back to his hotel—where would you be now? The series of little things make up where you are now.

“Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair.

But, then again, Charles has never felt like a stranger. You’re so sure that if you’d declined, or if Charles’ meeting ended on time, or if Joris was single, or if you ordered in meek English instead, you’d still be here, laughing over irrelevant tissue paper conversations, holding Charles’ hand under the table.

“Moi aussi,” you murmur. So sure.

—

God is the best scapegoat.

You first realize this when you’re ten and your favorite necklace snaps in half. You’d been running around, you moved too fast, it stuck on a branch, and became forever unfixable. You’d skipped on the usual nightly prayers as some sort of petulant, rebellious counterattack. You’re fifteen when you’re friendzoned, a first for you. You convince yourself it’s God playing tricks on you. You’re sixteen when you get an F for skipping class too often; you tweet God wtf is happening to me and you giddily watch it get thirteen likes. You’re not alone in this revolt, you think. You’re seventeen and a half when you lose your virginity; it sucks. You’re on top and you learn the art of faking. So you lay on your bed and bemoan Him for the misleading introduction to sex.

It becomes easy to blame God, moreso than usual, when the matter is one of life and death and danger. Being with Charles puts you in this position often. You curse God when something happens during a race that causes your heart to snag in itself and skip a beat or go five times faster. Inversely, it’s dreadfully difficult for you, innately unreligious, to pay thanks to God. Charles knows this, and is always the first to say “thank God” when a race goes well.

You throw around the phrase a few times, but it’s rare. Most, many, all times—it’s “oh, thank fuck” or “I’m so happy you’re safe.” It’s almost like you actively avoid the phrase, so whenever you say it, Charles is momentarily stunned; sometimes it’s after a particularly nasty circuit, or a rainy race day when you physically cannot withstand the stress of watching the love of your life drive fast under such bad conditions.

You have nothing to thank God for.

The hotel room is thin-walled and cold. Just last night you’d been tangled into each other for warmth, but now you’re throwing your suitcase onto the same bed and shoving laundry inside. No folding. No organizing. You make quick, messy work of it to avoid the conversation Charles so desperately tries to coerce out of both of you. The chessboard from last night’s game—5-7—lies abandoned, folded up at the foot of the bed. You ignore it.

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he says, lazy almost. He seems to say oh, fine. If you need me to say sorry I’ll say it, here.

“You don’t understand.” You say, cutting phrases short to avoid saying anything you’d rather harbor inside yourself.

“Then enlighten me,” he shoots back. “Please, really. Dis moi tout.” He sounds sarcastic.

“I don’t fit here,” you respond cuttingly. If he chooses to be sarcastic, you think—then be it. You’ll be blunt. You’ll exaggerate. You’ll be impulsive, if for once in your life, you have to be.

“Here, in your life.” You clutch a shirt to your chest. “We don’t make sense. We never did, and you know what? We never will. I honestly don’t know why we keep trying. It’s pointless to believe this could ever work. In between our careers, friends, and schedules, it takes more work for us to see each other for just a day than to push a fucking rock uphill. Ç’est inutile et tu le sais—tout ce travail pour rien.”

Your words sting, join the draft leaving through the crack in the window, turn into dew that stains the vines of the hotel exterior. The ones about to leave his mouth, though, stay put, cement themselves in the grooves of your brain. You’ll think of this exchange years from now, and the words will never blur, sore on your tender heart.

A pregnant silence follows your soliloquy, prompting you to look up and meet his eyes. He says it then. “Pourquoi se disputer pour rien? Let’s just end things.”

“Fine, let’s just end things.” You repeat. Struck, hurt, and angry, you say one last thing, in a valiant attempt to get the last word in. “Thank God.”

The seconds tick by like days, where you look at one another, thinking the same thing. So that’s it? When did it all turn to this? You push past him, bearing your suitcase and messily wiping your face of tears, pretending not to notice the hitch in his voice when he mumbles a quiet goodbye.

Your steps to the elevator tick by like hours, and you take the time to think of how you’d lived much of your relationship thinking that, with how strong your and Charles’ personalities are, a breakup would be messy. Loud. A yelled out fight, tears, thrown curses and hurtful names. You’d always thought, with much conviction, that you would end with a bang.

Many previous fights had gone something like that. There was Thanksgiving, where you ushered him out of your family home to avoid anything escalating into a yelling match. Bang.

There was post-race, where, in the throes of frustration, you two had a heated exchange and you left the paddock in tears. Bang.

There was nothing, however, that couldn’t be solved without a shag and a kiss and an apology. So, reasonably, you expected the final fight to be the loudest. The angriest. This relationship, you were so sure—this would end in a bang. Because you and Charles love the same way: strongly, with so much conviction and noise, and the line between love and spite is more frail than you think. A great big bang, where finally you collided in ways you’d never done before, every frustration, every complaint, thrown back and forth like comets, like war.

But you are wrong. It doesn’t.

It ends with you softly sighing, arms crossed over your torso to shield yourself from the ache in your chest, tears slipping then falling unstoppingly in the elevator. It ends with a night’s sleep taking up one side of the bed. It ends with Charles deceiving himself into thinking you didn’t just thank the Lord that your relationship has just crumbled to nothing in the bounds of this thin-walled, cold hotel room.

—

“Say something to me,” you say quietly, like you’re afraid to disturb the still morning silence of Paris. “In Italian.”

It’s a corny, cheesy request, no doubt inflamed by the butterflies in your stomach when you think about the night before and one romantic comedy too many. But you ask for it, anyway, your leg bumping his under the too-thin cotton blanket of his hotel. You found yourself here this morning after a night of sweet French alcohol and slurred, flirty conversation.

“Assomigli al resto della mia vita.” He says, smiling.

“Okay. What’s it mean?”

“I won’t translate it for you, because it’s a bit cliché.” He narrows his eyes.

“All of European language is cliché.” You laugh. “Come on, tell me.”

“I will one day,” he says, “I promise. I swear!”

The promise of “one day” is upsettingly romantic. Barely a day after you first met, first bonded, first kissed, first had sex. Okay, fine, you two hadn’t really gone the traditional route of dating, but here he is waxing poetic in Italian, finger tracing your bare arm. “One day,” you say, just so you’re sure.

“Yeah. One day.”

His hand finds yours, and fingers are laced together. Words wrestle themselves out of your throat nervously, a question that might seal the morning. “Should I go?”

The question rests in the air. How do you want your eggs, he wants to ask. Or would you want pancakes or waffles or bacon? Or bread, a croissant with coffee and compote? He wants to know all these things, hear all your answers, watch your eyes twinkle with amusement at the silly questions. So he’ll ask them, he figures. He’ll ask them if you don’t go.

“Stay,” he says. “At least for breakfast.”

—

Pierre leaves after a few more hours. He says Yuki texted him about some Mexican place they need to try. The night next, he is brought up in conversation: “Who were you with last night?”

“A friend,” you explain. “He’s an old friend, Henry.”

Henry Maxwell, the Wall Street guy you’re seeing, who’s inviting you to a charity ball a month into dating. To you, that’s basically a sign to end things, but you allow him to explain his invitation. Babe, don’t you think networking in New York is a gold mine for everything great these days? Don’t you think we need to network if we ever move in together?

“Henry, n—I mean. It’s just going to be another one of those stuffy city galas where everyone tries to out-wealthy one another,” you half-joke. In truth, the reason why you’re so adamant on not going is because this is just about the worst first date idea ever conceived—from experience, you’re sure you’ll have barely any time alone to get to know each other, whisked away to socialize with groups of other people.

“Oh, lighten up,” says Henry, with a sheepish smile. “You’re my plus one on the RSVP, so you can’t complain.”

“Am I?” You ask, chuckling. It’s a bit weird. But he’s excited, and asking, and convincing, so you tug a green silk dress out of your closet and take an Uber to the hotel address. Nevermind the fact that you’ve been here before.

You squeeze Henry’s hand when you walk into the massive ballroom, and not five minutes later you’re facing a crowd of people, drowning in taffeta skirts and wool suits and champagne and snooty small talk. Henry is charming, Henry is kind, Henry is a smooth talker.

He’s the ideal prototype of a guy you should be dating right now. His hand never leaves the small of your back, playing with the satin of your dress, laughing into your neck. You’ve faced several groups of business magnates and supermodels; right now, he’s introducing you to a big journalist for the Post.

She’s in the middle of talking about some hippie retreat to Thailand or somewhere or other when your eyes glide across the room, bored, searching for something to occupy you. To be frank, you really don’t care about ayahuasca.

The hands on the clock seem to halt just for you, just for now, suspending this moment in time like a mosquito in amber. Your eyes meet—and if you’d been less careful or maybe more tipsy, you might have mistaken his gaze for a stranger’s. But your heart demands hurt, demands the memories, demands the sick, sweet nostalgia threading through you like needle to cloth. Your heart demands you to remember, but the demand is so painfully easy to obey because you’ve never forgotten. All at once hate and love arise in you, like great big waves conflicting against one another, until you feel swollen with longing and spite, finding reprieve in the green of his eyes.

Timing, destiny, God. Whatever it is, it’s decided to play some silly joke, because here you are. In the precarious balance of a memory and a figment of your imagination, here you are. In the gap between never and always, here you are. You might appear to be strangers, stranded across opposite ends of this marble ballroom, but to both of you, the idea is almost unfathomable. No, not strangers; you two are anything but.

You are you, and he is Charles, here again in the place where it all ended.

He is never a stranger, and he could never be. He is Charles, your Charles, the beautiful boy who took up years of your life and explored every inch of your heart and mind. He is Charles, who broke your heart, he is Charles, whose heart you broke. But now, he is just Charles Leclerc, racing driver and charity gala attendee, conversing with the same crowds, mingling as he always does. Did. The usage of past tense is a painful pill to swallow.

Charles feels like it’s torture, suffering, a slow punishment, to be rooted to the ground and to do nothing but look. How can he look away now? He is rooted to the tiles, thick vines keeping him here, even if his heart tells him to go, run, now. He is stuck, tacked by the stillness of the memories that play back through his head, the love and the sorrow. You’re still you, hair a little shorter, brows a little darker, but you’re still you. The you he had once, held once, loved and lost once. The you he wishes to have, hold, and love once again.

For a moment, a fleeting, short, moment, he wishes to blink, to nod and to signal for you to meet him outside, on the balcony, so he can straighten his tie and press a polite hand to this person’s shoulder and say excuse me and leave, slip quietly into the night. So maybe you can tug on Henry’s suit jacket and say I’m sorry and join the crowd of gowns and satin and leave, run, go. Because you’re you. And what a sweet lie it would be if he said he wouldn’t do anything for you.

In the end you stay, and you stare, rooted still, time moving the way grass grows. When he smiles, you smile back, and the answers to what if are quietly fabricated in the limits of your imagination.

—

“I miss you. I know it’s—I know this is weird to say, after so long. After not talking for such a long time.”

“No, I understand. I miss you, too.”

“Right… well, how have you been?”

“Same old. You?”

“Yeah, same. How’s everything?”

“It’s… it’s okay. How’s life?”

“Tough, but great.”

“I noticed you were with someone.”

“Yeah, no. That’s—it’s sort of—I don’t see it going anywhere, really. It’s kind of over.”

“Oh? Is it?”

“Listen, I’m… sorry. For—just for everything. I’ve lived the past few years thinking about everything and still hoping I could someday apologize properly. I’m just glad I’ve been given the chance. And I think things ended without… without… I just don’t think we were mature enough. And sometimes now I think—it’s you, it’s still you.”

“Don’t apologize. Can you believe it happened right here?”

“I know. It’s almost crazy—”

“You left a bottle of scent at my place. It’s… it’s still half full. Sometimes I—nevermind. I mean, I think of you a lot. Probably too much for my own good. I think of us, our past, our relationship.”

“So do I.”

“—I love you. I try to stop it, I keep trying but I always end up here. Always here, back here, loving you.”

“If you didn’t see me tonight—would you have felt this way?”

“Oh, I feel… I feel it everyday. I think I’m always going to love you.”

“I’m always going to love you, too.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc angst #f1 x reader

1K notes · View notes

theguyinthemathexamples · 9 days

Text

Opportunity Awaits None

— sahsrau/sahsr fic based on my pookie aventurine for good luck (⁠＠⁠°⁠▽⁠°⁠＠⁠)⁠ᕗ ♡

— C/W : 2.1 trailblazer quest spoilers, sillies stealing the show first, ooc pookies, VERY self indulgent, new fic style?, slight aventio/raturine??, a lil angsty in some parts?? (tell me if i missed anything 💝)

Claiming oneself to be adored by an Aeon would be a bold, and otherwise egotistical way of getting attention. But with his friend even being heard mumbling to himself for being discarded as of late, not to mention the light whispers he's been hearing lately... the Doctor might not blame Aventurine for describing himself as going nuts.

While he was investigating things about that Emanator, and a few strings pulled later... he accidentally came across a lovely piece of information that she felt her own strings being pulled long before he made his grandest performance yet in Penacony.

It was taught, then loosened, and then forcefully yanked in a never ending cycle, she said. There were long periods of time that she began to wonder whether or not this feeling finally disappeared, only to be hit by another harsh pull. As of late, however, these harsh tugs haven't been felt after she finally remembered to pen a letter to the Astral Express's Conductor that both refused their offer to arrive at the Express, as well as making someone else bite the bullet.

As for who this was was insignificant to him— he'll find it out himself eventually. But the whispers? The tugging? The feeling of being watched? That letter? Aventurine knew all too well what these meant. The Aeon of Creation's manifestations in the mortal realm.

This wasn't all new news, though, as such a phenomenon had already happened to others before. But for him to hear them? That was certainly a surprise.

To be fair, he's heard them a bit before. The whispers arrived just a bit after he stepped foot in the Planet of Festivities, and he initially mistook them for crowds outside being too loud as they were more quiet back then.

Though, these whispers have been getting louder and louder the past few days. He's almost embarrassed to confess that this was worrying him. They varied from promises vowing to make him "come home" to them, to absolute hysterical laughter akin to the Aeon of Elation's ones. Who knows what that Aeon was thinking. Not him, surely.

And a few too many deep dives into rabbit holes led him to a reasonable conclusion of that Aeon taking an interest in him. ... By the Amber Lord, no, Veritas, he swears he's not succumbing to insanity.

Aventurine had asked the Doctor about this, knowing he had a good amount of experience with this sort of thing for a good while now. Unfortunately for him all of the answers he got were "You'll know in due time." and "Perhaps if you willingly offered yourself to the Aeon maybe those whispers would disappear faster than you bothering me about them."

Rarely does he get more cryptic responses like, "A reach too far shall become an embrace at a moments notice for you, gambler," Veritas mumbles beside him, getting up not too long after saying such without so much as another word. Not before giving him water when he complained about getting too overwhelmed by them and sought someone more familiar, one who bore experience and knowledge of such things firsthand.

Sometimes, Aventurine wondered if it was all some sort of joke that even the highest of the divine beings of this universe were playing on him, but some of the voices were almost quick to reassure him. Often he heard of music playing, words he seemed to partially understand ringing in his ears as he signed one document after the other.

Maybe he'll finally get the freedom he's yearned for so long if he devoted his whole being to THEM instead of the Amber Lord. ... Maybe he'll consider such an act of heresy at a later date.

Note : Try Not To Froth At The Mouth Looking At Aventurine Challenge (IMPOSSIBLE ‼️‼️) (I BROKE MY KNEE‼️‼️‼️)

On a lighter note, tho: my interpretation will unfortunately be published later in the month and im just speedrunning this for good luck on my pookie wookie patootie gookie nookie bear aventurine pulls 🫶

Am i sane for this man? Have i been delulu about him for the past few days?? Mmm,,,, who knows :3

#sparkling wheat ♪#silver lined strawberries ♪#spoiled milk °#aventurine honkai star rail #hsr aventurine #honkai sahsrau #sahsrau #sahsr #aventurine sahsrau #i cant believe i did this smh #welp it is what it is #i aint mad for my pookie wookie taking up 65% of my brain every day

75 notes · View notes

moxfirefly · 1 year

Note

We really don't see enough of protective Donnie and I would love to see him just snap a little if someone was bothering his S/O.

❝ i don’t like how they keep staring at me. ❞

❝ what did you just say to them, you little shit? ❞

❝ see, i woulda left it alone. but you made them fucking cry. so now you’re gonna lose your eyes. ❞

[ SHELTER ] for one muse to lean into the other’s side or hug them to seek comfort from a crowd or individual while in public.

[ RESCUE ] for one muse to intervene upon seeing a third party making the other one uncomfortable.

Man it was hard trying to stay within the limit but I hope I gave you good prompts to work with! Can't wait to see what you come up with 🐢💜

*vibrates excitedly* unhinge Don? Oh friend YOU HAVE NO IDEA.

Somebody said Vern is the perfect scapegoat but why not have a little fun and have it be Casey this time 😏

Rated Mature cause Don’s gonna smack a bitch if he’s pushed.

You and Casey had never seen eye to eye, mostly because he came off as an arrogant prick.

And on good days he was just arrogant.

But tonight?

Well.

It was no secret that you had a couple of thoughts on New York’s finest, aka the cops.

One too many times had you seen their ‘shoot first ask questions later’ mindset in action. You’d seen excessive force, you’d seen the racism and mysogony. You felt and knew deep inside that if the day game where the guys were expendable that they be thrown under the metaphorical bus.

It never sat right with you.

So Casey had made a comment about work tonight and you hadn’t kicked on your filter and had retorted back with a snide comment about crooked cops and their ways. It had quite easily crawled its way up beneath Casey’s skin, he’d made a face and he had proceeded to give you the stink eye for the rest of the night.

Once dinner was put away and everyone went about the night time routine, Casey had continued to eye you with a scalding glare. You could tell he was itching to say something, it was frothing above the surface.

Donatello was on dishes duty and had caught the tail end of your comment towards Mikey.

“-I don’t like how he keeps staring at me” You placed the last of the left overs in containers and passed them off to Mikey.

Donnie had casted a look over his shoulder at Casey, who seem to be venting to Raphael about tonight’s little debate.

You found your way next to Donnie, resting your head against his bicep. He could tell you were bothered, while it was a sore subject it didn’t necessarily give Casey the right to cast daggers at you all evening.

“Are you alright?” He asked, careful to not drip too much concern in his tone. He felt your shrug, a sigh blown against his pebbled flesh. “Maybe I was too mean? I should apologize” You spoke softly, there was remorse in your tone. While you were right you also knew Casey was an alley, a friend.

Just as you made your mind up to at least let Casey know you knew he was on the guys side, everything went down the shitter.

Donnie saw you walk over and before you could extend a let ‘bygones be bygones’ apology, Casey had simply snapped at you. It was harsh, it was simply fucking mean. You stood stock still, shocked and taken aback.

Donnie shut off the sink, the clatter of a plate hitting the metal of the sink the one sound in the room. The rest watched in shock at what had just happened.

Donnie’s heavy footfalls alerted you he was there. He got between you and Casey, one look at your watering eyes as you stared at his boots was all he needed. He felt something boil inside of him, the very notion that somebody could make you cry, it was enough for that little part buried inside of him. That little part of him capable of unfathomable violence.

“What did you say to them, you little shit?” Don’s voice made you look up shocked at what he had said. You’d never heard him speak like that, and clearly Casey was just as surprised.

“Come on Don she’s been riding my ass about being some crooked cop! I know-“

“I never said you were crooked, Casey I was-”

“You might as fucking well did!”

His tone made you flinch and the embarrassed frustrated tears threatened to spill. It felt like a spotlight had been shone down upon you. Brought you back to those moments a parental figure would judge you and berate you.

A large hand wrapped around the scruff of Casey’s shirt. Casey eyes found themselves met with a pair of ones much, much angrier than his own. “See I woulda left it alone…” Donnie pushed Casey against the dinning table just as Raph’s desperate ‘Donnie no no no no’ came tumbling out of him. “But you made her fucking cry, so now you’re gonna lose your eyes”Casey honest to goodness yelped and nearly prayed when Raph got between them. “Case, the gym. Now. Don, walk it off, go” Raph’s hand patted Donnie’s plastron.

Casey had forgotten briefly just how tall Donnie was, just how menacing he could appear at his full height with a hand wrapped around one designed with the strength to cause a lot of damage. Donnie’s eyes didn’t acknowledge Raph’s presence, he let them stay on Casey. The silent threat was enough, and with a not so gentle shove he released Casey from his grip. A few items on the table cluttered down along with Casey’s balance and dignity.

Casey’s trembling eyes found yours.

You looked away.

Raph led him away to the home gym. Space and a cool down was the remedy for now.

You looked at Donnie’s back, there was a tremble to his hands and tension to his arms. You took a tentative step, hands grabbing his forearm before you leaned against his arm much like you’d done by the sink. It was enough to quiet his thoughts, his shaking hands to still. He looked down at his side, at the top of your head and sighed.

His arm wrapped itself around you, securely.

This was a side he never wanted you to see.

#jealousy prompts #quiet-trash-witch #ask #tmnt donatello x reader #tmnt donnie x reader #donatello x reader #donnie x reader

917 notes · View notes

autisticempathydaemon · 1 year

Text

Hello! Are you hyperfixated on RedactedAudio?

Do you want (need) to know who to follow to cultivate your dashboard and feed your gremlin brain good, good boyfriend roleplay content?

Cool, I’ve got you, and I’ve got hyperlinks. Buckle up.

(Note: This is by no means a comprehensive, objective, or complete list. I've only been in the fandom for six months or so. I have biases and favorites and limited time. I hope to update this list periodically, and if you feel I've missed someone, please feel free to reblog with your additions! I just would have loved a guide like this when I got into the fandom back in August and wanted to spread some positivity~!)

Fanfiction:

@angelnoodlesoup: she/her

Sophie is just one of the sweetest David stans that's ever existed who writes, like, the sweetest things about him. Her posts are just going to make you feel warm, fluffy, soft things in your heart area; give into the sweetness. Highlights: Sophie writes this adorable timestamp series of vignettes exploring Davey and Angel's day, but I'm particularly attacked to their David/Angel neighbors to lovers AU~

@arrowfleur

I was actually going to put Max in the visual content portion of this post, because they post delightful Redacted edits on Tiktok (under the same username, highly recommend~), but then they made a uquiz that gave me an existential crisis, so here we are. Highlights: This quiz sent my whole server for a loop and has made me reconsider my relationship with Lovely as a character and kin; it's a great time.

@batch-of-pengwings: robin/bird, she/her

Robin, an absolute sweetheart who makes all the fun ask games that keep the community interconnected and thinking and talking which is just really sweet and fun in the best way. Highlights: The Winter Wonderland game is the one who went around most recently, and it’s so fun to engage with the fandom and discuss who we think is stupid enough to get their tongues stuck on a telephone poll~

@bicyclepainting: they/them

Clover, the fandom's resident Smartass, doing the lord's work and reminding us all how fucking smoochable Aaron is on a regular basis on top of being the coolest astrology nerd don't give them your birth chart you will be perceived /lh Highlights: No one is doing Aaron/Smartass like they are; like, read and absorb the delicious, domestic delight that is them. I also recommend their deep dives into the Redacted bois signs, if you're into that; they're very thorough and fun to read!

@cashandprizes: she/they

My Lexi, my queerplatonic soulmate… She is on a quest to dissect and critique fandom brick by philosophical brick, and I both love her and fear her in equal measure. (That’s a lie, I love her infinitely, more than anything, but she is in fact incredibly intelligent and intimidating.) Highlights: Come for the scathing insights into gray-morality and DD:DNE’s place in fiction, stay for the stripper!Gavin fic they’re working on and their sequel to Lasko’s SexTember audio because she really wanted to make him cry

@ejunkiet: she/her

EJ, the very first of my Redacted loves~ Not only is EJ an endless well of kindness and positivity, but she also writes fucking bomb ass everything. You get angst, you get smut, you get fluff- We stan a multitalented, ace queen. (She also writes really cute CastleAudios fanfiction and original stuff as a cherry on top.) Highlights: EJ writes just some of my favorite David/Angel smut; she captures Angel's little shit nature perfectly. She's also written the sweetest thing of Damien meeting Huxley's moms that I can't get enough of~

@dominimoonbeam: she/her

Domini, truly one of the pillars of the fandom. I don't know what'd we'd be without her fantastic fics or her original novellas or her fantastic, beautiful, rarepair-creating brain. Highlights: God, there's too many to choose from! There's the Sam/Darlin fake dating AU that has us all gripped by the proverbial balls. There's the David/Darlin tattoo shop AU that has me frothing at the mouth because tattoo artists are stinkin hot. That's not even getting into their Cam/William fic, because god, that is such a good rarepair. We love two immortals finding love with one another, we really do. My personal favorite has got to be their Huxley/Darlin piece though, because Darlin gets to be cute and awkward and so, so loved in it.

@frenchiefitzhere: she/her

Frenchie, the fandom's unofficial (but basically official) Marie Greer, not only a gorgeous writer but also the creator of the most fantastical and unique fansongs (who makes original audio content to boot~) Highlights: We would be nowhere as a fandom without the Marie/Colm greer backstory and saga or her audios as the Greer Matriarch herself, but personally? Her Imperium!Lasko/Adam fic kind of changed my life, I'm kind of obsessed with it.

@friendlyfaded: he/him

Miles, the king and professor of the rarepairs! Beware, you will leave his blog wishing for fics for a ship that doesn’t actually exist yet. It’s unavoidable when you read the careful, creative, thoughtful way he considers seemingly silly pairings and makes them gorgeous. Highlights: I recommend his whole rarepairs with prof tag for a snack and his Sweetheart/Lasko/Milo fic for a whole meal~

@gingerbreadmonsters: she/her

Ginger, literally one of the sweetest, friendliest people in the entire Internet. I cannot adequately describe the absolute magnificent poetry of Ginger's prose, so you just have to read it for yourself. You will not be disappointed. Highlights: Ginger's Milo/Sweetheart series is for if you're feeling sweet, and her Vincent/Lovely/Gavin/Freelancer foursome fic is if you're feeling spicy~ Or if you're like me and are longing for an character we'll never see again, you can read her gorgeous, Doctor Who-inspired look in Marcus's mind.

@glassbearclock: she/her

Beans, also known as the best Milo/Sweetheart writer in the game. Their banter is taken from the mouth of god and first name Erik last name Redacted himself, and you could not convince me otherwise. Highlights: I’m a big fan of her sweet, wholesome, Jewish!Milo sick fic, but aYO her Milo/Sweetheart first date fic is so good y’all like goddamn Sweetheart phases through their door and makes Milo faceplant it on accident man that shit is so good

@horrorscoupes: they/he

My beautiful, darling Lotus, my gloriously deranged brother in arms (affectionate). The way they write each and every d(a)emons is just so -chef kiss-. Highlights: I think about their Regulus/Doll fic, like, literally every day, it's just yummy and depraved. Though, for a true taste of genius, for a galaxy brain treat, you've got to read his Shark!Vega/Pet masterpiece.

@k9rage: he/xi

My beloved Calico, our helpful Image Description fairy. He is just so cool and writes the most glorious smut like the world has ever seen. As of publishing, he's writing a Vega/Lasko street racing AU that's gonna be just smoke ash cinder fire hot. Highlights: You need to read his Damien/Gavin waxplay fic; like, this changed my life, I think about it daily. Ooh, AND his Aaron/SmartAss/Gavin threesome fic, because he didn't do all that thinking and imagining for us to not appreciate it. I'm also reccing @calicostorms, his other blog and spotify, so you can get at his stellar Redacted character playlists!

@lovelylonerliterature:

Lovely, absolute stand-out writer in the fandom! Would you believe they have a whole (as of posting) 95 works for the RedactedASMR fandom on AO3? There’s <2000 fics, which makes Lovely a whole five percent of the fanfiction on their own. That’s wild and so hella cool. Highlights: Literally everything they write. Explore their extremely well done masterlist, it’s beautifully put together, and you’ll find something you love. (I’m particularly fond of the Darlin/Vega fic they wrote based off of one of FriendlyFaded’s posts~)

@romirola: she/her

Dr. Romi, the one and the only and one of the legitimate sweetest goddamn people that has ever existed. You've never met a more polite, darling person in all your days. How did she write all these thousands of words of art while getting a doctorate? God, I wish I knew... if only we could also be so beautiful and wonderful and accomplished. Highlights: You haven't existed until you've read her Milo/Sweetheart Tangled AU; like, what are you doing here? GO. (I also deeply recommend her found family Shaw Pack + Sam fic, if you're looking for something that's still ongoing!)

@sealriously-sealrious: they/them

Chrys who writes- no contest I think we can all agree- the best Huxley that this fandom has ever seen. He is just so well-explored and so multifaceted, just the top-tier himbo content we all need and deserve. Highlights: Huxley and Freelancer at the aquarium, Huxley and Freelancer going camping, sfw, nsfw, whatever you want, we've GOT. (There's even some imperium!Huxley, if you're so inclined >:))

@starlitangels: she/her

Starlit, another absolute powerhouse of the fandom. Just look at this masterlist, I think there’s something here for literally every character. That’s what babes call RANGE. Highlights: The way they explore the Shaw pack is so fun; I’d highly recommend her fic exploring Gabe and his backstory or her fic exploring the Shaw’s future pups~!

@taelonsamada: she/her

A pillar- or should I say fence post?- of the fandom and just an utter peach. Always has a nice word to say and says the best nice words about Sam and Darlin- Highlights: Her nsfw Geordi/Cutie fic holds a special place in my heart (the blindfold? the gag? Be still my beating heart), but you haven’t lived until you’ve read her Shaw-centric Ranch AU~!

@teasandcardigans: she/her

Mads, another lovely creator that could be in either section of this post- that's how talented she is! Not only is she a lovely writer but she also designs the most fun Redacted stickers! Also, she's got the only Redacted fan tiktok that Erik has confirmed seen and liked, can't not mention that it's so cool Highlights: Honestly, there's too many to mention! A really popular of hers is a "What If" echo-esque reimagining of everyone's stories which is so fun, and my personal, biased favorite is her Alexis & Gavin fic hear me OUT-

@the-sugar-crash

Cait, out here doing the most and the best. They’ve run the Redacted Winter Gift Exchange for the past two years, connecting blogs who might have never spoken to each other, inspiring creativity, and spreading holiday cheer~ Highlights: I recommend taking a look-see through the “Redacted 2022 Winter Gift Exchange” tag- much thanks to Cait for making it possible- to consider if you’d like to join next year! Until then, there’s a compilation of their cute headcanon posts to inspire you!

@zozo-01: she/her

Zo, one of the sweetest people in the fandom~ Not only is she a fantastic writer, but she is also one of the friendliest people in the space! Constantly excited and supportive and positive and a joy to follow and befriend. Highlights: Her Sam/Darlin Deity AU is going to change the world and break some hearts, I just know it. (Just like her Alexis and Darlin meeting fic broke mine-) If you're not up to getting your heart broken and just want a friend, I recommend asking her about her Powerpoint of Bollywood scenes that could be Sam/Darlin moments~!

Fanart:

@andr0leda: she/they

Androleda’s art is so gorgeous in that most of them are uncolored or working with a smaller palette, and it just makes those colors stand out and the line work all the more elegant. Highlights: Their wolf!Darlin piece got so popular, and you can see why! It looks like the cover of a really cool YA fantasy novel. Also, her Sam/Darlin art just melts the heart- the gentle hand, the key around the neck-!

@artbykays

Kays, a fantastic artist who plays around with the prettiest, brightest colors and has the prettiest (hottest) fem listeners. They also have super fun Redacted playlists! Highlights: Their Sweetheart, Valentina, is kind of smokin hot, I mean look at her, but also good lord, have you seen their Warden like lock me up anytime hello-

@belovedbow

Bow’s art just makes me so soft and gooey inside I dunno. Their art is so pretty, and they always have the most expressive faces. Not to mention the colors- like, Bow uses the simplest but most emotionally evocative shades of pinks and blues that make me inexplicably feel things, and I love it. Highlights: Literally all their Davey/Angel is the sweetest, but I also have this deep fondness for their imp!FL and Vindemiator pieces, because look at these deep, mournful blues, they’re beautiful!

@cascadiiing: they/them

Atlas creates the most beautiful, squishable, smoochable characters on top of being the most beautiful, squishable, smoochable (platonic) sweetie in existence~ they’re so sweet and friendly on top of being so talented at such a young age, and I would protect them with my life. Highlights: Their Sam kind of makes me so lovesick, I could barf- he’s just that pretty. Their Alexis/Christian art is fanart of my own fic, I’ll grant you, but it’s also so fucking pretty look at the dreamy colors and it MOVES-

@claracatlady

Where would we be without Clara, like honestly- What really stands out about their art is- other than the overwhelming talent- the obvious thought and joy that went into designing the outfits. Only the best from our resident fashion design student! Highlights: literally everything. If I must be specific, the David design pinned to their blog is utterly ahdhkakshdjsk, and I am particularly partial to their Alexis design, because I love my beautiful, possibly complex lady okay-

@fregget-frou : he/they

Mal has the prettiest Listeners; I’m lowkey in love with all of them~ I love the way he does such fluffy, voluminous hair, and I dunno, all their listener OC’s have this fashion model-esque glamour and posture about them that’s really attractive. Highlights: Of their listeners, Mal’s Angel has got to be my favorite. Look at this fluffy-haired cutie! Look at this menace! I would also propose to them, they’re gorgeous!

@gwenifred: she/her

Gwen draws the most gorgeous, swoon-worthy Huxleys and is just a big sweetpea to boot. Her and Pali sharing OC’s and art trades here and on Twitter is a testament to how friendly and sweet the fandom can be! Highlights: Everything she draws is gorgeous, but you haven’t lived until you’ve seen her animation work!

@ice-palace-art: They/It/He/Dae

Darby has some of the most beautiful designs, I can hardly stand it. He creates the most gorgeous, realistically proportioned characters and listeners, and they’re just really smoochable okay let me live- Highlights: It has this one piece of Gavin and Lasko having a sleepover that fills me with the warm fuzzies every time I see it, and their Aaron design fills me with longing I am hopelessly in love with their dad-bodded Aaron.

@itsdaifuku: she/her

Y’all don’t even know the little happy stim storm Fuku’s art sets me on; like, all her art is so cute and joyful and somehow colorful even when it’s in black and white? It just gives the vibe of life and vibrancy constantly? How does she do that? Highlights: Literally, everything she draws is gorgeous and sweet, though her designs for the Shaws and their mates are so S-tier and so cute. (I’m also particularly fond of her designs for Love and Alexis, my favorite characters, I’m biased, sue me)

@mr-laveau: he/they

Laveau, my favorite Milo kinnie~ (Yeah, I said it out loud; I’m callin you out.) Charming, thoughtful, friendly, much more talented than they have any right to be when they’re also so funny and sweet, AND also writing at their other blog @bratty-telepath. You’ve never seen such a double threat. Highlights: Literally, everything he makes. All his designs are colorful and gorgeous and filled to the brim with deliberate, intentional details (though I am incredibly partial to their Alexis and Darlin designs and the parallels he included between them.)

@nais-doodles

Nai is a fucking blessing unto this fandom, and we are not worthy. You haven’t really lived, haven’t experienced all the pure, positive silliness that this hellsite has to offer until you experience Nai’s Redacted Actor AU. It’s pure serotonin, and we’re all here listening to Boyfriend ASMR, I know we could use it. Highlights: Other than said AU posts (which really are so fuckin good), have you seen their drawing of Vincent and Sam’s Monarchal ball? Ooh, and if you go to their tiktok under the same username, you can see some of the really cool dating sim they’re working on!

@nanowatzophina: any pronouns

Na’no is not only a must follow on tumblr, but I also highly recommend their tiktok if you wish to wade through the horrid cesspool of that app (I say with tiktok as one of my top social media sites- we have a codependent relationship) Their art is super cute and expressive, and I get massive gender envy from the way he draws hair and teeth. Highlights: Her aspec Freelancer is just so close to my heart; I adore Avery so deeply. Also, the way they draw imperium!Vega and Pet makes my heart fucking melt and want to jump out my chest- the size difference, my god

@obsessivedino: they/them

Mint’s contribution to the fandom cannot possibly be overstated. Their art style is just so clean and neat and with the cutest expressions, and I love their designs so much, especially for the d(a)emon bois I just ahhhhh Highlights: If you’ve joined the official unofficial Redacted Discord server, you’ve seen their adorable stickers reminding you to kick that ass or hydrate unless you want to die-drate, and you haven’t truly embraced life unless you’ve seen their two-year anniversary masterpiece. Ooh, or pocket caelum!

@palilious: she/her

There is no Redacted fandom or fandom list without Pali, and we’ve all accepted that. Her style is so uniquely and instantaneously recognizable as hers, and everyone adores it, including but not limited to GBA, Nomad, and Cardlin! Highlights: Literally everyone she draws is so pretty, though I have a soft spot for her Vincent or her Nomad drawings if you’re looking for more VAs to listen to!

@pearl-kite: she/they

Kirehn has the most huggable humans and the most awe-inspiring d(a)emons. The way she draws the d(a)emons with constellations worked into the designs and color palettes is just so gorgeous and purposeful and thoughtful. Highlights: Their Vega is so frightening but beautiful, you just can’t look away from him. I’m also particularly in love with their Darlin!

@queendread

Do y’all ever do this thing when you see an ethereally beautiful person and you have no words, all you can do is giggle like a vapid schoolgirl(gn)? That’s me with all of Anna’s paintings: no words, just awe. Highlights: I don’t even really like Gavin, okay, he’s not my type, but lord above, Anna’s Gavin is something else. Their Sam also has those Captain America, boy next door good looks I imagined, it’s like they took him right out of my daydreams.

@ryokoaoi : they/them

Ryo has the absolute cutest, most adorable art style, one can barely handle it! Everything they draw is just so pretty and so colorful and detailed and sweet. (Except the sad things, those are less sweet but gosh they’re still so pretty.) They also have this Magic Swap AU that they design that is so fun to read about! Highlights: Their swapped! Gavin and Avior designs are so fun, I adore them deeply, and if you need something to cheer you up, you can always depend on their DAMN pieces that always include a little invisible Caelum to bring you joy~!

@slushrottweiler: she-they

There is nothing like seeing Slush’s signature blue linework on your dashboard, it’s such a sweet treat- or spicy. There are also very good, very spicy treats. Her blog is a magnificent roulette wheel of blue surprises. Highlights: I love their Sam/Darlin stuff, especially this one because wowee them shoulderblades, but their HuxDami BA piece takes the cake.

@spookybeandoodle

Spooky has my whole heart and wallet and my other heart if I had one I fell in love with their rich color palettes and shading and Alexis right away and had to commission them. Could not recommend enough, they were a treasure to work with~ Highlights: I’m not biased- okay yes I am but not now their Alexis is fuckin smoking hot but also their Cam might be my favorite Cam look at that smile-!

@sri-rachaa: she/her

Rae is such a treasure to this fandom, we hardly deserve her. Her art is so ethereally pretty and delicate? The way she draws hair and noses and silhouettes- her line work is just phenomenal. Everything she creates is just a delight to look at. Highlights: The Southern Siblings AU is a gift, a treasure, a boon that cannot be ignored. I’m also a big fan of her Lovely OC who is ridiculously pretty~

@tankwolf : she/her

June has been posting fanart for only two months, but I’m already absolutely obsessed. I just find her monochrome character portraits so visually engaging and interesting. I would love so badly to be friends with her listener OC’s… Highlights: …or more than friends, because her Sweetheart is something else good lord. I would just love it if June could stop putting the hot people in crop tops please (but also don’t cause whoa)

@terrazaurio

All the fanart Terra creates is so bright and vivid and colorful and expressive, they’re really such a treat to see and experience. I’m a sucker for the colors they use, cause it makes my lizard brain all happy and go “shiny pretty happy.” Highlights: Everything they draw with the Shaw Pack is pure dopamine, like this one of the bois and their mates hanging by the pool. I am particularly attached to this piece from Milo’s HBS, because they’re so fucking in love, your honor, I love them.

@thefablefoxart : she/her

Angelina’s Redacted couple series is one of the truest delights of the fandom; like, they’re so colorful and cute and just adorably designed. I’m also deeply in love with the way she does hair. Everyone just has really fucking good looking hair, and I can’t get over it-Highlights: On top of the aforementioned couple series, I just want to bring attention to this adorable chibi Sam that she drew- it brings me so much serotonin- and their Darlin, Kai who I wish would just give me a shot okay I have a Southern accent too-

If you’re reading all the way here, I hope you found the post helpful and smiled while making your way through it! Or both! The RedactedAudio fandom is truly one of my favorite spaces on the internet; it’s so intimate and creative, and I’ve found some amazing, perfect friends here, so I hope you will too 💖

again playing around with the formatting please stop hurting me tumblr I’m trying to be nice

If you can see this, I love you, and you’re watching me try to format this post so tumblr doesn’t cut off the bottom of it please ignore the Android behind the emerald curtain go about your day

#redactedasmr #redactedverse #redacted asmr #redactedaudio #redacted audio #redacted

831 notes · View notes

merakiui · 1 year

Note

I stumbled upon your Ruggie fic where he accidentally knocked up MC and I was like "oh my god that's a banger." Then I scrolled to your tags and I short-circuited.

AS A RIDDLE STAN??? YOU'RE SO BIG BRAINED??? LIKE ok yeah with him being the perfect kid and all and his mom I always wondered (a perfectly healthy and normal amount) what would happen if he got MC pregnant?

That Ruggie fic was so real!! So well done!! If you don't mind, could you elaborate what you think would happen with Riddle? You don't have to write a whole fic or anything! Just briefly share your thoughts with the class (me) if you would be so kind please!! 🤓

Frothing at the mouth,

Riddlelover69

Hello, Riddlelover69!!! Allow me to share the thoughts. >:D

(cw: brief nsfw, female reader, accidental pregnancy, mentions of alcohol/intoxication, riddle's mother, fwb dynamic, mentions of abortion)

Riddle is floored when you break the news to him. He's in so much disbelief even after you've provided him with physical evidence (the pregnancy test). He insists you take another one just to be sure because he's so certain that you can't possibly be pregnant. He has always been so careful and responsible when the two of you were intimate; he made sure to wear protection each time and he never did anything reckless. But then the second test comes back positive and he's absolutely stunned. Where did he go wrong? How did this happen? He's never been careless. This must be a mistake!

Riddle lives in denial for three days before it occurs to him. Weeks prior to this discovery, the both of you were attending a stargazing party Cater had thrown in the Heartslabyul rose maze. He'd practically begged Riddle to let him host it. Apparently it was going to be "super cammable" and a "perfect opportunity for lots of stupid fun." Riddle should have known his angle when he slipped vodka into the fruit punch Trey made, and he should have realized the wine Cater had been discreetly serving everyone. "Stupid fun" must have meant stupid drunk. Where he even got the alcohol from was beyond Riddle. He had intended to scold him; he was ready to sever his head for breaking so many rules. But then you were passing a glass into his hand and he knew it would be wrong and inappropriate for him to drink when he was meant to be the upstanding, always obedient Housewarden.

You were smiling, nudging him playfully, saying something teasing. The two of you are close friends (fuck buddies, according to Cater), not lovers, and Riddle really shouldn't have entertained your blatant rule-breaking. But lately he's wanted to impress you; he wanted to show you that he can be cool—that he's not always so stiff and formal and boring. Great Seven, he nearly died from the shame when you had jokingly said that to him. He doesn't want to be boring. He wants to be fun and not so awkward all the time. He wants to branch out and have a lot of friends. He wants to be effortlessly relaxed like you.

He's not, but with the music swelling in time with his heart and your own melodious laughter in his ears he could delude himself into thinking so. And foolishly Riddle broke his own moral compass, NRC's rules, Heartslabyul's rules, and even the unspoken rules put in place by his mother. And for one night you thought he was cool and so did he. And for one night he was not boring. For one night he could kiss you silly without worrying about perfecting the technique or the placement of his hands on your hips or what to do about his reputation should anyone find out (not that it mattered to you, but it meant the world to him).

One night, under an inky canvas of stars (they looked more like chips of glass to Riddle, but then his mind was foggy and his senses were all tangled and he was so obviously intoxicated, but that didn't matter; ironically enough, he was having fun breaking rules with you), he did away with formality and fucked you raw in a shadowed corner of the rose maze, far enough from any prying eyes but close enough where you could still hear the music, feel the thrum of it between the both of you.

And now, weeks later, the result of such a reckless night rears its ugly head. And oh is it ugly. He's not sure what he should do. For once in his perfect, well-tailored life, he is completely lost. He tries not to panic—tries to act like everything's normal, but he has never been a particularly convincing actor and it doesn't take long for those close to him to suspect he's stressed. How you can be so calm about all of this is beyond him. You're pregnant! Aren't you worried what everyone will say and think? Aren't you even a little concerned for your future? His schedules are already complicated and cramped enough. Fitting a child in there is impossible!

And beyond all of that, past NRC's gates and all the way in the Queendom of Roses, his mother waits. He absolutely can't tell her. It's one thing to devote oneself to a no-strings-attached relationship (she would definitely disapprove of you); it's another to impregnate said friend with benefits, especially when he isn't even finished with school yet or married. He's meant to be perfect (he's not; no one is), but how can he look and be perfect if this is hanging over his head like a guillotine's blade?

His mother will definitely disown him. He can already hear her shrill screams. She'd probably say something like, "If you have the time to fool around, then you can spend that time acting like one." She wouldn't offer any support or comfort. It would just be harsh and cruel scoldings. She wouldn't acknowledge him or you. It would be so easy for her to snip him out of her life as if he was nothing more than a paper person on a chain of paper people, entirely useless and flimsy in her eyes. A failure—that's what he would be. She couldn't boast about him to friends and coworkers. Not after this.

You have to get rid of it. He tells you this a week later when the both of you are cooped up in his room to discuss the issue at hand. Riddle has never truly argued with you, but the both of you are going back and forth over what to do with the baby and his temper is rising. For some reason you want to keep it. He's so stressed and panicked and livid. No, you're not keeping it! He tells you to stop calling the baby a "them" because it's an "it" and that's all it will ever be. You look genuinely hurt when he says that, and his chest is heaving wildly as he catches his breath, throat raw from yelling.

He...went too far. He shouldn't have said that, and even when he sees the tears in your eyes he knows right away that he's doing everything completely wrong. And you admit in a hushed, broken voice that you're scared, too. That you feel so horrible for being reckless. That you know this isn't ideal. And it occurs to Riddle then that you have never been the calm and collected person he's often admired. You are just as frenzied as him.

He exhales a slow, exhausted breath, allowing his shoulders to deflate. He apologizes for raising his voice, for saying those terrible things, for panicking. He can give you time. It's your body; you're the one carrying the baby. Naturally he thinks it should be your choice, even if he's adamant that you get rid of the baby, but Riddle hates to see you so distraught. Arguably, he hates that more than he hates this situation. And he likes you. It's always lingered in a crevice of his mind, a romantic attraction that was getting harder to snuff the longer he stayed with you, the more he got to know you, the more he allowed himself to open up to you.

He walks you back to Ramshackle Dorm. It's the polite thing to do, and the both of you are silent during the walk. He bids you a stiff, boring, hollow farewell. It's more than fleeting admiration, Riddle muses as he turns on his heel and begins the trek back to the Hall of Mirrors. But regrettably he finds himself shying away from you in the following weeks, too frightened to touch you. He can't. He doesn't want to, and he thinks it's because this mistake is too life-altering for him to confront.

He broaches the subject to Trey some time later with a vague, yet extremely convoluted hypothetical: "If you did something wrong and another person was affected by it and the both of you were left with a difficult decision, would you let the other person make the final choice?" Trey considers it, always so level-headed and logical. He asks what this difficult decision entails. Riddle chews his lip, peers into his teacup, and mutters something about life and death and embryos and the science behind reproduction and how long it takes for something to be considered human—to be considered conscious and alive—and what one should do when contemplating such a thing and...he's rambling.

Trey gives him that look—that hardened stare that pierces his soul and seems to know of every secret he's kept buried (Cater calls it the "dad stare"—whatever that means). He knows. Riddle is a poor liar. Trey doesn't say it, but when he asks, "Who?" Riddle knows what the question means. He wrings his hands under the table, clasping and unclasping them. They're shaking; he's on the verge of tears. He whispers your name.

Trey lets the admission settle like sediment on the sea floor. He nods, hums, stirs the batter for the cake he's currently baking, and then hums some more. "I can't give you an answer," he eventually says, offering a sympathetic frown. "Sorry." He tries to say more, but nothing comes out and instead he returns to whisking, allowing the silence to console Riddle instead. It doesn't work as intended.

Riddle holds his head in his hands, elbows propped on the marble surface of the island. In the Heartslabyul kitchen, where everything smells so sugary sweet, he cries. He's never felt more lost.

Riddle can't avoid you forever. That same day he approaches you and tells you that if you're so determined to keep the baby you will have to convince him. Whether that's by powerpoint or bribery (at this point he's desperate to adopt your views, so please, by all means, bribe him with sweets and let him drown in sugar so that he can ignore the looming threat of his mother back home), he's willing to hear you out. It's only fair, and if the two of you can reach a decision (preferably as soon as possible) he can start planning ahead. You're not sure how you should go about convincing him, so in the meantime Riddle resolves to read up on pregnancy, if only to further educate himself.

He scours the library for information and finds Lilia who is, arguably, as ancient as some of these textbooks and might be a reliable source of information. Riddle doesn't intend to tell him anything, but when Lilia offers to aid him in what he notes looks like a "very important search" Riddle submits.

It doesn't take Lilia long to put a few clues together when Riddle tells him he's looking for books about child care and pregnancy. It also doesn't take him long to theorize who might be carrying a child. For some reason Riddle feels ashamed as he quietly admits the truth, thus confirming all of Lilia's suspicions. Somehow telling Lilia this feels like telling a parent or an adult or some authority figure; he expects a scolding. Instead Lilia smiles warmly and tells Riddle that children are like miracles: sometimes you can plan for them and other times you cannot, but what's most miraculous is the bond forged between those who raise a child. They are tough work and you might encounter many troubles and doubts along the way. But if you can look for happiness in miraculous, magical mistakes, you will find love. Riddle stares at him, dumbfounded. Is Lilia really just a third year?

The first time you try to convince him is with a poorly assembled slideshow displaying the benefits of keeping the child. "Think of the cute clothes we can get!" you say, to which Riddle responds with, "Think of the expenses, (Name)." You are not one to give up, puffing your cheeks out at him. He rolls his eyes, but he sits up straight and continues to listen, watching as you click through images of firsts. First loose tooth. First day of school. First drawing. First handprint and footprint. First word. First laugh. The list is endless, apparently, and so is Riddle's sanity as he endures it. But he's smiling as he watches your wild gesticulations.

The second time you try to convince him is just as bad, if not worse, than the first time. "Riddle me this, Riddle," you say while he's in the middle of studying. He does not want to riddle you anything, but he listens anyway. He always does. "You plus me equals..."

"That is not a riddle. That's an equation," he corrects, not yet taking his eyes off the page. "And it equals trouble. Nothing good."

You're silent for too long, so finally he turns to look at you. Your eyes are glued to your phone. Riddle furrows his brow. Did he say something wrong? Was he too mean?

"All right, I got it! Riddle me this. One plus one equals three."

"Again, another equation."

"Not true! This article says it's a pregnancy riddle, not an equation."

"Did you...look up riddles?"

"Pregnancy riddles, yes. They're not really good."

Riddle scrubs at his face, suddenly weary. "Three is too big a number."

"Maybe for you, but not for me."

There should only be two, he thinks. You and me. But even that is a troublesome combination.

The third time you try to convince him is with a box of mini tarts, all in various flavors. He peers at them and then at you. You're rocking back and forth on your heels, eagerly awaiting his reaction. When he doesn't immediately give one, you groan and sink into the chair beside him. "Can I please keep the baby?"

Riddle snorts through a laugh and then clears his throat, neutralizes his amused expression, and says, "Resorting to begging already? And you were so confident last week."

You huff and slouch in your seat. He intends to correct you, but then you're stuffing a tart in his mouth. "I would look cute pregnant, wouldn't I?" you ask, batting your eyelashes and catching him so off guard he chokes on his bite of tart. Riddle sputters, his face the color of roses, and stands from his chair, promptly excusing himself.

You are a nuisance, but he agrees. You would look very cute.

The fourth time you try to convince him is with the help of Trey. "Trey can make the sweets for the baby shower," you say. Your grip on Trey's forearm suggests he is not a willing participant in...whatever this is, but it has Riddle quirking a fond smile.

He folds his arms across his chest and glances between you and Trey, his next words addressing the latter. "You would do that?"

Trey grins boyishly and responds with, "If I had to."

You tut at him. "Trey, we rehearsed this. You're supposed to say, 'I'll make a strawberry tart so big it'll need to sit on two tables.'"

Riddle's laughter surprises both you and Trey, and as he wipes an invisible tear from his eye, he says with a playful smirk, "I'll hold you to it when the time comes, Trey."

As he makes his graceful departure, he hears your disbelieving exclamation: "Do you think it worked?!"

The fifth time you try to convince Riddle is in the bedroom. You're lying on your side, peering at him with a silly, sex-drunk smile. "What if we got married?"

"We have to," he mumbles absentmindedly, his mind replaying the past few minutes in a loop. He wonders if he was too rough. He doesn't want to hurt the baby... What is he thinking? There's still time to get rid of it. It doesn't matter if he was rough (it does; he's worrying).

"Really?" Your eyes are blown wide. "You'd actually marry me?"

Riddle gazes at you, collecting context clues to comprehend your angle. "I should be asking you that question."

"Why? I would marry you, not your mother."

"You might as well be, though," he mutters bitterly, glaring at the canopy that envelops his bed. "I'm aware she is not an ideal in-law."

"Then we'll run away. You, me, and Baby Riddle."

"That is a horrible name." He peers at you, his features softening. "We're not calling the baby Baby Riddle."

"Why not? It's cute."

"Hardly." His gaze travels to your stomach. Soon you'll show and when you're round enough it'll be impossible to hide this secret. "Well... Humor me. Where would we go if we ran away?"

"Anywhere you'd like." He opens his mouth to stop your wild imagination, but you beat him to it. "'Think of the expenses, (Name)!' Just hear me out. Anywhere could mean anywhere, but it could also mean nowhere. And maybe nowhere is our anywhere."

Riddle chuckles. "You sound just like Che'nya."

"Do you think he knows?"

"Possibly."

"Really?"

"He's anywhere and nowhere."

"Cheeky..." You shuffle closer to him, pressing your forehead against his. "So cheeky."

Riddle wants to say it. He wants to empty his heart right here, right now. He loves you and, though it took some time to warm up to the idea, he wants to start a family with you. He wants to be more than friends. He wants to marry you and experience all of your child's firsts alongside you. It doesn't matter if his mother disapproves because this is arguably the best mistake he's made in a while. A miraculous, magical mistake.

Before you can swallow the words in a kiss, he blurts them hastily. "I... I love you." But there's more, and perhaps he's confined himself in a misleading dream when reality and encroaching worries melt away. But he needs to tell you. "And I... I really want to be a father. A-And I want you to be a mother! I don't care about what others will say anymore. Admittedly, it was...fun to misbehave with you that night. It certainly wasn't responsible, but I enjoyed it. Far more than I should have." That last part is murmured, but you catch it. Riddle finds your hands under the covers and squeezes them. "You've convinced me. I'd like to start a family with you."

You smile and then tears are spilling and then you're smiling again. He knows he's crying because his eyes are wet and glassy, and for a while the two of you cling to each other, sobbing about everything and nothing, laughing through blubbery cries.

And Riddle realizes three isn't a big number. Rather, it's a pleasant number. Not perfect because nothing truly is, but it's more than enough for him. And that's really all that matters right now.

#twisted chit chat #tw: pregnancy

463 notes · View notes

sashi-ya · 2 years

Text

𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 ♡ ᴅᴀʏ 1 ➡ ᴄᴜᴍᴘᴅᴜᴍᴘ 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 . nsfw . minors dni. 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐙𝐨𝐫𝐨 𝐱 𝐟! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: @sukunas-number1whore 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍: 𝙲𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝟷 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚣𝚘𝚛𝚘 𝚡 𝚏𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝐓𝐰: 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚎, 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚎𝚡 𝐰𝐜: 765

Zoro’s calloused hands are placed on each side of your hips, he has bent you over the kitchen's counter. It’s been almost two weeks since he saw you; he has just arrived from a Kendo tournament on the other side of the country. Your muscular lover is needy, horny, he has been craving from your sex since he landed at the airport.

Your pants, now ripped as he isn’t able to stop himself, rest over the ground tied around your ankles. Your palms and right cheek, pressed against the cold marble countertop. Your legs being spread wide open with his knees, while he lowers his zipper.

“I know we talked about foreplay but let me just… fuck you now” he grunts, as he blindly guides his dick into your already wet sex. His weight is crushing, and his typical scent invades your nostrils when he bends right over your back. Zoro licks the lobe of your ear; he bites it too and grunts while his shaft pushes its own way inside you.

You whimper, sexily, as you feel him stretching you out so delightfully. Your walls milk the throbbing dick of your personal samurai that begins to move in and out. He goes slower at first, but hard, so increasingly rough as seconds pass by.

The sound of his thighs slapping your ass cheeks mix with your pleading moaning and his demonic grunts, a beast so ready to wreck you with merciless hip thrusts. Zoro improves his grip by squeezing your breasts, sometimes even pinching your nipples. You are frothing over the counter, as you keep whining his name and your breathing becomes haste.

It’s not enough, though, he wants you screaming louder. Zoro licks his fingers, making them really wet. Wetness he discovers isn’t really needed when as he keeps fucking you, takes his hand to your clit. Circles, in perfect motions that accompany his hammering torture, make your eyes white, your nails to carve the cold stone underneath you.

“More… more, more” you beg. And more is what the man fucking you is gonna give you, beautiful representation of male creation, his caramel skin and roughness sends you to heaven. The drops of sweat that run from his temples to his sharp jawline, fall over your back. Summer nights are so hot, as hot as hell, as hot as the demonic aura of Roronoa Zoro.

And certainly, your body isn’t able to resist much longer, and every nervous terminal crisp as orgasm takes over. You squirm under him, whining how much you are coming.

“Are you done? You are not moving until you are full and bursting with my seed… I want you to drip my cum all over the kitchen, my little cum dump” he growls while he keeps fucking you despite of your trembling limbs and overstimulated entrance.

“Y-yes, my love” you stutter, holding on for dear life to the last bits of energy left in your body.

“Good girl, you have no idea how much I have inside… so many days apart have been difficult” he moans in between pants, as he pulls from your hair to lift you up. Your legs, which aren’t really responding any longer, only depend on Zoro’s hands around your waist to keep you standing up. Your lover is using you like a doll to only satisfy his release needs.

“Will you be my cum dump? Huh? That’s what your hole is made for, right? To be fucked and filled by me” he whispers, when you begin to feel the way his dick gets harder, you can even feel the throbbing sensations, the pulsating blood pumping against your walls.

“Yes, yes… Fill me up with your milk, please” you cry in pure bliss, a new climax is about to hit you and you only want to be filled.

And just as he said, he does. Smirking and sweating, with a guttural moan, he comes. He gives you deep thrusts every time his precious seed sprouts from his sex, to push it up deep, deep inside of your womb.

It’s not until he is finished filling you up, that he takes his dick out of you in a violent motion. “Let me see…” he mutters, spreading your glutes just to enjoy his white release flowing from your insides. You can feel it dripping, sliding from your labia to your inner thighs, drizzling the ground and your clothes…

“Such a beautiful cumdump you are, my sweet wife…”

2K notes · View notes

badhabitscollection · 1 year

Text

So Much (For) Blitz —An exclusive reveal of the star of Fall Out Boy’s latest album cover

Fall Out Boy’s latest effort So Much (For) Stardust) has been critically acclaimed and lauded by fans as some of their best work to date. The album artwork, prominently featuring a doberman, has left some puzzled and looking for additional context as to the dog’s identity and how the artwork came to be. The Bad Habits Collection is proud to bring you the exclusive reveal of the dog featured on the cover of their eighth studio album alongside the full story of how they were discovered.

—

When Fall Out Boy officially announced their eighth studio album on January 18th, 2023 and unveiled the album artwork for So Much (For) Stardust, there were a lot of opinions to be had. Some of the fans immediately felt connected and claimed it as their own, some compared it to Fiona Apple’s 2020 release Fetch the Bolt Cutters, and some downright found it revolting. Overall, most agreed that it was polarizing to say the least. Donned in an all black background, the front cover features both the name of the band and the album itself in the work of Omar Mroz (hereinafter referred to by his online moniker Mr.Oz). The text is covered in glitter and written out in the same style featured earlier in the rollout of FOB8’s album cycle with A Claymation Fall Out Boy Celebration, dropped as a surprise present from the band on Christmas one month earlier. The headlining attraction of this sideshow was in fact just a simple square box, containing a swirling artistic depiction of a doberman barking in the presence of a froth of bubbles.

From the moment I first laid eyes on the iconography of Fall Out Boy’s new era, I had just two questions in mind: Who is the dog? & Why choose the dog? A few obvious possibilities were immediately ruled out. Solely based on what’s been posted to social media, this dog did not belong to Pete, Joe, or Andy. Patrick has remained dormant online for years at this point, but still the odds felt slim. I did my best to brush it off, but ultimately I kept coming back to the thought of WHY? If you’re familiar with my previous work on the history of Take This To Your Grave’s album cover, you already know this type of sentiment means a lot to me. After a while of waiting for the band to bring up the topic in an interview or statement, I had essentially given up hope on any type of official explanation. It was at this moment, just 3 days before the release of the record, that I accepted the reality of the situation. This wasn’t a hot topic within the fandom. And no one was going to provide me with the answers I was looking for. If I wanted to know more, it was solely up to me. So… I got to work. —

To take a step back, the artwork for So Much (For) Stardust first hit the internet on January 11th, seven days before the official reveal. Posted alongside the name of the first single Love From The Other Side, our barking pup friend was featured on the home feed of FILTER | NEWs on VK, a Russian social media site that I’ve been told is comparable to Facebook. The artwork was watermarked with a subtle, transparent white logo for FILTER in the background. Despite this post being up for five days (a millennia on the worldwide web), it wasn’t until the 16th that the fandom at large made this discovery, with many claiming it was an outright fake.

However, the *stars* started to align proving this leak to have a dose or two of authenticity. Mr.Oz’s claymation video from earlier in the rollout followed the story of a similar looking doberman, who just so happened to pose in the final frame in a style strongly resembling the leaked cover.

Beyond that, a post from lyricist and bassist Pete Wentz’s Instagram dating back just two days earlier was quickly dug up. On the 4th slide of the carousel, there it was: a selfie of Pete with a Santa hat on and propped up on the shelf behind him... the physical painting of the doberman seen on the leaked cover.

All but confirmed at this point, one last clue presented itself online. The freshly created Twitter account “@muchstardust” popped up out of nowhere, making itself known by following myself and a few other notable hardcore fans in this space. @muchstardust made just one single tweet before being suspended (for reasons unknown).

The post featured three images, the watermarked cover, Pete’s selfie, and notably, a compressed form of the actual photo taken of man’s best friend —the same one the leaked cover features an oil painting rendition of.

— As we all know now, this leak was indeed real and confirmed as the album artwork just a few days later by Fall Out Boy themselves. But that’s when the trail went cold. Later promotional photos featuring the band and taken by their long time collaborator Pamela Littky included another doberman, but clearly not the same one once examined a bit closer. On March 21st, the Chicago rock group posted “What do you think the dog’s name is? 🫧”, but never followed up with the answer. It’s as if they were taunting me specifically with how vocal I had been about wanting to solve this mystery. Just before the album’s official release, I was tipped off by someone with an early copy of the CD that the liner notes of So Much (For) Stardust credit Safia Latif for the cover painting and Jen Patterson for the photograph the cover painting was based on. With new pieces of the puzzle in play, my search for the dog in question was reignited. However, my leads proved of little to no help. I could not get in touch with Safia and could not properly identify Jen Patterson online for the life of me. Taking the hunt back to the drawing board, I reverse image searched the photo @muchstardust had originally provided, which even at this point, months later, was our only source of the actual photograph. Littered with results of the album artwork naturally, I did come across one potential connection. Once again, I found myself on the public timeline of someone’s VK.com profile. “dextromethorpan 3” had included the same photograph in a gallery of different doberman puppies posted on December 21st, 2020. This was…something. Sure, this photo likely did not originate from the VK profile I had unearthed, but at least now I knew it had been around the web for a few years. Scratching my head, I wondered how Fall Out Boy had originally come across this image. Was it something that came up on one of their feeds? Or perhaps just a keyword search? Taking it to different forms of social media, I found a potential match on the /r/doberman subreddit posted 10 months ago. Titled “Cool pic of us playing with bubbles”, the dobie in question featured strikingly similar features and color patterns, and was of course, playing with bubbles.

So I did what any other sane fan would do… and sent a private message to the Redditor the night before the album dropped with Jen’s photograph. “/u/drc55555” responded Saturday morning agreeing that the dog did look a lot like their own, but that they didn’t recognize the photograph. I woke up in a cold sweat seeing the glimpse of the Reddit notification on my iPhone and replied informing them of the cover of Fall Out Boy’s brand new release and asking if the user was the Jen Patterson credited in the album’s booklet. A day later, they replied once again noting that they weren’t Jen, but that this has sparked a memory of another DM they had received in the fall of last year from an Elektra Records personnel, Fueled By Ramen’s distributor who Fall Out Boy had publicly rejoined the roster of just this January. Indeed, 200 days ago from this very conversation, a marketing representative from the label had reached out to the Redditor through the same platform letting them know that an artist they work with had come across the very same photo I myself found and that the artist had fallen in love with it, hoping to use it as part of the artwork for an upcoming project. /u/drc55555 had conceded that they regretted not responding at the thought of how their dog could have become famous. This is when I knew, I was HOT on the trail. Either a member of FOB discovered this photo of their dog while scrolling Reddit or had specifically sought out the same search terms as me, which meant the actual photograph used on the cover could have potentially been found through the very same method. My search accelerated and within a few hours I had run a variety of similar terms by Twitter, TikTok, Facebook, really any social media site I could get my hands on. Nothing had come up, but I hadn’t called it a day quite yet as one of the more obvious sites remained: Instagram. Heading to the explore page I have barely used in my own time on the platform, I typed in the same keywords that brought me to the pup’s uncanny match on Reddit: “doberman bubbles”. And there it was, exactly 60 rows down, right in the center, the original image of the dog I had been looking for all along along with an alternate photo of the same dog in the next slide in the same setting captioned “BUBBLES!!!!!”, posted —you guessed it, in 2020.

— With this case officially closed, I’m beyond stoked to introduce Blitz the Doberman to other fans of Fall Out Boy. At the time of publication, Blitz has 12.8k followers on his public Instagram account, which lead me to question how this match hadn’t already been made. Blitz’s bio reveals he was born on February 27th, 2019 and lives in Las Vegas with his human, one Jen Patterson.

In a beautiful twist of fate, within the hour of finishing the final draft of this piece, Blitz’s humans responded to my inquiry from earlier in the week. I spoke with Jen at length who was happy to share her story exclusively with The Bad Habits Collection. Similarly to the Redditor from earlier, a marketing rep from Elektra Records had reached out to her through Instagram on September 20th, 2022 inquiring about using a picture of her pup for one of their artists’ work, a message she initially regarded as spam. Eventually, she came to an agreement with Elektra, however, this story ended there for her. Up until Jen read the direct message I sent to Blitz’s account, she had not the slightest idea that he was featured on the cover of the new album of one of the biggest modern rock bands left in the world. I was shocked to hear this, but Jen on the other hand was incredibly excited to learn of the breaking news. I shared a photo with her of her name printed in the liner notes of So Much (For) Stardust, a cool moment for us both. Jen told me “I never considered myself a photographer, but that’s amazing!” When I asked about how Blitz already had such a huge following on Instagram, she told me all about how she’s networked with others in a doberman group and has kept a steady stream of posts coming on the daily. In discussion of what she’d like for others to take away from this article, Jen simply hoped others would get to know Blitz’s name —my entire goal of this investigation all along. Half-joking, she expressed that she’d also love to have gotten her hands on some merchandise with his face on it. Infinitely grateful for her responding to my DM and taking the time to talk with me, I’ve personally sent Jen physical copies of So Much (For) Stardust in both vinyl and CD format. I’ll be sure to update this write-up with a photo of FOB’s newest mascot posing with his album cover when they arrive! Closing out our conversation, Jen let me know that she “felt like if you hadn’t reached out, we would not have known.” To be honest, there were times in this journey that I thought it might be for the best if I gave up the search for this pup as to not invade anyone’s privacy. I figured if Blitz hadn’t already made himself known publicly, maybe there was a specific reason behind not doing so. I would have never guessed that reason was because his family were simply unaware of his new-found fame. I feel honored to have been the one to share this discovery with Blitz’s owners and again want to thank them for their contributions to this piece. Jen has also graciously shared the original photograph of Blitz the cover was based on in its full resolution, uncropped:

—

After scouring the internet to to uncover this story, it all leads me to just one final question: Why Blitz? What’s the connection? Moreover, what’s the intended meaning here? Jen let me know that she herself was unaware of how and why the photograph was found and selected, but we can naturally draw our own conclusions. Discussing this topic with other longtime fans of the band, all have come to the same conclusion that Fall Out Boy’s latest effort features some of Pete’s bleakest lyrics in a long time paired somehow ever so perfectly with some of Patrick’s most uplifting and dance-worthy melodies to date. As my partner pointed out, the album artwork depicts a breed known for their usage as guard dogs with a tough exterior, but shown playing lightheartedly with what’s usually associated as a child’s toy. In the words of fellow Fall Out Boy historian and Bad Habits Collection collaborator Tommy McPhail, the cover displays “the epitome of boundless joy and simplified bliss amongst chaos”, a phrase that perfectly sums up the entire feeling artistically and masterfully expressed in So Much (For) Stardust in my own eyes. Fall Out Boy’s newest full-length studio record So Much (For) Stardust, produced by the legendary Neal Avron, is one of their strongest statement pieces in years and is now available everywhere music is streamed or sold. You can follow Blitz’s adventures on Instagram: @blitzdoberman — “The kind of pain you feel to get good in the end. Inscribed like stone and faded by the rain: ‘Give up what you love before it does you in.’” Written by Alex Toor for The Bad Habits Collection

#Fall Out Boy #FOB #FOB8 #So Much (For) Stardust #So Much For Stardust #SMFS #2023 #Pete Wentz #Patrick Stump #Joe Trohman #Andy Hurley #Blitz #Blitz Doberman #Blitz The Doberman #Doberman #Fueled By Ramen #Alex Toor #Live On Toor #LiveOnToor

555 notes · View notes

thevoidscreams · 1 month

Note

Let’s do another one, shall we? This one might be a little more…freaky.

(Any Chaos Astartes)

*Your Astartes been more affectionate lately. Slowly persuading you into his “nest” where he finally has you right where he wants you. Stuffing you full of his clutch.

*You don’t even realize whats happened until you’re whimpering out in ecstasy. Too drugged up on his scent/pheromones.

*Oh, you’ll make a wonderful mother to his brood.

(Too freaky?)

Day 16

I am frothing. I love oviposition.

Pairing: Pumpkin chaos astartes oc x reader

Warnings: oviposition, sex pheromones/ chemically induced arousal, space marine husbandry with full sized astartes

Making the warnings bigger so yall dont miss it. But I'm gonna say it's all consensual I'm going to make more for this in the future I think

When I'd found him out in the wilderness I hadn't expected to bond with him so strongly. I couldn't even really tell what legion or chapter he'd been a part of.

Chaos, that was what the apothecaries told me and I was instructed to move forward with caution. I called him Pumpkin as a sign of affection. It was the nickname my mom used to call me. He liked it alot. Answering me eagerly when I called for my Pumpkin. Perhaps I should have tried to learn his real name first, now he won't tell me what it is. He only answers to Pumpkin.

But I liked him. He was a good housemate, keeping tidy and he was affectionate for someone I found in the woods.

He took up the old room I gave him, and it quickly became a cozy place as he scrounged old furniture from curbs.

I made him clean them thoroughly before he could bring them in. But it became a really sweet set up.

After he was done with all that he seemed to shift. It was nearly imperceptible at first. Just more touches here and there. Going out and bringing back fresh foods he'd foraged with him.

Checking in on me, marking dates on the calendar with little stars. As if he was tracking something but he wouldn't tell me what. He spoke in broken English, but he was still learning the language, and I had learned just enough of his High Gothic to communicate.

I thought about going out to acquire another astartes. The forums said if you could have more then one they learned new languages quicker.

When I brought it up with him, he absolutely lost it. Yelling “No” in more than just two languages.

I was shocked but dropped it. But he was oddly distant after that, taking his dinner to his room to eat alone.

That night I went to the forums and tried to find out more.

[Hey all. My chaos astartes is strictly against me getting another astartes. Why,]

NewlyChaotic:

“Hey all,

I ‘adopted’ my chaos astartes about five months ago and everything has been great so far, but I had been wanting to open my home to another perhaps. But when I brought it up to Pumpkin (it's what he likes me to call him, I don't know why)

He lashed out badly and wouldn't talk to me for hours and went to bed.

I only brought it up after reading that astartes learn and operate better in groups generally.

Even chaos aligned.

Any advice would be greatly appreciated, I feel so lost and just want my Pumpkin hugs back. ;^;

I wanted and soon my thread had a response.

Salamander_Sheila🐉:

Hey @NewlyChaotic,

Sorry to hear about your troubles. It happens sometimes that astartes grow bonded to their baselines and just don't want to share. He might feel like you'll replace him if you bring another astartes into your home.

As for the chaos aspect, what legion is he?

NewlyChaotic:

I'm not sure, his armor looks like it was scrubbed clean of paint and he has no livery that I can discern. He's normally very sweet and I love him to pieces, I could never replace him.

Salamander_Sheila🐉:

I get that. I love my boys to bits and wouldn't ever want to hurt them.

Maybe he left his chapter/warband.

Also my friend @ShadowyMistress has a few chaos boys. She might know some things.

ShadowyMistress:

I have been summoned?

Yes I have many different chaos astartes. They're really sweet when they actually like you lol. :p

NewlyChaotic:

So is his behavior normal?

ShadowyMistress:

Seems it. However you should look out if he starts to make “nests”.

Some mutated astartes begin to take on more animalistic traits.

He might try to breed you. Which, I mean if you're down for that then Godspeed.

Salamander_Sheila🐉:

It's pretty rare, but romantic connections can happen.

I would know.

I let that digest for a minute. Turning to look towards Pumpkin's door.

My heart thumped harder at the thought and I felt uncomfortably warm.

My love life had been pretty lackluster. Hadn't had a date in a hot minute.

I shook my head, I'm sure it wasn't that.

NewlyChaotic:

Thanks for all the help guys. I have a lot to mentally chew on with his.

Salamander_Sheila🐉:

Talk to him, as best as you can.

If he's not proficient at English it's okay. Astartes are good at sensing intent and feelings.

Be open with him and if you mean it, tell him you don't plan on replacing him with anyone else.

Good luck with Pumpkin, and you can shoot me or Shadow a dm if you need. We're usually around at this time.

NewlyChaotic:

I will. Night guys.

I logged off and shut the computer down.

The side table lamp was on and I knocked on the door softly. He wasn't an early sleeper so I knew he'd still be up.

There was a soft “Yes?” From the other side, I cracked the door open and called in.

“May I come in?...Please?”

I waited, my chest feeling tight for some reason.

“Yes.”

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding and stepped in.

Pumpkin was at his desk. It looked like he'd been watching a nature documentary on the laptop I'd gotten him. I was happy he'd been enjoying it.

The words of the girls on the forum flashed in my mind. ‘Just talk to him..he'll understand the intent.’

“Hey, I wanted to apologize about earlier, I didn't mean to upset you.”

He looked at me with green gold eyes that seemed to understand what I was trying to convey.

Perhaps he understood more of my language than he could speak.

He turned to me fully and put out his hand. I took it and shivered at the contact. His hands were so warm.

“I don't want you to think I'm trying to replace you, not at all. I care about you Pumpkin. I just read that you astartes tend to do better in groups. And I was worried that being here with me wouldn't be enough to make you happy.”

I hadn't meant to spill that fear to him, but it was out now and I couldn't take it back.

He pulled me into his arms. Hugging me with so much understanding and affection. It felt amazing to be held like that.

“You are…enough. I am.. I am happy with you.”

He had to think through his words as he spoke and I returned the hug.

“I'm so glad. I just want you to be happy and healthy.”

He nodded and kissed the top of my head, it made me giggle.

I let him go and he did the same. But he raised his hands and gently touched my chin.

“I love you.” He chirped on High Gothic and I wasn't sure what he'd said but I didn't press.

“Well, I'm gonna get to bed. I have more work to get done in the morning.”

I hurried out, feeling a tad bit light headed. His touch had left me feeling hot for reasons I couldn't explain.

I was going to need a shower. Probably a cold one.

I watched her go, my hearts pounding. Too little, I noted. My pheromones hadn't built up enough. I opened up the journal on the miniature computer system my beloved had gotten me.

I needed to record this interaction. It would be important to show our sons in the future. After they were here of course.

It hurt to lie to her. I loved her, but I couldn't risk her finding out I knew everything she'd said.

And if she brought an intruder into our home, our nest. My cover would be blown and our children's safety compromised.

I loved her, but she could be so silly.

Standing, I shutdown the computer and chuckled. No incense needed, no fancy oils. I liked these little machines.

It was late and I needed to finish touching up the place where I would make our family, my new warband of sons, a reality.

It was such a shame that the old one lacked vision. That they refused to accept the gifts of our patrons.

Our numbers would have grown and we would have been unstoppable. Able to take anyone we pleased to grow our numbers.

I had had to do it, to cleanse them from existence. They turned me away, called me disgusting. A shame to kill so many brothers and cousins.

But what if they told others?

I'd rid myself of their colors, their symbols, their outdated ideals. I was my own man now. I would have a warband that was loyal and not full of naysayers and old ruins.

The prince of pleasure and the changer of ways had given me such wonderful gifts.

I just had to have my little darling here with me in my nest. My pheromones were the strongest here. And she'd been too busy to notice that I moved my couches to block in the corner.

This would be the most comfortable place to fill her with my clutch.

I rearranged the pillows again, and pulled more blankets I'd gotten into the pit.

Perfect.

Her door was never locked. A good thing really, she was so beautiful in the moonlight. Dreaming soft dreams.

Were they of me? I know what few dreams I had were of her.

They had been since I'd first seen her in the park. Plotting how I would find my way to her. The whispered promises of my patrons in my ears.

But then, she found me first. It was fated. Truly it could not have been any other way. I had to be hers. She had to be mine. They told me so.

I liked the new shampoo she used, it smelled like desert flowers….like home.

“I love you.” I whispered again. My fingers brushing over her still damp hair. I would feel it more when I took her tomorrow. I would let her work while I made ready our love nest.

She would be mine. And her body would hold our sons. The prey I brought for her to feast on had been nutrient rich and her cycles had proven that. Tomorrow was the perfect time, peak fertility.

Oh so many clutches would her body carry for me.

I kissed her lips softly and slipped back to my room.

Soon darling. Soon.

The alarm I'd set woke me and I stretched rolling out of bed.

The smell of food wafted to me as I stepped out into the hall.

“Pumpkin?”

There was an answering grunt from the kitchen and my astartes came into view. Cooking up a balanced meal, as was his habit.

“Anything fun planned for today?” I asked, knowing he likely wouldn't reply.

“Well I have to finish up that last chapter and get it sent in. My editor's been on my butt all week over it.”

I felt his eyes fall on me. But he didn't reply verbally, just bringing me food without asking for anything in return.

I smiled and took the plates.

“I don't deserve you. You're too good to me.”

I was surprised when he wrapped me up in his arms, hugging me and nuzzling the top of my head.

He'd been doing that more and more often.

“Thank you, Pumpkin.” “You are welcome.” He sighed happily. “You remembered the response. That’s great.” I looked up and our noses touched briefly. Just to be a stinker I kissed the tip of his nose. He shivered and pulled away to look at me, he looked a bit confused and oh so adorable. I giggled, I couldn't help it, somehow the towering mass of muscle was just too cute. “Sorry, it was simply too good an opportunity to pass up.”

He nodded and leaned down to kiss my nose in return. I giggled again and he went to his chair. I told him about my chapter and the climatic finale I had planned and how those plot points would lead to the next book. He listened with patience and nodded, even if I wasn’t sure he understood all the details. He took my empty plates and put them in the sink. “Have a good day.” He hugged me and I hugged him back. “I’ll do my best. Just for you.” His eyes lit up at that. She was becoming more affectionate in return. My patrons must be right. It had been too hard to pull myself away. But I needed time to continue to make the nest perfect with the final rituals. I retreated to my room, several bags of snacks ready for the trap I had set. At around 1:30 I finished up my last edit and sighed, saving my document again for the thousandth time and sent it off to my editor. I heard Pumpkin’s door open and went to see what he was doing. WHen he saw me his eyes lit up and he waved me over. “Hey you, guess who officially finished their book?” I gestured to myself. “It’s me!”

I stopped at his door and he took my hand. The lights in his room were dim and comfortable. “What’s all this about?”

He’d rearranged his furniture making a blanket and pillow bowl. He’d set up his laptop with snacks and the show we’d been watching together. The room smelled strongly of him and something sweet. I was going to question what he’d used but suddenly I just didn’t mind. And hell, I could use a break and a treat for all that work I'd done. I let him take me to his blanket pit and climbed over the couch. “So what’s on the menu today?”

“You my beloved.”

I pressed play and pulled her down into my lap. She obliged and I had to once again fight to simply have her then and there. She fit perfectly against my body and I could feel myself getting hard. I needed to calm down. To let her find herself naturally ready to mate. I could smell it on her. Her fertility. The episode was good, but I kept losing my focus on it and looking down at her. After an hour she seemed a bit woozy. Like she had been after that party. She’d worried me then, but now I knew what clouded her mind and it wasn’t any drink. I smiled, it must have looked deranged for as much glee and anticipation I felt. It was impossible to focus now, I was so needy now that I had half a mind to just leave and take care of myself. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to be close to Pumpkin. I wanted to pet him and kiss him deeply. He was so handsome, nothing like what those forums said about the chaos chapters. “Pumpkin?” I breathed, my head felt light as I looked up at him, his green gold eyes boring into me. “Yes?” Mmm, his voice, gosh I could listen to it all day. I turned in his lap and did something I never thought I’d do. I kissed him, full on the mouth. He flinched with shock and my brain shorted out. The world spun and I was under him. The blanket pile smelled like him and I buried my face in it. Something nagged at the back of my mind but I ignored it in favor of space marine smell. Pumpkin moved away and I whined, making grabby hands for him to come back. My body was being shifted, although I wasn’t sure why and I felt him return the heat of his skin on mine making me moan. His hands took hold of my thighs and something pressed at my entrance. I was too giddy to look down, the instinctual part of my brain hollered again and I knew what, but I found that I didn’t care. She yielded to me so beautifully, her body was ready and I slipped in with a groan and she let out a silvery little cry under me. Her hands clawed at my chest, trying to pull me down closer to her. I let her, and took her chin in my fingers, holding her as I pressed her down into the blankets, kissing her hard. The mother of my sons. Too perfect, too warm and tight. I wondered if she would accept me forever. I would happily make her my little wife. She could write her books while she tended to our sons. I pulled out, rutting back into her. My cock was perfectly tailored to allow me to push the tip into her cervix without hurting her. Just one of the design choices that the changer had gifted me. It would allow me to cum in her and not waste any of it. That cum would prepare her body for what came next. My clutch, those seeds that would mature and grow till she was able to lay them. It would only be a few of them. BUt soon I’d be able to fill her. Her body would grow accustomed to them. But for now, I loved her body with my own. It was like heaven, his body moving against me, and in me. The warmth of his body over mine and his lips stealing kisses. I cried out again as he pressed in deeper, every thrust was pure delight. His cock brushing over every spot conceivable that might make me see stars. My nails racked over his skin, leaving angry red scratches behind, he moaned and it made me want him even more. It was like candy to my brain, a sugarly sweet addiction.

“Pumpkin.” I squealed as he wrapped his arms under my back and hugged me tight to him, leaving barely enough room to breath. His hips jack hammered into mind, making cohesive thoughts impossible. But what should matter to me? It was an otherworldly level of pleasure. No one had ever made me feel this good. The force of his thrusts and the pure bliss sent me over the edge, It felt like my body was twisting inside as my eyes rolled back and my back arched almost painfully into him. The noise that came from me didn’t sound like one a pleasure i’m sure, but my body burned with even more need, the need to be filled. Her nails cut into my thick hide, drawing droplets of blood and I felt even more in love with her. So strong for someone so small. I could feel her loosening and the tip of my cock slipped an inch into her womb. The perfect place for my clutch. I came into her. The thick ropes of my love conditioning her for the final stage. The prince promised me that it would make her body accept my clutch, giving her the feeling of being pregnant. So her body wouldn’t reject my sons. They moved down from their place of holding in my abdomen and I groaned deeply as I felt them pass from me and into her. I petted her hair as she gasped and writhed under me as the eggs stretched her. “There, there. Soon my love. You will bring forth our sons.” I soothed her kissing her cheeks and temples while three lemon sized eggs were deposited into her. I stayed inside her till she fell asleep in my arms. A soft smile gracing her lips. “My love, you cannot imagine the joy you have brought to my life. And the joys you have yet to bring.” I rolled onto my side making her comfortable as she pressed into me. I placed a blanket over her. I had a journal entry to update. My Dearest sons, You were conceived today. And your mother was more perfect than I could have ever dreamed.

#warhammer 40k #warhammer #my writing #warhammer 40k x reader #adeptus astartes #chaos astartes #space marine x reader #space marine oc #mating press march #Space Marine Husbandry

72 notes · View notes

lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 1 year

Text

The Darling Who Beats Their Yandere at Yandering

As a darling too many times have you been abducted, manipulated, blackmailed by your yandere. Well, how would they like it if they had to go through everything you go through?

“So How do you like it huh? Do you like how I tied you up and gagged you? No? Well too bad it's what I went through! How do you feel not being able to do anything, huh? To have your freedom stripped away?”

Whether you’ve been a good darling for a long time now or narrowly had escaped their attempts to have you.

“Oh~ I love it! Keep going, baby! Tie me! Gag me! Baby, please do what you want~!”

André Mortesque both pre-househusband era and after dude’s obsessed with you up and down. Punch him, kick him, kiss him, kill him for all he cares; the very air you breathe is sacred to him. If he has to kidnap you at any time it doesn’t really break his obsessive love for you. Your tied or he’s tied or you both are just naked in bed he loves it all.

“Go ahead baby~! A-actually i-if y-your doing what I did can you get my aphrodisiac pills from my bedside table!”

“Hehehe love bug…okay…I get it.”

Morgan Jox pre-househusband era is put in his place. He’s tucking his non-existent tail between his legs. He really did plan to scoop up your unconscious body and lightly tie it to a bed. He didn’t mean to make you feel bad or trapped. He’ll sob and cry for your forgiveness after all he just wants to protect and love you the most. But househusband Morgan has a different reaction altogether if you are able to tie down this himbo hunk of muscle in the first place he’s tilting his head, in confusion. “But that’s all just minor in the shadow of our love.” He’s a hopeless romantic who doesn’t mind the journey rather than the destination. He thought by now you would have understood that…maybe the journey for your love hasn’t quite reached its destination.

“Lovebug, maybe you should spend some more time in the ropes then after we can both talk about how we feel. Does that sound like a plan?”

“Well isn’t this a familiar position? Tell me, darling, are we reverting back to our…hehehe…old ways?”

Wezley is an enigma to most and it's probably best it stays that way. After all, it is the reason why he’s agreed to be a househusband in the first place. But long before all that you’ve replayed this scenario with him. This time it's with rope but one time it could have been electric chords or steel chains. As well as who’s within those binds in the first place. You can say he’s simply ecstatic he’s getting a taste of your original rodeo. He gets bored of the home life

“Ah my (Y/n)! Shall we do the other thing we used to do?”

“Well yes but this means something completely different when you know how to get out.”

Michael Froth your dear eldest brother knows how to tie a good knot and how to undo them. He’s your wretched mother’s favorite child(after you) after all having taken all of her worst traits. He sees now. You’re frustrated, huh? Then the color therapy must not be working then. No matter, he has a contingency plan I’m sure you’ll feel a lot better once he starts that routine with the sleeping meds. He’ll enjoy it when you drunkenly let him rock you to sleep, like in the olden days.

“That’s fine (Y/n). I understand where you’re coming from but this charade has been fun. Time to sleep.”

“So unfair (Y/n)! You’ve put me in this horrible situation! All because you don’t think.

Rue, the roommate turned villain, is amused but he doesn’t appreciate you switching roles. He’s already felt helpless before, helpless when you refused him for who he is, helpless when you didn’t support him in his true occupation. You made him feel absolutely trapped when you almost died; now this! It’s simply unfair! Now its only right he give you one of his special punishments! He’ll make sure you’ll be forgetting your own name by the end of it.

“Ah darling I’ve decided I’ll be picking your punishment tonight and I promise I won’t go easy!”

#yandere ocs #yandere househusband oc #yandere boxer oc #yandere villain oc #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yanderexrea #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yanderes #yandere family #yandere brother oc #yandere brother #platonic yandere #yandere villain #yandere villain x reader

257 notes · View notes

https-furina · 10 months

Note

17. “i don’t wanna go without you.” with kazuha

✎ last minute decisions.

ft. kaedehara kazuha x gn!reader

prompt: “i don’t wanna go without you.”

w.c. 902 words

content: fluff, established relationship, kazuha with separation anxiety? they’re the clingy couple

notes: officially my longest req i've done, aly, congrats !! ahahshhs

the ocean is wide, vast and full of untold secrets. it calls to him, in the form of violent, crashing waves on the cliffs behind your house. it froths, foaming at the mouth as it climbs against the cliff's side. kazuha stands, picturing the nauseating rock of the alcor and the shouts of the crewmates as waves wash overboard, soaking everything to the touch. he pictures the roaring, dark clouds that loom over them, the rain that falls as if the skies are crying in sorrow - or perhaps even anger.

you watch from the door as the sharp winds lash at kazuha's form. he's not budged by it at all, in fact his eyes are closed as he breathes in the salty tang in the air and lets his hair whip at him wildly. you're urged to call out for him, yell his name above the sounds of the wind through the trees and the roar of the ocean but a sound doesn't utter from your lips. kazuha is most at home with nature. it's his solitude, his calling in this damned world. you are his comfort, the warmth of a crocheted blanket after a long day of exposure to the elements. you are the boiling pot of stew over the fire, waiting for him to come home.

kazuha turns on his heel, deciding he should not waste no more time outside on the cliff's edge when he could be curled up with you, drinking in your touch before he leaves home to go aboard the alcor once more at captain beidou's side. dull ruby eyes glitter as they land on you at the door of your shared house, a smile cracking on his emotionless face at the mere sight of you. you're dressed in your favourite yukata - the one kazuha had commissioned for you many moons ago now. it's decorated in autumnal leaves, the fabric a warm auburn.

his lips find yours the moment that he's closed the proximity between you both. you smile into the kiss, only pulling away to fix the mess the incoming storm has created of your boyfriend's white hair. kazuha muses at this, he has never cared much for how his hair appears - he prefers to throw it into a messy ponytail but strands still find themselves hanging from his face. he likes how you play with his hair however and he'd gladly stand in the storm if it means he can feel your fingertips run through the snowy white locks.

"you're leaving soon, you should really look more presentable," you tease, puffing your cheeks at your words. kazuha doesn't miss the sea of sadness that brews in your otherwise happy eyes, "and you're supposed to be at ritou right now."

"so eager to get rid of me, love?" kazuha returns the tease as he shuffles by you so that you may close the door - the heat from the fireplace is escaping after all. you scowl at him, quickly following after him, "captain beidou knows not to leave without me."

despite his longing for the darkness of the sea and the family he has made with the alcor's crew, kazuha doesn't want to leave you. he's holding off, buying as much time as he can before he leaves for ritou. he's pretending to have lost key items - he throws a quick 'did you move it to stop me leaving?' in your direction but he knows exactly where it is. kazuha clings to every item of the house like it'll be gone for good if he forgets about it - you are no exception to this.

"kazu," your voice is soft as you reach for his bandaged arm, fingers gently touching at him for a form of contact. kazuha blinks away the stinging sensation in his eyes, "what's wrong?"

kazuha doesn't quite know how to look at you, his beloved partner. the one that he leaves for months at a time just to be in the middle of the ocean with nothing but the breeze to keep his heart company. there's a lump in his throat that he swallows before he opens his mouth but it stays lodged.

"i don't wanna go without you." he croaks out, quick to look away from you when your gaze softens. he's never struggled so much before with leaving you but that isn't to say he doesn't struggle at all. kazuha always leaves the house with an ounce of regret, his heart heavy as he watches ritou fade in the distance. he craves you at all times, relying on the wind to know of your health. his fingers twitch as he puts down the book he was holding, a sigh escaping his lips. you're smiling sadly, taking in every inch of his face.

"then why don't i join you," you're doubting if this is a good idea - beidou has always reassured you when you accompany kazuha to ritou to say farewell that you would be more than welcome aboard the alcor, "just this once?"

there are those ruby eyes again, widening as they stare at you in surprise. you've turned down every offer to come aboard the alcor but the thought of separating from kazuha under these circumstances pains you more than it normally would. there is only a few brief seconds before he's enveloped you in a hug, pulling you tight to his chest in a grip that would break porcelain.

#— 🧁 sugar ‘n’ spice #https-heizou #genshin x you #genshin #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact fluff #kaedehara kazuha x reader #genshin kaedehara kazuha #kaedehara kazuha #genshin fluff #genshin x reader

122 notes · View notes

pillowspace · 6 months

Note

i need u to know that ever since u posted this art it has been. constantly. on my mind. my night has been altered. my plans now consist of me laying in bed and thinking about csd sun. my brain chemistry has changed forever. im incurable. i stanned csd sun from the START but this is a whole new level and i need to ramble /deep breath/ i apologize in advance if im talking out of my ass LMFAOO

i just. the idea of this— old, ancient god who has seen many generations come and go, who represents warmth and burns bright wherever he goes just… being able to sense the love in things no matter who or what it may be. who, maybe, finds delight in all these different things people love and happiness just knowing that humanity has no limits when it comes to things they cherish. he looks around him and can just feel the same warmth he emits. it’s particularly strong in the little stuffed animals children hold dear to them, or the plants tenderly taken care of on the windowsills of various cottages.

and then he meets you. and your relationship grows stronger and stronger over the coming months. until one day something changes— shifts between the two of you. and suddenly he can feel just how much he is loved. a love he senses from you.

sun has felt how loved he is from the people who pray to him. but this is on a whole other level. this is something personal—something related to who he is as a person and not a god. and he doesn’t say anything, just watches as this warmth, this love he senses from you grows stronger and stronger each day. he is not just a god in your eyes, he’s more. he finds delight in it as much as he finds warm-tenderness. you think he doesnt know—not at first, at least, and he thinks he’ll keep it a secret for the time being. but as the days go on he can start to sense more and more how much you are loved. not just from the others around you, but from him as well.

GAHH okay im done im done i got it out. i hope u realize just how crazy this has made me omfg. u dont have to publish this i just wanted to talk at u and im not even sure how much of this is ‘canon’ or whatev but thats just my interpretation and what ive been thinking abt all night LMFAOOO. im so normal im soooo normal (im frothing at the mouth about to rip into csd again and again and again /pos)

OHHHHHHHHHGHGGGHG. I NEED YOU TO KNOW I STRUGGLED TO GET THROUGH THIS ASK BECAUSE I KEPT PUTTING MY PHONE DOWN, MAKING WILD HAND GESTURES, GETTING UP, THEN LEAVING TO PACE THE ROOM. SHATTERING LIKE GLASS

#ask #celestial sundown au #savetag #[csd saved posts]

83 notes · View notes

loganlermanstanaccount · 1 year

Text

Just to kiss me (Part 2)

pairing: Finnick Odair x reader

(AO3 mirror)

Part One, Part Three, My Hunger Games Masterlist

summary: You try to move on. This proves harder than expected.

warnings: none for this chapter. Small mention of blood.

required reading: The song "We'll never have sex" by Leith Ross <3

a/n: I take a lot of creative liberties because I do not know what the capitol or its government fucking look like! I haven't read the books in a while, and I try to build on the wiki and the movies, so sorry in advance.

wc: 4k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, dilute me, gentle angel

Water down what I call being grateful ,

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You didn't even tell him your name.

That's the thought you sit with for the next few days, then weeks. You try your hardest to leave it at that; a simple conversation between strangers, an interaction to twist the lock on and take to your grave. A secret thing, a moment, just for you.

The truth is, you're distracted. You've spent a defiant few years trying not to be swept up by the buzz around Finnick Odair, and in these couple of weeks you find yourself watching old interviews and articles about him. A lot of them, at first, but none of the portrayals match the man you met on the balcony. Too sanitised, too clean. Who was Finnick? Under the makeup, the lifestyle, the glamour; who was he really?

Vonnie called you, the morning after, raving about how she had actually met Finnick Odair.

"And God, I think he's even prettier up close! He was so funny, and he said he loved my dress… wait. Shit. D'you think he was flirting with me? We're about the same age, and we'd make such a power couple! The way he looked at me, you'd think-"

You loved Vonnie, you really did. And you were happy for her. But the way she talks about him makes your stomach churn for some reason. You cut her off gently, with promises to continue later in the day.

On the 4th week, you think you have snapped out of your month long haze; made peace with the facts of the matter. He didn't ask for your name. He doesn't remember you. He didn't look back. It was stupid, really, to expect anything else. You're at a fitting with your mother when you decide you're well and truly over it. Cinna tightens the corset of a gown, before peering over your shoulder to look at you in the mirror. You both tilt your heads; as if you would transform at a mere 45 degrees.

"Sleeves or no sleeves?" he asks.

"Sleeves." you say.

"No sleeves." your mother says at the exact same time. "Honestly, Cinna can we make it a little more…. more? It doesn't exactly say 'Councillor's daughter' "

You dare to roll your eyes at her dramatics. "And what does it say, currently?"

"It says 'District 4 tribute tour', my love. Too many nets for your own good. No offence."

You bristle, knowing Cinna made the dress to her exact requirements.

"That's vile, mother. The dress is beautiful, as usual, Cinna."

His smile is well practised. He knows you mean it. "No sleeves it is, then."

'Masquerade' was the theme. A grand affair in the run up to the 72nd Games; everybody who's anybody would be there. Admittedly, this was last minute; with only your mother's money and status affording you these appointments. But the dress Cinna had managed to make was truly beautiful; draped silver netting with crystal beading, dripping down the dress like the froth of a waterfall. The mask was a similar affair; crystal droplets cascading down its side.

There’s the tell-tale chime of Caesar's show on the antenna; and you hear him announce the mentors for the next games. All past victors; of which Finnick's name is not mentioned.

~~~

Without the sleeves, you’re cold and bare. Even the spotlights of the hall do nothing for warmth, so you are forced away from the draughty sides of the room, near the windows. Avoiding all events, for your own peace of mind, was rearing its ugly head. Never a conversationalist; you were even more out of practice and out of your depth. God, you didn't have the energy for this. Living in the capitol for a lifetime had desensitised you to the excess of your surroundings. Gaudy dresses, tawdry suits, body mods every which way; all to fit the theme of unmasking - lest they were named and shamed for a fashion faux pas in the papers.

You had separated from your mother a while ago, not bearing to be picked apart for the whole night. So you floated, a half empty champagne flute in hand, desperately trying to blend in with the crowd. The masks helped, you suppose; you had never been good at remembering faces, so you compartmentalised and talked to 'the fox' or 'the doll' as opposed to the editor of Panem weekly, or the new candidate for the council.

The lively uptick of music signals the ballroom is open. For a while, you are entranced by the dancing, the sway of bodies and ball gowns in time to the music. A sea of people in the flashing lights. And when that wave breaks, at its crest, is Finnick.

You know it's him, despite the mask. You can feel it; as you watch him laugh something inaudible at his dance partner. She's beautiful, her suit in a complementary shade of blue to his signature gold. There's a shiver down your spine when you watch him lean close to her ear, and whisper something that has her holding back laughter.

You have no right, you know. It tastes bitter to know you've joined the swathes of onlookers; analysing every move. Frustrated, you down your drink and shake it out of your system. You don't know him. Like everyone else, you don't know him.

You make for the door and are swept up by the tide of people. Someone grabs you by the waist and spins you into the arms of another; waltzing with the current. A crescendo, and you've swapped partners, stumbling almost head first into another.

The fabric you clutch at is taut, expensive brocade. Gilded and… golden. You look up. Fuck. Vonnie was right: he is prettier up close.

In your stupor, you hear a snort. He's laughing. You're frozen and he's laughing, the little shit.

"It is customary for one to dance at these things, you know." He looks at you, dead on, and you wait for the flash of recognition. It doesn't come, and you don't know whether to cry with relief or sadness.

"I'm c-concentrating," You almost glare at him. Forward, right. Backwards, left. Rinse, repeat. You need something else to think about. You catch his foot with your shoe and he winces slightly.

"And how's that working for you?" The rest of the sentence was silent. It's not. You splutter with shock at his bluntness, and ignore him. Forward, right. Backwards -

"I know you." It's soft, under his breath. "From the balcony…. I-I remember you."

That's when you look at him, deep green eyes pulling you in despite the mask. There's a smile threatening to break the surface of his face; hands on your waist like you were going to disintegrate. There's the crescendo of music again, and you're whisked away.

"Meet….meet me by the south stairwell!" He shouts after you, before being swallowed up by the crowd.

~~~

The "south stairwell" was deceptively specific, you realise too late. You're wandering the adjourning hallways after slipping out, more than a little lost. Every room looks the same; empty marble flooring and ornate crown carving. It's pristine, a little too evenly aged - a scene of birds and willows in the moulded furrows with a chip here and there. You'd heard once that Councillor Hadrian had ordered for the pieces made in District 2 to be specially aged - people working for months with chisels and hammers to imitate something ancient. A bygone era inside this hulking pile of glass and metal. Hollow. An old wives’ tale, perhaps.

You click-click down the halls in search of a stairwell, let alone one in the south wing. Thankfully, it gives you time to think. You're excited, even though you'd rather perish than admit it. A feeling bubbling up in your gut, ever since you spotted him in the crowd. Now, it threatens to boil over because you've been vindicated. Desperately, you're trying not to overthink; to be a normal fucking human being about this, for once. It doesn't mean the same thing to him, you're sure of it, but it feels nice to pretend.

After a maze of corridors that all look the same, you spot him. In the warm lights you can see him better: dressed in a brocade suit, and underneath, corseted at the waist of a flowing silk shirt. Even the mask suits him, a triple faced affair; deconstructed so his jaw and cheekbones are visible. He's leaning on the bannister, and as you round the corner, you spot someone else with him. She's got her mask atop her striking ginger hair, and tucked her hands into the pockets of a tailored jumpsuit; a complementary blue and silver to Finnick's gold and cream. Guarded when she spots you, Finnick speaks first.

"Hi." He takes off his mask, as if he's seeing you for the first time. There's warmth in his eyes and that smile again.

"Hi." You smile back.

"This is-" He turns to the woman next to you. She can't be much older than you, maybe even your age. Despite her blank stare, she seems somewhat familiar, like you've seen her somewhere before. "This is Annie."

Rather curtly, she nods.

"And Annie… this is who I talked about, before. This is.." you fill in the gap with your name. As if to test how it feels on his tongue, he repeats it after you. He turns back to Annie, a glint in his eye. "She's real, and I'm not crazy, she's-"

"She's real." Annie looks at you once over, visibly unimpressed.

"I didn't think this was your thing, to be honest." He says as he takes a seat on the steps next to you.

"Stay home? And miss out on the vultures? You don't know me well enough, clearly." You stretch out, a little stiff in the dress.

"You weren't at the banquet, or the Staffy twins' party, or Caesar's press junket… I was starting to think I'd never see you again."

You think that means he looked for you; and your heart goes pitter-patter at the implication.

Annie clears her throat. She stands, and when Finnick rushes upwards she sighs." I'm going back in. You can… stay here for a bit. If you need."

When she pads down the corridor, out of sight, Finnick's scratching his head. "She's nice. I promise."

You hum. "I don't blame her. I fucking hate these things." He doesn't look at you.

"You never get tired of it? The peacocking, the preening, the pleases and pardon-mes. I've been to two, I think. And I feel like my eyes are gonna roll back into my head. Permanently." You say that last bit a little dramatically, looking for a laugh.

It doesn't come. "You play the game." Diplomarically, he shrugs. And too quickly, he turns to you. "You want to do something? Something a little stupid?"

"Depends how stupid, s'pose…" There's a hand, rough palms upwards, stretching towards you. You take it and Finnick smiles.

~~~

You're outside Councilor Hadrian's soiree, at the juncture between glassy buildings and the adjourning streets. It's tucked away from the Capitol’s centre, hidden behind manicured hedges and stony pavement. Finnick strays a little further out, furtive as he watches for anyone walking past. At this time of night, however, it is unlikely to meet a soul this far from the entertainment district. Only when you find the streets eerily quiet do you realise how stupid this really is: a midnight walk with a man you don't know, taking you to an unknown place, without anyone aware of your whereabouts. Currently, your only comfort was that this risk taking might send your mother to an early grave.

In the hum of streetlights, you realise just how tall Finnick is. Broad shoulders, corded forearms exposed at his rolled up sleeves. His mask is long gone, discarded on some side table back at the party. You give yourself the time to appreciate the cut of his cheekbones and dimples threatening to expose themselves as he chews on the inside of his cheek. Despite himself, he seems on edge. Nervous.

You haven't been walking long when he stops. A spot secluded by trees. He brings out something jangly in his pockets and points at the half-dark. That's when you see it. A car.

An honest-to-god, 4-wheeled, shiny chassis, little blue car. You gasp. You haven't seen anything with wheels since you were a kid - so a car in this condition was a sight to behold.

"This is- she's gorgeous…! I can't imagine where you got this from-" He can hear you beam as you circle the thing, pawing at its glossy frame.

"His name is Lucas, and he was a gift." He says with a small smile. "Fixed him up myself, and he runs pretty smoothly-"

"You can drive it? Does that mean…are we going to….?" He brings a hand up to pause you. With a little flair, he gently nudges you aside to open the door to the passenger's seat.

~~~

You're having a little too much fun. You must look mad the way you squeal at every bump in the road that makes the car rock; or the way the lights dance in the side mirrors. The streets weren't made for wheels but you enjoyed it nevertheless. You'd been in pods, ships, the occasional hover bike; but none could compare to the feeling of riding down the streets of the Capitol with Finnick in tow.

He took the sideroads; a route you didn't recognise but one he was clearly well versed with.

"Where are we going?“

“A surprise."

He keeps driving, his eyes flitting to look at you in the passenger's seat. You stray further from the Capitol; bleeding into its borders, where concrete gives way to grass and streetlights are swallowed by moonlight. He can't help but to get drunk on small glances of you. Your lazy chatter dies down as he pulls up to a clearing of trees offroad.

He steps out to open your door. You grab his hand and your heels sink a little in the mud. The walk isn't far, and barely a few hundred metres from where he's parked. In the brush, you see the gentle shine of… water.

A lake, crystalline in the low light. Willows sweeping its edge, and the gentle chirrup of cicadas in the rushes. A wooden jetty; solid but mossy with age. Frankly, you've never seen such untouched beauty this close to the Capitol. There's something in the air; crisp and clean, free from blood.

You herd Finnick towards its banks, taking a seat, and he plants himself next to you; open-toed heels barely touching the water. You shiver. Always a gentleman, he gives you the suit jacket off his back.

"I've never seen anything like this…" You look around in awe. "Never… not this close to the capitol. Untouched."

"Bureaucracy, I think. Saved it from a tomb of glass and limestone." He explains. "Once constructruction started, they realised it ran into an underground reservoir. So they abandoned it."

"They?"

"A nebulous, overarching, always-watching they. You know how it goes."

"S'pose I do." You gesture towards your dress. "That's why I'm dressed like this. Is that why you look like you sneezed into a vat of glitter?"

He rolls his eyes. "Very funny. This is my signature look, apparently. I have a brand to maintain."

"A brand…? That's…. unsettling."

"What is?"

You distract yourself by fiddling with the beads on the skirt of your dress.

"I see you on the network. In interviews, on the radio; your face is plastered on half a dozen billboards in the capitol. I go past one on the way to work. The one where you-" You turn, curling your face into a smile, and attempt to wink. "-smiling, like this, I think. Half the nation thinks they know you. And you're good at it."

He doesn't look away.

"Being a brand, I mean. You're good at it."

A pause. The wind causes the grass and willows to chatter in the silence. Fuck.

"You have a job?"

"...could you at least pretend to be surprised?"

"No- it's just, I thought you stop existing when I'm not here." He deadpans, and you laugh at his half-sincerity.

"Like I'm a figment of your imagination? Because you're wracked with the guilt of all the rich fucks in the capitol you've pretended to like…"

"...something like that." He huffs, a little cryptic, but you continue.

"Well, I'm real. And I have a job. A secretary. Data entry, organising meetings, taking minutes, all for Councillor Hadrian. That's how I got into the party." A small lie you barely notice, rolling off your tongue. You don't want him to know about your mother, not yet.

"For Hadrian? You must see a lot, then. Tell me something I don't know."

You could tell him about the secret meetings with his "friends" at the boardwalk - the ones his wife doesn't know about. Or the tin of powder by his desk he scrapes into lines and snorts unceremoniously on stressful days. But Finnick runs in those circles, and was no doubt familiar with Hadrian and his vices.

So you lean in, edging closer towards the man with a hand on his shoulder.

"He's got an inclination for the mutts they use in the games…"

Finnick looks at you bewildered, at first, but catches the glint in your eye. Then, he laughs, a chuckle that turns into a roar until there are tears in his eyes. You laugh with him, glad to see him smile.

"God- I almost believed you…!"

It's your turn to snort, loud in the billowy outdoors. "He's got blood on his hands, same as everyone else." He hums noncommittally. "But Hadrian's a greedy idiot - doesn't look at the bigger picture. It's worse when they're smart. Like….like Councillor Arachne-"

"-the closest thing to Snow's opposition?"

You wave him off. "Opposition is a strong word. All of her positions are inflammatory at best," Nothing too strong, or radical. The shiny veil of choice; two paths leading to the same cavernous pit. You explain:

"She's visible; appeals to both sides without alienating either. The one good thing she did; suspending the 57th games; was reversed, almost immediately. And the fact Snow hasn't offed her yet makes him look….” You search for the right word. ”...benevolent. But the moment she pivots to something that matters - and I mean something other than wine shortages and stretching curfews-"

" -she dies. A tragic accident. A deeply troubled woman pushed to her brink. She dies."

"Wouldn't be the first time." The air is heavy with what's left between the lines. Nothing changes. Not really.

"She's the favourite for overseer in District 4, isn't she?"

"Something like that. She's got her fingers in a lot of pies." Of course, you’d know. Half of the Capitol’s inner circle in and out of your home in an attempt to expand her connections. Hastily, you add, "I guess they all do."

"Is that what you want to do, then? Go into politics?"

"Oh, no. I want people to actually like me." And under your breath, you say. "I don't even care if it's fake. I just want them to like me."

"It's simple things, really." Your head almost snaps towards him. He stretches, and stands up; to lead you towards the pier. You watch as he takes centre stage on the wooden planks and you sit on the grass besides it.

"You make them read between the lines. For example," His gestures are exaggerated, and he echoes across the lake. As a backdrop it's breathtaking, Finnick in gold against the silver gloom of mist and lapping water. "Mirror their body language. Laugh at their stupid jokes. You're personable and good-natured and approachable - you're the first person you need to convince. People already like you. Believe it."

Finnick helps you up onto his stage, and taps the small of your back.

"Posture. Stand up straight. Ask about the little things. Remember the details." Words he recites like a checklist. He's closer now: manic, possessed.

"When Caesar asks if you caught the show the other day, you say you had a late night. That means nightmares, again, but everyone else thinks it means someone seduced, not waking up in your own bed. You don't correct them. Instead, you turn to the camera - the one on your left, your good side - and you wink. Always the golden boy, but not too golden."

There's something there as he talks. Like the night on the balcony, something trying to break free. In a moment, it's gone, whatever you're searching for.

"Eye contact, it's important," He's soft, lifting your jaw up so you're at eye level. Gently, he rests his hands on your waist like they were made for its slope. "And smiling, with your eyes, not your teeth. A little flirty; like you know something they don't…" For a flash second, he looks at your lips. "Little glances, barely noticeable. Make 'em go crazy. Get a little closer than you should."

You're holding your breath. Chest thudding in your dress, he's close, the tip of his nose barely brushing yours, Unwavering, pupils blown; the hot gaze of his sea green eyes burning your skin.

Your mouth moves before you can think. "But it's not… real."

Knee deep in his own performance, the glass shatters. He scrunches his mouth, a flash of dimple, and moves back.

"No. It's not."

Silence, for a bit. You've gotten too comfortable, you think, said something you shouldn't have. He gives you a weak grin.

"Thank you." He says warmly. You're confused.

"For what?"

He shrugs. "For staying, I guess. For listening."

You nod slightly, still clutching at his silky sleeve. A groan comes from your stomach and you realise you've been out for a couple of hours, at least. You separate, gently, embarrassed.

Finnick practically coos. "I've got some food and a blanket in my car. We'll eat, and then I'll take you home, if you want." He hands you the keys, and you pad off towards the car, grateful for the time to clear your head.

Your back hurts from sitting on the ground, and you're cold even in Finnick's jacket - but your face aches from smiling so much. You ruined the moment, you know, but it was unlike anything you've ever felt before. He's disarming; able to get you to cut and spill your insides out onto the wooden planks, with only a smile and a touch of your shoulder. Dangerous.

There's a blanket and water in the boot of the car, the fabric decorated with a pattern you haven't seen before. It's big, handmade probably, and loosely woven; reminiscent of a thick net. You sling it over your shoulder, and grab the water, looking for food. After rummaging around the car's front, you happen across the glovebox. Inside, packaged saltines; that look like the food packs peacekeepers carry; and a little box rattling around its bottom. Curious, you pop it open. Empty, save for a single pill. Many things could be said about you; but you weren’t stupid. You put the box back in its place.

With a click, you lock the car and begin the short walk back to the lake. A rough beaten path you trudge along, your heels long gone. You're not too far, when you hear something. A dull thud. And then, there's a crash, like a boulder thrown into the water. The weeping leaves of the trees block your view, so you hurry towards the noise.

You round the corner. Something's wrong.

"....Finnick?" You can't see him. Calling his name as you drop your things, you clamber onto the jetty. "F-Finnick?"

You're shouting now, nearing the end of the wooden slats. Below you, even in the low light, the water churns. Your voice goes hoarse screaming his name, as you kneel down to get a better look. The planks are wet, warm; but not with water. Blood. You look down. A glinting mass pooling below the surface.

There's a person in the water. Unmoving. Bloody. Golden.

#finnick odair #finnick x reader #finnick x capitol!reader #finnick x y/n #the hunger games #the hunger games fic #angst #slow burn #Spotify #thg #thg x reader #kat_writes😼

231 notes · View notes