#long chapter in which nothing much happens

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Tumblr Exclusive Bonus Chapter #1

The Norris Children, in detail.

Series Masterlist

Ada. 

There’s something about being the first.

The first baby. The first to walk. The first to speak.

The first to cry during a thunderstorm at six years old and not know why it hurt inside your skin.

Ada was the blueprint.

The test run.

The one everyone watched a little too closely, even when they swore they weren’t watching at all.

She was four when her pre-school teacher told her parents that she was “incredibly advanced.”

Six when a substitute accused her of cheating because no child should be able to do mental arithmetic that fast.

Eight when she realised her classmates didn’t need to rehearse conversations in their heads before saying them out loud.

Nine when she had her first meltdown in public.

Not just overstimulation — shutdown. A storm behind her ribs. Fists clenched tight against her ears while fluorescent lights made her feel like she was being peeled apart.

And that night, instead of lectures or shame, her mother simply knelt down next to her on the bathroom floor and said, “I know exactly how that feels."

From then on, things got… clearer.

There were charts on the fridge.

Colour-coded calendars.

Noise-cancelling headphones in every backpack.

Sensory bins and weighted blankets and quiet mornings where the rest of the world was still asleep, but she and her mum sat side by side at the table — not speaking, just thinking.

Her mum said that they were both just “different.”

Her dad called her “brilliant.”

Ezra grew up, donned her with the awful nickname ‘boss baby’, which stuck even when he was taller than her. 

Sienna was the baby. Sweet and curious and untamed in a way Ada never had been.

But Ada didn’t mind being first.

It meant she had a job.

A responsibility.

To show her siblings it was okay to be unique.

To lead, not loudly, but with structure. With compassion. With the quiet certainty of someone who’d learned early how to build scaffolding around herself — and then gently help others climb it too.

And through it all… there was Ayrton.

Always there, like a background hum in her childhood.

Photos of them as toddlers asleep on a bean bag in the McLaren motorhome.

Him pushing her on a scooter in a Monaco courtyard.

Their first proper kart race, where she finished seventh and he finished dead last — she gave up karting after that, too loud and uncomfortable. But he didn’t. He never gave up. 

He was Max’s boy.

But more than that, he was hers.

At school in Monaco, when the noise was too much, he sat next to her with earbuds and a silent fidget toy.

At thirteen, he learned the signs she used when she didn’t have words.

At fifteen, he taught her how to parallel park.

At sixteen, he was the only one who didn’t flinch when she told him she was autistic, even though she’d never used the word aloud before that day.

And at nineteen… he kissed her.

It happened behind the Red Bull hospitality unit, after a long debrief and a chaotic race day. Rain made her curls stick to her cheeks. He had his team hoodie on, half-zipped, and her iPad tucked under his arm because she’d forgotten it — again — and he always noticed.

They were laughing about nothing. And then he kissed her. Gently. Curiously.

And she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t spiral.

Didn’t calculate.

Didn’t pull back.

Because she’d known — for weeks, months, maybe longer — that it was always going to be him.

And maybe the paddock would talk. Maybe the press would speculate.

But Ada had always been fluent in odds.

And even after a thousand simulations, the answer came back the same.

Ayrton Verstappen was the outlier.

The wildcard.

The once-in-a-lifetime variable that made her carefully balanced world better.

And if she was the daughter of two people who had once risked everything for love — then she could do the same.

She didn’t need fireworks or grand declarations.

She just needed this:

His hand in hers.

His hoodie over her shoulders.

And a quiet voice that asked, not assumed, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Ada said. No hesitation. “More than okay.”

Ezra. 

Middle children don’t get movies made about them.

Ezra had known that for most of his life. He was the pause between two exclamation points. The calm between the storm that was Ada — all brilliance, boldness, and incandescent ambition — and the quiet gravitational pull that was Sienna, who never needed to speak loudly to command a room.

He loved them both. Fiercely.

Still, being the only son in the Norris household came with its own specific brand of chaos. Sparkly nail polish and glitter in his hair courtesy of Ada. Hair clips and butterfly bows because, as she declared to anyone who’d listen, “Ezzy’s curls are prettier than mine!” There were science fair disasters in the kitchen, choreographed dance routines he wasn’t allowed to bail on, years of hand-me-downs, and the deep, immovable truth that he would never win an argument with his big sister — and rarely wanted to.

But he wouldn’t have traded any of it.

He’d grown up in a house humming with noise and speed. Race footage often played during dinner. An old wind tunnel simulator his mum had built in the garden whirred softly most nights. Sometimes, it lulled him to sleep.

His dad, Lando Norris, once a name shouted across circuits and printed on podium banners, was the man who snuck him out to the karting track at dusk just for fun, who raced him in the hallway in socked feet, and who could flip a pancake with Olympic precision.

And his mum — Amelia — had recalibrated a power unit mid-contraction while in labour with Sienna. 

Ezra remembered that day vividly, despite only being young.

The emergency call from Woking.

Ada’s terrifying calm at just ten years old.

The way his dad had somehow crossed continents in what felt like minutes.

Ezra had always known his mother was brilliant. But it wasn’t until he got older that he began to understand the weight of her genius. The pressure. The precision. The days when the world expected too much and gave too little in return. And the softness she saved only for them.

She was their anchor. Their gravity.

And his father?

He was joy in human form. Goofy. Sharp. Unshakably steady. An impossibly cool dad who became even cooler when Ezra realised — around twelve — that not everyone got to grow up with a multi-time world champion making waffles in their kitchen wearing bunny slippers and whistling ABBA.

Now, at eighteen, Ezra stood on the edge of a polished stage, scanning a sea of folding chairs and proud parents. His black robe swished around his ankles. The cap itched against his curls. The valedictorian medal felt heavier than he’d expected — or maybe it wasn’t the medal at all.

He wasn’t sure what came next.

Maybe another degree. Maybe a research lab. Maybe a year off to just breathe, to figure it out. He liked a lot of things — astronomy, physics, film, languages. Sometimes, he liked them all too much to choose just one.

He knew he could be something.

But he wasn’t racing toward it, not like his parents had.

He didn’t feel called, not in a thunderbolt way.

Just… pulled, quietly, by a thread of steady curiosity.

And maybe that was okay.

Ezra stepped up to the podium and adjusted the mic.

He looked out into the crowd until he found them.

His people. His constants.

Ada, already crying even though she’d insisted she wouldn’t.

Sienna on Dad’s lap.

Mum, right in the middle.

And Dad, camera already raised, smiling like the moment might burst out of him.

Ezra smiled too.

Then leaned into the mic and spoke.

“People say middle kids get lost. They say we’re forgettable. Quiet. That we live in the shadows of the firstborn and the baby. But I’ve never felt that way. Not once. Because I was born in the middle of greatness. My big sister taught me how to be brave. She always walked into every room like she belonged there — and made sure I knew I belonged too. My little sister taught me how to be patient. She showed me that strength isn’t always loud — that sometimes the fiercest people whisper. My mum taught me how to think with precision, how to speak with care, and how to be kind, even when it’s hard. In my opinion, she’s the smartest person in the world. And my dad… He taught me how to lead with joy. How to fail with grace. And how to win — when it happens — without ever needing to gloat. Every dream I have — everything I’ve achieved — started with them.”

He glanced down at his medal. Then back up.

“So, yes. Today I graduate. With distinction. With pride. But more than anything, I stand here full of love. For my family. For the life they gave me. And for the fact that not once — not once — did they ever ask me to be anything but myself.”

He paused. Just for a moment.

“Everything I am, I lay at their feet. Thank you.”

A hush fell over the crowd — the kind that only comes after something real, something earned. And then the applause rose, wave after wave, filling the auditorium.

Ezra stepped down from the podium, the moment swelling in his chest. The faculty called the next name, but his eyes stayed on them. On the people who had shaped him, held him steady, let him be.

So, okay — maybe he wasn’t the main character in any story but his own.

But that was more than enough.

And whatever came next… he’d meet it with open hands.

He was his mother’s mind. His father’s heart.

He was Ada’s precious Ezzy. Sienna’s fiercest protector.

He was Ezra Norris. And his story was only just beginning.

Sienna

She was born into a world of sound she could never hear.

Sienna Max Norris.

The last of three. The softest of storms. The quietest echo of a very, very loud love.

She grew up in a house that hummed. That buzzed and spun and overflowed. A house where racing was at the heart of everything, and laughter spilled into corners like light. Where Ada debated everything like it was a blood sport and Ezra always smelled like grass and sunscreen and library books.

And never, not once, did Sienna feel left behind.

Maybe it was because her family learned her language before she ever learned theirs.

Her dad had started signing with her before she could even sit up by herself.

And her mum had already built visual boards, adapted every piece of their household tech, and used an old McLaren telemetry to create a display that blinked in soft colours with the vibration of sound.

They’d never told her “You can’t do that.”

Only, “Here’s how we’ll make it work.”

Sienna grew up finger-spelling across breakfast tables and reading lips with quiet precision. She liked books more than people, pages more than parties. But she liked watching people. She liked watching her dad talk with his hands even when he wasn’t signing. She liked watching her mum’s eyes when she looked at her dad — how something unspoken always passed between them, like radio static made soft and golden.

She remembered being six years old and crawling onto the couch between them while a Tuesday morning race rerun played on the television. Lando had pulled her close and kissed the top of her head.

“You know what I love most about your mum?” He signed, fingers dancing gently.

Sienna, too young to fully grasp the scope of the question, tilted her head.

Lando smiled. “She doesn’t need to speak to say anything.”

Sienna had never forgotten that.

Maybe that’s why she’d become so obsessed with love stories.

Why her shelves overflowed with books about tenderness and time, aching and joy, the long, slow work of building a life with someone. Why she watched her parents like they were characters in a romance novel — ones that had somehow made it past the last page and kept going.

Because in her world, love was never loud.

It was steadfast. Present. Gentle. Certain.

It was her mother’s hand finding her father’s under the table.

It was her father always knowing what her mum needed. 

It was her mum reading bedtime stories with one hand while conversing with the McLaren pit wall with the other.

It was her dad painting Sienna’s bedroom walls a soft lavender because it made the light feel quieter.

Her childhood was full of kindness like that.

Of Oscar baking cookies after race weekends, even when he was exhausted. Of Uncle Max signing with a heavy Dutch accent and calling her little storm in between teasing her brother. Of Pietra brushing her hair before school because her mum was having a not so good morning. 

And always, always — the knowing. The seeing. That she was loved. 

Sienna didn’t want to be her mother. Or her sister. Or her brother.

She just wanted to be herself. And that had always been enough.

She grew up and wrote stories because she loved stitching meaning into silence. Because she wanted people to understand what it felt like to live in a world where you noticed everything but were so often overlooked.

She didn’t write to shout.

She wrote to offer a hand — the way her parents always had.

And when her first book was published — a tender, aching love story about two people who only communicated through letters — the first person she handed a copy to was her mum.

She read it in one sitting. Then found her, eyes shimmering. “You are the most talented writer in the world,” Amelia signed.

Sienna only smiled. “Mum, that’s ridiculous.”

Later that night, her dad pulled her into his arms. He still smelled like salt and cologne and faintly of car polish. He wasn’t much of a reader, her dad. He was dyslexic, probably, and had trouble giving one thing his attention for any prolonged period of time. 

“I’m so proud of you,” he said, with his voice and his hands, before leaning in and pressing a kiss to her temple. 

And maybe that was it.

Maybe that was all she ever wanted — to take the life her family had built for her, the love they had poured into her like light, and shape it into something lasting. Something that would make them proud. Something she could pass on, long after voices faded.

She hadn’t heard her parents' vows the first time around.

But she’d witnessed them — every day, in every gesture.

So she wrote them down. Quietly. Carefully. Word by word.

For herself.

For them.

For the love story that raised her.

It was never meant for shelves. Not for publishers or press tours or critics with coffee-stained notebooks. This one wasn’t for the world.

It was for home.

She bound it herself — a soft, leather cover in dusky blue, pages printed with deliberate care, her own illustrations folded between chapters. The title had no fanfare. Just a name, pressed into the front with simple gold leaf. 

On Christmas morning, 2042, she handed the book to her grandfather — a man who had once watched her sign nonsense at the clouds and told her that she’d grow up to create entire worlds.

Zak Brown raised a brow, bemused, then slid his reading glasses on and cracked the spine open.

And on the very first page, in ink that still smelled faintly of the printer in her flat, he read the opening line aloud to the living room:. 

"Amelia Brown stared at the new plaque on her dad’s office door."

There was a pause.

Ada looked up from where she was helping Ezra untangle a mess of fairy lights.

Lando stilled mid-sip of coffee.

And Amelia, the woman who had lived the first page long before it was ever written, blinked, slow and soft, as if the past had reached gently forward to take her hand.

Zak looked up. He didn’t say much. Just closed the book, thumb resting lightly on the page.

Then, with more reverence than any of them could have expected from a man who’d slowly lost pieces of himself to old age in the last few years, he nodded. “Good,” he said. “Good job, my girl.”

Sienna smiled.

Because she’d done it.

Because she would keep doing it.

Because some stories weren’t meant to be shouted — they were just meant to be remembered.

Quietly. Carefully.

Word by word.

Forever.

[lexdelioncourt]

I have 2 fears regarding Devil's Minion

- that they would focus less on past DM and more on present DM (there have been a lot of hints with Eric and Assad, but almost nothing w Assad and Luke)

- that they would focus more on the toxic aspect (re Rolin's comments that it will be majorly fucked up) rather than the domestic part

But I love love love your hopeposting, its so refreshing

Hey! I'm so glad you enjoy my hopeposting! Don't get me wrong, I have my fears too (these two own my ass) but I'm always trying to remember things that we know, while trying to tap into as much media analysis as possible in order to keep the hope alive. So let's inject some hope, shall we?

Personally I believe there are too many things that have been teased in S1/2 that don't really make sense to me if past-DM didn't happen. The main and most obvious one to me being the weirdly soft moments Armand has with Daniel (stopping Louis from messing with him, comforting Daniel when Louis brings up the Alice thing, apologising on behalf of Louis after he did that, the soft conversation at the beginning of Episode 2.3, the long companionable silences that are emphasised by repeated shots of Daniel's audio recording program). This is not the way someone would behave towards a total stranger they met once 50 years ago, tortured for a week, and then never saw again until now. SOMETHING has changed in this relationship between 1973 and 2022. Before and after having fallen in love?? Hopefully!

I also think that these softer moments hint to us that we will hopefully see their relationship as equal parts messy and soft (like we've seen with Loustat), because the writers are doing a great job of giving us some well-rounded characters and complex ships and I hope that they will continue to do so. Rolin's comment about something "majorly fucked up" between them could go any way I think. I mean it's majorly fucked up if Armand did wipe all of Daniel's memories! Chasing him around the world is also pretty fucked up! A lot of stuff they do is fucked up! But they have those soft moments too, soft moments I think show Armand is still having in those scenes I mentioned above. Also, it's always key to remember that showrunners talk shit all the time to keep from spoiling their shows. He's going to be trolling and redirecting and trying to keep a lid on things as much as possible so I don't think we should worry too much on that front.

On the Alice thing, I'm not gonna beat a dead horse, we all know the theories but I think the key takeaways are

The "she felt freer to hold her hand" line (because there has been throughout the entire show a repeating refrain of "European sensibilities", "they care less about what you look like or who you're looking at").

2. The very intentional editing of that scene ("what did she *flashback of Armand* say when you asked her to marry you *shot of Armand*". I think this is a VERY intentional editing choice. This isn't subtext, this is just THE TEXT.

Also the fact that the show has kept the past timeline the same as the book timeline (OG interview in 1973) and mentioned the failed proposal as happening in 1985 (the year Daniel is turned in the books) also gives me hope that essentially the show is going to do a book canon divergence thing where, instead of young Daniel's turning, we get the breakup/mindwipe thing and we see an alternate universe where Daniel lives his full life.

Finally, purely from a storytelling point of view, I think objectively the only completely satisfying way to show Daniel and Armand's relationship is if past-DM happened. I make it no secret that I am a romance girlie (in fact I am writing my PhD dissertation on a niche subgenre of popular romance), and I have posted before about how the Devil's Minion chapter meets all the genre requirements for a romance. The second chance romance trope (for those who don't know) is a super fun trope in which a pair of exes finally get their second shot at a happily ever after. This trope often involves older protagonists purely because of the whole second chance thing. The show version of Devil's Minion TO ME has all the hallmarks of a second-chance romance and I will shout about it unapologetically!! Also speaking of tropes, never forget that the amnesia plotline is an EXTREMELY popular telenovela trope.

I'm not gonna get to into all the reasons why I think past-DM happened (because there's plenty of posts and analyses out there and you didn't even ask for that lol). But I do think the main reason we've seen a lot of Eric/Assad and not really a whole lot of Luke/Assad is because Luke is a walking, living, breathing spoiler. While we are all choosing to believe past-DM happened it still isn't show confirmed and if they start parading Luke around too much, then that's basically confirmation that they're doing past-DM because why the fuck else would they pay to drag him back if they weren't?

I also think they'd be crazy to not keep utilising him, because he is so incredible (also, the more I think about it the more I think that the very idea of setting this as a second interview and showing young Daniel at all leads me to believe in past-DM, simply because showing the young/old Daniel dichotomy probably wasn't even 100% necessary to the broader storyline if past-DM didn't happen).

I'm so sorry, this reply totally got away from me haha. But I hope it made sense and injected some hope!

[i-messed-up-big-time]

Someone Precious III

a/n: i am in no ways a medical professional so pls dont mind if some medical stuff sounds weird, i did my best to research beforehand. also im so sorry it took me so long to write and release this, its been nonstop working and no sleep for me so i havent had the chance to actually sit down long enough to write much. also sorry that it's so short but stay tuned cause the next chapter is gonna be JUICY

Divider creds @/cafekitsune

tags: mentions of blood, female reader, not a medical professional, dark themes, mentions of depression, body image problems.

word count: 1.3k

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series masterlist

taglist: @aneertawrites @eurydiceknowshesloved @angelichiaro @nommingonfood @ynovaes @animegamerfox @melonssoup @iamawkwardandshy @novthirty @rosevelt632 @sleepless-cloudy @justpassingdontworry @sleepykittyenergy @ijustwannabeyourmuse @iiyumii @eolivy @asakiyu @dekiruxxx @unwaveringcosmicmemory @flora98

MC was definitely panicking, rushing to get everything before helping you into the car and giving your doctor a call to let her know what was happening.

She quickly helped you into the back, making sure you had enough space and you were as comfortable as you t could be, and that's when the first contraction hit.

You groaned in pain, which only worried MC, she glanced at you in the rearview mirror.

"Is it the contractions?"

She asked, you could only nod as another contraction hit you, this one more painful than the first.

You groan out in pain, clutching your stomach.

"Step on it."

You said in between deep breaths. Out of the corner of your eye you could see MC hesitate, but you repeated yourself with a little bit more edge to your voice.

It wasn't meant to sound as harsh as it came out, but you know MC wouldn't take it to heart considering the condition you're in right now.

●・○・●・○・●・

MC had managed to get you guys to the hospital at a decent speed, although it still had you complaining from the back that she was driving too slow and at that rate you might as well have your kids in the back of the car.

Your contractions were getting worse, you were timing them but the pain had you lose count.

MC helped you out of the car and got you into a wheelchair. You don't know how you could have made it without her.

She flagged down a nurse and told her your water had broke and you were having contractions.

They got you into a room and changed into a gown.

"We're gonna monitor you for a bit until you're ready to give birth, if you need anything just press the call button."

The nurse gave you a polite smile before leaving you and MC alone.

The room was filled with your laboured breathing and words of encouragement from MC as she held your hand.

"Have you thought about any names for the kids yet?"

MC asked, trying to get you to focus on something else instead of the pain.

You were about to respond when you felt this agonizing pain in your stomach and the feeling of something wet in between your legs.

You clutched your stomach and tried to move but the pain was too intense.

MC then spotted the blood pooling between your legs and wasted no time in pressing the call button.

The nurse came in and before she could even ask what you needed she ran out just as quick as she came in.

The nurses and doctors were here within seconds, you couldn't hear a thing as the pain kept increasing and caused a ringing in your ear.

You could only pray your babies would be okay.

●・○・●・○・●・

MC watched as they gave you anesthesia and wheeled you away to an operating room.

She didn't understand what they were saying, it was all a blur, but what she knew for sure was that they needed to perform an emergency c-section or else both the mother and the babies would be at risk of not making it.

MC felt at a loss that there was nothing that she could do but pray and hope everything turns out okay.

●・○・●・○・●・

More than an hour had passed before you were brought back into your room with two little cribs with your babies wrapped in baby blue blankets.

MC couldn't help but tear up, not just out of happiness but also out of sadness for her friend that went through so much not just today but this past year.

The doctor said that you'd be asleep for a little while longer and to press the call button when you woke up so they could do some checks on you and the babies.

MC brought up a chair next to your bed and decided to send a text to Xavier with a list of things to get before you woke up.

●・○・●・○・●・

When you woke up, you were greeted with the site of MC cuddled up on a chair with Xavier and the room decorated with congratulation balloons and bouquet of your favourite flowers.

Out of the corner of your eye you spotted a box that looked suspiciously like the one from your favourite bakery.

You heard your babies start to cry and before you could even get up to check on them MC woke up and made her way over to you.

"Don't get up just yet, the doctor said you need to rest and not over exert yourself. That means I'll be doing the moving for you."

MC pushed you back down and rolled the cribs closer to you so you could pick up your crying babies.

It was a bit difficult at first but you got comfortable real quick holding them both. Your entire world was in this small hospital room, and you wouldn't trade them for the world.

The doctors and nurses kept coming and going, running tests and monitoring both you and the babies to make sure everything was okay.

It wasn't long before MC asked what you planned on naming your boys.

This was something you spent your entire pregnancy thinking about, wanting it to be perfect but you also just wanted to go with the flow of the moment.

"Lucian, my light, and Calix, my little gift."

●・○・●・○・●・

You were discharged a few days later.

The doctor had informed you that recovery would take about 4-6 weeks and that it was vital that you didn't strain your body during this time and that you had ample amount of rest.

The moment you stepped into the house someone popped a confetti bomb.

There stood Xavier with a silly little hat on and a banner behind him that said 'Welcome Home!'

You turned and gave MC, who was holding a camera, a big hug as you burst into tears. The love that this woman gave you could never be rivalled.

She told you to go shower and settle in while she took the boys to their room to sleep.

The shower was exactly what you needed after being stuck in a hospital room for a couple of days.

●・○・●・○・●・

Three months later

You were struggling, not with the kids, but with yourself.

It was hard to sleep at night, you were constantly plagued with thoughts about Caleb, even though you tried really hard not to think about him.

Your beautiful baby boys were carbon copies of him, your genes didn't even bother putting up a fight, but you wouldn't trade them for the world.

They were just as handsome as their father, you just know they're gonna be trouble when they get older.

You spent countless nights crying and wishing some things could be different, wishing you could've had him by your side throughout all of this.

It pained you to raise your precious babies without a father but what could you do?

It didn't help that you were struggling with looking at yourself in the mirror. You know you shouldn't, but the scar on your stomach made you feel so ugly.

You know you shouldn't feel this way, but it was hard. You just wanted to be loved, was that so hard to ask for?

Your mind constantly drifts back to the day you woke up and saw that note, and your heart shatters all over again.

You thought time would heal all wounds, but it seems impossible for this one.

MC noticed your change in moods, the way you looked so downcast when you think no one is watching. She knows you like the back of her hand so she's aware of what you're thinking about.

She doesn't ask questions but always makes sure that you know that she's there for you no matter what choice you make. As long as you're happy.

[megsdoodletag]

I too adore you're updated codex series, and I have a question:

On A scale of "Normal Sanguinius" - "Vampiric Mothman" How much of cryptid is Updated Codex Sanguinius? I adore his updated Codex self, he seems very bitey

UC!Sang is Extremely Bitey, but not much of a cryptid about it. Like, you’ll see him coming.

Now. you’ll notice this is a theme in updated codex, but sang is back and he’s done with everyone’s shit, both horus and the imperium’s. He, like Fulgrim, has figured out at some point that trying desperately to become the embodiment of an unrealistic ideal did him no favors: the defects of his legion he was so worried about, that he tried so hard to handle himself, were known all along. emps just didn’t care. His loyalty and sacrifice, all the work he did to make his legion presentable, has been repaid with…nothing. He looks at the remains of his legion and successor chapters and he thinks.

The second thing to know about updated codex sang, is that he’s pissed. sang being back drops the frequency of black rage incidents by a significant amount.

this is because he is stealing it all

that’s a bad explanation. good explanation: black rage caused by echoes of sang’s soul post-mortem sparking against the already volatile nature of his genesons (calmer echoes became sanguinor). now that sang is Back Together, while it’s still possible to get caught in a shockwave/hit a snag genetically and go crazy (keeping in mind all of this is a secondary issue to the Red Thirst, which is entirely separate) most of the black rage vibes are no longer leaking out all over into blood angel psychic channels, making it easier for blangels to snap out of trances or avoid falling into them all together. this is bad because all the bad vibes are now Concentrated in a primarch, which we've learned from various daemon princes is a bit like deciding to add c4 to the backyard bonfire.

While he’s genuine and kind to most people he meets, including serfs and baselines and his babies and his nieces and nephews and brothers-who-aren’t-horus, he is aggressively interested in protection for his geneline and any planets under their control. Though he’ll weather the inevitable hero worship, something he’s dealt with for a long time already, he refuses to continue to present himself as the saint, when he feels that was a sham to those it should have mattered to anyway. He snaps and snarls at emps, and will not aid guilliman’s new imperium with figurehead appearances though the two are on otherwise good terms. (gman doesn’t begrudge him this too much. the imperium Does Kinda Suck). He’s dropped his filter, basically. He’s still undoubtedly one of the nicest of the primarchs on an individual level, and to an inconsequential person he poses no threat, but he isn’t interested in pulling punches anymore, politically or otherwise, and is therefore a relative wildcard for his brothers to deal with. his legion is largely following his lead (sort of. it's complicated)

he is not currently allowed on the field. quite frankly everyone is terrified of what might happen with his mental state being so volatile (his legion doesn’t want to lose their primarch again, everyone else is just plain terrified) He isn’t too bothered by this, preferring to stick to the palace so he can monitor and terrorize horus like a blood-covered victorian spectre. He does occasionally venture out; memorably, he's (re?)made friends with The Silent King, and he can split the sanguinor off for Emergency Sang-Ex-Machinas, though it's debatable how much control he has over the sanguinor while it's separated

[quillsandblades]

do you think levihan is canon for real?

Heyy anon!

Do I think levihan is canon? I'd say yes absolutely, I'm like 99% sure they are - that one percent lacking here because Isayama hasn't really announced that they're official lol. Though even if Isayama does say they're not canon I'll probably live on in denial. Plus, now I'm so deep on the levihan pit I can never be convinced to stop shipping them.

Btw when I say they're canon here it doesn't mean I think they were an established couple (cuz Isayama said Levi was never involved in any romantic relationship throughout aot) but I do believe they had feelings for each other. Whether they acted on them or not is a different debate.

Why do I think they're canon? Plenty of reasons.

Firstly, starting from something of my own; I'd like to add that I never even shipped levihan until well after I'd finished the anime and the manga. In fact I never shipped Levi or Hange with anyone while watching/reading aot and for a long time after that. I was too focused on the plot and there were many other things going on.

Now from the eyes of a (former) non-shipper, I didn't think much of the head grab scene, didn't know the black jacket being shared between them, and never even noticed Levi could recognise Hange just by the sound of her knock on the door.

But then enter season 4 and suddenly Hange's changed and everything's going wrong. And I'm noticing things.

The forest scene happened and I was watching in dub for some reason so the ifkk line was translated as "we should camp out in the woods for the rest of our lives" and that's not very romantic. But despite that I could feel something between them, in the air, in that scene. But then the plot moved on and I didn't pay much attention to it.

I read chapter 132 from the manga cus the anime wasn't released yet, and again there was something there. Hange's walking towards her death and I'm literally falling into despair, waiting for someone to stop her and Levi shows up. And I just felt like he'd stop her and she'd listen. But he did the salute and I didn't read it as romantic at all but I felt some very complicated history, emotion, whatever passing between them ok. I felt there was something in that scene between all those words that only isayama or the characters themselves would know. And the fact that Levi never did that salute for anyone, not even Erwin, made me think Hange was probably more precious to him than I realised.

And then later on when I discovered levihan and it felt so right. The ship just fit the whole plotline and everything, like it had existed within it all along.

Next comes all the proof for levihan being canon we've seen in this community. We all know Isayama wrote Aot with exacting precision, every foreshadowing, every dialogue meant something. Now keeping in mind how carefully he made this manga, we look at all the little details.

Isayama himself approved the head grab scene in the anime and we know how it went against Levi's every single principle. His FINGERS ARE ENTANGLED IN HER HAIR. Hair which she rarely ever washes and Levi is supposed to hate filthy things. She's IN HIS PERSONAL SPACE.

Then there's the black jacket yams said wasn't Levi's and we saw it on Hange too. Again a very subtle detail but I'd never ignore it cuz Isayama is the master of subtle details.

Hange practically proposed to him in the forest scene. "Maybe we should just live here together" like hello?? What kind of thoughts had she been having to say that in a moment where her defenses were down? Clearly nothing about friendship. If Yams didn't wanna hint anything he could've kept it simple like 'maybe we should stay hidden here' or idk something like that, but no. Living together. The stuff couples do.

Then there's the "yet another love for a titan gone unrequited" line Levi says in ch132 and we know, in Japanese, it sounds like Levi's implying her love for someone else is requited (and there was only Levi left alive as a potential love interest for Hange at that time so we know who that mysterious someone is). Isayama could've written anything else but he chose to have Levi say words that had potential other meanings. Why would he do that? That guy knows his language, he could've phrased it any other way but he didn't

Then there's the interpretations of the 'Dedicate your heart' from ch132 and they make so much sense. It was such an intimate gesture on Levi's part I just can't. Here again, Isayama could've had Levi do the standard salute with his fist on his own heart and keep it all professional, a last goodbye from Captain to Commander. But no Levi rests his fist on Hange's heart and adds another layer of meaning, of longing, in that goodbye.

One can argue he did it because Hange probably didn't have the courage to go on, so he did the salute for her to make sure she didn't waver in her duty. Which is, ok, a bit valid--BUT. Remember how Erwin was also hesitating before his death? I can't say he was scared but he was considering the selfish way out to the basement. He needed a push too. And Levi gave him exactly that. No salute, nothing about hearts or dedication, instead a "Give up on your dreams and die" and a vow to kill Zeke. So we know Levi knows what to say to people who are leaving, he knows the words to give a dying man because he's seen so many. He could've done the same with Hange, could've said the right words so she didn't waver and got that push she needed. But he chose a gesture instead. His fist, not even on his own heart but hers. It was more than just a push, hell maybe it was a plea to come back alive. We'll never know

Then there's the little things in the manga. Like how Levi knew something was wrong with Hange after Pastor Nick's death and was visibly concerned about her, and said "Why do you need to keep it in, tell me Hange."

They've got nicknames for each other. I've never seen Levi give anyone a nickname ok, and then he calls her shitty-glasses/four-eyes. And Hange calls him clean-freak. Not the typical nicknames two people would give each other but hey they're both abnormals after all.

There you have it anon. Levihan's backed up by so much canon hints and crumbs that it's impossible to feel they didn't have something between them.

That got so long lol, you probably didn't expect to have an essay handed out to you. Thanks for dropping by and hopefully you found your answer in here!

[burrythebusy]

Every single chapter is important. Every panel, all the dialogue, every page and how it transfers into the next one... I 100% believe no questions that every single decision made in hrkg is intentional. Even the tiny chapters that are like seven pages, they're important! Even if it feels like nothing happened in the chapter, something did. Something important. If it's not glaring, it may be a tiny reflection. If it's not super loud, it might just be quiet. But it's there. I promise you it's there. A lot of this comes from the fact that i am obsessed with this piece of media and I don't expect casual enjoyers to analyze every chapter, but just because you don't see it doesnt mean it's not there. The development, the meaning, the purpose, it's all there and always has been, it reveals itself bit by bit and i stand by that

[longagoitwastuesday]

Every day I am haunted by the fact JJK could be amazing but it will be just idk Bleach or something

[flythesail]

Qimir sharing his tragic backstory with Osha and immediately taking his shirt off still makes me laugh

[volfoss]

i cant even like post about the horrors that are going on currently because im gonna get too mad but oh my god. like i would give her really good credit for writing a character like marius that has 0 self awareness about his insanely disgusting behavior bc like. that CAN work. you can make the reader feel disgust and see things through the eyes of someone who is horrible while not romanticizing the behavior. clearly anne did not get the memo for this one.

[lucanderie]

Still need to mull this over some more, but it's very intriguing how much player-defying Kris proves themselves physically capable of this chapter.

They maliciously comply with our exact wording when asked to turn a doorknob. They cover their mouth midway through a sentence. When asked to say Berdly's name, they repeat themselves loudly in shock. They do PLENTY of physical actions or gestures unprompted, such as kneeling down and touching Ralsei when only prompted to talk, pushing Susie out of harm's way for the second time, giving her their knife with a flourish, laughing or nodding to clarify a statement... as well as their unprompted hijinks at the church. They act by themselves both in the spur of the moment and premeditated, in both low-stakes interactions and highly emotional, instinctive reactions. It seems like they're capable of doing any emoting, physical gesturing, or creative prompt interpretations they so desire apart from a) speaking, b) when directly commanded to do something else and c) in many weird route sequences (will circle back to this). They know entire commands word for word before they execute them, and they are aware enough of the fact that we have goals and what those goals may be to actively conspire against us. Kris knows our "rules".

This is extremely interesting because we saw very little of this in the previous chapters- leading us to believe Kris had basically zero input on Dark-World happenings, and had less understanding of their own situation then say, Ralsei did. But here, Kris isn't just getting more clever about or more accustomed to defying us- they're proving progressively more capable of just doing things of their own volition that any possessed kid who was randomly dropped into this situation with no warning or context would not wait two days to try.

Combined with the fact that from the beginning, they defy us to limit what we see long before they defy what we actually force them to do, (even when they clearly don't like doing it!), and that there's precedent for a character's mindset determining the player's level of control with Susie, it's seeming more and more like Kris is purposefully limiting themselves in earlier chapters. They have a vested interest in "playing the part", coming across to either us or someone else like they have less agency than they do, and they get progressively more open about the amount of defiance that they are capable of.

This is just, a fascinating jump in Kris's amount of agency! At the very least, they may know a similar amount of meta-info to even Ralsei. It changes some of their earlier actions from purely-forced to compliant. And there's a lot of (non-evil, you guys) reasons they would do this- they're probably at least, (at this point), afraid of some kind of retribution from us or their co-conspirators. They want to stay ahead of us by hiding their agency, they may not be comfortable enough with themselves to show express in certain instances... And this changes their defiant actions from things that they are allowed to do into things they are willing to risk doing- saving Susie twice, not hurting Ralsei's feelings, comforting Noelle, slorking down those juice cups like they're NOTHING- all little risks they're willing to take.

This just leaves the weird route- which may either be a route where the player simply gains more control over Kris, or maybe the "proceed" commands could be more general and therefore more inclusive. Or Kris could be initially, willing to play along with freezing the Darkners in order to achieve their goal, to bide their time, and once they realize how fucked up we can get it's too late.

I don't know. I'm definitely missing things, but I just love how much more Kris we have and are eventually going to get.

[rosemaryhoney27]

Ghost of a Chance

Gotham was not a city known for its kindness. Rain slicked the alleyways like a second skin, and shadows crept where sunlight dared not linger. Alfred Pennyworth had seen a great many things in this city. Muggers, monsters, and masked madmen were just part of the nightly routine. What he hadn't expected, however, was to be saved by a ghost.

Or something very much like one.

It was supposed to be a quick errand—a quiet evening walk to clear his head. But halfway down Burnside, three desperate men with more bravado than brains cornered him. Alfred had been ready to disarm the first and disable the second, but he never got the chance. A blur of white and black swooped in, accompanied by the distant, bone-deep hum of unnatural power. The muggers were down in seconds—one frozen to the wall, another knocked out cold, and the third suspended midair by a glowing hand that flickered green.

The boy was there and gone just as fast. Alfred barely had time to register the tattered hoodie, the hollow cheeks, the white hair and green eyes that didn’t seem quite human.

"Wait—!" Alfred had called, but the boy was already gone, melting into the shadows like smoke.

The encounter would’ve ended there—just another strange chapter in Gotham’s nightbook—if it hadn’t kept happening.

Twice more, the mysterious young man appeared. Once to stop a purse snatcher near the theater. Another time to drag a lost child out of a crumbling building during a fire. Always fast, always silent. Always gone before Alfred could properly speak to him.

And always too thin.

It was the kind of thin that spoke of long nights without food. Hollow cheeks, knobby elbows, a belt cinched too tight around jeans that barely stayed up. It reminded Alfred of the early days—of Dick, of Jason, of Tim, of Damian. Of boys who had learned to survive instead of live.

Alfred Pennyworth had a rule: no one went hungry on his watch.

And so began his campaign.

At first, it was subtle. A wrapped sandwich left behind after one of the ghost-boy’s heroic appearances. A thermos of hot tea left conveniently near a rooftop perch. A backpack, clean and durable, filled with protein bars and fresh socks. Most of it vanished, though Alfred never saw it happen.

Then came the note, scrawled in messy, tired handwriting:

“Thanks. You didn’t have to. I’m not sticking around though. It’s safer for you if I don’t.”

The next day, Alfred left a response tucked in the same spot:

“You are not a danger, young man. I’ve seen far worse, and fed far worse. If you insist on continuing your streak of rooftop chivalry, I insist you do so on a full stomach.”

He added a slice of quiche. It was gone by morning.

Bruce raised an eyebrow the first time he caught Alfred baking two loaves of banana bread instead of one. Tim said nothing when the supply order mysteriously included a half dozen extra protein shakes and thermal gloves in medium size. Damian made a snide comment—something about stray ghosts haunting the pantry—but Alfred didn’t dignify it with a reply.

Then came the night it changed.

A patrol gone wrong. Batman caught in a collapsing parking garage. The comms went dead. Nightwing was too far. Red Hood was tracking Penguin. The only one nearby—untraceable, unregistered, and undeniably powerful—was the boy Alfred had been feeding for weeks.

He left the beacon on the rooftop.

“Help him. Please. –A.P.”

Within minutes, Bruce stumbled through the Batcave entrance, soot-smudged and breathing, but alive. Behind him, almost hidden in the shadows, was the boy. White hair. Green eyes. Shivering slightly, but still on his feet.

“I didn’t do it for favors,” the boy said. His voice was hoarse, too young for his haunted face. “I just... couldn’t let him die.”

“I know,” Alfred said gently. “Which is precisely why the offer of dinner still stands.”

“…I shouldn’t.” But his eyes drifted toward the warm lights of the manor beyond the cave, toward the smell of fresh bread and something sweet baking in the oven.

“No one escapes me forever, dear boy,” Alfred said with a small smile. “Not even slippery ghosts.”

The boy stared at him for a long moment. Then finally, like a candle burning out, he sagged.

“…Okay. Just for tonight.”

“Of course,” Alfred said, already turning toward the kitchen. “We’ll start with soup.”

Behind him, the boy whispered a name like an afterthought—like something long buried finally being said aloud.

“Danny. My name’s Danny.”

“Well then, Master Danny,” Alfred said, with the same fondness he reserved for all his wayward sons, “welcome home.”

[motorsportbarbie13]

Aftermath - Chapter 1

When Lando leaves you heartbroken after you get tired of trying to make something into nothing for far too long, Max steps in to help you pick up the pieces.

Warnings: Lando is a dick in this. Small mention of not eating/losing weight but it's not discussed at length. angst. all. the. angst. Pairing: Max Verstappen x LeClercSister!Reader Word Count: 4.4k

(Also big giant huge thank you to @nitaekook for beta reading/editing/hyping this up and convincing me it was ready to be posted! ❤️❤️)

Master List

Falling out of love is exhausting. The way the silent negligence slowly chips away at the glossy veneer of gold plated faux happiness was soul crushingly agonizing. It wasn’t ever loud or raw or angry. No. It never spared you any emotion other than cool indifference. You could never quite figure out why the boy who had once warmed your entire life with his sunshine now refused to even glance your way. 

It started slowly. So slowly that it took you a while to even realize what was happening. The way you lingered a little longer at the end of the day in the art studio. The way you stopped in front of the window of a real estate office, staring longingly at the listings of the pretty apartments that weren’t yours. The way you slowly slipped out of his life in a way that neither of you saw coming. 

Everything changed the day you ran into your brother in a part of town neither of you usually frequent. Neither of you were supposed to be there that day, all the way across town from where you belonged. 

After a third day in a row of being left on read and not even getting a phone call from Lando, despite him spending all night on Max Fewtrell’s stream playing Tarkov, you had gotten sick of waiting around the apartment. You were tired of waiting for just the littles crumb of attention from him, which he only seemed to give to you the moment you strayed a bit too far from him. You finally worked up the courage to leave your phone at home and go out without it, knowing that if he called and you didn’t answer you’d probably go another three days without so much as a text, just because he could. At this point though, you weren’t sure you even cared. 

You changed into your favorite workout set and took a selfie before posting it to your stories (so he knew what you were doing. Lando loved watching your stories to make sure you were where you told him you were) and walked out the door. 

The silence washed over you as you began your run, a sense of freedom coupled with a bit of anxiety settling in your bones as you turned down the street where your apartment was. You ran, leaving all of the stress of your three year relationship behind, without really knowing where you were going or what you would do when you were done. Part of you hoped Lando called you while you were out so he knew that you were flexing your wings a bit without him but you knew that would come with consequences. He’d ignore you, a punishment that he knew you hated but it was almost worth it. The potential punishment from him was almost worth knowing that you’d scare him into action. 

Mile after mile, your sneakers hit the pavement at a steady pace, the rhythmic sound soothing your anxiety like a weighted blanket. Around you, the city buzzed with cars and people rushing around during the summer busy season. Expensive cars zipped by and tourists wandered down the sidewalks, sometimes making passing them difficult but you were used to the crowds of Monaco. You had grown up running these streets, first with your brother Charles and twin Arthur, trying to keep up with them as they trained for their respective racing seasons, but as you got older and Charles moved into the higher Formula series, your runs with him became fewer and far between until it was a rare occasion that you got the chance to train with him. Arthur was still regularly around, but you didn’t like training with him as much and he tended to be a little too chatty while working out where you preferred the silence of your thoughts.

You see your brother exit the apartment building ahead of you before he notices you heading towards him. His dark waves that match yours teased by the Mediterranean breeze as he turns around to speak to the man who follows him out of the building. Charles is everything a big brother should be and it kills you how much you have to lie to him about your relationship with Lando. 

You slow down to a light jog as you approach, waiting patiently for Charles to notice you. When he does though, his entire face lights up. “Little Dove! What are you doing on this side of town?”

Something deep in your chest twists at the nickname Charles has called you your entire life. There’s something nostalgic about it, the way he calls you his little dove, the LeClerc Princess in a house full of boys, fluttering around like a little bird preening under the attention of the birds of prey. 

He reaches for you, pulling you into a tight hug. You’ve been too busy lately, trying desperately to keep the weight of your failing relationship out of the harsh light of the public eye so you haven’t seen your brother as much as you’d like.

Falling out of love is exhausting.

Charles has noticed, of course. You’ve stopped coming to races like you used to when you were freshly with Lando or even when he was new in Formula One. You used to love races. The people, the sounds of the engines roaring around the track, seeing your brother do what he loves at the pinnacle of his sport. You used to drink it all in, obsessed with anything and everything racing. But then the world had tarnished when Lando started choosing racing over you. It was subtle at first, the way he would spend an extra night in Woking to spend time on the sim instead of coming home to your shared apartment. He’d go on trips with Max F, Keegan, and Ed but an invite was never extended to you. Even when he was home, he was always half there. Expecting you to wait around for when he was finally finished streaming. ‘But baby, it’s all work! I’m training for the season. And Max needs my help with the stream! The trips are for Quadrant!’ Excuses were always at the ready with Lando. So much so that you had stopped asking to be a priority. 

When he was with you though it was different. When he finally got around to paying attention to you, he was the doting, loving Lando you had fallen for. He’d bring you breakfast in bed, cuddle with you late at night watching movies, surprising you with a last minute trip to somewhere tropical. Although, if you were being honest with yourself, these little surges of attention always came after a fight or an extended period of time that he had spent away from you. Almost like he was trying to sooth the guilt within himself instead of spending time with you. 

Charles lets you out of his arms, looking down at you with sadness and hesitation in his gaze. 

“I just needed to go for a run.” You say, avoiding the pointed look that Charles fixes on you. You didn’t really want to delve into the real reason for needing to get out of your own head with your brother’s real estate agent standing right next to him. It was only then when you realized just how far you’d come, the tall residential buildings unfamiliar at first glance. You hadn’t been on this side of town in ages but the complex that Charles had just come out of was instantly recognizable. 

Your eyes flick over to the man standing beside Charles. You knew him well, a family friend who had helped Charles and Alex find their current apartment as well as the villa they had bought in Italy last year. “I could ask you the same thing. Are you and Alex planning on moving?” 

“Not exactly.” Charles grins, momentarily willing to move on from the fact that you looked like you were ten seconds away from crying. 

You tilt your head at him, waiting for an explanation. 

“Units in this building rarely ever come on the market and Nick is trying to convince me it would be a good investment.” 

“We’re lucky we even managed to get a showing.” Nick interjects as he runs a hand through his hair. “This building is beyond exclusive.” 

You laugh, light and airy, while rolling your eyes. “Charles? The Prince of Monaco? Lucky to get a showing?”  Mock shock colors your voice and for a flicker of a second, you feel normal again. “Nicholas, I’m surprised at you. Cha could bat those eyelashes of his at anyone in town and get whatever he asked for and you know it.” 

Charles blushes but both of them know it’s true. Charles could ask for anything in this city and get it handed to him on a silver platter. More so now, after winning Monaco last year, finally breaking his home race curse. 

He turns towards his friend. “Let them know I’m interested in making an offer, oui?” 

Nick’s eyes light up and you can practically see the dollar signs spinning around in his head, no doubt trying to calculate the amount of commission he’d potentially earn from even the smallest unit in the building. “I’ll head back to the office and get the offer drawn up right now. Want to go in at asking?” 

Charles nods, “That’s fine. I want to make sure I don’t miss out on this unit.” He eyes you then, suddenly coming up with an idea that might just solve a problem he’s been dealing with for the last three years. “Have you had lunch yet?” 

Glancing at your watch, you’re surprised to see that nearly two hours has passed since you’d left the house. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a small voice wonders just how annoyed Lando is going to be that you left your phone at home. 

You ignore it.

“No, I didn’t even realize how late it was. I guess I went a little time blind.” You sigh, not wanting to admit that you had skipped both breakfast and lunch the last few days. Your appetite while Lando was gone was next to nonexistent, the anxiety of being in the apartment without him too much for your body to handle. 

“Let’s go get some food then.” Charles slips his arm around your waist, pulling you close. “It’s been too long since we’ve had a sibling lunch date, just the two of us. 

Something warm blooms in your chest at his words. It had been a while since you’d seen your brother, since you’d seen any members of your family really. Between your work in the studio and Lando, you didn’t have much spare time on your hands. 

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.” You murmur, allowing yourself to get swept away by your big brother. 

“So tell me about work.” Charles implores as he leans forward on the white linen table cloth. “Don’t you have a new show coming up?” 

You nod, taking a sip of water as your eyes dart over the menu of the small Italian restaurant Charles had chosen. At first you had protested, insisting that the white linen and heavy sterling silver flatware were much too fancy for you and your sweaty workout clothes but Charles had insisted. ‘Please. You are in Monaco, everyone here is rich enough to wear their grungy clothes without a care in the world.’ Had been his plea but you knew he had ulterior motives: the pasta at this little eatery was divine. So of course you had given in. 

“I do. I’m still working on getting the theming right though, I haven’t been feeling very inspired lately. But the one in two weeks is nearly finished being installed.” Your thoughts flicker to your studio across town, where half a dozen partly completed paintings sit in various states of disarray almost mocking you whenever you walk in the door. 

Like Charles, you were an artist at heart. Except where Charles chose music, you had always been drawn to paint. The thrill of prepping a new canvas, of planning out the idea and initial sketches, to finally, finally getting to put that first bit of color on an otherwise blank canvas. You never felt more at home than when you were seated in front of a canvas, alone in your studio. 

Charles sees the opening he’s been waiting for, leaping on the opportunity like a stowaway in a boxcar train. “I’ve noticed you’ve been…” He pauses, knowing he has to choose his words carefully. “Not yourself lately and now it’s effecting your art? Little Dove, I am worried about you.” 

Your heart aches at the sound of desperation in your brothers words. You hadn’t realized how out of control you’d allowed yourself to be. How desperate you’d become for just a shred of attention from Lando.

“I’m fine, Cha.” The lie slips off your tongue easier than you’d like. 

Charles narrow his eyes because while Arthur may be your twin, Charles? Charles has always been your safe place. You had been the one who had kept him afloat after your father passed. Whenever there were fights over the cost of his’ racing career, you had always been his biggest advocate. If there was one person you trusted more in this world than Arthur, it was Charles. 

And because Charles knows you like the back of his hand, he knows that you’re lying. 

“He’s not good for you.” He hates saying the words, knowing that Lando is also a coworker and at one time, a friend. He may race for McLaren but Charles still had to spend a significant amount of time with him, especially over the last three years that you two had dated. But lately, something had changed in Lando. He wasn’t the same guy he had raced with in 2019. He was darker somehow, more withdrawn his usual crowd but up until now he had just chalked that up to Lando grown up and maturing. 

“Don’t say that, Charles.” You whisper, voice pleading and thick. Your eyes drop to the plate of roasted chicken in front of you while the napkin twists in your fingers. 

“If you want that apartment I just bought, it’s yours.” Your brother’s voice is desperate. “You can pay me rent if you want, I don’t care if you do but that place is yours if you want it.” The offer crashes over you like a giant swell of water breaking over your body. 

It takes a moment for you to process what Charles just offered you. The apartment he just bought? In one of the most exclusive buildings in the city? He wants you to take it? You’re utterly stunned because while Charles has always been more than generous monetarily with his family, gifting you the multi million dollar apartment was bordering on crazy. 

“Charles, I…” You stammer, utterly at a loss for words. 

Charles shakes his head, “Don’t give me an answer now. Think about it, it’s going to take a few months to close the deal but, please my dove. Please think about it.” 

Two Weeks Later

No matter how many shows your work was featured in, opening night always had you on edge. Your art was deeply personal to you and while you loved sharing it with the world, watching that first group of outsiders that had access to your work see it was always enough to fray the delicate edges of your nerves. 

Charles hadn’t brought up his proposition any more after you had left the restaurant that day two weeks ago. He’d hopped on a jet the next day, needing to fly to a race half way across the world. Lando had left that next day too without barely more than a good-bye. He had seen your story on Instagram and had sent you several text messages while you had been with Charles, but beyond that he never even mentioned it. The quiet dismissal was even more painful than any anger he could have directed at you.

You hadn’t been invited to the race by Lando either, not that you would have been able to go. The opening for the gallery where your art was being featured was your priority so you hadn’t even bothered asking Lando if he wanted you there. You had already known the answer anyway. 

When you left the apartment that evening, Lando was still playing Tarkov with Max on his stream. He said he still a while until the show started, why would he want to go with you to get there so early just to stand around and stare at a bunch of paintings? He swore up and down that he’d be there in an hour, just after he finished the next raid with Max and then kissed  you absentmindedly on the cheek as you said good-bye. 

He hadn’t missed a single shot on the screen. 

The gallery is tucked away on a quiet street a few blocks from your apartment so instead of calling an Uber or asking Charles to pick you up, you decided to walk the short distance. The warm Monaco breeze teased at your hair as you slowly wandered down the sidewalk towards your destination alone. 

The lights of the building spill out of windows in the setting Mediterranean sun, casting a warm light out onto the sidewalks. You’d shown your work in this gallery before and loved the owner, who had been one of your first supporters many years ago when your career was just getting started. The way the gallery was set up was ideal for the way your paintings demanded to be displayed and you knew that no matter what, the designers who were in charge of hanging your work would do it all justice.

In the large picture window out front hangs two of your favorite paintings that you’ve painted in a long time. You took a lot of inspiration from the impressionists: Monet, Degas, Renoir and these two were no exception. Lately though, your work had taken a bit of a dark turn with even the gallery owner making a comment on how moody and different your paintings had been lately. You were proud of them though, the bright slashes of color felt like your feelings laid bare on the stretched white canvas were a cathartic release of the stress and anxiety of your home life. 

There are a few people milling about inside, mostly employees but a genuine smile, the first to flit across your face all day, spreads slowly when you spot your brothers walking down the sidewalk. Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo all saunter towards you but you’re surprised at the fourth figure following your three siblings. 

“Little Dove.” Charles calls when he’s within shouting distance and you walk towards the four men, bright smile fixed on your face. He folds you up into his arms, kissing your cheeks, before passing you over first to Arthur who gives you the same greeting before once again passing you over to Lorenzo. 

The familiar chatter with your brothers is a soothing balm to the opening night jitters that are fluttering around in your chest but it’s the figure who stands quietly off to the side that intrigues you the most.

“Max, it’s so good to see you.” Stepping out of Lorenzo’s hold you walk straight into the Dutchman’s waiting arms. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.” 

“And miss the newest works of Monaco’s best artist?” His voice drips with incredulous teasing. “I could never.” 

You know he’s teasing but the words carve themselves deep into your skin, the ache sitting in your chest, all bright and painful. Here you were, in another man’s arms while he praised your work while your boyfriend couldn’t have even bothered to leave the house at the same time as you. 

Reluctantly, Max lets you step out of his arms and not for the first time that night, he takes your figure in. He swears you're thinner than you were last time, a thick cloud of anxiety and something darker hanging over your usually bright demeanor. It physically aches looking at you, how much you’ve changed in the last three years. Max has known you for as long as he’s known Charles and Arthur. When you were younger, you spent most of your time toddling along after your big brother so when he befriended the two brothers from Monaco, you had kind of been part of the package deal. 

He has to resist the urge to rub at the ache in his chest, knowing that you’re with Lando and looking this miserable. You put on a good face though and Max knows that if he hadn’t been so familiar with every dip and plane of your face, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. 

“Thank you for coming.” You murmur, allowing your eyes to linger on Max a beat longer than your brothers. 

Lorenzo, ever the eldest brother, leads the group into the gallery, Max behind you and Arthur in front of you. You can feel the heat of his body radiating when he reaches around your shoulder to hold the door open for you from behind and turn your face upwards to give him a heart stopping smile. “Thank you.” 

You excuse yourself to go find Nessa, the gallery’s owner, leaving your brothers and Max to their own devices while you make sure everything is set for the show. 

Max plucks a flute of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray before he turns to Charles. “Want to take bets on if Lando shows?” He grumbles, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. 

Charles does it for him though, muttering something that sounds a lot like ‘proper idiot’ under his breath. 

Max nods and turns his attention to the paintings hanging on the wall. You’re not the only artist being featured tonight but your work is the most striking in the room and Max finds himself drawn to a large piece depicting a meadow tucked into a valley with a set of mountains in the background. The sky was what caught Max’s attention though. It was a riot of grays, blues, and shades of the deepest black. The storm was close to boiling over, gathering strength in the background as the foreground of the painting remained seemingly bathed in a golden sunlight. 

The emotion that you had poured into this canvas practically shimmered off the surface and Max found himself with the most overwhelming desire to touch it. 

“This is my favorite of all the pieces I did for tonight.” You murmur as you come to stand beside Max, who tries to hide the involuntary shiver that travels over his skin at the sound of your voice. 

Max slides his eyes over to you without turning his head, almost as if he’s afraid that he’ll scare you away if he moves too fast. “It’s different from your other work.” He observes and your heart clenches. 

Max’s thoughts flicker to the piece he purchased from you four years ago when he moved into his penthouse apartment. It was a piece as big as the one in front of him now, but the color scheme was markedly different. Where the piece in front of him was moody and stormy, the piece that hung in his living room was light and airy. He had seen a similar painting of the French countryside in your studio and had asked you to paint a similar but the Dutch tulip fields of his home country.

Normally, you didn’t take commissions. You were much too attached to your craft and the control you craved to give up such an important piece of your creative process. It was a policy that was a therapist’s dream. 

You had broken your own rule for Max though. You had been powerless against those glacial blue eyes of his and without a second thought you had agreed to do as Max asked. 

“Do you not like it?” You ask, surprising yourself with how much you care about what Max thinks. 

He shakes his head before taking a sip of his champagne. He hadn’t been this close to you for this long in so long, he was almost afraid to move. “No, Dovie. That’s not what I was saying at all. I was just thinking of the one in my house and how different they are.” 

You nod, eyes darting back up to your painting as you think of the tulip fields that was secretly your favorite piece of art you’d ever made. “I was a different person when I painted yours.” You say simply. 

“And how is the person you are now?” Max’s voice is low as he leans into your bare shoulder just a fraction more than might be appropriate for someone who knows you have a boyfriend. 

Chest tightening, the weight of having a boyfriend who is currently running forty five minutes late after promising to be there for you settles on your shoulders so heavily you think you may break. Your cheeks burn as you contemplate how to answer Max’s question. You desperately want to tell him you’re okay. To lie about how broken you feel while the man that you’re in love with misses another milestone in your life. 

“I don’t know.” Emotion claws at your throat, threatening to pull you under right here in the middle of an art gallery. 

Suddenly you turn away from Max, eyes scanning the room desperately looking for a familiar shock of mahogany colored hair. Max stares after you, eyes narrowed at your sudden departure. Your answer plays in his head as he watches you seemingly spot the person you’d been looking for. You start across the room, hoping your sense of determination lasts until you reach Charles. 

“Are you okay?” Your brother looks past the man he’d been speaking to when he sees the desperation in your face. 

“I…Charles, I…” You fumble for your words, mind still scrambling to figure out what your body’s plan was. 

Charles steps around the man and grabs your elbow. “Take a breath, Little Dove.” He soothes. You follow his instructions and take a few steadying breaths, allowing the feeling of your brother’s hand sitting heavy at your elbow to ground you. 

After a few moments you manage to find your voice. “When do you close on the new apartment?”

missleclerc posted:

57,029 likes liked by charlesleclerc, maxverstappen1, nessas_gallery and others missleclerc oh what a night <3 thank you to everyone who took time out of their busy schedules to spend an evening with me celebrating the new show. the pieces will be on display at @/nessas_gallery for the rest of the month!! charlesleclerc another successful opening, little dove! so proud of you >>>arthurleclerc yes, so proud! glad we were able to make it out to support you! >>>user028 the way her brothers are her biggest fans is just...ugh. so cute. >>>user000 and the little dove nickname!! i die. user122 no lando in the likes, comments OR pictures??? where you at bruh??? >>>user0200 did you see that gossip post?! he didn't even show up! >>>user122 ew. seriously???

f1_wag_gossip posted

35,291 likes f1_wag_gossip Lando's girlfriend (also Charles LeClerc's little sister) @/missleclerc’s art was on display at an art gallery opening this Friday night in Monaco but one person was notably missing: Lando Norris himself. Sources snapped photos inside of Miss LeClerc laughing with none other than Max Verstappen before leaving the gallery later in the evening with her brothers and Max in tow. Several people tell me that she looked very upset after the show. Max even had his arm around her as she swiped at tears while waiting for Arthur's car to be brought around. Is there trouble in paradise for the artist and her longtime pilot boyfriend??? user222 he was on Max F's stream for HOURS Friday night. He chose playing Tarkov over going to his girlfriend's art show??? user122 If Max Verstappen, the man that had to have a CURFEW imposed on him by his own team because he stayed up too late playing video games, can put the controller down for one night to attend a FRIENDS art show, surely the poor girls own boyfriend could have done the same??? >>>user222 seriously. tf were you thinking @/Lando??? user988 gross behavior. idk why she's still with him user2237 I wonder how many other events of hers he's ruined?

Tag List: @shelbyteller, @formulaal, @martygraciesversion381, @longhairkoo, @samantha-chicago, @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland, @chlmtfilms , @aykxz98 @forensicheart @cheer-bear-go-vroom @lieutenantchaos @willowsnook @linnygirl09 @meglouise00 @mixedstyles @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies @mrosales16 @charlesgirl16 @leclercdream @daemyratwst @dramaticpiratellamas @mochimommy2002 @llando4norris @chelseyyouraverageluigi @iamaunknownsecret @maxivstappen @imlonelydontsendhelp @nina-or-anna-or-nora @a1leexxa @littlegrapejuice @sunflowervol18 @freyathehuntress @finn-dot-com @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @chirasama @lauralarsen @dr3wstarkey @saskiaalonso @rbv3rstappen @ilovechickenwings @guaaafiiburg @mcmuppet @glitteryturtledeer @mindless-rock @piastri-fvx

[latetaektalk]

please feel free to write longer chapters. your subscribers are fans of reading and we missed these two so much💞😍

dont worry i couldnt write a short chapter for the life of me anyway haha theres a chance that chapter seven is gonna be the longest yet !!

[lovecla]

STUCK WITH YOU ; QUINN HUGHES.

❄︎ pair: quinn hughes x y/n.

❄︎ synopsis: of all the things y/n thought she was going to do on christmas eve, being stuck with her sister’s brother-in-law, quinn hughes, wasn't one of them.

❄︎ word count: 5.6k

❄︎ chapter warnings: unedited, p in v, unprotected sex, fingering, use of the word slut (once), softdom!quinn, dirty talk.

💌 from me to you: merry christmas, babies 🩶 i hope all of you had a great time and lots of delicious food. 1st of all, i’d like to apologise bc i got carried away with the word count! 2nd of all, i’m sorry about how dirty this is… this was supposed to be wholesome and cute but i don’t know what happened 😭 sorry…. anyways, as always, forgive me for this poorly written smut and share with me your thoughts! i love you! ♡

𖧷

Ever Since your sister started dating one of the most known hockey players, Luke Hughes, your life changed— for the better, that is. It’s not like you’re used to all the attention, but it’s nice to attend parties and meet your favorite hockey players for free.

But, the only issue you didn’t see coming when she announced that she was, in fact, very much in love with the youngest of the Hughes brothers is that now you have to constantly coexist with your long time celebrity crush, Quinn Hughes.

It’s an old thing, your situation with Quinn Hughes. You first started noticing him during his time in college, when he was just eighteen.

None of your friends understood what was so special about him but you just told them they didn’t have to: Quinn Hughes is one of the most attractive men you have ever seen, and you’ll stand by that until the end of your days.

When your sister decided that she would make Luke Hughes hers, you remember laughing and saying: He’ll be yours when Quinn Hughes’s mine.

Turns out, Luke is your sister’s.

And, well. Quinn’s not yours.

When you’re around him, during dinners and parties, you almost don’t even acknowledge him. It’s just because you don’t know how to be around him without immediately blushing and cringing at your own words.

It’s like you’re a teenager all over again, but what else can you do, really. He’s attractive, he’s funny and he cares about the people he loves; you cannot not be in love with someone like him.

But now you’re his brother’s sister in law and have been for the past year. You have been doing a great job at not staying in the same room as him for too long, and even if you can come off as rude or mean, it’s better than to get caught while watching him with lovey eyes.

It’s December 24th, and you’re on your way to your sister’s house, where you’d spend Christmas with her— and since she’s only arriving later that night because of work, you’ll be there earlier to arrange things for her.

You’re annoyed by the fact that she has to work until late during Christmas time but at least you’ll get to spend the night with at least one of your family members, since your parents are out of town.

What’s also annoying is the fact that it’s cold and snowing. Not just normal, winter type of snow but North-Pole type of snow. You’re shivering inside your car, because your heater is broken and you stupidly decided that it’d be a great idea to wear just leggings and a sweatshirt.

You park in front of her house, sighing and trying to move as fast as your frozen limbs could. You’re also carrying a hundred bags with you, because decorating is your favorite part of Christmas and knowing your sister and her workaholic personality, you know that she probably doesn’t even have her tree out of her attic yet— so you’ll have to do the whole decorating thing by yourself.

Which you silently prefer because there’s nothing you hate more when people try to dictate where your ornaments should go.

You ring her doorbell first, before dumbly realizing that she’s probably at work already, so you just start looking for the spare key she gave you when the door opens, making you lift your head up with a smile, only to drop it two seconds later.

“Oh.”

Quinn’s looking back at you with a polite smile, and you’re not sure that what you’re seeing is actually real because why the hell would Quinn Hughes be at your sister’s house during Christmas?

“Hi, Y/n.” He says, leaning against the door frame.

You frown without even noticing it. Why didn’t she warn you that he would be at her house?

You’ve been staring at him for what feels to be hours, when he speaks again: “Aren’t you… cold?”

You realize that he’s right and you are cold. Cold and tired because you’re still holding the heavy bags, so you just nod and watch as he opens the door more and reaches for the bags in your hand, picking all four of them up like they’re not heavy at all and letting you in.

You’re still in shock and shivering when you close the door behind you, welcoming the warm air inside the house, thankful for your sister’s amazing heating system.

Quinn walks back to the living room and you grab your phone, dialing your sister’s number and putting the phone against your ear.

“Y/n? Are you—”

“Why didn’t you tell me he would be at your place?!” You shout slash whisper, hiding behind her clothes rack.

“Who’s he? Why are you whispering?”

“What do you mean who’s he?” You hiss. “I’m talking about him!”

“Who’s… Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

Her laugh makes you blush. “I didn’t think he’d arrive so soon. I told him he could come later because you’d be the only one there so I just guessed… well. Nevermind.”

“What do I do?!” you sound so desperate it’s almost funny. “I can’t be here! You know I—”

“Y/n, stop freaking out. It’s just Quinn,” you can almost hear her eyes rolling to the back of her head. “Go decorate and do all that stuff you like to do during Christmas. I’ll pick up the food goodies when I leave work, so please just… be normal.”

“What do you mean be normal I can’t—”

“I gotta go. I love you. Bye.”

She hangs up the call and leaves you staring at your phone screen, contemplating how you would scape when it was so cold outside and Quinn’s already seen you so—

“Y/n? Are you playing hide and seek?”

You immediately get out of your sister’s clothes and smile awkwardly, almost opening the front door and standing in the middle of the road, waiting for someone to run you over.

“No, I—” you stutter, looking everywhere but him. “I was just… talking to my sister…”

“I see,” he says. “Is she okay? It’s snowing outside, and you’re still shivering.”

How the hell did he notice that?, you ask yourself, before nodding.

“She is, yeah. She’s working.”

You step further inside the house, walking past Quinn like he’s some type of virus. Besides the huge tree sitting in the corner by the TV, your sister’s house is poorly decorated, just like you predicted, so at least you’ll have something to busy yourself with until she arrives.

“She told me she’d work until late and she said I could come and help you out with your decorations until she and Luke arrive.” He explains, and you turn around, raising your eyebrow at him, confused.

“Luke’s coming?” You ask.

“He is, yes.”

“I thought… I thought you guys would spend Christmas with your parents.” You say, because that’s what you heard your sister saying.

“Well, they’re coming too,” he chuckles, putting his hand inside his front pockets. “I’m guessing she didn’t tell you anything?”

“No, I thought—” you start, but then you bite your lips, giving up mid-sentence. You didn’t want to sound rude by saying I thought it’d be the two of us only so you just stay quiet. “Nevermind. It’s nice that you all get to spend Christmas together.”

Quinn stares at you for a few seconds before nodding. “I’m sorry if you’re upset.”

You frown, shaking your head.

“I’m not, I promise. I just wasn’t expecting all of you,” you reply, embarrassed. “I brought my Grinch sweater…”

He laughs, and you have to stop yourself from smiling too.

“It’s okay. I’ll wear my Cindy Lou one.”

You want to yell at him and tell him to stop being nice, but you already know that’s just how he is. That’s one of the reasons you like him so much.

You look outside your sister’s big window and frown, noticing that the snow is only falling faster, and the street is white everywhere now. Even your car is barely visible.

“It’s getting ugly,” you say, pressing your lips into a line. “I hope it stops soon.”

“I don’t know about that…” he comments, sitting on the couch next to your bags. “I did see a blizzard warning in my weather app today.”

“What?” you almost shout. “Are you sure it was for today?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “That’s why I came earlier. I thought it was dangerous for you to stay here alone.”

You want to ask him what one thing has to do with the other but you’re too busy blushing over his sentence to do anything else.

“I’d be just fine, but thank you,” you mumble. Sighing, you look down at your clothes. “I’m going to change and then start decorating.” You announce, not even sure why.

“You should probably put on something warmer,” he looks down at your clothes before running his fingers through his hair. “It’d be a shame if you caught a cold.”

You don’t say anything, just nod and make your way to your sister’s bedroom, happy that you’re both the same size. Once you find a comfort, two piece set wool outfit, you grab it and change, immediately welcoming the warmth it brings.

You also spend more time in your sister’s bedroom than you should, sitting on her bed and contemplating what you should do.

It’s not like Quinn’s a bad person or someone difficult to be around, but you get shy really easily and he happens to master the art of making you embarrassed, even if it’s not in a bad way.

He’s probably not even aware of it, too, because he’s just a really kind person and that’s just how he treats everyone he likes.

He doesn’t like us, your brain reminds you, he’s just polite.

Whatever.

You get back to the living room and find him still sitting on the couch, watching some random, Christmas movie. You reach for your bags, trying to open them as silently as you could, not wanting to disturb him.

You remove the plastic boxes full of ornaments and distribute them around you, separating them by color and size. It’s therapeutic to you, and it helps to calm your brain down.

Soon, the fact that Quinn’s in the same room as you, alone, doesn’t even cross your mind. You’re having fun decorating your sister’s empty tree, making it beautifully decorated and ready for the night.

After what’s probably thirty minutes, you reach for the last item inside your boxes, which is a bright, yellow star, heavily bedazzled. It’s been yours since you and your sister moved out of your parents’ house and you love it more than all of your other Christmas decorations combined.

The only issue is that it should sit on top of the tree, and usually it wouldn’t be a problem, because your sister had been letting you decorate her tiny tree for the past years, and you’ve been able to reach it just fine. But this year she decided that she wanted to challenge you and she bought a tall one, so now you can’t really reach the top, and you only realize it after jumping for a few minutes and not even touching the top once.

“Do you need any help?”

Quinn’s calm voice startles you, and you hold back a scream. You had forgotten that he was sitting just behind you, and probably had been watching you embarrassing yourself for the past three minutes.

You’re feeling your cheeks warm when you answer: “No, I… well. Maybe?”

He chuckles, getting up. “Does your sister have a ladder?”

“No, she doesn’t,” you roll your eyes. “She says someone as tall as her should do just fine without one.”

“I don’t understand,” he laughs. “She’s just a few inches taller than you. There’s barely a difference.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling her.” You say, annoyed. “I can just grab a chair—”

“No, let me help you.” He walks towards you, and when you’re just about to tell him he’s not going to reach the top by himself either he does something that sends you to another world.

He picks you up effortlessly, putting you down on his left shoulder, and hands you the star like he wasn’t holding another human on one of his shoulders.

You put the star on the top of the tree, moving automatically because your brain hasn't been working properly ever since you stepped into your sister’s house.

“Are you done?” he asks, and he doesn’t even sound tired. “Do you need me to hand you anything else or—”

“No, you can… put me down, please.” You mumble, blushing as he grabs your waist and slowly pulls you down until your feet are touching the floor.

He’s standing behind you, chest glued to your back, and you hold back a yelp, stepping away like his touch is deadly.

“Uh, thanks?” It sounds like a question, but you don’t repeat it again. You turn around, watching as he smiles and nods.

“It looks great, Y/n.”

You also smile, because you always do it whenever people compliment your decorations skills. “Thanks. Again.”

“Well,” he shrugs, looking around. “What do you want to do now?”

You mimic his move, looking around your sister’s living room.

“I mean, I don’t know,” you hum. “Maybe set the table? I know it’s early but—”

“Yeah. We can definitely do that.” He starts walking towards the kitchen and you freak out.

“What!” you yell, and he stops, turning back around and looking at you with confused, pretty eyes. “I mean— what do you mean we?”

“Oh,” he shrugs. “I thought I could help.”

“Are you… like… serious?” You frown.

He frowns back. “I was, yes… are you one of those people who don’t like when people try to help because you’re afraid they’ll end up messing up with your arrangements?”

“Well, yes and no,” you laugh, only to shake your head after. “But it’s not that. I’m sorry, I just… I’ve never seen a man get up to help before. Especially during Christmas.”

He seems to take a while to process what you had just said, but then he laughs, beautifully you’d say.

“They weren’t raised by Ellen Hughes, Y/n. I was.”

You smile, realizing you were utterly fucked. And not in a good way.

You and Quinn worked in silence, and even though you almost dropped the plates twice with how nervous you were, this moment will probably keep repeating itself forever inside your head, from the moment you wake up to the moment you'll go to sleep.

He’s calm and he listens to each one of your orders without hesitation, just nodding and doing as you say. He carries the heavy stuff and just lets you busy yourself with making everything pretty, which you do.

You’re about to tell him that you’re done when the TV catches your attention.

“Good evening, and Merry Christmas Eve, everyone. This is Nicholas Edwards reporting live with an urgent weather alert. It’s shaping up to be a Christmas Eve like no other—because we are in the midst of a blizzard that shows no signs of letting up anytime soon.”

“Oh my God,” you hear someone saying, and realize that it was you. You move until you’re standing in front of the TV, covering your mouth with your right hand.

“Right now, snow is coming down at an incredible rate, with visibility dropping rapidly. Winds are gusting up to 40 miles per hour, creating near whiteout conditions in many areas. And the latest forecast? The snow isn’t expected to stop until early tomorrow morning—Christmas Day! That means we’re looking at significant snowfall totals, possibly more than 18 inches in some spots.”

“Oh my God,” you repeat, looking at Quinn before looking back at the TV again.

“Officials are urging everyone to stay indoors tonight. If you don’t absolutely need to be out, don’t risk it. Roads are treacherous, power outages are a real possibility, and emergency crews are working hard to keep up.”

“What about my sister and your family?” you ask, almost rhetorically, because you know Quinn knows just as much as you. “They can’t come now because it’s dangerous.”

“I’ll try to call my parents,” he says, reaching for his phone already. “Can you call your sister, please?”

“Already doing it.” You say, dialing your sister’s number.

“So… you saw the news.” Is the first thing she says after picking up and you roll your eyes.

“Yeah, Quinn and I did,” you say. “What are we going to do? It’s not safe for you to drive around and you’re definitely not driving thirty minutes back to your house in this weather.”

“I guess you’re right,” she sighs. “Luke and I are together, though. He saw the news before I did and drove me to his and Jack’s apartment since it’s closer to my workplace…”

“So, you’ll stay at their place?” You frown.

“What else can I do, right?” she chuckles, but you can tell she’s just as upset as you. “At least you’re stuck with the sibling that knows how to cook.”

“Hey!” You hear one of Quinn’s brothers, probably Jack, yelling in the back.

“You’re probably right,” you mumble. “Well. We’ll see each other tomorrow then?”

“‘Course we will, bubba,” she sounds joyful again. “Merry Christmas, Y/n. I love you. Tell Quinn I said Merry Christmas to him too!”

“I will,” you nod, even though you know she can’t see you. “I love you too. Bye.”

“Bye.”

You stare at your phone screen until it turns black, and sigh. Quinn finishes his phone call and stares at you, blue, fond eyes looking at you with care.

“I guess you heard the same thing as me.” He says and you nod.

“They’re not coming.”

“And neither are my parents,” he sighs. “They’re stuck in their hotel. They’re not letting people leave.”

“God, this sucks,” you grunt, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “We don’t even have food. My sister was supposed to pick it up after she finished her shift but…”

“I’m sure I can figure something out,” Quinn says and you can tell he’s trying to sound positive. “Come on, stop pouting.”

You frown. “I wasn’t pouting.”

“Yes, you were,” he smiles. “You do that whenever something doesn’t go your way.”

“I— how do you even know that?” You ask, genuinely amused. He just shrugs and walks back to the kitchen, leaving you and your one hundred thoughts about him alone. “Quinn!”

Dinner goes well. It’s silent and calm, but not in an embarrassing, awkward way. Quinn knows how to cook really well, and his food makes you hold yourself back so you won’t kiss him.

His lips probably taste amazing, just like the rest of him. Sometimes, when your thoughts about how Quinn could make you feel good are too much, you slip your hands under your covers and touch yourself, while imagining your hands are his.

You always feel so deeply embarrassed afterwards, and it takes you a while to convince yourself that you’re not a maniac and getting horny after thinking of your sister’s boyfriend's incredibly hot brother is lowkey expected, because he looks like a God.

You both returned to your bedrooms after the clock hit midnight and you both called your families, with you sleeping in your sister’s room and Quinn sleeping in the spare bedroom.

Although, you haven’t even thought about closing your eyes and going to sleep, because you know you won’t be able to— not when Quinn has been nothing but kind to you the entire night and definitely not when he’s only two doors away from you.

You can feel your body starting to get hot, and you want to shout at it, telling yourself to let it go, because you and Quinn won’t ever be a thing.

You look at the clock sitting on your sister’s bedside table and sigh, reading the late hours. Two thirty-six a.m. and you’re nowhere near Dreamland.

Even though you’re basically at the entrance of Hornyland.

Shaking your head, you get up, deciding to brew some chamomile tea for you, since it always helps you feel sleepier and, hopefully, less horny.

The lukewarm air hits your bare thighs and you’re reminded that you’re not wearing any pants— just one of your sister’s oversized sweaters and panties.

You look around the dark house, watching as snow continues to fall outside, and make your way to the kitchen, walking past Quinn’s closed door and trying not to make any sound.

And you would’ve been successful with your task, if it weren’t for the one plastic cup that fell out of the cupboard when you tried to grab your sister’s kettle.

It fell on the floor and bounced three times before you managed to grab it again. You waited to see if you would hear Quinn’s door open, but since you didn’t, you moved on with your task. While you waited for your water to boil, you leaned against your sister’s island, resting your chin in your hand.

“I thought you were asleep.”

This time, you don’t hold back the yelp that comes out of your mouth. You were so worried about waking Quinn up that you hadn’t considered the fact that he, just like you, might as well not have been able to sleep.

He’s sitting on your sister’s couch, wearing sweatpants and nothing else, looking at you with an indecipherable expression. His entire body is illuminated by the moonlight, and he looks gorgeous.

“Quinn. You scared me,” you put your hand over your heart, feeling your cheeks warm when you realize the movement made your sweater go up, and now Quinn probably saw your underwear. “Uh—”

“I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry,” he gets up, and he does look apologetic. He gets closer to where you were standing and you can help but take a take back. “Can’t sleep?”

You shake your head. “No. You?”

“I can’t either,” he says. “Too many thoughts.”

You desperately want to ask him what kind of thoughts are keeping him away from his bed, but you remember that it isn’t your place. And the best thing you can do for yourself right now is stay away from him.

“I— I’ll leave you to it then—”

“Why are you always running away from me?”

His serious tone makes you stop. You look up and stare at his eyes, looking like a child who had just been caught eating sweets before dinner.

Your answer is only natural: “I’m not?”

“Yes, you are,” he steps closer, and the distance between the two of you is now shorter. “Did I do something?”

“What?” you gasp. “No, of course not!”

“Then, you just don’t like me?”

“Gosh, why is it with the Hughes that you’re always so straightforward?” you mumble, frustrated. “I promise you, nothing’s wrong.”

“Is it because you want me to fuck you?” He raises his brow and you almost drop dead in front of him.

“What.”

It’s almost comical how your eyes double in size and how your mouth opens, just like in the cartoons. You’re trying really hard not to pack your things and leave, because you’re sure something possessed Quinn.

“I’m not dumb, y’know,” he starts. “I can tell when someone’s interested in me, and you aren’t exactly subtle.”

“Quinn—”

“At first,” he continues, paying you no mind. “I thought you were just shy. Then, I realized you only acted that way with me, but I thought you just didn’t like me. But…”

He lifts his hand up and caresses your cheek, the touch making you shiver instantly.

“Would someone who doesn’t like me stare at me like you do?” He keeps touching your face, the light feather touches barely there, but keeping you restless anyway. “It’s so sweet when you blush like that.”

“Quinn…” you try, once again. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I—”

“Uncomfortable?” he chuckles, like the word alone is enough to make him laugh. “No, sweetheart, you made me hard.”

You blush, thankful that the moonlight isn’t enough to show your red cheeks. “O-Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” he smiles, lifting your face just slightly with his thumb on your chin. “Can I kiss you, Y/n?”

I thought you’d never ask, you think. “Yes,” is what you say.

His lips taste like peppermint and his touch on your skin feels like fire. He presses your body against the counter, the cold marble hitting the back of your naked thighs and making you shiver.

It was a pleasant contrast, though: the warmth of his hands holding you close with the coldness of the stone making you shiver.

He kissed you fervently and you moaned inside his mouth, forgetting your shyness and running your fingers through his silky, soft hair. It was like opening presents on Christmas morning, because ever since you were a teenager you’ve been wanting to get your hands on him and now—

“You were right,” you say, breathless. Quinn tilts his head to the side, confused. “I want you to f-fuck me.”

He smirks, mischievously, and it’s probably one of the hottest things you have ever seen.

“Here?” he asks, chuckling.

“No,” you laugh. “My sister would kill me.”

“Mhm.” It’s all he says before picking you up once again, manhandling you however he wanted for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

His bed is untouched when he lays you on it, a clear signal that he hadn’t even laid on it yet. Your sweater rode up, leaving your belly and your panties exposed.

Even though you’re not the type of girl to get embarrassed while having sex, you can feel your cheeks getting warm under Quinn’s lustful gaze. You have imagined this situation so many times before but you never actually thought your dreams would come true, so all of this is still hard for you to take in.

“I can actually hear your brain thinking, Y/n,” Quinn chuckles, standing in front of you. The outline of his dick is so noticeable it has your mouth dry.

“It’s not everyday your crush of years take you to bed,” you let out, only realising what you had just said when you watch his eyebrow going up, and a malicious smile decorate his beautiful face. “I mean—”

“Trust me, Y/n, if I hadn’t spent the last year thinking you hated me, you would’ve ended up in my bed from the moment I laid my eyes on you.”

He leans forward, then starts to pull your panties down. It’s embarrassing to say the least because you know that the fabric which was once pearly, cotton white, is now transparent and ruined. Quinn doesn’t seem to mind that— in fact, the smirk on his face just continues to grow.

“You have such a pretty pussy, baby,” he says, and you almost choke on your own spit. “Been thinking about you for so long I’m half convinced this is just another dream.”

He drops your underwear somewhere, and places his index finger between your wet folds, the cold touch contrasting with your hotness. He rubs, up and down, slowly and steady. It has you biting your lips, hard.

“Was it like that with you too, Y/n?” he asks, tone one octave deeper. “Endless dreams of how I would fuck you senseless, leave you wet and whimpering in my sheets, pussy dripping with my cum.”

He kept getting closer to your clit each time he opened his mouth to talk, but he still wasn’t touching it, which was starting to frustrate you.

“Quinn—”

“I’d always wake up hard, with my dick throbbing inside my pants, and you know what I’d do?”

He places his finger on your engorged clit, but doesn’t do anything, just— waits.

“Ask me what I would do, Y/n.” He orders, and you moan before complying.

“What, ah, what would you do?” you ask, and he starts moving his finger again. “Ah.”

“I’d fuck my hand. Wrap my dick around them, holding it tightly, imagining it was your cunt squeezing me like that,” he confesses, opening your legs more, leaving you spread in front of him like you’re nothing but a cheap whore. “And I’d come so hard, imagining I was filling you up. In the next morning, I’d shake hands with you, watching you give me that sweet smile of yours, not even knowing that I had just used it to touch myself while imagining it was you.”

He pressed two fingers on your hole, making you clench around nothing while he seemed to be having fun with your struggle.

“Was it like that with you, too?” he asks again, but you can tell by his reaction that he wasn’t expecting you to answer. Yet, you do it anyway.

“N-not dreams,” you breathe, as he inserts two of his fingers inside you, blue eyes never leaving yours. “When I couldn’t sleep, I’d, ah, touch myself, and pretend it was you.”

“Yeah?” he hums, sinking his fingers deeper inside you, the wet sound of sex leaving you dizzy. “Such a naughty, little slut.”

You moan, and Quinn stops holding back as he starts finger fucking you, finding your sweet spot and curling his fingers up until he had you trashing under him. You took pride in knowing your body and mastering the art of touching yourself, but not even in your wildest dreams you’d imagine that having something inside you could feel this good.

You’re not even holding back your sounds, you just let Quinn hear how insane he drives you, and good you’re feeling. You have your eyes closed— because holding eye contact with Quinn might be too much for you to handle— and your boobs exposed, since your sweater rode all the way up.

You can feel your orgasm starting to build up and just when you’re about to warn Quinn about it, he pulls his fingers back, making you cry, loudly.

“Wha— why?” you sound needy and desperate but you pay it no mind.

Quinn smiles, so sweet and kind that you wouldn’t even imagine what came out of his mouth afterwards.

“You’ll come on my cock tonight, sweetheart. I’ll make sure of it.”

The rest of what happens is basically history.

He removes his sweatpants and his dick hits his stomach, the tip almost purple with how red it was. The precum leaking from it made you lick your lips, imagining how good it would feel to have that in your mouth.

He throws the pants somewhere, and lays on top of you, right in the middle of your spread thighs. He looks down and holds his dick, rubbing it up and down on your folds, mixing your wetness with his, and just the view is almost enough to make you come.

He rubs the tip on your clit, and you watch as your swollen, needy button throbs under the nasty touch, and how your pussy leaves his dick glistening with how wet you were.

“I’ll fuck you now, okay?” His voice is calm, and soft, different from previously. You nod, smiling shyly. “Words, baby.”

“‘Mkay,” you answer, closing your eyes as he inserts himself inside you, slowly.

You can feel your walls opening up for him, and even though you’ve had sex before, nothing will ever top this. He’s thick, and you can feel him everywhere, deeper and deeper.

“Holy shit, Quinn,” you say, turning your hands into fists.

“You’re so fucking tight, baby,” he hisses, putting his hands on each side of your face. “Squeezing me so good, fuck, Y/n, I might come in seconds if you keep squeezing me like that.”

He removes his dick from you, leaving just the tip, only to slam it back in you, fucking you senseless, just like he told you. The smell of sex and sweat filled the room almost as quick as the tears fell from your eyes, the feeling of finally getting what— or who— you wanted making you cry tears of joy.

He kept fucking you, and once his lips found yours once again, you knew you were done. You came on his dick, like he said you’d do, moaning inside his mouth and pulling his hair, harshly.

“Fuck, Quinn, uh,” you inhaled his scent as his naked body engulfed yours completely. “Fuck, fuck.”

“It’s like you were made to, uh, take my cock,” he grunts, his thrusts getting sloppier, a clear sign that he was about to come. “Say it, baby, tell me what you were made for.”

“Quinn—”

“Say it, sweetheart,” he whispers.

“I was made to take y-your cock,” you sob. “O-only yours.”

“Only mine?” you can hear the amusement in his voice.

“Only yours.”

“Good,” thrust, “Girl.” Thrust.

He takes his dick out of you just a few seconds before he comes, and the loss of it makes you whimper and hide your face in his neck. The warm feeling of his come against your used, swollen cunt is enough to get another orgasm out of you, even if a little bit weaker this time.

You both stay silent, only the sounds of your breaths filling up the room. The weight of his body on top of you is comforting, and even though you know he’s not putting all of his weight on top of you, you feel safe either way.

“Thank you,” you mumble, barely audible, since your face is still in his neck.

He chuckles, breathless. “What are you saying thank you for, baby? I should be the one saying thank you.”

“You just made all of my wet dreams come true,” you explain. “Even if we’re probably going to hell because no one should be having sex on Christmas.”

Quinn laughs and rolls to the side, resting his head on the pillow. “Touché, sweetheart, touché,” he turns his head to the side and looks at you. “Merry Christmas, Y/n.”

You smile. “Merry Christmas, Quinny.”

© property of lovecla, nhl masterlist.

[kiitzuna]

so..... kriselle. right guys?

⚠ DELTARUNE CHAPTER 3+4 SPOILERS ⚠

tw// csa mention

to preface, this is just my own reading. you are free to interpret the weird route and its contents how you wish. you are not required to take my reading as the end all be all.

horror has always had somewhat of an inherent sexual (and queer) undertone to it but it doesnt mean that you cant write it without it- i love horror that blends real life psychology and human experience with the otherworldly because there is SO MUCH you can do with it and it gets scary because most of the time it feels like something that could actually happen under the right circumstances… although when youre including a supernatural element (such as the player) the circumstances change and you need to recategorize and take more care to understand certain actions while still being conscious so that you are not just writing something torture porn-esque. this is an otherworldly entity (the player) taking the place of the human (kris) and acting within human bounds (kris cannot shapeshift or anything like that, we're limited to what their human body is capable of) to perpetuate the horror.

in context of the couch scene this is the moment that kris can no longer hide the existence of the other entity inside them from noelle. the secret is entirely out in the open and noelle knows that there is something unbelievably wrong with kris. i dont think noelle understands that it's us, the player, doing this to her because she doesn't know its a game but she absolutely knows that whoever it is is not kris. we are forcing noelle to confont that it was all real, it wasn't a dream, and it finally snaps her when we put the thorn (i.e. thornring) back on her finger. we've pushed noelle to her limit, 'used up' all of who noelle originally was and forcibly turned her into another vessel for our actions.

the loss of innocence is a common trope explored in horror, but i personally feel like this is moreso focused on the loss of autonomy than the loss of innocence. ch2 is noelle murdering monsters en masse and probably being berdly's cause of death. that innocence is already gone, but innocence can take on various forms and meanings which can alter the way we perceive certain situations as more one thing than the other. the thorn is representative of our control over noelle, we force kris to pierce it back through her hand during the couch scene which cements our authority over her. i understand why people could interpret the scene as being mainly the loss of innocence, with the rose wilting it could be read like an allegory for deflowering, but i believe that the scene is moreso focused on us removing her limitations. we've overflowed the pot on the stove and now she's stronger than ever. even not on the weird route, noelle exhibits behaviours of wanting to strangle berdly and take control of her life for once, whether joking or not. she was already really fascinated by her own power in ch2, finding out that yes actually she isnt powerless and she can take things for herself, as long as she listens to kris- hence her saying 'Thank you.' towards the end of the route.

what makes weird route kriselle so interesting is that kris doesnt want this. when noelle is close to kris and she begins to trigger the downfall of events, kris is trying to cover her mouth desperately to stop her. kris wants nothing more than to keep noelle from experiencing everything all over again. it's not just kris abusing noelle torture compilation. with not only closet scene where kris is trying to hit us with the hockey stick but also the bathroom scene we see just how fucking ANGRY kris is at us- literally beating the shit out of the soul…. both in a 'why would you ever make me do this?' way but also in a 'you broke her' way.

we've taken these childhood friends with such a strong connection and forced them to rip themselves to shreds. we've broken them to their core. i don't think noelle is capable of saving kris, i don't think she wants to anymore. in the few moments she had left between the start and the end of the couch scene, she's lost that will.

noelle's now broken, she's lost herself because we took her autonomy. just like kris. a cage. a vessel. we've given her the power to take whatever she wants, we've removed her limitations, we've made her stronger.

as long as she listens to us.

------------------------------ start of edit ------------------------------

with that being said, @enuratled made some good points and connections in their reblog of my post and i want to elaborate on/include them in the main post due to wanting to ensure that im not coming off as discrediting or attempting to disprove the loss of innocence reading while explaining more of my position.

"...it's not necessarily that i disagree but I think loss of autonomy is loss of consent, loss of ability to consent and I think that's very much what the rose deflowered imagery is pointing us towards."

the loss of autonomy is the loss of consent which in turn can also mean the loss of innocence. all of these tropes and concepts are intertwined and you can't really fully separate them, although the loss of autonomy/consent/innocence doesn't always indicate a sexual connotation. my reading chooses to focus more on the psychological rather than the sexual, so i guess its just my piece of the puzzle when it comes to dissecting this. there is clearly a reading here that involves a sexual undertone because of the defloration and understandably so- this is something that happens in real life and depending on your background or perceptions may be the first thing your mind jumps to when you see this scene play out.

"it uses the same dialogue, noelle begging herself to move but being unable to, it has the rose being deflowered, it has kris forcing the ring onto her hand, it happens in her fucking bedroom! her most private space! the place where she's supposed to be the safest! she asked them to come in! in this case, the imagery of sexual assault is being used to convey the inability to consent."

a good point on the reading of csa. this makes the reading more prominent and ties it back into autonomy and consent.

"...a lot of good readings of the weird route comes hand in hand with discussions about comphet, and how dangerous it is to force these very gendered roles onto kids (or teens) who explicitly don't conform, or want to conform to these things. snowgrave, as much as it is about autonomy, power and player control, can also be read about gender and sexuality, especially with how it utilises this imagery of marriage."

ive read the hellspawnmotel analysis many times over and its one of my favourites, i think the concept is really solid and you echo the same sentiments with that here. there is clearly a strong theme of identity/gender/sexuality beneath the surface of deltarune and especially with weird route kriselle.

I understand that [c]sa is a very taboo topic, and it's not necessarily in-line with the usual host of 'dark' themes we expect to see in games like this, but that doesn't mean the narrative can't utilise the commentary that comes with it, or the imagery used for it. again, I don't think it has to be read as sexual assault, but I don't think that's an unfair or unearned reading.

i agree, it being taboo doesnt mean that the reading isn't or can't be there. i am not attempting to say 'you cant see it like this!' or 'youre wrong and im right!' because everyone is entitled to their own perceptions of a scene, especially when it is not explicitly stated or shown in the text. personally (just me, you dont need to feel the same), i feel it's just too heavy to be thrust onto us if that is the intended context with no warning. maybe thats the intention, to drop it on us with no warning like it would happen in real life, but i honestly can't see that being how it was originally intended.

i think where this scene creates so much clashing of readings is again that you cannot really separate loss of autonomy from loss of consent and loss of innocence from either. these tropes can be interpreted in different ways- sexually, psychologically, physically, etc. its up to you to decide how you want to read it. the reading of csa has a lot of evidence for it and a strong argument. i dont think its wrong, but im personally not sure that should be our main takeaway.

my main reason for why i emphasize the focus on the loss of autonomy in the way i have is that a lot of people have decided to take the reading of csa as what happens explicitly, treating this scene as if you've genuinely done this to noelle.

if this is to be taken literally like how a good chunk of the fandom is treating it unfortunately, we're the ones who are doing this to noelle and kris. these actions are our own. they're our choices. this isn't kris, its us, the player. i do not want to be responsible for the sa of noelle, i wouldnt want to play a game where im forced to commit csa. it doesn't feel right. i don't think toby would put that into deltarune directly. you can read it as csa being what happens after the screen cuts to black if you want to, but honestly thinking about the implication that i as the player forced kris to rape or deflower noelle makes me want to curl up, puke blood, and die.

i dont think anyone wants to be burdened with that. thank you to @enuratled for allowing me to use parts of their reblog in my edit, and i hope this adds a bit more context to the entire post and where i come from! everyone can read it in their own way, and i do not wish to discredit anyone by suggesting a different reading of the scene. please consider reading their additions to my post in their reblog to see everything they said, as i believe it does hold a lot of merit.

------------------------------ end of edit ------------------------------

UPDATE: rose was patched out. i feel kind of vindicated but my feelings are honestly mixed....... you can still interpret the scene how you want but i think it's pretty clear toby didn't intend for the graphic to be taken that way. sucks we had to lose the rose because of that but it's for the best considering.... theres a lot of ways that the fandom was taking the csa allegory too far and blending it with other ones which snowballed into a whole new thing and i kinda dont want to go through a year of kris misgendering and "toby fox put child rape in his game". (even though he didnt. its an allegory. one that i dont personally wish to focus on but others can at their own will.) which i think is kinda reasonable

UPDATE 2: THE VISUAL WAS CHANGED AGAIN! this time i feel like it lines up with my analysis even more and really conveys how visceral and painful it is

the way that it both shatters out from her heart to indicate we've broken noelle and extends out like blood vessels... this is us turning noelle into another vessel for our actions....

shatter effect - we've broken noelle

extending out like blood vessels - tied to the heart/SOUL and 'vessel' can be a play on vessel/cage like how we're turning noelle into a vessel

the extensions having small sharp protrusions - rose stems have thorns

idk man i think the scene is perfect

this visual is so insane i love it

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 19)

masterlist

-

A blood-orange sun hangs low in the sky.

You might think it ominous on any other day, but not this one. What more adversity could stand in your way? 

Instead of sharing a saddle with John, you ride the same horse that Graves rode out of town. Days spent on horseback have finally caught up to you, pain radiating up and down your legs, a soreness embedded deep in your inner thighs, the skin positively chafed from the constant friction. At least you no longer have the handcuffs digging painfully into your wrists, the metal cuffs long since unlocked using the key in Graves’ pocket and discarded, now lost some acres back for the coyotes and the hares to prod at and sniff. 

You drift in and out of conscious awareness, coming back into your right mind every mile or so, losing track of time along the way. Sometimes you blink and trees disappear out of sight, already ten miles back. Scouring the landscape for something familiar only to come up empty. 

Recent events lour over your conscience. It’s difficult not to let it get to you. So much has happened in such quick succession that part of you still thinks you’re dreaming in the abandoned shack with Graves sleeping just a few feet away. 

A distinct sound scrapes against the inner recesses of your mind and eardrum. If you were to look behind you, you’d find the source of it wrapped in a shroud and dragged behind John’s horse. Drying blood stains the fabric. The head, obscured under the fabric, jostles from side to side as it passes over rocks and undergrowth. 

It’s beyond you now though, the future shuttling forward at an unfathomable speed and taking you with it, willing or not. The world hurrying on to repeat its past mistakes. 

So you don’t look behind you. 

“Won’t be much longer,” your husband murmurs from beside you, speaking just loud enough for you to hear him over the influx of thoughts in your head, which rapidly empty out at the sound of his voice. 

“We can stop for a break after?” you ask, turning your head enough for your eyes to land on the hard, bristled line of his jaw. He nods. 

“Just gotta get this part out of the way.”

He says it so casually, like a bit of unpleasantness that has to be dealt with; no way around it. Unfortunately, a body isn’t something that can be just swept under the rug. No matter how much your muscles beg for a moment’s reprieve, you won’t get it until all the loose ends are tied up. 

“How do you know the land around here so well?” you ask as John leads the two of you deeper into the plains.

“The boys and I have been out here before. Grew up in this county anyway; been wanderin’ these parts since I was born.”

You can’t imagine John as a young boy, uncertain of his place in the world. He seems like someone who emerged from the womb ready-made, already able to skin a deer and build a bushcraft shelter by hand. But he must have been young at one point. 

Finally, he comes upon a suitable place to bury the body. 

Deep in the wilderness, he digs a shallow grave with the short shovel strapped to his horse, sweating up a storm before the hole is big enough to bury the body. You dismount your horse and wander off while John handles the burial. 

This is the part where you have to turn away and pretend it isn’t happening. You stave off the urge to plug your ears and close your eyes. Dogear any page in your life except this one. This is the only memory that you want to fade into obscurity, pretend that it never happened, that this was some bad dream that you only half-remember twenty years from now. 

You glance back only once to find John breathing heavily at the edge of the hole, having just hauled himself out. Sweat slicks his brow and drips down the side of his face near his temple, a dark flush spreading over his cheeks from exertion. Even his shirt is damp with sweat under the pits and around the collar. 

You force yourself to look away. Now is not the time for your libido to trouble you. 

Graves’ body lands with a dull thump when John rolls it into the makeshift grave. You bite your lip and let your eyelids slide shut. Then he starts the process of covering the body, shoveling the dirt back into the hole. It takes a while. An offer to help hovers on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t quite make yourself say the words. 

A half hour later, it no longer matters, the hole covered until the only thing demarcating the grave is the layer of upturned soil, slightly darker than the dirt in the surrounding area.

“That’s it,” John announces, making his way back to you with the shovel slung over his shoulder. You can smell the ripe scent of sweat wafting off him even from a foot away. “Let’s head out; we’ll wanna make camp before it gets dark.”

You don’t answer. Not verbally anyway. The guilt almost makes it hard to breathe. In all your stupidity and poor decision-making, you’ve inadvertently made John an accomplice in your crimes; forced him, in fact, to commit one as heinous as the one that had started this whole debacle. 

You travel the next mile in relative silence, scouring the landscape for a neat patch of land to set up camp. The sun plummets towards the ground at a faster and faster pace until it’s tugged below the horizon, vanishing with a green flash. Then it’s too dangerous to keep going, the way back far too dark to keep traveling down. 

John builds a small fire after tying up the horses for the night. The temperature drops exponentially as the sky darkens, the cold sinking low to the ground. You help with gathering the kindling, mostly twigs and clumps of dry grass, then take the packs off both horses to use as makeshift seats by the fire, unrolling the sleeping bags as well. 

It comes as a relief to finally sit down after the fire is struck. Rest is a double edged sword though; the longer you sit with Graves’ old pack propping you up, the more the pain has time to sink its claws in deep. 

In the hours since he shot Graves, neither of you have spoken more than a few words to each other. You certainly haven’t brought it up. The memory of Graves revealing the truth of what you’d done back east to John looms over you. It’s inevitable that you’ll talk about it eventually though. It’s heavy in the atmosphere, almost oppressive; the weight of everything said and unsaid. You can’t take back what Graves revealed to John. At some point you’ll have to face it. 

At what point will you have to beg for forgiveness? It sits on the tip of your tongue. 

The small fire crackles in front of you. Red tongues of flames lick at the darkness, the light extending out in a circle around the two of you. You’re grateful for the warmth though, particularly after spending the previous night in the cold.  

“Nothing to eat, m’afraid,” he says apologetically, brow creasing. “I didn’t exactly pack before coming after you.”

You shake your head. “That’s fine. I’m not hungry anyway.”

In a few more hours, you might work up an appetite again, but for now, you couldn’t be further from it. All you want to do is lie down on your bed back home and sleep through to the next day. 

“Yeah,” John sighs. “Me neither.”

He picks up your hand and holds it in his for a time. It’s strange how such a small gesture has become such an immense comfort for you. You wish you could thread your fingers through his and bring his hand up to your lips to kiss all over, but you’re too tired for a gesture of that magnitude. 

When he lets go of your hand, it’s only to transfer it to your face. His thumb runs over your split lip, pulling away when you wince. “Looks like it’s healing on its own.”

“That’s good,” you mumble. “…It hurt a lot more yesterday.”

John’s nostrils flare. The fire reflects off his eyes in such a way that, for a moment, it almost looks like it’s coming from within him. “I’d kill him again if I could.”

Your stomach clenches at the ferocity behind his words. 

“You—you shouldn’t have done it in the first place,” you croak. “Not when he was—” right, you don’t say. Right to haul you out of town by your hair and drag you back to the scene of the crime, back to pay for what you’d done. 

“Now I ain’t gonna hear you go spoutin’ that horseshit,” he growls, clasping you by the back of your neck and tugging you to his side. It’s so sudden that your butt skids across the ground, raking up a small mound of dirt with the weight of your body.

You look away, unable to meet his eyes even as he pulls you forward until you’re nearly nose to nose. “It’s not—”

“Yes, it is, darlin’. That shit weren’t none of your fault. You ain’t done a thing wrong by keeping yourself safe.” 

It’s almost hard to hear. It’s taken you months to scrub the dirt from your soul, which until recently was raw to the touch and pained you to even think back on. And the hopelessness. And the longing, the irreversibility of it; irreversible in the way that you couldn’t turn your pain inside out. You could never go back to the way things were because the only way out was to keep on trudging forward. 

Like rain in a drought, you’ve been missing someone’s mercy. You’ve been waiting for someone to come and forgive you for your sins; someone to absolve you of them. 

You lean forward, burying your face in his neck. Not making much of a sound except for a harsh exhale, your throat quavering with something unsaid. 

Then you grip him by the back of his shirt and pull him to the ground with you. 

Out in the open like this, John doesn’t dare remove your clothes, but he does reach beneath your dress to pull off your underclothes. He’s silent through it all, eyes fixed on yours. Never wavering or dropping your gaze. It’s intoxicating to be stared at with such a fierce intensity. Vaguely overwhelming, the sensation creeping up your chest and lodging in your throat. 

The light of the fire he built for the two of you flickers across his skin, illuminating his face in shades of orange and gold. 

He holds your gaze when he rucks the skirt of your dress up and crawls down the length of your body until his mouth is level with your center, slick already dripping from your sex. Your breathing goes haggard, anticipating his mouth before it’s suddenly there between your thighs, planting a gentle kiss on your inner thigh before dragging his lips over your sensitive skin until they brush your clit. Your mouth opens to a soundless gasp. Electrical impulses travel up your spine, your arching back following their trajectory. 

He pulls back to stare at your dripping hole. “Missed me, my love?” 

You’d answer if you could form words, but then you realize who he’s talking to and your mind goes blank. 

When he runs his tongue up the seam of your pussy, you jolt, legs slung over his shoulders kicking at the air. He eats you out with gusto, with reverence, sighing into your pussy that it’s been too long, that he’d worried himself nearly half to death over you. 

Rough hands hold you by your waist and pull you down onto his face. Long, crude licks of his tongue, rubbing the flat of it over your clit until you’re a roiling, twisting hotbed of pent up arousal. 

The urge to suppress your noises is almost overwhelming. When you twist your head from side to side, there’s nothing but miles of land; trees and shrubbery and a deep, impenetrable darkness. Not another person around for miles. It makes you shiver when you stare out into it. 

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—” you gasp, chest getting tighter and tighter until you expect it to burst but it doesn’t. It stays all pent up, all itchy and scratchy and you can feel the sweat slicking the small of your back and the blood furiously rushing to your cheeks, heating you up from the inside out. Sweat-laden and flustered. 

Your toes curl in your boots, throat tightening up the closer it gets. All it takes to push you over the edge is John cupping his hands under your butt to tilt your hips up, licking you from hole to hole. The impertinence and thrill sends a rush through your body, the coil in your belly twisting and releasing, core pulsing around nothing. Your body gives a violent jolt when he gives your clit one last wet, suckling kiss.

“Are you comfortable like this, darlin’, or should I wait until we’re home?” John asks when he positions himself over you again, beard still wet with your desire and a big hand cupping the front of his trousers. You stare down at the hair dusting his knuckles and the bulge straining against his pants. 

The shadows make it seem even larger than usual. Your throat goes dry the longer you stare down at where he fists his length through his trousers.

“Darlin’?” he repeats, drawing your attention back up to his face.

“Oh?” you ask, cheeks heating. “I’m, um…I’m quite comfortable.”

It seems absurd to have such a conversation when your husband’s hand is reaching into his trousers to pull out his cock and fuck you with it, but the nervous tickle in your belly is far from unpleasant. 

He’s so careful with you, cognizant that your muscles are already sore and aching from days of being on the road and the abuse Graves put you through. Gentle hands maneuver your legs around his hips and move your hair from your face. Again your belly flips. 

Your grunt is involuntary when he first pushes in, walls stretching around the head of his cock. It hasn’t been long enough for the blunt intrusion to be painful, but it’s overwhelming all the same. You wince and grimace through it all. 

“Easy does it. You’re alright,” John shushes when you whimper, rough hand cupping your cheek. It sends a thrill down your spine, but doesn’t lessen the intensity. 

He stays like that for a time, hovering over you and stroking a thumb over your cheekbone until you relax around his girth, gradually finding your breath again. In and out; one after the other. When he pulls his hand away, it’s to plant his forearms on the ground beside your head and grind his hips forward, taking your breath away. 

“Oh Lord,” you wheeze, then brace your hands around his neck. 

“You’re doing great, darlin’. Just hold on; I’ve got ya.”

It’s nothing like the times before; your arms link around his neck and your breath goes shallow, hitching with every measured thrust. It’s too much and not enough. You feel windswept and battered, bruises smarting now that you’ve had time to feel them, but still you need more from him. 

He works himself into the wet flex of your pussy with slow, heavy thrusts. Taking his time. Not rushing it just yet because though the threat of you being taken from him still looms over his head, he’s sated his bloodlust. His reassurance now comes in the form of your legs spread to receive him and the fat head of his cock fitting snugly in you. 

The heels of your boots press firm against the flesh above his buttocks. Taking him this way with your clothes still on feels debaucherous, filthier than usual; like you were so desperate to have your husband inside you, that you couldn’t even be bothered to remove your garments. 

He must feel the way that thought heats you up because he rasps, “Need a lil somethin’, love?” 

Before you can even answer, he’s reached a hand down and tucked it between your thighs to strum the tight bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex. 

“John—”

Your fingernails must dig into the back of his neck because he grunts. Serves him right, you think, digging your nails in all the harder when grinds a knuckle against your clit and you briefly see stars. 

You’re splintering down to the root, coming apart in his hands like clay; when he says your name, the darkness fades and for a moment, you’re in the light, a shaft of it haloing your face. Chasing it no matter how fast it runs. A hare in a snare, a shadow captured in the palm of your hand. 

It comes fluttering down from somewhere beyond sight. Gasped out in another voice, a truer voice. From the depths of you, true as stone and air. 

“I love you.”

Give it time and it’ll come naturally. Now, it comes as a gut punch. Even John stills over you when he hears the words, and you can feel the shudder that runs through him under your fingertips. There’s no time to sit and talk about it though, not with the frenzy that comes over him, blue eyes glazed over by a manic glint. 

He braces one hand on the top of your head and surges forward, so rough with you that your teeth clack together, eyes rolling back in your head. 

“Say it again,” John growls, leaning down until his mouth is right next to your ear. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—”

Then it hits you. A wall of heat. Your belly rolling and cheeks burning, walls squeezing around John’s cock, tighter with every thrust. You yelp when he lifts himself off you to yank the skirt of your dress up higher and presses his hands to your inner thighs, spreading your legs wider for him. Bullies his cock into your channel even as you try to squeeze him out, pounding into you until the lurid torrent of words spilling out of his mouth go slurred and his release floods into you, his hips slapping against yours until he’s emptied the last of his spend into your womb. 

It’s a while before either of you can move after that. Your energy melts into the ground like rainwater, purifying the earth. Maybe life is already germinating beneath you, grass seedlings about to burst from the dirt, flower buds curled up in tight coils until they’re ready to bloom. 

Your hands shake when you lift one up to wipe the sweat from your face. 

When he finally pulls out of you, the feeling of his come leaking down your inner thighs makes you fussy. You lift your thighs just enough to let him pull your drawers back up before lying back down, no energy left in you to do more than that. You only scrunch your nose a little at the feeling of your combined juices already wetting the gusset.

Time seems to come apart and then piece back together. You roll over onto your side and nestle up against John’s chest, staring up at him wordlessly. His eyes stay shut for some time until he feels your stare on him and they peel open, the color of his irises barely discernible in the flickering light. 

“Somethin’ on your mind?” he asks in a tone so devoid of accusation or condemnation that you’re almost thrown by it. He says it like it’s just another day, like something horrible and monumental didn’t just happen. 

It takes you a while to find the words. Even when you do, they come out jumbled and disjointed. “How long have you…—when did you find out?”

“‘Bout what happened back East?” he clarifies, blunt as usual. 

The question makes you swallow impulsively, anxiety secreting from you again. “Yes.”

John looks up into the dark sky, quiet for a spell. “Not until recently. The arrest warrant drifted across my desk probably around the time Graves first stopped by. Wasn’t hard to put two and two together after that—you showing up in a tizzy around the same time as the warrant was issued. General description matched as well.”

You feel a bit foolish in retrospect, certain that you were getting away with it all this time. 

“You know my name.”

“I do.”

“My real name.”

“In a manner of speaking. Got yourself a new last name since then though, didn’t you?”

Your lips pull up at the corners involuntarily. “Yes. I guess so.”

You can almost hear it now. The penultimate note of the overture writhing against convalescence like you might stay this way for a second longer. But it isn’t right to keep feeling the same old pain. At some point, it has to heal. 

“Hey,” John says, giving your shoulder a little shake to draw your attention back to him. The look in his eyes is serious. “This is as far as the story goes, alright?”

You stare up at him silently until you nod against his chest. 

“You’re my wife. End of story. The rest ain’t anyone’s business but ours.”

Off in the distance, an owl hoots, and its call hits your ear as a distant evocation to sleep. You press one last kiss to his chest before rolling off him, letting him put the fire out before the two of you turn in for the night, and then drawing a blanket over the both of you. 

And then, you go to sleep.