#I'm not sure I'm alive anymore really—no

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty-One

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, stress + anxiety, strong language, lots of big brother max

Notes — I'm making a moodboard for their apartment as we speak.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

Chapter 21 (Italy—Sochi)

The hotel room was still dark, the light being kept out by the heavy curtains, when he slipped back inside after his morning run with Jon.

She was exactly where he’d left her; curled up on the bed, her knees tucked under her chin, arms wrapped tight around herself. Like she was trying to fold herself down to nothing.

Lando kicked off his shoes without a word. He climbed onto the bed fully dressed, crawling up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his forehead to the curve of her spine. His body was warm, grounding.

“I’m here, baby,” he whispered, voice barely more than a breath. “You’re okay. I’m okay.”

She exhaled, shaky and thin, and Lando tightened his arms around her, one hand splaying wide across her stomach, the other slipping under her hoodie to find the bare skin of her hip. Skin to skin. Just breathing together for a while.

She didn’t say anything. 

Time blurred, slow and syrupy around them. When she finally rolled over to face him, he shifted back just enough to meet her eyes. She pressed her hand to his chest, right over his heart, feeling the steady rhythm of it. Real and alive.

“I hate this part,” she muttered, voice rough from disuse.

Lando smiled. That quiet, steady smile he only ever gave her. "I know, baby,” he said, voice low but sure. “But it matters, yeah? It’s part of you, so we take care of it. No questions."

Her throat went tight, but she nodded anyway.

Then, almost shyly, he shifted, reaching for something under the bed. "I was gonna show you after media day," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, a little sheepish. "But... maybe now’s better."

She blinked, caught off guard, as he pulled his helmet out and held it out to her.

At first glance, it looked the same; the familiar colours, the design she knew better than the back of her own hand. Green and blue, his logo on the side. 

But as she tilted it in her hands, the light caught something new, tucked just beneath the visor line, subtle but unmistakable.

A tiny, hand-drawn ‘Amelia’. Barely visible unless you knew where to look.

Her breath hitched.

“I, uh...” Lando’s voice cracked a little, and he gave a helpless little shrug. “Wanted you with me. Even when I’m out there alone.”

Amelia pressed her lips together, hard. She could already taste the salt of her own tears.

She traced the tiny letter with a fingertip, reverent. “You’re not allowed to crash anymore,” she said thickly, trying for a smile.

He gave a breath of a laugh, forehead dropping to hers. “Deal.”

They lay like that for a long time. He puts the helmet back on the floor. She closes her eyes and lets herself feel it — Safe. Together.

— 

Lando followed a strict diet plan.

That plan did not involve pancakes, especially not the kind drowning in syrup and butter.

Amelia, on the other hand, followed no such diet, and all she wanted was a towering stack of them. Golden, fluffy, dripping with syrup, maybe even a pat of melting butter sliding down the sides.

She sat at the little table in their hotel suite, staring at Lando with a deepening frown, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Was it rude?

Cruel, even?

To crave his favourite breakfast food right in front of him, knowing he couldn’t have any? 

He caught her staring, raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

She hesitated, dragging her spoon around the rim of her empty coffee cup. “I really want pancakes,” she mumbled.

A beat. Then Lando laughed, soft and disbelieving, reaching across the table to tug at her sleeve. “Get them then, babe. I don’t mind.”

She shook her head a little too quickly. “No. You can’t have any. Feels mean.”

His smile faltered, confusion creasing his brow. “Amelia, it’s not mean. I swear. I’m fine.”

But she still looked miserable, like she was stuck in a fight with herself she couldn’t win. Her hands twisted in the hem of her hoodie, and her chest rose in a tight, frustrated breath she couldn’t seem to let go.

Lando’s heart ached at the sight of her, working herself up over something as silly as pancakes.

He stood up, coming around the table, crouching down in front of her. His hands found hers, stilling their nervous fidgeting.

“Alright,” he said gently. “No pancakes. Let’s go get smoothies instead before we head to the track. Just me and you.”

She nodded wetly, blinking hard. “Okay.”

“Good girl,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Go get dressed. I’ll call the concierge service.”

—

At the track, she was still holding her berry smoothie, tight between both hands, when she wandered into Max’s garage.

Max turned to look at her, a familiar gruffness to his expression, but something softer beneath it. In his hands, he was holding a takeout box.

“Your boyfriend thinks I’m a breakfast service now,” he said, deadpan, lifting the box a little. The scent of pancakes hit her almost immediately. Warm. Sweet. Comforting.

Amelia blinked. “He— what?”

Max huffed a quiet laugh, not sounding mad at all. “Told me you wanted pancakes. Said if he couldn’t get them for you himself, he’d get me to do it.” He shoved the box at her, almost awkwardly. “Here. Before they get cold.”

Amelia blinked down at the box, then back up at Max.

She opened it carefully, the smell of syrup and butter blooming up to meet her. Her throat tightened again, but this time for a completely different reason.

Max caught the wobbly look on her face and groaned. “Don’t cry,” he said, gruffly. “It’s just pancakes, meisje.”

She laughed, watery and embarrassed, and Max rolled his eyes like it was all terribly inconvenient for him, but he nudged a stool toward her with his foot anyway.

“Sit,” he ordered. “Eat.” When she hesitated, he gave her a look. The one he usually reserved for the engineers when they said something particularly stupid over the radio. “I didn’t carry them all the way through the paddock for you to just stare at them.”

She giggled, sliding onto the stool, picking up the fork tucked into the side of the box. She took a bite, chewing obediently under Max’s piercing watch.

Only then did he seem to relax, folding his arms across his chest.

There was a long moment where neither of them said anything. Just the low background noise of the garage coming to life, the clatter of tyre trolleys and the buzz of chatter. Finally, Amelia set the fork down, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I’m not just crying over pancakes, you know,” she said quietly, not quite looking at him.

Max tilted his head, like he already knew but wasn’t going to make her say it unless she wanted to.

She sniffed.

“It’s just...” Amelia tugged at the sleeve of her jacket, her voice low and strained. “After Lando’s crash, and yours, and…” She trailed off, pressing her lips together, trying to make the words line up properly in her head before they left her mouth. “I don’t believe in luck.” Her tone was almost reverent in its certainty, like she was reciting a law. “It’s not real. It’s just a human attempt to impose meaning on random variables. A way to feel like we have control when we don’t.” She sucked in a breath, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve again. “But even knowing that... it still feels like we’re running out of it.”

Max was quiet for a beat.

Then he sighed and knocked his elbow gently against her arm. “You’re allowed to be anxious. After everything.”

She gave him a weak smile.

“I feel weak,” she admitted.

“You’re not,” Max said immediately, firm enough that she almost believed it. “You care. That’s not weak.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing around like he didn’t want to make a big deal of it. “We’re all a little fucked up about it, Amelia. You just show it more. That’s not an awful thing.”

She blinked hard, willing herself not to cry again.

“Eat your pancakes,” Max added, gruff again. “Otherwise I’m telling Lando you’re wasting his favourite food, and then he’ll be the one crying.”

Amelia laughed, properly this time, and picked up the fork again.

Max looked pleased with himself in that deeply annoying older brother way.

— 

Amelia sat cross-legged on a bench in the paddock, arms folded as she watched Lando and Daniel make fools of themselves in front of the McLaren social media intern. They were filming some ridiculous challenge; Lando was pretending to dodge invisible obstacles, flailing around in his usual dramatic style while Daniel egged him on.

It didn’t take long before her dad appeared next to her, raising an eyebrow as he looked over at the two drivers. “What are they doing?” He asked. 

Amelia glanced up at him. “Pretending to be professional athletes.”

Zak shook his head with a quiet laugh and leaned back against the bench. His eyes softened as he looked at her. “How’s the move going?”

She shrugged. “Good. Slow. We’ve got the keys, so the place is ours, but back-to-back races make it difficult to find time to actually get there and sort everything out.”

He nodded, listening intently. “You had the decorators in?”

Amelia gave him a quick nod. “Yeah. And the furniture’s all set up. It’s ready to move in, but… I don’t know. I feel like I’m going to want to move some things around, you know? Maybe air it out before we spend the first night there.”

“Hows the rent?” Zak asked, his voice taking on that dad-like curiosity.

Amelia blinked. “Rent?”

Her dad looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “Yeah, honey. I was going to ask if you needed any help—”

She cut him off with a small, exasperated laugh. “No. No rent. Lando bought it.”

Zak froze, blinking at her like he hadn’t quite heard right. “Wait, what?”

Amelia gave him a look, more confused than anything. She was sure she hadn’t mumbled. “I said, Lando bought it.”

“I heard you.” Zak’s voice shifted, a sudden tension in his expression. “Did you… did you split it?”

Amelia let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “As if. I paid for breakfast the other day and he properly went off at me. He hates it when I spend my money. He knows that I have money — Max pays me really well, but it doesn’t seem to matter.” She shrugged. 

Her dad let out a long breath. “Well… I’m happy for you, honey. I’m glad you’ve found a place to call your own, even if you’re gonna be living in a different country.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “You can visit. And we’ll still be at the same races most of the year anyway.”

Zak glanced back at her, eyes flickering between Lando and her. “I didn’t realise it was this serious between you two,” he said quietly. “I mean, I know Lando has money, but… buying an apartment? That’s...”

Amelia met his eyes with a gentle, knowing smile. “Yeah, it’s serious, Dad. It has been a while now, almost two years.” 

Her dad’s expression softened, though the anxiety in his face lingered. “I just want to make sure you’re both okay. That’s all.”

“We’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about us. We’ve got this handled.”

“Yeah, well… I’m still your dad.” He pulled her into a side hug, his voice softening. “Just make sure he takes care of you.”

“He does,” she replied simply.

“Good.” He nodded, then winced as his drivers collided in a heap on the ground. “Jesus.”

Amelia made a face. “He’s getting better at the whole ‘responsible adult’ thing. This... this is just a relapse.”

Her dad chuckled. “If you say so. Just—promise me one thing.”

“What?” She blinked at him, curious.

“Don’t elope. You’re both,” he winced. ”Way too young to get married.” 

She paused, the thought of Lando giving her a ring, of wearing a silky white dress, of saying ‘I do,’ and being his in every way, even in the eyes of the law, flashing in her mind. No more waiting for permission to visit him in medical. “Okay. Sure.” She said. 

— 

Max was pacing back and forth in the motorhome, the floor creaking slightly with each heavy step as he muttered to himself. His hands were clenched into fists, and his jaw was tight with frustration. Amelia sat at the small table, quietly watching him. 

She knew him well enough to understand that this was just his way of processing things. He needed to burn through the fury before he could think clearly again.

“—can’t believe him,” Max grumbled, stopping momentarily and running a hand through his hair. “He’s such a hypocrite. Acting like he’s the only one who can race, like he’s the only one who understands the rulebook; as though I haven’t studied it front-to-back every year since I joined this sport.”

Amelia reached for her tablet, pulling up their strategy sheets. 

“Just because he’s been around longer, he thinks he can say whatever he wants and get away with it. Ridiculous,” Max continued, his voice rising a little. He threw his hands in the air, making a frustrated noise. “I’m done letting him get away with it.”

Amelia didn’t look up from her screen, though she was still listening. 

Max continued to rant, his voice growing softer but still tinged with that simmering anger. He was still venting about Lewis and the press conference, repeating things he’d already said. It was the same thing, over and over, but Amelia didn’t let it distract her. She was focused. 

Finally, Max stopped in his tracks and stared at her, eyes narrowed. “You’re not even listening, are you?”

Amelia blinked, surprised by the question, her attention snapping back to him. “Of course I am. You’re still complaining about Lewis, right?”

Max snorted, a sound somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “You’re unbelievable.”

Amelia gave him a half-smile. “You just needed to get it out,” she said, shrugging. “You’ll be fine.”

“You always say that,” Max muttered, his voice softer now, tinged with a quiet frustration. “But it just... gets to me sometimes, you know? He knows exactly how to get under my skin.”

“I know,” Amelia replied, her voice low and steady. “Mind games.”

Max rubbed the back of his neck. “It feels like he’s trying to bait me every time we cross paths. It’s like... I can’t win. He knows how to push all the right buttons.”

Amelia nodded, her eyes flicking back to the tablet as she continued to mentally calculate the tire strategies. “I get it. He’s good at it, and it’s easy to let it get to you.”

Max exhaled through his nose, running his hand through his hair. “It’s just... it makes me so angry.”

She looked up at him then, her gaze steady, almost sympathetic. “I know. But you’re not going to beat him by doing something stupid. You’ll beat him by doing what you do best—racing.”

Max paused, processing her words. For a moment, he seemed to calm down, his anger losing some of its heat as he absorbed her advice. 

He gave a small nod, the fire in his eyes shifting toward something she couldn’t quite place. “Right. Racing.”

Amelia stared at him, trying to work out what that new intensity in his gaze meant. It was different; darker, sharper. More focused.

And it didn’t look friendly.

She frowned, but before she could ask, Max turned his back to her, grabbing a bottle of water and opening it with a sharp twist.

— 

Amelia stood quietly at the edge of the F2 podium celebrations, her eyes focused on Oscar as he soaked in the victory, the Australian flag draped behind him. 

Oscar’s attention flicked over to her, and a small smile passed between them. He waved briefly, and she waved back. 

—

“That’s what happens when you don’t leave the space.”

Amelia’s jaw was clenched so tight it ached as she stared at the broadcast. Her eyes flicked to Jos, who stood behind her, just as pissed.

“Idiot.” One of the mechanics spat from the corner of the garage.

Amelia’s eyes flicked to him. Without hesitation, she snapped, “Hey. Shut up. Lewis turned in on him. What was he supposed to do? You want to talk shit, do it somewhere else.”

The mechanic blinked, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic sharpness of her voice, before he stormed off, muttering under his breath.

She turned back to the screen, chest tight with anger, fists clenched at her sides. 

Jos moved to stand beside her. “He was angry before the race.” 

Amelia shook her head, trying to convince herself. “He wouldn’t have done that on purpose.” But even she could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

Jos tutted in frustration. “I’ll talk to him. You will, too.” He gestured angrily at the replay of the incident. “Preventable. Doesn’t matter what anyone says. Today, he could’ve scored points, but now he won’t even see the flag. Idiot.”

Amelia’s gaze stayed fixed on the screen. Lewis’ car had been pinned under Max’s, and she couldn’t help but feel a brief flicker of concern for him, wondering if he was alright. But that thought quickly shifted as her mind refocused on Max.

She knew he had been aware of the situation; he was a numbers guy, a good strategist. Max would’ve seen Lewis coming out of the pits, on an arguably better strategy and known.

Advantage Hamilton. 

— 

In the end, Amelia celebrated McLaren’s 1-2 finish as if it were her own. Her ear defenders muffled the roar of the crowd, but she could feel the energy pulsing through the air.

During the Australian national anthem, Lando caught her eye and winked. Her smile was so wide it hurt, but she didn’t care.

Max, suitably chastised, stood a few steps behind her like a loyal guard dog, his presence a steady anchor as she cheered and shouted beneath the podium. Daniel, Lando, and Valtteri were drenched in champagne, spraying each other as the crowd erupted in cheers.

Her dad was a few meters ahead, his pride and excitement palpable. He was beaming, radiating pure thrill at this unexpected result.

Amelia turned to Max once the boys disappeared behind the podium. “Take me to him?” she asked, her voice full of quiet excitement.

Max gave her a curt nod, his hand sliding around her waist to pull her close. Without hesitation, he carved a path through the crowd of competing teams and loud tifosi. 

— 

With a week off between Italy and Russia, it was finally time for them to head back to Monaco.

Walking into the apartment felt... off. It was their home, technically, but it was still so unfamiliar. The walls were too quiet, the space too pristine — a show house rather than a home. 

After an hour of restless pacing, Amelia couldn't stand it anymore. She had to make it hers. She started moving things around, adjusting the placement of Lando’s trophy case, taking all her soft furnishings out of the still-packed moving boxes and draping them over the furniture. She fluffed cushions, rearranged the rug, and shifted the vases on the coffee table, making it all feel more... real. More them.

Lando stood by, a soft, patient smile on his face, letting her direct him with quiet instructions as she floated around, making little adjustments. She caught glimpses of him while she worked, seeing how relaxed he looked. He didn’t mind this, didn’t mind how much it mattered to her.

They went to a furniture store next, the kind with well-worn chairs and tables with character. They found a patio set for their balcony, just big enough for the two of them to sit outside in the mornings, watching the world go by. It was perfect. 

Later, they found the bakery, a tiny place just a five-minute walk from their building. The smell of their fresh pastries wafted all the way to their balcony. They served panini at lunch.

Amelia made sure to carve out a walking route that she felt safe doing alone in the mornings when Lando couldn’t be with her. It was a small thing, but it mattered. The little streets, the way the sun reflected off the harbour, the quiet hum of the morning.

Late in the afternoon, Charles FaceTimed Lando, laughing loudly because he could see them from his window. They looked up just in time to see him hanging halfway out of it, waving enthusiastically. He wa grinning from ear to ear.

"Oi, what are you doing, spying on us?" Lando called up, his voice teasing. Charles only waved harder, an exaggerated motion.

“He looks ridiculous,” Amelia said. She still waved back. 

“We are truly neighbours!” Charles celebrated.

Later, they drove across town to Max’s place for dinner. The familiar, comfortable rhythm of the evening soothed Amelia, who sank into the couch, letting Max’s cats climb all over her. She pet them absently, laughing as they curled up, purring loudly. She showered them with kisses, not caring how ridiculous she looked.

Lando watched from the other side of the room, his arms crossed, his expression a mix of mock annoyance and genuine jealousy. He pointed to one of the cats sprawled across her lap, then to himself. "Seriously?" He said. 

Max didn’t miss a beat. "Pathetic," he judged. 

— 

Sochi was… painful.

Lando had been on top form all weekend. He was leading the race with a perfect drive, fluid, controlled, his tire management a thing of beauty. This wasn’t just a win in the making. It was his win. Every corner, every straight, he owned it. 

Then rain appeared on the radar, and Amelia’s heart clenched. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the pit tracker, every second ticking by as she silently pleaded with the McLaren crew to bring Lando in. If they called him in before the others, he’d have a huge advantage. He’d be the only one with proper grip on the track, a chance to pull away while the rest struggled. It was a strategy that could’ve sealed the win.

But they didn’t.

Lando stayed out. He held his lead. And then the rain came down harder.

She watched, helpless, as he aquaplaned two laps from the end of the race. Her stomach dropped. Every muscle in her body tensed, as if trying to reach out and stop the inevitable. The track seemed to swallow him whole as he slid, losing traction, losing everything. First place to seventh in the blink of an eye.

She closed her eyes, the sting of frustration searing through her. She wanted to scream, to tear something apart, anything to dissipate the ache gnawing at her chest.

And then Lewis crossed the line in first place. His 100th victory.

The statistic felt empty to Amelia. It didn’t matter. Not when it came at the cost of Lando’s maiden victory. 

— 

Lando was pacing, hands running through his hair with barely concealed frustration. His words were a jumble of self-recriminations, and Amelia could barely keep up with them.

“I should’ve found a dry spot. I should’ve seen it, felt it. I was right there, so close. God, I—” He stopped mid-sentence, shaking his head, his breath coming in short bursts as if the weight of the race, the rain, and his mistake were all too much.

Amelia was sitting on the couch, watching him with a mixture of patience and concern. “Lando,” she started, her voice sharp enough to cut through the tension. He didn’t stop pacing, but he did glance over at her. “It was the perfect drive. Perfect tire management. You led for most of the race. It wasn’t you who messed this up.”

He scoffed, throwing his hands up in frustration. “It was me. I had it in the bag, and then— that stupid fucking corner—”

“Stop saying that,” Amelia interrupted, standing up now. “We’ve been through this. You made the call with what you had in the moment. There’s nothing more you could’ve done.”

He shot her a look, and there was a bitter bite to his words. “I don’t need a pep talk, Amelia. I need to figure out what I did wrong.”

She took a deep breath, trying to keep her own frustration in check. “I’m not giving you a pep talk.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. At this point, all I care about is winning. I need it, Amelia. Daniel got it in Monza, why—” He choked on the words, frustration so thick he couldn’t even talk through it. 

Amelia crossed the room, standing in front of him. “It wasn’t your fault.”

For a moment, his anger flared, his eyes flashing with it, his body tense. “It should’ve been my time. It’s always so damn close, and I can’t—”

She cut him off again, her voice much quieter now, almost a whisper. “You don’t need to do this. You were that close. And you will be again. But right now, I need you to stop beating yourself up. It's not going to help you, and it doesn’t change anything.”

He stared at her, chest rising and falling with each breath, his anger slowly dimming. And then he sighed, the weight of his frustration deflating like a balloon. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice softening. “I know you’re right. I just… I wanted it so badly, baby.”

Amelia stepped closer, touching his arm gently. “I know. And I’m sorry too,” she said, looking up at him with a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. “That you lost it.”

He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.” He pulled her into a quick, tight hug, pressing his face against her hair for a moment. “I’ll get it next time. I swear.”

She kissed his neck. “I know.” 

NEXT CHAPTER

[flowercrownsandherondales]

Against the Odd Pt. 19

I was going to wait to post this, but I'm bored at work (literally where I wrote this whole chapter, I really just be sitting here all day) and decided fuck it we ball. This one is mostly a gap builder for the start of the trilogy. We all needed a break from constant pain. Enjoy!

XIX: It’s Tactless, It’s a Test

It took me a year to really understand and forgive what happened with Burdock. 

I never really blamed Haymitch, if I was being honest. I mostly blamed myself. Put in my husband’s shoes, I would have done the same thing. 

Besides, it was my body that betrayed me. My womb couldn't carry a child. If things were different, if I wasn’t so broken, maybe in some way Burdock would still be alive. 

Haymitch drank more after his passing, and I spent more time trying my best to make sure Katniss and Prim didn’t struggle too much. I owed them more, the fear that one day the girls might find out the cause of the mining accident kept me up more nights that I’d like to admit. Burdock's death took a heavy toll on Astrid, breaking something quintessential inside of her. She went comatose, refusing to do anything but sit in bed and stare. The small amount the Everdeen’s got from his death was hardly enough to sustain the kids for a few months, let alone a full year. With barely any income, Katniss resorted to using the skills her father gave her to hunt game, selling and trading at the Hob. 

Every week when food was dropped off in Victor’s Village, I took half and put it aside, cooking meals for the girls. Katniss could hunt like her father, but she wasn’t the best at putting it all together into a meal. She’d gotten especially good after meeting Hazelle’s son, Gale, who taught her more about setting traps and checking them. 

It took about 6 months for someone in the Capitol to notice that we were going through our food faster than usual. After that we got less and less, enough for two people and no more or less. 

I would go to the Hob with her when she traded, picking up liquor for Haymitch and shooting daggers when people would try and pull a fast one on Katniss. Eventually it came time for her to take out tesserae, which would have made her father turn in his grave. 

I walked her to her first reaping, holding her and Prim close to my side while Astrid followed behind, head down and face blank. I left a kiss on Katniss’s head, reassuring her as best I could before leading her mother and sister to the viewers section. I held Prim tight to me and gripped Astrid’s hand as they called out the tributes, heaving a sigh of relief that Katniss wasn’t chosen. 

Haymitch chose to distance himself completely from the Everdeen’s, refusing to ask about them when I returned from my daily check in’s. I would just sigh, handing him another glass of alcohol and collapsing into his side, letting him pull my legs over his lap while he took long sips. I held the girls closer than ever, arguing that if they were as near to me as possible, it would be harder for Snow to get them alone and hurt them. 

We didn’t make much small talk anymore, letting silence overtake us. It wasn’t uncomfortable, and there wasn’t animosity behind it, we just didn’t have much to say. The constant fear and deaths had taken their toll, leaving both of us numb and flayed open. We still found each other in gentle touches, sweet kisses and featherlight hands. 

More times than not, when the pain got too much, we’d find ourselves tumbling into bed, soft touches breathing enough life in the both of us to stabilize the loss we’d endured. 

I still loved Haymitch, that would never change. He was my world, along with the girls. If I didn’t love him as fiercely as I did, I would have joined the others to their graves years ago. I knew if I was gone, he would completely go off the deep end, and I would never let that happen. 

It took the arrival and subsequent winner of the 70th games to throw Snow onto our tracks again. 

Annie Cresta, a wide eyed girl from District 4, would be the beginning of the end for us. 

We had received the letter a few months after she won. Haymitch had been given a fair warning from Mags the last time we were in the Capitol for her Victory Tour party. Annie had gone off the deep end, madness setting in and twisting her mind. She wasn’t satisfying Capitol citizens, none of them wanting a girl five seconds away from combusting in their bed. Finnick had tried everything to pick up her slack, but they had grown slightly tired of him, needing something new to look at. The winners before between Annie and Finnick had all been careers, which while beautiful to look at, gave the same depth everytime. The people wanted someone with an edge, someone different from the usual overly primed tributes. 

So the next best choice was us. 

We were already required to do annual check in’s with Cesar, the Capitol fawning over our great love story, ignoring the hurt that was permanently etched into our eyes. Finally, with extreme protest from Haymitch that I attempted to quell, the train came for me. He thrashed against peacekeepers, screaming my name until his throat went horse as Effie guided me to my room, promising my husband that she would not let me leave her sight while I was there. 

Effie was a lot of things, but a liar wasn’t one of them. She stood beside me as they wheeled me into the surgical room, and she was there when I woke up, calling nurses for morphling and making sure ice chips were at the ready. 

“They said it wasn’t as bad as they expected, especially for someone that was so young, and without access to proper medical procedures. There was some scar tissue they cleared out, among other things, but they are confident you will be healthy enough to have more children.” Effie explained, grinning and petting my head. I tried to hold back tears, a few escaping and slipping down my face silently. She must have thought they were from joy, rather than the absolute dread that hit my stomach. 

I was hauled back to Haymitch within the day, keeled over in pain as he met us at the train station. Within seconds of seeing me, he was wrapping an arm around my back and under my knee, carrying me back to our home without another word to Effie. 

He had set me in the bed as gently as possible, running his hands through his hair as he paced back and forth like a mother hen. Every groan from me had him running downstairs, fetching tea, crackers, soup and morphling. 

A few days after, still in a haze of drugs, he’d leaned in and shed a few tears. 

“My brave girl, what have they done to you?” He’d whispered, sobs barely contained. I could barely answer him, instead squeezing his hand to try and bring him comfort. 

“You don’t deserve this life, caring for a drunk and two broken kids who lost their father. You should never have had to deal with this absolute shit hand you were dealt. I sure as hell don’t deserve you– and I’m so fucking selfish for loving you like I do… needing you like I do. I’ve failed you, brought you straight into my fucked up world and asked you to stay. Any apology I give you will never be enough.” My chest tightened as I listened to him, his voice so broken, so full of grief it threatened to turn him inside out. 

I had just squeezed harder, attempting to speak. 

“I– I lo— I love you.” Was all I managed to get out, which seemed to soothe his cries, if only for a second. 

Things became settled between us after that. Haymitch managed to put the drink down for an hour longer than usual, choosing to use that time instead to make love to me. A baby announcement was expected, and by winter of that year, it had arrived. 

Haymitch and I were hauled to live in our apartment at the Capitol the moment a positive pregnancy test reached President Snow’s desk. It was January, which meant that for the first time I would be in the Capitol with my husband for the reaping and games. 

Haymitch, of course, did not let me leave our apartment unless he was glued to my side. 

The pinpad was locked to everyone but us, leaving me with hours of watching shitty movies while he met with the tributes, attended events, and sat in the common room with the rest of the mentors while the cannons went off. 

District 12 was out of the running within minutes, and Haymitch was right back up to coddle me. 

He was a doting husband, which seemed to leave a pang in my chest for all I had missed out on when pregnant with Wiley. He made sure to get whatever I was craving, rubbed my back and feet three times a day, took me on walks, and held me close whenever my emotions got the better of me, intently listening to all my fears. 

“What if they are reaped? 

“What if I almost bleed out again?” 

“How can I be a good mother if I couldn’t even protect my first child? How could Wiley ever forgive me for having another?” 

He shushed me through it all, validating my fears while also reminding me he was here to bear them with me. 

“If they’re reaped, I will do everything I can to bring them back. I’ll bribe a gamemaker, offer my head on a silver platter to sponsors. They’ll make it out.” 

“We are in the Capitol, the epicenter of medical advancements. No one will let you bleed out. They’ll give you good drugs, and when you wake up you’ll be perfectly fine, and I’ll be right beside you holding your hand.”

“You are the best mother, not only were you the greatest mother to Wiley, but look how well you care for Katniss and Prim. Wiley was young, but he was smarter than we give him credit for. He knew you did the best with what you could, Y/N, and he adored you for it. He’s watching over his sibling, and he’s going to make sure they’re okay.”

Our girl was born in the fall, our sweet Twyla. 

She resembled Haymitch the most, facial features a mirror to his. The only thing she shared with me was my hair color, soft tufts already coming in, taking on the shape of her father’s waves. They’d cut her out of me, not willing to risk another hemorrhaging situation. I begged for Haymitch to be present, which was allowed, though not without protest from the nurses. In 12, the fathers were often not able to be present due to work, but if by some chance they were home, it was expected that they stay firmly seated next to their wives, offering as much support as possible. 

It seems that was not the case in the Capitol. 

Haymitch had chosen her name while I slept, something I told him I’d prefer. Twyla was gentle, like the lull of our cigarettes under the stars. It was kind and sweet, sparkling in the darkness of the night. It was completely our little girl. 

I woke up from surgery to find him rocking her in his arms, unable to tear his eyes away from her sleeping face. For a man who’d never wanted children, he was completely wrapped around her finger from the moment she took her first cry. 

We headed back three nights later, coming home to an elaborate crib carved in the shape of a swan, bright pink walls with confetti and balloons. Effie Trinket and her prep team had put things together while we were gone, brimming with excitement to show us the horror of our daughter’s bedroom. 

The moment she left, I looked at Haymitch, Twyla sleeping in my arms. 

“Go to the hob and do whatever you can to find purple paint.” 

He laughed, something I felt like I hadn’t heard in years, before whisking away and spending most of the day bartering through can after can until he found the perfect shade of violet. 

We repainted, even going so far as to add white stars in certain places, making the bedroom into a night sky, the swan rocking our girl to sleep. 

Twyla grew with the cameras in her face as minimally as possible. She was the darling child of the Capitol, but she was still kept as private as we could possibly keep her. They would never know the true date she took her first step, what foods she liked or didn’t like, her favorite stuffed animal or the time of night she woke screaming for someone to hold her. 

She turned 3 the year Katniss turned 16, the year Prim turned 12. 

Both girls had met Twyla, played with her in my old house while I patched up their clothes. Haymitch wanted her to have minimal time with other people, begging me not to bring her to the hob when I went. 

“Haymitch, we can’t just keep her captive here all her life. She needs to experience life, other people.” 

He shook his head, arms across his chest, peering down into the crib. 

“She meets enough people when Cesar shoves that goddamn camera in her face.” He grumbled. I placed a hand on his shoulder, soothing circles traced with my finger. 

“Baby, normal people. People like you and I.” He rolled his eyes, giving me a pointed stare. 

“Ain’t no one like us, sweetpea. What we’ve been through, no one else has had the pleasure.” It was my turn to grumble at him, rolling my own eyes back. 

If there was one thing we couldn’t argue about, it was Twyla’s attendance at the reaping. 

I’d made a stack cake for Haymitch the night before, putting it in the fridge to take out that morning. Twyla had cooed and giggled, swiping the frosting and stealing a lick with her grubby toddler hands. She was bolder than Wiley had been, which made my heart clench so tight it knocked the wind out of me. 

I missed my boy everyday of my life, but especially while watching my girl grow up. 

Haymitch sleepily entered the kitchen, a grin breaking out on his face at Twyla’s greeting. 

“Papa! Papa look!” her smile was mostly gums, pointing rapidly at the cake. He scooped her up, holding her close and bouncing her in his arms. 

“That for me, baby doll?” he grinned at her, tickling her tummy and causing a fit of squeals. 

I brought the cake to the table, setting it down and pulling Haymitch and Twyla to my side, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then hers. 

“Happy birthday, baby.” 

We’d gotten better about celebrating it over the last two years, Haymitch wanting to connote reaping day to happier memories while he still could.  She was emotionally intune, sensitive to when either of her parents were feeling particularly broken. She’d make grabby hands at us when we stared too long away from her, caught in a web of memories. Our baby had made it a habit to plant her hands on our cheeks, peering into our eyes before flopping her head straight into our chests, nuzzling in with soft breaths against our skin. 

We all ate a slice of cake before getting ready to head to the square. Haymitch would have to go onstage, and I would take Twyla with me to pick up Prim, Katniss and Astrid. We parted ways, a chaste but sweet kiss shared between us, a promise that we would say goodbyes before he left for the Capitol later. 

I met the Everdeen’s at their house, Prim fiddling with her dress while Katniss chased her, trying to get her to “tuck in that tail, little duck.” 

Astrid lit up at the sight of Twyla, reaching out for her. She’d been gradually doing better, but still was nowhere near where she was before Burdock had passed. My girl giggled at her, playing with a strand of blonde hair. 

I took Prim and Katniss’s hand, squeezing tight and giving them a tight smile. Katniss and I had talked Prim through what to expect on reaping day, preparing her for what it was like to be in the pool of prospective tributes. 

“Let’s get this over with, shall we? Afterwards, we can sneak some of Haymitch’s cake for dinner.” I said, watching my girls sneak a smile to each other, Katniss’s eyes grateful as we headed to the dreaded square. 

[emrysmerlinambrose]

Inspired by @goatgoesmbe 's Muslim Gaz as well as them encouraging me on my other account so I'm gonna write some Jewish Ghost head cannons. I'm gonna write some Jewish Ghost x Jewish Reader later but I have class in the morning so later.

Since he's a brit he's almost definitely Ashkenazi but honestly I'm probably gonna mix and match some stuff cause I like having other diaspora rep.

Ashkenazi

His mother is Jewish and his dad is an Anti-theist

Raised general Orthodox but went off the derech as he got older

Still holds a special place in his heart for aspects of orthodoxy because he always associated it with his mom and the soft kindness of his community

First language is Yiddish (yes I know it's not common anymore shush)

Had a really thick Yiddish accent as a kid but it's become much more of a mix of Yiddish and Manc the less he's spoken it. He's somehow becomes less understandable because of that though.

Sits somewhere between Masorti and Reconstructionist but likes going to Masorti services cause they are long and slow

Prays every single day. You bet he's getting up even before the ass crack of dawn to make sure he can pray in the morning. A rookie caught him praying the tefillin once and no one would believe them.

Doesn't consistently wear a magen David but always has a mezuzah necklace that he refuses to take off

Had a fully shaved head minus his peyot for a while but no one would have ever known cause it was under his mask

Sleeps in a kippah cause he got so used to doing it as a kid he can't sleep without it now

Karaite (because I am)

His mom very heavily infused him with pride in his identity and to never conform no matter how many people told him he should

His mom is an Egyptian Karaite and immigrated from Egypt

Because of his mom he speaks Judeo-arabic fluently (which no one ever expects cause he got his dad's translucent skin)

Felt super out of place with the other Jews in the military since he was the only Karaite

Didn't know how to tell people when he was earlier into his service that he didn't celebrate Hanukkah cause it's a Rabbinic holiday (especially since it was the only one people ever bring up and/or know). As he got more confident he just very bluntly tells people and has to hold in his laughter when it makes them extremely uncomfortable.

Loves to talk shit in Arabic with Muslim Gaz even though neither of them are supposed to.

Confused the ever loving fuck out of the rest of the 141 when they saw him praying for the first time. "I thought you were Jewish?" "I am" "then what the hell was that?". (Karaites pray very similarly to Muslims).

Wears his mom's very feminine magen David that she gave him before he was shipped off for the first time and refuses to take it off. He truly believes it's the only thing keeping him alive through it all.

Is extremely superstitious. He has multiple amulets and prayers tattooed because he never wants to even possibly lose one and be left bare.

Gives various curses out as he's doing jobs that work surprisingly well. Wishing every evil eye upon someone or for their name to be erased from life and memory tends to strike a certain message.

He also has Oseh Shalom tattooed cause even though he is a soldier all he truly wants is peace

[angelsdean]

Just saw your Alastair post and I absolutely agree, just curious if you know if there was ever canon confirmation that Alastair lied and John didn't last as long as Dean did? I don't remember specific details well and I'd love to know! Thanks 👍

I don't think there's anything explicitly stated, but it's certainly an interpretation that can be supported by the text. Like, in 2x08 the crossroad's demon is already trying to manipulate Dean into a deal. 2x08 isn't that long after John died. If, like Dean, John were experiencing a decade in hell per earth month, then 100 yrs (10 months) have definitely not yet passed***. Which means if the demons are already trying to get Dean to make a deal so they can get him into hell to break the seal, then this means that they already know John was NOT their guy. Which means John either already broke by 2x08 OR John was never the Righteous Man to begin with.

I'm down for either interpretation, but I tend to favor the latter, which is that they knew John was never the one destined to break the seal, but they used John (and John's deal) to get Dean to make his deal. I think the demon that crashes into them at the end of s1 did so purposely to make Dean's life hang in the balance. Then Azazel continued to manipulate the situation, getting John to make his deal to save Dean. Because then, all throughout s2 we see Dean grappling with his anger and grief over John's deal Dean believing he shouldn't even be alive. What's dead should stay dead etc etc.

I think the demon's first plan, as the crossroad's demon in 2x08 tries to do, was to get Dean to trade his life to bring back John. The demon tries to manipulate his grief (also she admits the demons have been watching him):

DEMON Because your misery's the whole point. It's too much fun to watch. Knowing how your daddy died for you, how he sold his soul. I mean, that's gotta hurt. It's all you ever think about. You wake up and your first thought is, "I can't do this anymore." You're all lit up with pain. I mean, you loved him so much. And it's all your fault. You blew it, Dean! I could have given you what you need. DEAN What do I need? DEMON Your father. I could have brought him back. Your loss. Seeya, Dean. I wish you a nice long life.

And then

DEAN Can you bring him back? My dad? DEMON Of course I can. Just as he was. Your dad would live a long and natural life, like he was meant to. That's a promise. DEAN What about me? DEMON I could give you ten years. Ten long good years with him. That's a lifetime. The family can be together again. John, Dean, Sammy. The Winchester boys all reunited. (she advances towards him) Look. Your dad's supposed to be alive. You're supposed to be dead. So we'll just set things straight, put things back in their natural order. And you get ten extra years on top. That's a bonus.

If she's offering to bring him back, that means John isn't needed in hell and that he either already broke early and they realized it wasn't him or he was never the one they really wanted to being with.

And also yeah she's "promising" him ten years but...being a hunter it's unlikely he would have gotten that and I think, as we saw with the car crash, demons could easily make sure he's dead right when they need him in hell to kickstart the apocalypse. So I don't think they were ever intending on actually giving him ten years. And when this first plan fails, Azazel goes for Sam. Makes sure Sam gets taken out during the Special Children Showdown, because the demons have been watching and they know Dean won't let Sam die. And they know Dean has been thinking all season that he shouldn't be alive and that he will "set things straight, but things back in their natural order" with a deal. And now they don't even try to pretend with him, no promise of 10 yrs, just one.

So anyway, I think they were always gunning for Dean, trying to engineer a way to get him to make a deal. First they took John away, made sure his death would make Dean feel guilty, hoping the guilt would be enough for him to make a deal. When that didn't work they zeroed in on Sam, knowing Dean would trade his life for Sam's. It was always IMO to get Dean into hell because he was always the Righteous Man and not John. John was just a failed pawn. But Dean doesn't know that and Alastair uses that to get under Dean's skin.

*** side note: I don't believe the hell time difference actually applies to any character other than Dean. But again, Dean does not know this and Alastair uses that to his advantage to further manipulate and mess with Dean, making Dean think John was enduring "100 yrs" of hell in the earth year he was dead. I think part of Dean's specific torture was messing with time and making those 4 months feel like 40 yrs. I don't think John or any other character experienced this "hell time." It's similar to how Gabriel makes Sam live through 6 months in a pocket world in Mystery Spot. I think Dean's unique hell torture chamber involved creating some kind of pocket space for him and only him to live through decade after decade of torture. Because they needed him to break and soon. And Dean is strong. And four months would be nothing to him! So, special time-vortex for Dean! Let's speedrun 40 yrs of torture!

[soliadiaz]

snippet rpf sunday i guess

Oliver sees fans going crazy over his story with Aisha. And uh oh, that is not a usual kind of crazy. What happened there?

Oh fuck, oh shit.

It’s Bobby in the coffin. It’s fucking Bobby in the fucking coffin.

He quickly deletes the story but the damage is already done. And someone already texted him to rub the salt in the wound.

ryan: 

Did you really spoil Bobby in the coffin? Lol. Lmao even

oliver: 

oh shut up you know what? you should stop scrolling fandom spaces, it fries your brain

ryan: 

Whatever I’m not the one who spoiled Bobby in the coffin

oliver:

literally can you stop? that could be an april’s fool joke!

ryan:

Or what?

oliver:

or i’ll put you in the coffin

ryan:

Uh oh, fans will not like it

oliver:

i literally do not fucking care

It’s not every day your TV found family dad dies. Okay, maybe it’s more likely occurrence on this show, but still. It’s not every day your TV found family dad is being buried alive in the coffin. And it’s not every day you’re spoiling it in the fucking Instagram stories. So forgive him for being a little bit pissed off.

ryan:

Do not think I won’t drug you to the coffin with me

oliver:

you want to be in a confined space with me so bad it makes you look stupid hope you know that and they say the romance is dead

ryan:

The romance is dead.  Did you forget Buck is not in love with Eddie? Cause he’s a renter. And straight

oliver:

forget? i played it! can’t wait for buck to stop denying the obvious though

ryan:

Why? You want Buck to be with Eddie? You want Buck to kiss Eddie? You want to kiss me so bad It makes you look stupid Hope you know that

oliver:

hey now that’s my words also no i just can’t do it anymore with tommy i can’t keep kissing that man honestly that makes me want to gag every time but i’m being so brave about it i’ll have you know! and you know what? yeah i’d rather kiss you than him

ryan:

So you do want to kiss me 😏

oliver:

only if i have to choose

ryan:

Yeah sure Pity that Buddie is dead

oliver:

that’s not what you were saying in that interview “and i think we all – especially oliver and i – are curious, what’s their story?” have you lost faith since then? have you betrayed our buddie bound?

ryan:

Do not start this if you’re gonna lose I always appreciated Buddie

oliver:

oh no it’s you who’s losing it’s me who was gonna play it like that anyway and what is your input to buddie canon, huh? mister “they're brothers”

ryan:

Did you forget that Eddie's character stayed in the show for more than one episode only because I am just that amazing?  There wouldn't be Buddie at all without me So checkmate

oliver:

well my character is already bisexual in canon because i was so brave to go with this whole plotline with that man paved the way for buddie or whatever so i'm still in the lead you gotta give me that for all my suffering

ryan:

Yeah, yeah, okay Eddie is gonna be gay soon though!  Hashtag trust, or so they say

[agallimaufryofoddments]

have you heard baccano! is going to be getting official audiobooks through yen press?

(Nov 2023—question asked).

I've bought both the audiobooks of Volumes 1 and 2. The first, out of obligation. The second, also out of obligation. Honestly, I'm wondering whether I'll keep it up. Each audiobook is about $26 in American dollars. I have sunk a lot of money into Baccano! already, oop, we can admit that most of that money hasn't ever reached the chaps in Dengeki Bunko, or those FUNimation fellows, and I suppose one question is whether I'm willing to continue doinotg so.

"Put the money where it counts," eh?

(I've already paid for both the physical and electronic versions of these books. Now, audiobooks... Four audiobooks are one hundred a pop...? Argh.)

Monetary support is what demonstrates there's fan interest in the series surviving. Wah-hoh. You ask me about the audiobbooks? I was shocked by their happening.

I don't know anything about Yen Press' financial strategies concerning which series warrant audiobooks and which don't. Perhaps I know little about the correlation between audiobook greenlighting and sales in general. I mean, Yen Press refuses to reprint early Baccano! volumes, and now they're releasing audiobooks.

I'll tell you this: Murray giving Isaac and Miria posh accents is a little bit hysterical, by which I mean that it amuses me greatly. Sure, perhaps Isaac is implied to have Rich origins, but m'golly, the poshness of Isaac and Miria in the audiobook certainly offers a different veneer of perspective.

[kryptonbabe]

The amount of screenshots of comics and cartoons I save but never post, pilling up on my phone, taking all my memory, spreading everywhere, growing a primitive conscience, surrounding me completely, you would not believe your eyes, you would fall into the pits of madness, you would scream and scream and scre

[efervon4u]

Good morning.

[dragon-susceptible]

Someone else in the notes confirmed it's 29, yeah. I was literally looking back through my document like how tf do I have this many chapters since Wonderstorm

Eating the illusion food would 100% count as eating meat, yes, but Runaan does specify that Lujanne doesn't bother to be a vegetarian anymore. It's a personal choice. Andromeda also mentions that Lujanne told her before she ate any so she didn't.

Yeah Skor and Claudia would be a rough combination.

That's the thing about Claudia though - she doesn't see anything wrong with dark magic/killing things to steal their power. She's so convinced that she's right that it doesn't matter to her what these elves, who she barely even considers people, think of her. I actually don't know if the egg technique would work - it'd be interesting to find out!

Lmao yeah all the elves were pretty happy about that one.

Lujanne did not feed them meat! She told them the truth before they ate any!

Tbqh I'm not sure if Moonshadow elves have leather, either, or if their armor is actually formed from some sort of magical plant. It's unclear. But yeah it's in general a very not-nuanced take because the elves don't trust Claudia enough to try and explain the long history and wider implications of Dark Magic.

Ram doesn't need much to get pissed off, to be fair.

Claudia's shooting herself in the foot with racism, not caring enough about what the elves think because they're "just elves".

I love how that one passage about Ram having a dagger on hand is just bolded in the middle of your response, that's gold. And yeah, the elves tend not to go anywhere unarmed and Ram plays with knives it's fine.

Based on where in your commentary this was, Soren's actually just literally reacting to the elves tensing up around him, thinking oh shit they might attack us for this and what am I even going to do about that?

Andromeda's just like. do we really want to tell the dark mage about the baby dragon though

Ram's got a low tolerance and high perception for bullshit and it's all Claudia keeps handing him

Both of them, probably. Even the other elves aren't 100% sure, which is why Ram said it like that.

Andromeda's entire body right now is just like "I want a baby" and she's just. So fussy over the little ones about it because she is physically too far away from home to make her own.

XD honestly very fair. Though Soren was also just sitting there shellshocked (hehehe) at the table and he turns out to be fine.

Rayla slapped her hand away in the show too lmao the elves are just on high alert.

This is a lot to process for Soren okay he didn't even know the egg existed a week and a half ago and now the king is dead, the princes are alive, somehow they're running around with the assassins and a BABY DRAGON like it's all fine, his sister is being so fucking weird about the dragon-

Yes, yes he is.

No one came over he balcony to get in. A few spells went over the balcony to get out, when Viren realized the sentries saw him and he panicked.

Andromeda is literally always wearing a half-skirt what are you on about

Yesss demonstrating how much Ezran trusts her too

Yep. Ezran isn't manipulating him on purpose either, he just saw that Soren was hurting about something (he assumed the failure to protect Harrow, when it was just as much the order to kill the boys) and wanted to help, and he trusts Soren a lot more than Claudia.

Yeah that's gonna be interesting to write out. I had an initial idea of sticking closer to canon but it doesn't really work that well since the canon escape uses Phoe-Phoe as the means of escape. I'm percolating another idea now though.

To be fair Soren and Claudia actually don't know Zym's name yet.

Claudia is more just thinking about like, isn't a war just job security for you people?

Yep! She threatened them so many times but the smoke wolves were the thing that actually hurt Rayla.

Runaan is just stuck in Dad Mode and it's clashing heavily with Assassin Mode since the other humans started catching up and putting him on alert again.

Yep, and also why he's 35 when most assassins don't make it to 30.

That's always been the thing that fascinates me about Claudia as a villain, because I don't think she ever really changes her mind. She's always doing what she thinks is best, she just gets angrier and angrier over time until what she thinks is best is burning the whole world down to start over.

Well y'see, two reasons. First of all, Ezran was worried so he's making sure neither of the boys are alone. Second, remember how Callum went "but a good elf" the other night-

Ah, but by handing Zym back to Ezran, now she can hold TWO babies. And also talk to her boss which she does need to do to protect the babies.

Different Path Taken Ch?? P1

listen. I lost track and I'm too lazy to go check. They're not numbered in my document, I barely even have titles on them and my titles are shit like "last chapter" "new shit" "Idek man" and "the advice one".

Have some Andromeda POV.

Andromeda had no intention of eating anything these people served to her.  She’d learned her lesson from Lujanne’s illusory grubs - she hadn’t eaten any before the mage told her the truth but the near-miss was still strong in her mind.  She pointedly pushed the plate of pancakes away and shared her berries with Runaan, who sat beside her.  Skor and Callisto had declined to even show up for the group meal today, though she thought she caught a feeling of them watching from the trees. 

“How do you get them so light?” Ellis asked the dark mage excitedly.

“The secret is separating the eggs and beating the whites into a stiff meringue.” The mage said proudly, and Andromeda almost felt bad for distrusting her, before she added, behind a playful hand, “And just a hint of dark magic.”

Much to Andromeda’s personal joy, both princes just swallowed abruptly and pushed their plates away.  Rayla put her fork down and scowled at the mage.  Andromeda’s own lip curled but she kept her feelings to herself.  They’d allowed Corvus to join them - but this was a dark mage.  Who used her powers so casually as to make pancakes.  

Runaan cleared his throat and spoke without bothering to look up at the girl. “It’s rude not to tell people about unusual ingredients.  Other than Archmage Lujanne, the  Moonshadow among you are vegetarians.  And now you’ve fed my daughter meat.”

The mag scoffed a laugh. “Oh there’s no meat in it!  Other than the eggs, are you strict about the eggs?  Those are a normal ingredient to pancakes though-”

“Dark magic.”

“Dark magic isn’t meat,” She protested.

“But ye had to kill somethin’ to use it.” Rayla said, pushing her plate away with a wrinkle of her nose. 

“Butterflies,” The mage said as if exasperated. “It was just a couple of butterflies!”

“Oh, you mean the lunar moths that also have a social and religious significance for us?” Ram said, tone bored though his maroon eyes were flinty when Andromeda glanced at him. “Congratulations, you’ve dug your hole even deeper.  I would suggest you just stop talking about this.” 

She cleared her throat with a sour sort of look but turned to the princes with a bright smile.  Andromeda narrowed her eyes and looked to see if Runaan had noticed how quickly the girl was changing tactics.  He was looking down at their shared bowl of fruit but his ears were turned towards the mage, and she saw the furrow of his brow that supported her suspicions. 

“Soo, now that we know you’re not kidnapped, you guys should come back home!” The mage said. “With the egg of course.”

An abrupt silence overtook them and Andromeda didn’t bother to be subtle about how she whipped around to glare at the girl.  Runaan looked up as well, and Ram gripped hard at the dagger he’d been loosely fiddling with over the stone table.  Rayla narrowed her eyes and gripped her cup so hard it shook. 

The soldier, Andromeda noticed, was the only one of the siblings to react to their tension.  He stiffened in his seat and his eyes darted between them, but he didn’t move - she guessed he was correctly concluding he couldn’t actually fight them all.  Corvus was frowning too. 

“Actually, there is no egg,” Callum said, seeming to notice their tension but trying to head it off.  Andromeda appreciated the thought but she wasn’t sure she approved of the method, as Ezran hopped off the bench and went to fetch the dragonlet. 

“What?” The mage cried, shooting to her feet. “What happened to the egg?”

“Sit down,” Ram was the one who snapped it, to Andromeda’s surprise, and Runaan raised an eyebrow at the young man, who shrugged very slightly under the look. “And keep your voice and hands to yourself if you don’t feel like losing them.” he winced after saying it. “Ah, my apologies, Skor, if you heard that.”

The mage scowled at him openly. 

Callum made a peaceful gesture at both of them and Andromeda’s mouth tightened, hating the fact that a child was trying to play peacemaker between adults.  Or at least, a teenager and an adult. “Hey, everybody just calm down.  Claudia, you’ll understand in a second.”

The squeaking noise from the baby dragon made Andromeda’s whole body just ache suddenly with the need to make sure the baby was safe and happy.  She forced herself to stay in place, knowing full well that Azymondias was as happy as could be coiled around young Prince Ezran, but her rationalizations couldn’t stop her body’s reaction.  At least it was this, now, and she wasn’t being quite as plagued by the breeding season’s other desires.

Runaan stayed silent but he brushed his hand briefly over her shoulder, and she realized he must have noticed her reaction.  She took comfort in his steadiness. 

The mage gasped. “Awwww!” She bounced up from her seat again. “It’s a baby dwagon!  Hey, you!” She cooed as she approached him.

Rayla was the closest to boy and dragon, but Andromeda wasn’t far behind, and Ram and Runaan flanked them.  Rayla bodily blocked the older girl and scowled down at her. “Whoa, what happened to ‘it’s not an egg, it’s a powerful weapon’?” She demanded.

“A weapon?” Andromeda sputtered, having missed that part of the story.  It must have happened when the children were initially escaping, before they’d found Runaan with the egg. 

“Still true,” The mage said, pointedly, standing up straight. “Someday it could bring death and destruction raining down on all of us.” Leaning over where she could see the dragonlet again she cooed, “But right now it’s so little!”

Every alarm bell Andromeda had went off at how dismissive the girl was being and she slapped her hand away before it could pass her hip. “Don’t touch.” She said just as pointedly. 

“Well get a good look, because we’re goin’ back to Xadia to return him to his mother,” Rayla said firmly. 

“The elves are right,” Callum agreed from the table. “We can’t go home yet.  The mission is too important.” He got up to join them, and thankfully didn’t say anything about the slap.

The mage looked back at her brother, who just looked confused more than anything, and Andromeda narrowed her eyes.  She couldn’t see the girl’s expression but she could see her fist clenching before she turned back to Callum with that sweet smile back on her face. “What about the kingdom?  Everyone’s really worried about you.”

“Who exactly is everyone?” Corvus asked with a frown.

Callum cut the conversation off before the girl could answer. “Actually . . . speaking of everyone back home.” He fiddled with his fingers for a second and sighed. “You guys were in Katolis that night.  Do you . . .” He glanced at Ezran, and Andromeda followed his gaze to see the younger boy nod. “What happened?  To the king?  The elves were with us.  We know they didn’t . . . they didn’t do it.  But he’s gone.  Who else could have gone after him like that?  Who could have gotten past you, Soren?”

The soldier grimaced unpleasantly and pushed his plate away. “No one got past me.” He bit the words out like they hurt. “Someone came in from the balcony.  I had archers posted outside, but two of them were dead.  But still, it’s a stone tower, we had eyes everywhere, no human could have gotten in that way.  Nobody went in or out the door on the inside of the tower without my eyes on them, except my dad.”

Andromeda looked over at Ram, seeing the same awful confirmation in his face as she was feeling.  So it was almost certainly a betrayal from Lord Viren that had killed the king - and his own son either didn’t know or had suddenly become a much better liar than he had been the day before. 

“Soren found him at dawn.” Claudia said in a hushed voice. 

“The relief archers for the guards on the wall found them.” Soren’s tone was a bit brittle, and Andromeda almost felt bad for him, but she was still too suspicious to let her guard down. “So I went in to warn the king there was a breach in the defenses, and . . . it was already too late.”

Ezran tugged on Andromeda’s skirt and she looked down in surprise, and he lifted Zym up toward her.  She took the baby dragon and blinked at him, tilting her head in a silent question.  His little gray eyes were tearing up and he shook his head and just walked past her to go to Soren, climbing up on the bench beside him and giving the soldier a hug that seemed to startle the young man, who just raised his arms awkwardly at first.

“You did everything you could.” Ezran said quietly. “Thanks for . . . trying.”

Soren visibly bit his lip and closed his eyes, but he hugged Ezran back. “Yeah.  I’m . . . I’m really sorry, Ezran.” He raised his eyes to Callum with his brows furrowed in shame. “I’m sorry, Callum.”

Ezran sat back to look at him and Andromeda could tell just from the soldier’s face how piercing his shocking perceptive face was.  The boy patted the soldier’s arm. “I know.”

Hm.  So the soldier was back in Ezran’s good graces - but he still didn’t trust the mage enough to let her touch Zym.  They would have to keep that in mind - so far, the boy’s intuition had yet to be wrong.

“Without the king’s true killer found, the children are safer away from Katolis.” Runaan said firmly. 

“Plus, if we take Zym back to his mom, maybe we can stop the war,” Ezran said, a bit brighter as he looked to the future again.

“Zym’s the baby dragon, it’s short for Azymondias.” Callum added helpfully.

Claudia raised her eyebrows at Andromeda and Runaan. “And you guys were just . . . cool with that plan?  As assassins?” She asked skeptically.

“A lasting peace would benefit everyone.” Runaan said flatly. “While we are . . . somewhat skeptical, this gesture coming from the princes of Katolis would be the most powerful step towards that peace in centuries.  So yes.  We are supporting this plan.”

“And it was all thanks to Rayla,” Ezran said, smiling at the girl.  Rayla’s glower at the other two humans softened when she noticed and she smiled back at him. “And how she decided to listen to us instead of killing us!  And then she convinced the other elves to listen to us too.”

“She was literally threatening you with swords.” Claudia said flatly.

“And you threatened us with smoke wolves!” Rayla snapped back.

“Children.” Runaan cut them both off, tone a bit sharper than he’d usually use, and Andromeda almost snickered at the tiredness under his voice. “Enough.  Our plan of action is decided - all three princes will be returning to Xadia with us.  There is no debate to be had.  Your time would be better spent hunting your king’s true killer, to ensure the boys’ safety when our mission is complete and they are ready to return.”

Oh, that was clever.  Andromeda hadn’t even considered just redirecting the pair.  She’d been struggling with helplessness, unsure what to do about them depending on their behavior, which seemed wildly different yet intertwined.  That was actually an excellent idea, though.

That was why he had survived this long.

“We don’t have to go right away, though,” Callum said quickly. “We were already planning on taking another day to rest up.  You guys should too!  And then we’ll figure out your next steps from there.  But, uh, yeah, they’re, they’re right, we’re not going home yet.”

The mage deflated a bit. “All right.  We’ll talk about it more later.” She promised firmly to Callum, and Andromeda narrowed her eyes.  She’d not yet had a chance to tell Runaan about Ezran’s worries.

As soon as the mage and soldier walked away after breakfast, she handed Zym back to the boy but put a hand on his shoulder to keep him close.  Callum had wandered off as well and Ram was tailing him. “Runaan,” She stopped him too before he and Rayla could leave. “Ezran came to speak last night with some concerns about the mage . . .”

[jorvikzelda]

GOD my heart aches every time I see the black Dartmoor

[fairestofall]

Are non rp blogs allowed to follow or reblog anything? Your blog is gorgeous and Snow White has so few people who truly love her like this. But I wanted to ask because when I followed and reblogged posts from a Princess Aurora roleplayer they immediately blocked me ☹️

Hello there! All are welcome to follow and/or reblog as much as they'd like! I know some blogs feel that personals restrict their ability to tap into their character's world, but it's much the opposite for me. I feel more connected to Snow White through this account the more engagement I get and even people referring to me as the character. The only exception is, I really don't like being copied- there's been at least four other accounts who have blatantly committed creative larceny and stole my writing, theme, etc- and that is very dispiriting to me. It takes a lot of work to run this account and ensure everything is in her voice and I'm honoring the universe as much as possible. However, as long as you aren't disrespecting or ripping off my work, I'd love to speak with you and give you full rein over whatever you wish to do in the land of my account!

[murderofravens]

DUSK TILL DAWN

pairing: hwang inho/young-il/frontman x fem reader.

part: 1/3 [finished]

warnings: age gap (reader is 20, inho is in his late 40s) slowburn. oral fixation. thigh riding. plot with porn. yearning. sexual tension. canon compliant. slight infantilization. no y/n used.

summary: he promised that you will make it out alive. he will make sure of it, no matter what it takes.

word count: 6.5k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

please ignore any mistakes.

as you wipe the blood from your face, the reality of your situation sets in. you never thought you'd get used to the smell of blood— much less the sight of it. or the texture. and now you're covered in it. the white of your uniform splattered with crimson, the metallic smell of it almost overwhelming. in a situation like the one you're in, you can only laugh. the mere sight of blood used to make you feel faint; make you want to throw up because you're squeamish. now you're covered in it from head to toe.

it's not yours. it's of the people they shot dead during the second game.

you barely remember how you made it out alive. the second one was all thanks to your team— thanos and nam-gyu were the closest to your age, and teaming up with them worked in your favour. your age and gender was a liability to the others, but they were kind enough to take you in. or perhaps they were thinking with their dicks. would it really matter either way?

but with the way they act, you're not sure if you want to continue being in a team with them. especially since thanos keeps trying to woo you with his poor rapping skills. they're way too loud and reckless for you, and you're scared they might get you killed. they're not willing to give up the game anytime soon, either.

then there's the first game— you're alive, because of 456. that crazy man who supposedly had played the games before. if it wasn't for him pulling you behind his back, you would've left the premises in a cardboard box. especially because you fucking sneezed as soon as the doll turned back.

since then, you've decided you don't want to play this game anymore. 456 has been desperately trying to change the other's mind— but they're greedy and insistent. you pressed the cross for his sake, and for the others, and for yourself. hell, you can live in debt, but what use is that money if you die trying? you're not that much of a hard worker. you value your life above anything else.

you walk over to their team— 456, and his two loud team members. another man is sitting there— player 001. the one who ruined your chance of going home on the first vote. he seems ordinary, but you know of him because you saw him beat the shit out of thanos. that was another reason you decided to abandon that team— you could not be seen with a bully, or a loser. as you approach him, you give him a slight nod of acknowledgement, which he returns. you turn your attention to 456, and thank him profusely for what he did for you. he's kind, you'll give him that. you like kind people.

"if you don't mind me asking—" a voice interrupts, and you look over your shoulder. it's player 001. he looks at you curiously. "how old are you?"

"old enough." you retort cheekily. he doesn't look amused as he cocks his head to the side.

"i'm curious as to why a little kid like you would compromise herself for money."

that shuts you up. you're offended, to say the least. who is he to call you a little kid? the entire team also looks on, seemingly baffled. the question makes sense. you're sure you're the youngest out of all players. and people can tell because you look it too. you don't really know how to respond, so you just look on with a frown, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

"forgive me—" he lets out an awkward chuckle, "i didn't mean it the wrong way. i'm just worried."

you give him an uneasy smile, rubbing the back of your neck. the others go back to their conversations, and you shrug. he shoots a glance towards gi-hun before sitting back down and shifting slightly, as if making room for you. you take a seat beside him. there's silence before he glances at the symbol on your jacket— the cross.

"i'm sorry." he says with a small smile, looking straight ahead, "you wanted to go home but you had to continue because of me. i put a kid in danger."

"i'm not a kid," you huff softly, straightening up, "i'm twenty. but yeah, you should be sorry."

you give him a small smile to ensure he knows that the last line is lighthearted. he seems to understand and returns it.

"dont worry about it," you sigh, fiddling with the zip of your jacket, "im sure you had your reasons. just like i have mine for coming here."

"and your parents?" he asks. he's so polite, it warms your heart. polite and soft spoken. and visibly tough. probably some officer, you think, judging by his skills you previously saw.

"that's what i need the money for." you sigh, leaning back against the bunker. "i need enough money to establish myself. continue my studies. bring my mom and my sister to come live with me. settle off my father's debts because he's a coward who decided to pass down his sins onto his daughter."

he raises his eyebrows, and you take a sharp breath. there's a moment of silence between you two— you think for a moment, and feel your eyes get slightly glassy. you're not going to cry in front of a stranger. you put on a brave face. "if i die here, my mother—"

he stares at you silently, before putting a comforting hand on your shoulder, interrupting your cursed sentence. "you'll make it out alive."

the doors open, and the staff comes in again. they reveal the number of players left, showcase the money that each person would get, and then the voting starts again.

this time, player 001 doesn't disappoint you. he goes first, and clicks on the cross. the hope it gives you eventually shatters as more and more players begin to vote in favour of continuing the game. you see 456 get increasingly agitated as he begins to make his way towards the front of the crowd. before he can speak, he's interrupted.

001's voice rings out loud and authoritative, and worried. he reprimands the voters in favour, calls them out on their selfishness.

"we'll all die if we keep playing!" he chastises the crowd urgently. "you have to survive first, or there won't be a next step—"

"there's no next step for us!" he's interrupted by player 100. a stout old man who had been at odds against 456 since the start— you remember him having 10 billion won in debt. it makes you snicker. he eggs on the crowd. "with that money, we won't be able to pay our debts. we need to play one more game, then the money will increase to 240 million. with that we can pay atleast a little of our debts! isn't that right!?"

"you're going to die trying!" you snap, making your way to the front of the crowd. you glare at player 100, at all his little supporters cheering at the back. "your greed is going to get you killed. how can you be so confident to say that you'll survive the next game? what if you die?"

"you shut up, young lady!" he hisses, mouth scrunching bitterly. "is that how you speak to your elders? your brain is too small to comprehend real life problems. we can't continue with our lives with that little money!"

"continue your lives?" a laugh bubbles out of your throat. "look at that greying head of yours, you barely have a life ahead of you! why don't you let us live ours?!"

that seems to have ticked him off, because he quite literally turns red as he takes a threatening step towards you.

"what did you just say?"

"i said—" you step forward, shooting him a challenging glare, "you're too old to be playing children's games. vote wisely and let us go home."

he lets out a snarl before trying to lunge at you, but you're pulled back as player 001 steps between the two of you. like a wall. he looks at the old man, eyes cold, his voice low. "that's enough."

since the incident with thanos, nobody has really tried anything with 001. it's obvious enough they're intimidated by him, and they don't want to be on the receiving end of his wrath. 100 doesn't either, with the way he collects himself and steps back, embarrassed. you look over 001's shoulder, make eye contact with the old man and shoot him a taunting smile. you know it's childish, but you've resented him from the start.

before the old man can say anything, player 001 drags you to the side where you can't argue with people anymore. and the voting continues.

"you can't talk to people like this," he says lowly, gaze focused on the crowd. staring at something that you can't figure out. "you never know what they might do."

you huff bitterly. you know what he means.

"i don't care. i fucking hate bullies."

"potty mouth." he chastises, but theres a smirk on his face. he's teasing. you chuckle.

"remember you need to get out of here alive." he repeats, looking at you with an intensity that is almost terrifying. "you can't do that if you keep this up."

"jeez, okay dad." you joke, rolling your eyes. your words make him smile lightly.

"thanks for having my back there." you tell him sincerely. he looks at you for a bit before nodding in acknowledgement.

the voting ends, and they announce that the games will continue tomorrow. it makes your heart drop.

that night, you feel uneasy when you try to sleep. your clothes stick to your skin, and the side of your face keeps itching. with an irritated grumble, you get off the bunker and walk over to your new friend's side. you squint your eyes before looking for 001— and when you find him, you gently shake him.

"are you sleeping?" you whisper.

he opens his eyes, wincing slightly before sitting up. his voice is hushed as he responds, "not anymore. what is it?"

you bite your lower lip nervously before reluctantly asking, "will you go to the restroom with me? i'm kinda scared to go alone."

he blinks at you, confused. you continue out of sheer desperation.

"those guards just stare weirdly with their weird little masks and it makes me nervous." you hope your voice doesn't shake as you speak. "last time one of them kept knocking on the door while i was in the washroom and it just— scared the shit out of me. and my face is itching and i really need to go. please?"

he listens patiently. for a moment you think he'd decline but he just sighs and nods, and you cheer just a little as he steps out and follows you to the door. you bang on it, loudly telling the guards that you need to go. one of them opens the sliding window, and then immediately opens the door. it makes you feel strange, because usually it takes a lot more effort to convince them. either way, you're grateful.

you know your better option would've been to take one of the girls with you, but the sad fact is you haven't had the chance to get friendly with any of the female players yet. and for some reason, player 001 makes you feel a sense of safety and security that is almost strange— you feel at ease around him.

"i'll be in the men's room," he tells you, and you nod. he shoots a glance to the guard standing outside the women's restroom before walking away. you quickly go inside, and the first thing you do is splash water on your face.

you quickly clean the blood off your skin, holding back the urge to cry. you scrub at your cheeks till you're sure you can scratch the itch away for good. your nails dig a little too deep, and a little blood oozes out of the scratches on the side of your face. you clean that too, and then try to scrub the splatters of blood off your t-shirt. it's white, and you have no soap— so the stains remain. a faint reminder. you take your time, and anticipate the knocking— but it never comes.

you look in the mirror, at your tired face and sunken eyes, before giving yourself a nod and stepping out. 001 is waiting for you outside, looking to the side. he gives you an odd look as you step out, before walking alongside you.

"are you alright?" he asks gently, concerned. kind as ever.

you look at him again, give him a nod. "thank you."

when you two reach the room, he returns the smile with one of his own.

as you make your way to the bunker, he grabs your shoulder, "why don't you start sleeping on our side?" he says quietly, "join the team. there's a bed near mine. you won't feel so scared that way."

you blink, trying to see his face in the darkness. the offer is enticing— and most of all, it warms your heart.

"really?" you ask hopefully.

"really." he says kindly.

you follow him to the bunker, and he covers the railing with his hand to avoid you getting hurt as you bend down to get into the bed. he looks at the slightly wet patches on your shirt— blinks before getting a bedsheet and putting it over you. "get some sleep. we got a game to play tomorrow."

you smile softly at him. as he turns to get into his own bed, you grab his hand. it's warm against yours— big and rough. you don't allow your mind to drift that way. it's not right. he looks at you, gaze questioning.

"thanks again," you say softly, "it means a lot to me."

he leans down a little to ruffle your hair before going back to his bed and laying down. you close your eyes and drift to sleep— unaware that he stays up, thinking.

breakfast is boring— bread and milk. you sit on the bed, scowling. player 456 is surprised as he sees you there, before you two share understanding smiles. you bow a little and he bows back before going along with his friend. 001 comes to sit by you then, munching on his own breakfast.

"i miss home," you mumble, "how am i supposed to survive on just this? it's not even chocolate milk."

001 laughs, "don't worry, you can have whatever you want once you get out of here."

"will i?"

he looks at you, raising his eyebrows. you take his silence as a cue to continue, "im scared i'll die in here."

he looks down, before shifting to be closer to you. "you made it this far, didn't you?"

you look at him, voice getting shaky. "and what if i dont make it till the end? what if i die here and my family thinks i abandoned them? i don't want to die. i haven't even lived my life yet."

his expression is hard to read. "you'll make it out of here alive," he tells you with conviction, "ill make sure of it."

your lips wobble as you stare at him, and he smiles before poking you in the nose. "finish your food. you need the energy for the next game. we'll make it out alive, then we'll try to get the voters on our side and go home. sound good?"

you snort, rolling your eyes before nodding. "sounds good."

he gives you his bread then, tells you to eat more. when you protest, he sends a warning glare your way— the one with a quirked eyebrow and a knowing gaze. you roll your eyes, and happily eat it.

you were hungry. perhaps he can tell things like that. you're just grateful.

today, you decided to be a little rebellious. when you first joined the games, you used to spend a long time in the bathrooms— analyzing, looking for a way out. during that time, you'd discovered that one of the screws in the ceiling vent was loose. you hadn't really bothered checking it before, but since it's daytime and you have some time before the next game, you decide to explore.

your hairclip works— the screws were not tightly fixed, so it unscrewed easily. you'd contemplated checking it out last night, but you didn't want to take any risks, especially since player 001 was with you. so now whatever you do, the responsibility will be yours.

when the bathroom gets empty and all the women leave, you pull it down and try climbing up. it's moments like these that you can pride yourself on your agility— work that usually required two people, you could do alone. with one leg on the flush and the other on the top of the cubicle, you climbed up, scratching the side of your arm slightly before finally getting in the vents. you groaned to yourself, and then started crawling inside. there were two ways to go— you chose the left one. you looked down, trying to understand the layout of the place where you were practically held hostage. you keep crawling, making sure not to make too much noise before finally seeing a place through the gaps that you hadn't seen before— you carefully remove the screws and pull it apart.

the place looks empty. the walls are all sorts of pink and green. you put your head down and look both ways, seeing a door at the end of the hallway. carefully, you climb down and lower yourself to the ground with a thump. your shoulder hurts a little. you stand up, and aim for the door. as soon as you begin walking, you hear footsteps. it's as if someone splashed cold water on you— you realize the grave mistake you just made. guards walk here with guns, and you made the impulsive decision to explore a dangerous place like this by yourself?

you look around, running towards the other end of the hallway. the footsteps get louder, and as you look over your shoulder, something grabs you. out of reflex, you go to scream, but a hand clamps down on your mouth, and your back collides with a hard chest.

"shh, it's me." the voice hisses. your wide eyes look up, scared, before realizing who it is.

player 001.

your chest heaves as you break out into a sweat, a tear rolling down your cheek. he keeps you in a tight hold, looking to the side, your breath dampening his hand. the footsteps suddenly become faint, as if walking away. your breaths sync together, and after a moment, he relaxes.

he takes his hand off your mouth before harshly twisting you to face him. his voice is hushed but angry, "what were you thinking?!"

"what are you doing here?" you whisper shakily at the same time.

"everyone was back in the room except you. i came to find you!" he chides, eyes hard. he shakes you slightly, "do you really plan to get killed like this? is this how you want to die? can you go one moment without being a reckless brat—"

his words make you want to cower in on yourself.

"i wanted to find a way out." you try to sound assertive, but your voice betrays you. your words come out panicked, "I wanted to help and— fuck— i got you in trouble too— you shouldn't have come looking for me! fuck— how are we gonna make it out of here?"

he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut before looking at you tiredly. "the game is about to start. we'll mix in with the crowd when they leave, i doubt they'll notice."

"are you sure it'll work?" you ask. you hear a faint announcement. the game is about to start.

he looks up at the speakers, alert. he grabs you tightly and drags you away with an air of confidence. "let's go."

you don't encounter any guards on the way back. it's strange, but you figure it's because they're all preparing for the next game. player 001's plan worked, because you two mixed in with the crowd, and the guards didn't notice. one of them turned back to look at you, and you panted, staring back at him. your heart raced, but you felt the presence of 001 next to you, and you felt at ease again. the guard looked away.

"i told you to stop being reckless." he says quietly, looking at 456 and 390, before looking back at you. your legs hurt from climbing so many stairs. "what would you have done if they found you?"

you swallow the lump in your throat, staring up at him intensely, eyes glassy. he saved your life. "i guess you stopped that from happening."

he clenches his jaw, his gaze flickering up and down your face before looking away. "i won't always be there to save you."

you look away, heart dropping. "thank you, 001."

"call me young-il."

you look up at him, blinking back tears, quirking an eyebrow as you two walk. "only if you allow me to add 'sir' at the end of it."

he chuckles, eyes crinkling. he has such a nice laugh. "why's that? respect?"

you nod, giving a little bow. "respect is very important in my culture as well. so thank you for saving my life, young-il sir."

he grins a little and pats your head. you thank him again, and decide you like him enough. so you tell him your name.

he tests it on his tongue, and you quite like the way he says it.

the next game had to be the most terrifying so far.

it was called mingle, and you had to run to the rooms in groups according to the number announced. things like these were where you got scared— where you had to group with people. in dangerous situations, you know people usually only look out for two types of people— themselves, and the ones dearest to them.

you were not dear to anyone here. you really should've interacted with more people.

the platform rotates, before the number is announced. six. your eyes widen and you frantically look around, but young-il is faster. he grabs you and drags you to the room with the rest of the team. you pant as the 30 seconds pass, and then look out the window in the door to see how many people were left— quite a few. your eyes widen as the red guards move forward with their guns raised.

young-il leaps forward and covers your eyes with his hand before pulling you into himself as the gunshots ring out— you flinch and shudder at every single one, breathing sharp and your entire frame trembling violently. when there is silence and the doors open, you look up. young-il gently lets go of you, looking around. he's panting too, and you look at him with the most crushed look on your face before he meets your gaze. he can tell what you want to know— why would you do that?

"you shouldn't have to see all this." he says quietly, adjusting his jacket and putting a little distance between you two. 456 pats your shoulder and makes sure people are okay before moving out. you just look at young-il for a while, but he simply looks around, seemingly lost in thought. as if fighting a war within himself. you wish you knew how to reassure him like he did with you, but you realize you barely know anything about him.

the entire floor is painted with blood. the sight makes you want to vomit. you walk carefully, but your foot slips in someone's blood and you begin to fall over. 456 catches you. "are you alright?"

instinctively, your gaze tries to find young-il but he's standing away. his head is lowered.

"yes, thank you." you give 456 a smile, before assuming your place on the platform again.

you play a few more rounds. you're lucky enough to have someone to team with each time— young-il and 456 don't let go of you even once. but then the voice runs out again, and they announce the number 3. this time, 456 is dragged along with the old woman and her son. you look around frantically, and meet young-il's panicked gaze with your own. you begin to run towards him, but two people grab you and drag you towards one of the rooms.

thanos and nam-gyu. you shriek at them, clawing at their arms and trying to run back out. what if young-il doesn't make it? what if something bad happens?

this time, you have no one to cover your eyes or ears. thanos and nam-gyu talk shit within themselves, and you look outside the little window, flinching with every gunshot ringing out, trying to pinpoint if it's young-il's body falling to the ground. you can't help the light sob erupting from your throat, and thanos chooses the wrong moment to come bother you.

"watcha looking for, señorita?" he laughs, poking your side, "is it your old man? did he finally—"

you turn to him and punch him in the face. he falls back and groans dramatically, rubbing the blood running down his nose. nam-gyu rushes to his rescue, giggling. they're both high as a kite. the doors open, and you rush out before they can bother you further.

you look around. 456 is with the rest of the team, but you can't find young-il. frantically, you look towards the dead bodies, heart pounding against your chest and head throbbing. suddenly, there's cheers from your team, and you look up to see young-il walking over with a bright grin on his face.

you don't know what compelled you to do it. you were acting on your emotions— overwhelmed by the relief you felt on the sight of his face. before you can even stop, you're dashing towards him and crashing into his body, wrapping your arms tightly around him.

he's shocked, that much is obvious by the way he tenses slightly. but then he returns the hug, wrapping his arms around you and placing one hand on your head, gently patting. "i told you we'd make it."

you choke on a soft sob, nodding, burying your head further into his chest, as if ready to climb inside him, "i thought you—"

he shushes you softly, voice gentle as he runs a hand through your hair. you can feel his heart racing against his chest too. you wonder if it's for the same reasons as you. "i'm okay."

you wish the game ended there. but there was one more round to go. as you rotated on the platform— the moment you were dreading finally happened as young-il predicted it. the number announced was two.

you were ready to die there. things seemed to happen in slow motion— 456 took his best friend 390, 149 was dragged by her son. you didn't get the chance to see who took who next, because young-il had grabbed your hand and was dragging you towards one of the rooms. there were only fifty rooms— the first one you two got to was taken. he dragged you to another with a mere ten seconds left.

you sighed in relief as you got in, before seeing another man was already there. he was shaking in fear, and you jumped at the harshness of young-il's voice when he ordered him to get out. when the other player refused, young-il lunged at him and put him in a headlock.

your eyes widened and you stepped forward, panic stricken but he looked right at you and called your name, "close your eyes!"

you flinched. you looked at the man, then at young-il, before squeezing your eyes shut. you slid to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest as soon as you heard a 'crack' before opening your eyes.

the player was dead. young-il cracked his neck.

the timer finished at that exact moment, and young-il crawled over to you before pulling you into his chest. the gunshots rang out, and you flinched, sobbing.

young-il killed someone.

"i had to do it," he whispered against your hair, holding your head against his chest, "we both have to make it out alive. i had to do it. you know that right?"

you wanted to believe him, you really did. but in that moment, you felt scared of him for the first time.

the doors opened, and the game finished.

while you wanted to revel in your victory, the incident during mingle had rattled you to your core. the others checked up on you, especially 388 and 456. young-il maintained some distance. you could feel like he thought it's what you wanted. but you could really use his comfort. you just don't know how to talk to him again without being nervous. you force yourself to relive your previous interactions with him— he's still the same young-il who has saved you and comforted you countless times.

he did what he had to do to ensure your survival. that wasn't something you could hold against him. not when both of your lives were on the line.

the voting this time was just as challenging. you made your way to the front of the crowd, praying that they'd choose wisely this time. you need to go home.

one of the players in the old man's team showed you the finger before clicking the 'o' button. the action made your eye twitch, and you grit your teeth before straightening up to attack that guy and scratch his face off, but a hand to your chest held you back.

if looks could kill, young-il's glare could've sent that guy home in a body bag. as the votes in favour of continuing the game increased, you pushed his hand off you and addressed the crowd, "have you all lost your fucking minds?!"

their chitter chatter stopped and they looked at you. you clench your jaw, "after losing so many people out there you still want to play? what the fuck is wrong with you people? are human lives that invaluable to you?"

player 100 steps forward, insufferable as always. "don't you see how much money we're getting for each person? it could settle our debt! we can't give up after how far we've come."

"you're gonna die!" you snap, pointing at him, "you could take this money and go home and be happy instead of risking your life for something that is not assured to you! why won't you listen?! i want to go home!"

the others in favour of terminating the game start chanting with you, a string of 'i want to go home' echoing across the room.

player 100 glares, urging his own team to chant against you. he looks towards young-il, yells something along the lines of, "look after your fucking kid!" before the barell of a gun presses against the back of your head. the whole room freezes, and so do you.

"disruptions against a democratic vote will not be excused." the robotic voice calls out. for a second you think this is it. you look at young-il. if you die here, you'd prefer the man who saved your life to be the last person you see. he glares at the guard, his jaw clenching. the guard lowers the gun and steps back and you let out a breath of relief.

you immediately saunter over to him, gritting your teeth. the vote is a tie— and they announce the next voting to be held tomorrow.

456 says there's about to be a fight. the rest of the team got busy setting up a barricade— and you didn't get the chance to talk to your player. you knew his concern though, when he made sure to especially hide your side of the bed with two mattresses.

you play with the hem of your shirt as you sit in your bed by your lonesome. your food sits by you, untouched. you dont feel like eating. the weight on the bed shifts, and young-il appears into view.

"you're not eating."

you swallow the lump in your throat. "i don't feel like it."

he contemplates, eyes lowered before he looks at you again. "im sorry you had to witness that. I don't want you to be scared of me."

you want to cry. "im not." you whisper, "you.. you had to do what you had to do. to save us."

he blinks, nodding.

"back there, i thought that was it. it's over." you chuckle bitterly. "but you saved me again. you acted on impulse. i could never resent you for it."

your eyes are bloodshot as you look at him again. fat tears roll down your cheeks, and he frowns. he sighs before leaning closer, brushing the tears away. "why are you crying?"

"i wouldn't have survived this far if it wasn't for you." you whisper, voice cracking. "promise me you wouldn't abandon me. promise me you won't die."

his gaze softens. he's silent for a bit, his hand coming to rest on your knee, "i promise."

you sniffle, wiping your tears away. a small smile appears on your face, "i punched thanos."

"thanos?" he frowns, confused before raising his eyebrows in recognition, "ah, the loud kid with the purple hair?"

you nod proudly. "he said something like 'did 001 finally die?' so i punched him."

he laughs heartily— face scrunching cutely, eyes crinkling. he shakes his head fondly before ruffling your hair again. "attagirl."

it makes you blush slightly and you smile, looking down at your lap. he grabs your dinner— the roll sitting next to you and unwraps it, taking out a piece before holding it out, "eat."

you snort before leaning forward and taking a bite. he looks at you for a while with that faraway look in his eyes, before wordlessly continuing to feed you the rest. the words go unsaid. 'what are we doing? why are we so comfortable with each other?'

some sauce sticks to the corner of your mouth. he raises his hand to hold your chin, his thumb gently wiping it off. your breath hitches.

neither of you protest when his thumb brushes across your bottom lip, gaze focused on it like he's hypnotized. he's thinking, mindlessly feeling the plush texture of it.

you've always been impulsive. especially in situations where you shouldn't be. it happens so naturally— how your lips part just slightly. and maybe he's impulsive too, because his thumb slips inside, and his breath hitches as soon as your lips wrap around his thumb.

his gaze raises to meet yours— and you blink almost dazedly. his thumb presses down on your tongue, and he calls out your name in the softest voice.

"i'm too old for you." he whispers, shaking his head in disapproval.

your eyes flutter, and you lean forward, grabbing hold of his wrist. he pulls his thumb out, and you almost whine in protest. to your utter delight, he replaces it with two of his fingers, and your eyes almost roll back as you crawl forward till you're situated on his lap, mouth stuffed with his index and middle finger. you suck on them enthusiastically. they're long and thick and perfect and you don't want them out of your mouth ever again. it elicits a soft moan out of him— and if you could put that sound on repeat for the rest of your life, you'd be happy.

he pulls his fingers out and grabs the back of your head, pulling you close till your foreheads press together. you try to lean forward, to capture his lips with your own. he chuckles slightly, eyes closed, playfully rubbing his nose against yours. you whine.

"so impatient." he whispers, and then his lips are colliding with yours. it would be embarrassing if someone were to catch you two like this— more so for him than for you. thankfully, the others are busy strategizing for the night, and are not looking for either of you.

you moan softly and he bites down on your bottom lip, allowing his tongue to slip into your mouth. it's desperate and reckless and so full of spit— it makes you whimper into his mouth and he pulls you further into himself, as if telling you to shut up. his experience is obvious in the way he kisses, and you follow his lead. unknowingly, your hips start gently grinding against his thigh, and he lets out a soft hiss. he pulls away slightly, strings of saliva connecting your mouths. he licks it away.

"come on, sweetheart," he whispers, one hand coming down to help your hips grind against his thigh, "make yourself feel good— that's it, that's my good girl."

you moan softly, and his free hand clamps your mouth shut. he speeds his movement, clenching and unclenching the muscle of his thigh, guiding your hips to move faster against his lap. it's been so long since you've masturbated— and this is unarguably the hottest situation you've ever been in, with the hottest man you've ever seen. so you're already close. you cry out into his hand, your voice muffled. he understands what you mean and lets you move on your own speed then, pulling your head into the crook of his neck as he whispers soft words of praise into your ear.

the moment he calls you his good girl again, you cum. he muffles the sound with his hand, squeezing his eyes shut before he looks at you intensely. you collapse against him, slightly sweaty, your hands holding onto his shoulders as you cling to him. he runs his hand through your hair, breathing sharply. it's a small moment of bliss in the hell you've found yourself in.

soon, the lights go out, and dread settles in your stomach once you feel his body tensing. player 388 pulls one of the mattresses back slightly, hisses a quick "get under the bed!"

and the next game begins.

A/N: this was incredibly fun to write. i love writing him a little soft and fatherly, so deal with it. i might write a part 2 for this, if anyone wants that. this idea has been in my head for a while. i love him so, so much. this fic is my baby and i truly hope you guys like reading it as much as i liked writing it.

tags! @carolinevoight @lovers-roq @wildtigerlili @menabuser16 @deadlyobsessivfennec @watasinekoru @hanakokunzz @cowuies

[kekewrites]

tw. Dark content, noncon, dubcon, creampie, size kink, magic onahole/toy/fleshlight, coercion, mind-break, corruption, obsession, gaslighting(?), objectification(?)

part 2 of the onahole troupe

***

"Sweetie~ Are you already out? Come on, you can still keep going."

Hot... It's so hot.

Whining, your body continue to bounce on him, hole swallowing his fat cock. Sweat and cum staining your thighs, sticky and wet as it mixes with your juices.

Such a hot sight. His hands gripping your hips, helping you bounce on him and sometimes meeting your hips with his own, making you whine and sob.

You were so sensitive, having no idea how much time have passed. How many orgasm he pulled out of you.

"I'm helping you, remember?" He sat up, wrapping his arms around as he pulls you close. "Ha... You're so cute. That bastard won't touch you anymore, ok? I'm here."

Barely hanging on, you nodded as your ears started to ring. If there was still a rational part of you awake, you would've find his words suspicious, but you were just too dumb for that. Blindly trusting your friend, believing him with your being.

He promised to help you.

So why does it feel like you made the wrong choice?

That tiny rational thought of yours was pushed as you felt his lips on your own.

***

It was odd how the phantom disappeared after his help.

Your complexion improved, the shadows under your eyes fading as if the weight of their presence had been slowly draining you all along. Sleep came easier now, uninterrupted by restless nights and unwanted pleasure, able to focus studying without it whisking your attention away.

Sitting in class, you were finally able to listen without dreading for the touches.t was freeing.

You were glad you told him.

Smiling a bit, you open your cellphone as you think of hanging out with them. You really missed them, thinking about how you three rarely hang out nowadays. It used to be so easy to hang out with your closest friends, without having to plan anything elaborate. Just a quick text, and before you knew it, you were all together. But lately, it was about you two without your more or less busy friend. You know how much he took his studies seriously, often holding back to invite him whenever you discover a film you'd both like to watch.

Determined, you found yourself texting him, sending him a little message of, "Are you busy? Let's meet at the library when it's lunch time!"

You nervously shifted on your sit as you await his reply, a minute after you feel your phone vibrate.

"Sure."

You couldn't wait for the class to be over.

***

"Hey, what's up?" You heard his voice as he sat down beside you. Your usual hangout spot, comfort place, and your solace before those events happened.

Beaming, you turned to him, grateful for the simple presence of someone you're comfortable with.

"Are you done with your studies? I was hoping we could hangout soon, all three of us..." You speak, your confidence dipping down as you let out the last part.

Resting his chin on his hand, "Hmm... We have a quiz for next week in my major," He observes as your smile fades, "But I suppose, I'll make time for you," He swears it's like watching a dog wag its tail as he see you regain your smile.

It couldn't hurt to relax a little, it's been a while since you two hangout. He did notice how you were with that stupid guy in the past few days

You softly clap your hands, "That's great! Oh, we should do a movie marathon!" As you babble your plans, he couldn't help but notice how more... alive you look compared to before. He was still wondering why you were so troubled back then, but he's glad you got it solved out.

Humming, you started typing on the notes in your phone, making plans and listing movies to watch, throwing in snacks to buy as well. It was safe to say that you're really excited to be able to be with your best friends.

It would be just a fun night with the guys, right?

***

"Come on, don't be upset. Something probably important came out that he won't be able to come."

It seems that the three of you wouldn't be able to hangout, as the two of you sit on the couch.

Grumbling, you hug the couch pillow close to your chest as you glance at the text message left by your friend. It was upsetting but you couldn't be that upset since he rarely wasn't able to come in your hangout session, and since he's the one who helped you after all.

"Yeah, you're right. It can't be helped, I guess…" you sigh, trying to hide your disappointment as you sink further into his couch. The soft fabric and cozy atmosphere of his apartment help ease your mood a bit.

"I'm sure the three of us will meet up soon. Plus, the two of us haven't hangout for a while."

Come on, it's not so bad to be alone with him, you know?

"Yeah, that's true," you say, trying to shake off the disappointment. You steal a glance at him as he queues up a movie. It's been a while since the two of you just hung out alone like this, and despite the change in plans, it feels nice.

As the movie starts, you realize he accidentally picked a horror film—complete with dark shadows, creepy music, and plenty of jump scares. You’re both laughing it off at first, but the sudden shocks get you clutching the couch pillow a bit tighter, scooting unconsciously closer to him.

The atmosphere shifts when an unexpected scene appears—a moment that’s more... explicit than either of you anticipated. You feel your face heat up as you quickly avert your eyes, feeling a mix of embarrassment and tension settle between you. You catch him glancing away too, clearing his throat nervously.

What is he, five? Getting flustered with such scene, not like he hasn't done any worse than it.

"I... think I need to use the bathroom," he mumbles, standing up hastily and heading out of the room, leaving you alone on the couch.

You’re left there, pulse racing slightly as you try to shake off the awkwardness.

This is bad, you suddenly remember all of your other friend's help. Clutching your legs close, you try to avert your attention somewhere while waiting for your friend to come back.

Though, you felt your stomach drop as that familiar and unwelcome touch came up.

***

What the hell is he even thinking?

He tries to find his reason as he stares at the onahole on his hand, that idiot's gift to him. It's been a week since he had last use this thing, yeah it felt good and feels like the real deal but after one use he never touched it again.

So why the hell is he using it while thinking of you? The same girl who's sitting on his couch right now, in his apartment?

His eyes glance at the lube on the counter, putting the wet lotion on his free hand. It's your fault he got hard, you were too squirmy and... cute. That shitty horror movie wasn't even that good with the corny soft porn scenes but you... were just having an effect on him. So damn shy and innocent reactions, he needed to get out before he'd lost his composure and pounce on you.

But he's not a brute, no he isn't like those rabid animals.

Imagining does not count, no, no, he's only letting his frustration out.

So with the touch of his fingers, rubbing the entrance of the onahole he let himself go.

***

Jumping from the couch, you looked around frantically as you felt that horrifying touch on your nether region. 

That's impossible! You though he already fixed it!

Silently crying on your hands, you tried to keep your noises.

You've experienced that ghostly touch countless times however this time, it felt a bit calculative yet desperate, as if another entity was touching you. It felt weird but you can feel how different this one was touching you.

Is there another ghost who's harassing you?

Will it ever go away?

You cried as you felt something big goes inside you.

***

Shit, he forgot how realistic this onahole was. When was the last time he used it? Weeks ago? He doesn't remember but he might use it again now. Since his darling is always inviting him to hangout, this little gift might save him from pouncing on you when you're just a little too cute for his liking. Not only that but because of the hectic projects and assignments coming in, he hasn't had the time to relieve himself.

His thrust is fast and uncaring, yet a bit desperate for release. He felt himself feeling more sensitive as he imagine if this was your cunt instead, squeezing and twitching around his cock. He loves how automated this thing was, his mind just running wild as he imagines you sitting alone in his couch unsuspected of his vulgar and filthy thought of you. It's wrong but it damn this onahole just feels so right.

Slamming himself on the tight hole, he pinch the little clit and felt the walls squeeze tight making him come undone. Hissing and twitching as his cock shoots down his massive load inside the toy. What a waste, it would've been better if he could shoot it down your womb. Exhaling, he slowly pulled out of the toy, savoring the way the wall clung on his shaft before his head pops off.

Fuck. He's really a goner now. 

He's no better than a scumbag for letting his mind wander to thoughts about his best friend, his childhood friend… his first crush, his first and only love. He remembers how he was when you two first met—a boy who struggled to connect with anyone. He didn’t see the point in making friends, preferring to stay on the sidelines, reserved and detached.

Though, him, was the exception as both of their parents were business partners and have good relationship with each other. It's only natural for them to build a connection, solely for maintaining good connections with their business partners. Over time, he realized how strangely alike the two of them were, as if they shared the same quirks and preferences.

Well, he shouldn't think of that while thrusting his dick on a toy but he can't help but reflect on the way they are alike. He certainly knows, that guy shares the same affection he has on you, and he hated how he can't feel jealous because... he's fine with sharing you if it's him. But he's a little pissed at how you two were hanging out lately, he only have himself to blame by taking his studies seriously unlike that guy.

That's not important now, he has you in his room alone with no one else to ruin your moment with him. Shit, he felt the toy tighten around him.

His mind goes blank as he felt himself getting closer.

***

"Hey, sorry I took a while, but I'm... back?" he said, sitting down on the couch. His voice trailed off, quieter and confused, as he noticed you hugging yourself with your head hung low.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately, placing a hand on your back as he tried to see your face. His eyes narrowed as he waited for your response, only to widen when he saw your tear-streaked face.

"I-It... touched me again..."

"What do you mean?"

And you broke down, crying as you told him about the phantom.

Any sane person would be skeptical, hell they would probably put you in the asylum for the things you swore happened to you. He'd get you help if it weren't for that one specific detail, an oddly timed and complete coincidence. Where that phantom touched you the same time he had gotten the toy... and the way it touch you just minutes later he went to the bathroom.

No way...

Surely, it was just a coincidence...

He supposed testing that theory wouldn't hurt.

With a lousy excuse of getting you a glass of water from the kitchen, he went straight to the bathroom to take that toy, sure it was big enough to be seen by you, but the way you were staring down on the floor as you quietly sob made it easy to sneakily place the onahole behind the couch pillow. Close for his hand to touch but unnoticeable from your teary eyes.

His hand goes behind the pillow right where the toy is.

"Ah!"

It can't be... Such an impossible story.

"J-Just now... it touched me!"

His finger went in.

"No! It went inside...!"

This is crazy.

He knows it's wrong but watching you panic and look around with frantic and terrified eyes made his cock throb. Not knowing that the source of your trouble being right in front of you made it immoral, so bad, and it made his cock harden.

"Hey, I'll... chase out that bastard for you." His wandering finger pulls out of the toy, his other hand cupping your tear stained cheek, "You don't have to worry anymore. You said that guy made that phantom disappear, right?" He sweetly cooed, a rare tone in his voice, "Just trust me on this one like he'd done with you, yeah?"

Your back gently hits the couch as he straddles you, "Be a good girl and relax, I'm just going to help you."

Doubt and wariness swirls in that doe eyes of yours. He can see the uncertainty in that stupid head of yours, but he knew you'd agree with him. You always do.

"O-Ok... Please help me."

And he's right about that.

You're just too trusting, aren't you? Stupid girl.

It's your fault he's like this to you.

All your fault.

There’s a faint metallic click as his belt buckle comes undone, and the soft rasp of fabric follows as he frees himself from his pants. His cock springs free, the swollen head brushing against your inner thigh. He can't believe he's finally doing this. The girl he ever wanted right beneath him, all bare and for him to ruin.

It's fucked up how he doesn't feel guilty for doing this, doesn't feel guilty as he rubs his tip on your wet entrance. Everything about you is soft, the only thing he's afraid to do is to bruise your pretty skin. He can feel your breathe quicken, you heart thumping in anxiety and he smiles at that.

"I'll be... gentle." For now.

The blunt head nudges against your entrance, the slick heat of your hole enveloping him inch by inch as he presses into you slowly. Fuck. It's completely different from a toy. He wished he'd done it sooner, the walls of your inside and the wall of the toy was like night and day. His cock pulses within them, the heat and tightness driving him to the edge of his patience. Hissing in pleasure as your walls clenched around him.

"So cute..."

With that, he leaned down, his lips pressing against you. His tongue invaded your mouth, claiming you, owning you, just as his cock claimed your body. He knows he should let you adjust and wait for you to be ready but hell he'd wait for more than a second. Setting a fast pace, fucking into you with abandon, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave bruises-- the one he was dreaded on doing. He panted, his head thrown back in ecstasy. 

If it were that easy, he should've done this sooner. Manipulated that stupid head of yours, your naivety being the one who'd get you in trouble when you were younger.

It was different back then when he was alone. Socializing was unnecessary and draining, didn't have any purpose or value to him. He supposed having one friend is enough, he didn’t have patience for others, especially kids his age who, to him, seemed immature and exhausting.

Then you came along with your bright smile, bold laugh, and endearing quirks. You weren’t stunning or wealthy, and your background was humble—a stark contrast to his world. And yet, every time you called him by that silly nickname you made up, something in his chest stirred, an ache he couldn’t ignore. A foolish girl, treating him as if he were just another friend, another kid to play with.

So why can’t he push you away? You're just like any other kid who wants his attention. So why is it so hard to say no to you?

You're the one driving him crazy. So you only have yourself to blame, this is only happening because you're letting him. You're the one doing this to your self.

He could feel the pleasure building, the pressure in his balls as he neared his release.

"Be my onahole, ok?" He demanded, his voice rough with lust. He needed to hear you say it, needed to know that you understood.

Your mind was swirling, head foggy as the pleasure was starting to mix with the confusion. As your cries grew louder, body writhing beneath him, he felt his own orgasm approaching. He could feel the heat building, the tingling in his toes as his balls drew up tight.

O-Onahole? What's that? What is he talking about?

"Everyday, you'll be my onahole." he panted, his words punctuated by the sound of flesh meeting flesh, the obscene squelch of his cock pumping in and out of your pussy. "I'll save you from that phantom, ok?"

I don't know anything....

"Ok?!" he warns, hips losing their rhythm as his climax approaches, "Shit...!"

"Ah! I-I will! I'll become your onahole!"

With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside, his cock pulsing as he empties himself deep in your womb. He holds you tight against his chest, grinding into you to prolong the waves of pleasure.

"Fuck, you're so good for me," He praises breathlessly, peppering your sweat-dampened neck with kisses. "Taking my cock so well, milking me dry. That phantom is gone now that I'm with you."

All you could feel was the light kisses trailing on your neck to your cheek and finally on your lips.

"One more time? I mean you are my onahole now."

***

"Wow, you didn't hold one bit eh?"

His eyes narrowed as he saw him standing on the door with a smug grin.

"What are you doing here? I thought you wouldn't be able to make it?" His tone accessory as he cleans up the aftermath, gently tucking in your passed out figure on the bed.

"So defensive for what?" He chuckles, sauntering as he glance at your peaceful fresh-fucked face. Such a lovely sight. He  licks his lips at that but for now you'd need to get your beauty rest after a rough day. "So, did 'ya like your present?"

"..."

"I'd take your silence as a yes then." Giggling, he places his hand on his shoulder, "I knew you'd like it I mean, we are similar in taste after all."

His jaw tightens before sighing in defeat, "Where did you even get that toy?"

"Oh, some shady website~! I was planning to buy another one but the website mysteriously disappeared!" He exaggerate his movements which earned a grimace from him.

"Shut up, you'll wake her up."

"No, she won't. You made her pass out, how ungentlemanly of you."

"Says you."

"Whatever, I came to ask you a question," His hand drop to his side, his smug smile still on but something sinister behind it, "So, we're going to share, right?"

The answer should've been obvious but it was hard to let the word out of his mouth. Was it pride or possession?

"Yeah..."

"I knew you'd say that."

"But I want her on Mondays."

"Oh brother, why pick the worst day?" He grunts in disappointment.

"Because it's the worst day, I need her on that day."

[die-auster]

Some "if Yue is alive and went travelling with the Gaang" designs

With a ton of text about cultural inspiration.

The main book 2 look

I wanted to show cultural differences between the tribes, so Yue's look is sort of Mongolian. There were Mongolian-styled hats in the Northern tribe, and Yue's dress under the coat looked like a Mongolian deel (thanks @atlaculture for all these posts about clothes and everything else!), so it's not much against the canon information.

So she's wearing a deel again with a second layer - there are chinese actors on photos as far as I know; I hope it's okay. One-shoulder silhouette refers to later Aang's clothes because Yue is still kind of a spiritual person (she wasn't a fighter, so I want her to have some other useful talent – not a bender or healer like Katara or a non-bender warrior like Suki). Violet, pink and white were originally her colors, no changes here. Three blue characters would be too much for a group of five, and total white is not practical at all. I like to think that violet color shows high rank in the Avatar universe; in the original series it was only worn by princess Yue, Kanna, the chief Hakoda's mother, and by king Bumi.

Yue's boots here are mongolian gutals/gutuls (the collage is already big, but I used them again for one of Book 3-looks).

Her hair become simpler – just two braids and a hairpiece, to match her previous decorated hairdo. I guess if she's travelling with the Gaang she's not that much of a Moon Spirit anymore (maybe she returned the part of the moon spirit that saved her and was healed other way?), so I decided to forego the moon-referring part. Also it will be easier to do by herself since she has no servants now... The headdress I took from modern Mongolian dancers; the front part is crescent-moon-shaped.

The Ba Sing Se dress

I fell in love with this Ao Dai dress, it's simple, long and elegant. But... it's mostly Vietnamese… and I'm afraid that it's modern and not historically accurate. Also it does not really go together with other Ba Sing Se dresses :( because I did not want to just copy-paste some background look. But there is at least one dress with a tail, thigh high slits and a standing collar on the dress underneath, so... I guess my choice is not that bad? The tail makes her look more royal. The fan is the same which Toph and Katara had. For the palette I chose Yue's white color with EK greens and warm yellow/ochre to match Katara and Toph. The hairdo is copied from the series; I chose one with the tassel on the right, to refer the NWT/Korean accessories.

The Fire Nation disguise

A confession – I don't like FN clothes. I wasn't sure if I would be able to do it properly, so I almost copied that attire (left one) – asymmetry, as a Thai touch, which again matches Aang's Invasion Buddhist-like clothes. The palette keeps Yue's signature white, with some pink of a warmer shade, as they wear it in the Fire Nation. And the "royal" long skirt, 'cause she's still not a fighter. The look is simplified so I could not keep zigzag ornament on her longyi skirt, therefore I moved it onto the top part.

I used Thai dancers jewelry and... flip flops? idk how they are called in Southeast Asia (don't like Sokka and Katara's FN shoes at all, why the design is so complicated?).

For covering her hair I used a turban, inspired by Myanmar turbans; a white one, so if some hair will show, it won't be too noticeable. Also Yue could still be easily recognised on screen/page by her white head. The long end of the fabric on her right resembles burmese hairstyle silhouette.

The Invasion-and-till-finale look

For her dress I used a deel (again); the sleeveless jacket is an hommage to her original design and has some Korean vibes, like Toph's Ba Sing Se dress (at least I hope so). Katara and Sokka's season 1 looks have Korean influence, so I guess it's okay. Gutals are from her Book 2 main look. I have a soft spot for them.

My favorite thing is her hair :)))) It's a mix of Inuit/Mongolian braids and a hairpiece, also from the Book 2 look. This time there will be more braids. Two on the front – I wanted to keep them from her original hairdo, but now they are braided together (I saw this on the Alaskan Inuit/Eskimo women photos). On the back there are five, inspired by a Mongolian hairdo for young unmarried girls, who wore multiple braids. I decided to make five, because Alaskian Inuit language uses this amount for counting and with two front braids it'll make seven, which is a lucky Mongolian number. And in theory a limited number should be easier to animate.

The post-canon noble look

After the final battle I thought Yue will come back to Agna Qel'a and become a more active political figure. I chose a white kuspuk (blue color is still for Katara and Sokka), showing that she is ready to lead her tribe after this journey, not the passive perfect princess she was before. "She is associated in canon with the masculine yang of the yin and yang and the moon which, in most Inuit and Eskimo cultures, is considered masculine as well. While white kuspuks are associated with men and specifically family patriarchs, a feminine kuspuk in white makes plenty of sense for Yue's character" – @mostly-mundane-atla helped me a lot with the cultural meaning of the clothes (I am so grateful!). Also it's an hommage to her total-white Moon Spirit look. And I changed her hair again to Greenland updo with two tied braids on the front – more complicated than the simple braids she wore during the journey. It looks formal.

NWT is less Inuit-inspired and has a strong Mongolian touch (to make them look more "modern"? dunno) but I guess the formal wear for the spiritual princess could refer to older traditions. Which should be the same with SWT, 'cause SWT was originally a part of NWT – or so I heard. For example, Kuruk, the NWT Avatar who lived about 400 years ago, has nothing Mongolian in his look.

All the looks are simplified to match the style of the original cartoon. I know there should be more details and embroidery, but my goal here was to draw something (at least theoretically) applicable for animation. And no Hahn's betrothal necklace of course.

Also I want to mention here other great Yue designs, since they are the inspiration behind the overall idea of the post – the moon looks and "Yue joins the Gaang" outfits by amazingly talented @chiptrillino.

P.S.: an important note

This is my first attempt ever to design outfits that could fit the world of A:tLA. I am not Asian or ingenious, not an expert in their cultures or costume history at all, not a professional character designer. I am just a fan who tried to create designs with respect to real cultures and people. Nothing here was supposed to be offensive in any way. If something still is – please inform me so I could fix it as soon as possible.

I hope, as a fan, I have the right to draw fanarts looking for an inspiration in the cultures that inspired the original cartoon.

If you see mistakes in my post, be it in drawings or a text, also feel free to tell me. I will deeply appreciate it.

[taintandviolent]

Taco Tuesday ; Gambit x reader!

summary: You live across the hall from Wade Wilson, and one Tuesday, he invites you over for tacos. 🌮 And that’s where you meet him. The Gambit. Post-Void, everyone got out alive and everything is fine. [PART TWO HERE]

word count & w a r n i n g s: 5.4K | smut with very little plot, alcohol mention, slightly drunk (but very consenting) reader, French and typing out accents/dialects, pet names (cher, mon ami, mon coeur, etc.), dirty talk (cos he is a dirty talker, don't argue with me on this), fingering, unprotected sex, p in v, no use of y/n.

a/n: this is based 100% on Deadpool and Wolverine Gambit / Channing's version of Gambit!! sorry for the lack of plot here, he deserves better than this filth, but I am down ASTRONOMICALLY and I needed to get it out. I spent so much time trying to get his accent right, I hope it comes off the way I wanted it to... anyway! i'm not certain if anyone will read this, but if you do - thank you a million times over! as always, requests are open! - banner by @/strangergraphics, and Remy gif by @scintie!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

He’s handsome. Like really handsome. 

Your stomach does a flip as he smiles at you, reaching for the bottle of Jack between your legs — wait. Pause. Rewind. How’d we get here?

Living in the same apartment complex as Wade Wilson was a trip. Even more of a trip was living across the hall from him. The things you heard coming from that apartment... nobody would believe you. So, you never told anyone. 

He’s kind. Albeit, zany but kind. Your interactions have been cordial and nauseatingly neighbourly. But on one regular ol' Tuesday afternoon, Wade invited you inside. He said something about having a party later that night, making tacos and being neighborly. He assured you that it wasn't a sex party... which to be honest, you weren't worried about until he'd mentioned it. Against your better judgement though, you'd agreed, and said you'd bring some liquor.

So, that evening, you opened your door, one bottle of Jack tucked under your arm, and another in your left hand. You shut the door to your apartment and walked straight across to your neighbour’s door. Your fist had rapped against the wood only twice before the door swung open, revealing Wade, and a very… strange and very bald looking dog in his arms. 

"Oh, what the fuck?" You asked, looking down at the creature. "I didn't know you had a dog…?"

Wade’s voice rose an octave or two, in a cutesy tone. "She's a new addition, yes she is!" 

"I brought... well, this. Sorry, it was all I had in my cabinets and to be perfectly honest, I wasn't about to go out and spend money on this. I like… barely know you."

"HA! Brutal honesty. We love to hear it." 

Wade took hold of your shoulder and yanked you inside, harsh enough that you made a small sound as he did. He shut the door with his foot, and towed you towards the table, where everyone was gathered. And that was when you first saw him. He wore all black, save for a tan trench coat with a high collar. He lounged casually on one of the dining chairs, playing with a deck of cards. They fluttered from hand to hand effortlessly, and for a moment, you were stuck, mesmerized by the dexterous way he handled them. You weren't sure what was pulling you towards him harder, your heart or your cunt, but you felt an undeniable draw to the man.

Wade's arm wound itself around your shoulders, guiding you around the room to meet each of his friends. At that point, living next to him, mutants were a forced transition. You were used to the concept of them, so meeting a giant silver man, for example, wasn't unexpected. Vanessa was the most normal - you were pretty sure she was human.

Finally, he got to the one you really wanted to meet. The one that your eyes had been darting back and forth to the entire time, the one that when he briefly met your gaze, your heart thudded in your chest. 

"And this... handsome slice of man, is the Gambit. Good luck understanding him, he's a real mouthful."

I’ll bet he is, you thought. 

He pocketed the cards in a quick motion and stood up from his chair. With a syrup-smooth chuckle, the man laughed and said: "You can call me Remy." He did in fact have a thick Cajun accent and spoke quickly – almost too quickly. You blinked once, focusing hard on his words.

"Remy," you repeated finally, before saying your own name and extending your hand. He took it gently and as he shook it, your palm tingled with what felt like electricity.

"Enchanté." (Enchanted)

Your cheeks burned, and you knew they were flushing. You couldn’t control it. "De même..." (Likewise.)

His brows lifted, surprised. "You speak French, mon ami?" (my friend) 

"Heh, uhh... comme un enfant." (Like a child) You chuckled low, averting your eyes for a millisecond. "I took a few years of it in high school and again in college. I’m by no means an expert."

Wade's eyes were wide, flicking back and forth between the two of you. There was obvious chemistry there, and a knowing smirk drew itself across his lips. Abruptly, he yanked one of the bottles of Jack Daniels from beneath your arm, before leaning against the nearby wall.

"Oh, fuck me. You understand Gumbo here? That’s cute. No idea what either of you are saying though, someone forgot to turn the subtitles on. I'll leave you two to get acquainted." Whatever that meant. You scoffed, but turned your attention back to Gambit, looking at him.

“Sit a while, cher.” 

You happily took the chair that he pulled out, not caring that it was facing away from the others, and plopped down onto it, situating the other bottle of Jack between your legs. You gripped the neck of the bottle tightly, and looked at him with a timid, but a come hither sort of smile. After a moment, you twisted the cap off, and flicked it off somewhere to your right. Wade would find it later, or he wouldn’t. You didn’t really care. 

You two talked for hours, most of which consisted of him telling you about the Void, and how hard it had been, while you pretended to comprehend it. Between words, you passed the bottle back and forth, taking mouthfuls, and inadvertently swapping spit as you did. The thought occurred to you about halfway through the conversation, and your stomach tightened. You shook your head lightly and clenched your thighs together, trying to stave off the arousal that was bubbling in your core. 

There we go. That’s better.

He’s handsome. Like really handsome. 

Your stomach does a flip as he smiles at you, reaching for the bottle, which was still situated between your legs. His fingertips just graze the side of your thigh and his eyes flit to yours. He holds his smile, waiting for you to either protest or move the moment forward, and all you can do is gawk, because your cunt starts throbbing. 

As the evening wears on, though cautious, it’s obvious that Remy feels the same pull that you do. He remains cool on the outside, but internally, he was battling the magnetic tugging he felt from you. He couldn't shake it. He’d compliment you, you’d compliment him. At one point, in between sips, you casually drop that you think his accent is hot and he whispers something underneath his breath, something you don’t understand. Before either of you realized it, you had started to lean closer to each other, your faces inches apart, and you felt the warm rush of his breath over your cheeks.

It was as if you both realized it simultaneously. You rear back, an embarrassed expression plastered on your face. Remy clears his throat. His attraction to you was stifling; something that he rarely felt. He was powerless in his want for you, the draw you had was irresistible.

"Maybe we should... uh..." You murmur, looking deep into his eyes. In a room full of people that were starting to fade away the closer you two got to each other, you were thankful you were still sober enough to suggest a different setting. Any longer and you surely would’ve just straddled him and gone to town. 

Remy moves first. 

"We gon' take a walk." He announces to the others, getting to his feet. 

The conversation stops abruptly, silence hanging heavy. You straighten up, trying your best to avert your gaze, but you still see everyone’s reaction. Someone clears their throat and your heart sinks, feeling like you might die on the spot. The one that had been introduced as Logan, gruff looking dude, raises a single brow at you. In true Wade-character, he ugly cackles, shattering the moment. Your shoulders sink, embarrassed, as you head towards the door, doing the proverbial walk of shame. 

Remy meets you at the door and pulls it open, holding it for you. You duck underneath his arm, looking sheepish and as you exit into the hallway, you think you heard Wade mutter something about a fanfiction but Remy yanks the door shut before you can react. 

“You want to… get some air? Or um… I have… well, no I had liquor, but I brought it to Wade’s.” 

He smiles, and looks down at the floor, before lifting his eyes back to you. “We can do whatever you want, chère. You ain’t gon’ catch me complainin’ eitha’ way.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, considering the options. Your heart was hammering in your chest at the prospect of just being near him without the others around. You two had been close to kissing in Wade’s living room, and now, you had the opportunity to continue that… or take a walk. The latter seemed less appealing. 

“Y’know what, why don’t we… just…” You take a few steps backwards, jerking your head towards your front door. Concerningly, you had forgotten to lock your door. However, it allows you to open it quickly, and walk backwards into the apartment. Gambit follows you in, his attention never leaving you. 

"You sure 'bout dis, mon ami? I can walk away righ' now." His words land heavy, a promise behind them. He was a gentleman at heart, you could tell. Fortunately for him, you were very sure, and wanted every inch of him.

Mon ami - something that in the few hours you'd spent with him, he'd called you often. Among other things. Mon ami meant my friend, but you knew you two weren't just friends. You saw how he acted with others, and the comments he made. Sure, he had a quick wit and a mouth on him, but the flirting... god, the flirting.

He stands in the doorway, his shoulders filling the frame. Silently, you nod and take another step back, giving him some room to enter. He takes one wide step towards you, leaving the door open behind him. He reaches for your hip, and you immediately take to playing with his large hands. Delicately, you pay attention to each long digit, trailing your middle finger along the knuckles, and up and down the length of them. You dip into the spaces between, your fingers barely ghosting over the webbing. 

Was that a shiver? Your eyes flit to his, searching them for a hint.

"You sure do know how to make a man feel good." 

Your heart flutters at his words. With his accent, even the simplest of things sounded charming. At least to you. You felt that he could ask if you wanted coffee or how the weather was and you'd be twirling your hair around your finger like a desperate schoolgirl. Embarrassing. 

You’re about to respond and defend yourself by saying that all you had done was play with his hands, which was hardly considered foreplay, but his fingers come up underneath your chin, gently closing your mouth with a dull click of your teeth. He tilts it upwards to an angle where he could easily kiss you. And kiss you, he does. 

It was the kind of kiss that makes your knees buckle, sends a violent shudder from the nape of your neck down to the base of your spine. It’s the kind of kiss that needs to come with a warning; Danger: Will Result In Sex. As his lips move against yours, you feel the urgency of his need, of his want, and hum into his lips. Remy takes that as a green light and deepens the kiss, moving his body so that it’s pressing flush against yours. The action leaves you immediately breathless and in response, you break the kiss, tucking your chin to your chest. Your hand finds his torso, pressing hard against the muscles underneath the shirt.  

"Ah, don't you be actin' shy now. You been teasin' me for hours."

“I have not!”

“You think I didn’t notice all ‘dem touches an’ looks you were givin’ me? I may ‘ave been born at night, but I wasn’t born last night.” 

He had you there. You couldn’t deny that, at all. Even if you’d wanted to. Which, part of you did. Part of you was very nervous, standing before this very handsome man, with the taste of his mouth still lingering on your lips but another part of you, the louder one, was delighted that he’d noticed. Furthermore, that he’d enjoyed them enough to come to your room.

You lift your hand behind him, pushing the door shut with a harsh shove. With a twist of your fingers, you activate the locking mechanism, sliding the deadbolt into place. Gambit chuckles, grinning down at you. Your heart leaps into your throat, but you press on bravely, lacing your arms around his neck. They trail down the front of his body, feeling the muscles as they twitch with each ragged breath. 

He quirks a brow as if to ask, 'Oh, really?' You simply smirk back at him. The contact is electric, and you find yourself resisting the urge to grind against him immediately. Instead, you focus on his hands again, bringing one of them up to your lips. You press a delicate kiss on the pads, before slipping one into your mouth and sucking gently. Remy makes a deep, husky sound in his throat, and brings his other hand to your hip, where he pulls you roughly against him.

For a man that uses his hands often, the sensations are high. The way your mouth envelops his finger, your tongue writhing around the digit had his jaw clenching, muscles fluttering on the side of his face. When you draw his finger into the confines of your throat, deep-throating it, his eyes roll back in pleasure. He pulls his hand back, shaking it off as if the inside of your mouth was hot to the touch.

"Woo, you nasty, huh? Nevah’ woulda' guessed... you been actin' like a good little girl 'uhround me." 

After that, it all happened very quickly. Gambit takes a step and connects his lips with yours again, pushing them into you in an act of desperation. Without breaking the kiss, he shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it onto a nearby surface. You push against him until his back hits the door with a heavy thud, definitely loud enough for any innocent bystanders to hear. Your fingers undo the button of your jeans, breaking the kiss for only a second to slide them down your legs. 

Once you return to his waiting mouth, the kiss deepens and the coil in your stomach winds tighter, claiming your body in a deep, fiery arousal. His big arms wrap around you, enveloping you in a heated embrace. Just for a moment, it’s tender — but shortly after, his hands drop to your ass, fingers slipping underneath the band of fabric to take greedy fistfuls of each cheek. 

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping the roundness of them to use as leverage. Letting out a little hum, you sweep your hips across his groin, pressing tightly against him. His eyes drift shut, head bumping against the door as he leaned it back, a low growl coming from his throat. Keeping at it, you grind your hips against him, feeling the outline of his length as it hardens.

“You be drivin’ Remy crazy, grindin’ on me like ‘dat.”

“That’s the intention….” You stand on your tiptoes to pepper kisses on his lips, your warm breath fanning over his face, smelling faintly of Jack Daniels. Remy trails his hand carefully up your rib cage until he gets to the side of your breast, where he quickly slips around to the front, his large hand cupping the fullness of it outside of your shirt. Your reaction is visceral; your breath hisses through your teeth at the sensitivity. 

Remy laughs again and with his free hand, pulls your hips back to his. Swiftly, he spins you around, pinning you between his body and the hard surface of the door. He presses himself tightly against you, shifting slightly so that his thigh was between your legs. The sensation of something that close to your core is dangerous and brings a weak, mewling whimper from your mouth.

“We gon’ have ourselves some fun.” His voice is low, tinged with a new sort of lustful tone that you hadn't heard before. Your mind is spinning, growing dizzy with lust. The alcohol had certainly helped your nerves, you were never usually this brazen. Your core burns with desire at his words, silently begging for everything he was about to give you. His lips hover just over yours; you can feel his breath on your skin and the heat that radiates off his body as it presses into yours.

"Oh my god," you whisper into his mouth. "Fuck..."

His teeth nip at your bottom lip before he captures your mouth in a heated, passionate kiss again. His tongue explores the inside, swirling along your own wet muscle. With every passing second, your heart beats faster and his hands grip your hips tighter, thumbs massaging the flesh above your jeans.

“Wrap ‘dem legs around me, mon coeur.” (My heart) Remy’s voice is husky with want; amongst his playful, lilted tone, a possessiveness lingered, and the thought sends a chill down your spine. He nods once, encouraging you into his waiting arms. You jump up, and he catches you effortlessly, gripping your thighs tight and hoisting you up into his grasp. Feeling secure, you wrap both legs around his waist and encircle his neck with your arms. Your gaze meets his and you can see the wanton need mirrored in his own eyes, darkened with desire.

Remy's smirk is dripping with confidence. Your body's response to him was causing his ego to swell within his chest, and his cock to swell within his pants. He leans in close, his lips against your ear, nipping at the lobe softly before pulling back slightly. In one fluid movement, his hips buck up against your center, teasing you over the layers of clothing. You let out a moan, throwing your head back against the door.

He thrusts up into you again, chuckling low against your ear. The hard line of his cock grinds against you, making you stutter out expletives as it presses against you with a needy demand. 

"You like 'dat, cher? Talk t' me..."

You nod, swallowing and wetting your throat. "Y-yeah, fuck... I do... need you – it – so bad."

“Whaddya’ need?”

“N-need you… so bad.” 

“You can do betta’. Tell Remy what you need...” 

He presses you harder against the door, your back sliding against the wood as he kisses a trail down from your mouth to your shoulder, sucking and biting with all the right intensities. As his hips grind against yours, you feel the damp fabric slide across your cunt, alerting you to just how wet he’d made you. Fuck. 

“Need… need you to fuck me. Hard. Need to feel you everywhere.”  

A few hours ago, you’d agreed to Taco Tuesday at Wade’s. Now, you were getting dry humped by a really hot Cajun guy and moaning into the curve between his neck and his shoulder. You were positive that if someone opened their door, they’d hear you. Somewhere in your brain, the thought should have been moderately embarrassing, but you were far too invested in Remy to care. 

Without warning, Gambit lifts you away from the door and carries you to the nearby couch. He never breaks the kiss, still feverishly claiming your mouth as he moves. Your back hits the cushions and before you can process it, his body weight is on top of you. He slots himself in between your legs, and his hard-on bumps into your stomach as his hips rut against you, finding some relief in the friction. But not enough. 

Remy’s hand finds the hem of your shirt, lifting it just enough to allow his fingers underneath the fabric. You bite down on the pillow of your bottom lip and push your hips up into his. Thick, strong digits sweep across your skin, leaving a burning trail of fire in their wake. Every touch brings your temperature up, and it isn’t long before your entire body is consumed in flames. You sigh contentedly, arching up into his touch. 

Abruptly, Remy straightens up, crosses his arms over his torso and pulls his shirt over his head, revealing his tan skin and bulky muscles. His stocky stature makes your tummy clench with anticipation. He was fit, as you assumed, but that didn’t stop your jaw from falling open at the sight. 

“Wow,” you finally choke.

Remy grins. “You like what you see?” 

You nod furiously, hands snapping to his toned abdomen. He’s warm and his skin is soft, begging to be touched. The muscles flex underneath your fingers as you trace a long stripe from his belly button to his collarbone. Your hands claw at his shoulder, attempting to pull him back down on you, but he resists. 

He spoke with a playfulness, almost a sort of pleading. His thumbs flicks at the hem of your shirt. “Ah, c’mon, ‘dat ain’t fair. Enlève-tout toi, huh?” (Take it all off.)

You thought you understood, but if you didn’t, it didn’t matter. Remy was quick to translate his words, busy undressing you, pulling your worn t-shirt over your head, and reaching around your back to unclasp your bra. Most men would’ve fumbled with the clasp, but not him. His adept fingers make quick work of it, allowing your breasts to fall free. He throws your bra somewhere behind him. 

“Hooo, cher…!” His eyes light up at the visual and you feel heat blooming on your cheeks again, half expecting him to make a lewd comment. Instead, his hands cup your tits, kneading the soft plumpness like dough, thumbs grazing the nipples. He exhales through his mouth, jerking his head to the side. 

Finally, he kisses you again. It’s wet and sloppy and his mouth is consuming you, tasting you hungrily. His hips are still moving, sweeping into yours with a calculated precision. You try to spread your legs but the back of the couch thwarts your attempt. He notices this, watching as you struggle with the space. 

“You got a bed?” He asked in between smearing kisses along your neck and collarbone. 

“Yeah-yeah…. Down the hall.” 

“Remy be needin’ more room for what he wanna’ do t’you.”

His weight is suddenly gone from you, an unwelcome sensation, even though you know he’s about to carry you wedding-style down the hallway. He bends down, one arm sliding underneath your neck, the other in the crook behind your knees. For the second time that night, he lifts you into his arms.

You rest your cheek against his warm pectoral muscle, rocking back and forth, as he walks you both down the dark hallway. The only light in the room comes from the window, the city outside alive and humming. Carefully, Remy sets you down on the bed, unmade from this morning, your dark gray sheets cool to the touch. 

In nothing but your underwear, which at this point, are damp to the touch, you’re left feeling very exposed. But you can’t muster up any shame, not when he’s looking at you with such hunger, such want. Your tummy feels tight, and the feeling gets worse when Remy’s hands drop to his waist, unzipping and unbuttoning his pants. They fall loose at the waist, and he shucks them down the rest of the way, leaving him in nothing but a pair of deep purple boxers. Your eyes swing heavy to the outline that’s now presented to you. 

Oh my god. 

Your breath hitches in your throat. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise; Remy was a big guy, and that proved true downstairs, too. You can barely pull your eyes away from it, but you begrudgingly rip them away, to look up into his gaze. 

“Please,” you beg. “You’re too far away…” Your cunt is aching and nothing but him, his hands, his dick, will sate her. 

He leans forward, flattening both hands on the mattress and walks them back until his face is in front of yours. He sweeps you into another kiss and your heart races. His hands are perfectly positioned on either side of your hips, you feel them graze the flesh. His finger hooks around the elastic of your panties, twisting it around his pointer finger and gradually, he tugs them down over the curve of your hip.

You nod lazily against his mouth, as you feel the warmth of his hand near your core. Your legs drop apart, knees touching the mattress as you allow him access. One hand sweeps across your inner thighs, stroking them, while the other palms your soft mound. His other hand comes to pause at your knee, and pushes his weight into it softly, forcing you to stay spread-eagle for him. No way you could’ve done this on the sofa. 

There’s no hesitation in the way he fingers you; sweeping up through your slick folds, smearing your arousal around until she’s coated in it, splaying your pretty, wet cunt apart with his fingers, looking upon it hungrily. He knows what he’s doing, and how to do it right. You briefly wonder if that’s another mutant power he has… though being an expert at fingering someone seems outlandish. But he’s just so good at it. His middle finger barely touches you, circling the bundle of nerves delicately. Your back arches up towards him, a desperate groan vibrating your vocal chords. Delighted by your reaction, his finger flicks upwards at your swollen, sensitive clit, making your body literally quiver. 

“Uhugh – god…. Shit, oh my god.” 

He continues like this for several minutes, until your cunt is blazing hot and clenching with every moan you give. 

By the time he presses one finger inside, you’re teetering on the edge of an orgasm and your voice fills the room with needy, desperate sounds. You let out a shrill whine, and he slips in another finger, feeling the stretch of muscle as he does. His heart is pounding in his chest, overcome with lust. The way you sound, the way your body is moving and writhing on the bed, he can’t wait to sink himself into you. 

Amidst a laugh, he says: “People gon’ think we up in here watchin’ porn.”

Did he just insinuate that you sounded like a pornstar? You lifted your head, wearily, to look at him. Your chest heaves with each breath as you try to formulate a snarky remark to no avail. He looked so good – well, always – but he looked particularly good on top of you, his bright eyes lust blown and hungry. 

“We’re… we’re… porn… it’s…  oh god.” 

He shushes you. “You just lay back and keep moanin’.” 

Defeated, you huff and your head hits the sheets again, but not before you catch a glimpse of the way the muscles in his forearm ripple as it pumps back and forth into your cunt. You can’t help but moan at the sight, feeling a shockwave rupture your core. Your hips meet his fingers, rutting and writhing against the mattress in a needy rhythm.

Your first orgasm claims your body before you can stop it. You’re clenching around his fingers as they move, crooking upwards into your sensitive spots. Your slick coats his fingers and when Gambit pulls his hand back, thick, clear strands string from between them. He smiles down at you. 

Remy raises himself to his knees. “Turn ‘round…” 

You flip over and back yourself towards him, thinking that he’s going to go at it doggy-style, but to your surprise, he pulls you upright, pressing your back against his chest. His dick is hot between your legs, and when he reaches down to line it up, you let your head loll back against his shoulder. Gambit’s mouth finds the side of your neck, streaking it with wet, suckling kisses. He was taking his time with you, savouring you and you hum happily through closed lips, reaching behind you to thread your fingers through his hair.

“Fuck, you feel so good…” Instinctively, your hips undulate and his cock slips between your folds. Remy’s hips buck once, letting out a groan that comes from somewhere deep. 

“You ready, cher?” He asks, sweeping your hair away from your neck. You nod furiously. You’ve been ready – you were ready the moment you laid eyes on him.

Remy reaches down to sweep his fingers along your entrance briefly, before gripping himself and guiding the head of his cock into the slit. You keen at the feeling of his velvet-soft head pressing into your entrance, warm pre-cum leaking from the slit. He murmurs words of encouragement into your ear as you feel his hips press against your ass, urging his thick, veiny shaft inside your cunt. He does it gently, allowing you time to adjust to the girth, but the sting still makes you cry out. “Fffuck!”

He begins to thrust his hips shallowly, your cunt stretching around his cock. The feeling is all-consuming, and your body feels heavy in his grasp. One hand is gripping your waist tightly, the other, fingers splayed out on your stomach just above your cunt. There’s a pressure building in your cunt, and each thrust magnifies it. The sting of his cock fades to an ache, then to a dull throbbing that makes you want more and you lean forward slightly and press your ass into the curves of his hips, meeting his thrusts. 

“Mm, ‘dat’s it, cher…” His voice is hot on your skin. 

His thrusts get deeper, but there’s a lingering tension in his body that makes you feel like he’s not getting what he wants. You’re right; all at once, Remy pulls his cock from you and switches positions. 

You’re suddenly on your back, looking up at him as he looms over you, all muscle. His cockhead nudges your entrance again, but doesn’t penetrate. 

“Say my name, cher… I needa’ hear it leave ‘dat pretty mouth.” 

“Which one? Gambit? Or Remy?” You ask, breathlessly.

The way his eyes rolled back at the second option told you everything you needed to know. A smirk twisted your lips cruelly and you lifted your body slightly, just enough for your mouth to reach his ear. You moan his name over and over again, knowing full well the effect it’s having on the mutant man.

“Remy, Remy, Remy….” Your tone is high-pitched and whiny, but he seems to enjoy the lewdness of it all. He bucks his hips hard into you, and the fullness reaches an all-time high as he bottoms out, his pelvis hitting yours with a slap.

“Huhhh—!” You gasp, breathing ragged. “Fuck!”

“Gonna’ make you cum so hard you ain’t gon’ walk right for days.” His voice is low and filthy and leaves a stain on your mind. Your cunt clenches around him possessively, pulling him somehow deeper inside of you. 

As your head bangs into your headboard, the tip of his cock bumps your cervix over and over again, and your jaw goes slack, literally fucked silent. Remy hears the thudding of your skull and puts a hand between it and the wood, but he doesn’t stop his relentless, deep thrusting. 

The pleasure reaches a peak and your nails dig into his back, leaving crescent moon shaped indentations on his golden skin. Remy’s groaning loud into your ear as he cums, muttering in an almost incoherent melange of French and English. His accent is somehow heavier, and you can barely make out the words as he’s saying them into your skin. It doesn’t matter though, because you feel how full you are, and Remy’s hot, white completion is leaking out the sides and staining your sheets. 

He stays like that for a moment, hovering on top of you. His cock softens inside, completely spent and eventually, he slips it out, rolling over onto your bed.

“Ah, joi de vivre, huh.” (the joy of life), he says drowsily.

You laugh, and nestle underneath his arm, in the space he’s left for you. 

If you had your way, you’d do it all over again. 

Though he doesn’t say it, so would he. 

[eraserbread]

God forbid a girl asks for some ex-husband kento (pls 🥺)

kento really should leave. it's obvious -- this is not his home anymore.

no, it's his daughters and ex-wife's. he handed it over like stone once the divorce went final, wanting his girl to grow up in spacious security. he'll sign on a lackluster one-bedroom in the city just so all of his money can flow into keeping you afloat.

though you're perpetually trapped by him, using a bank account he monitors and living in a home you don't pay for, he still gives you grace. it's because he's guilty. kento knows he fucked you over, it's why he's pacing your bedroom door where he knows you're asleep.

he's a good dad, carving out time between missions to run and take his daughter to school. it's the one constant his little girl has, and in first grade, she's old enough to understand that he's never really around.

it's why he has her hello kitty lunch box tight in his grip that she left in his car today. he knows you need to pack it for tomorrow and would likely freak out if you lost it, so he needed to hand it to you personally.

or, that's what he tells himself to justify the anxious pacing. he needs to swallow that familiar need for you that brews in his bones and leaves him tossing and turning through his sleepless nights. It's only been a year without you; surely he can handle a lifetime, right?

all he was going to do was drop the box on your nightstand, send a quick text, and be on his way. but, you had other ideas.

it was his stupid pacing; it woke you up, and now you were staring at the windowless wall, scowling into nothingness. blankets are bunched neatly at your lace-covered waist, wrapped in a honeymoon artifact you used to show off for your husband, now your insecure ex who doesn't speak more than two sentences at a time.

unless, it's to tell you to be obedient, or stop talking.

this time, it's you who initiates the talking. "what are you doing?"

you can't see the tense in his shoulders when he realizes you're awake. he thought he could get lucky, sneaking around like a criminal. you wouldn't give him luck -- he doesn't deserve peace.

"just dropping off rin's bento box." the hard plastic hits your side table, and you shudder. his voice is deep like he's tired. "she ran out of my car like she was mad this evening... all to see you. she's a mother's girl, not like I can blame her much."

"she has like eight bentos, you could've left it."

kento sighs, letting your words overtake and shove his efforts right back in his face. "it's her favorite."

"she has eight favorites."

"okay." he deadpans. "anything else i'm doing wrong? or that I don't know?"

"nanami, we'd be here all night if I told you the truth." with every sentence, it's becoming increasingly obvious that you won't be getting much sleep. you sit up, pulling your blankets around your half-decent body. "say it. whatever it is that brought you here with the excuse of a bento."

you know better than to expect kento to listen, but you don't expect him to round the expanse of the bed, dropping to his knees right next to you. he attempts to reach for your tangled hand, but you swat him away, gaze full of indignant fires.

"forgive me... please." he's muttering, head dipped in embarrassment. since he gave you up, he's realized it as his biggest mistake. he can't calm the burning within him at night, he can't stand going back to his old ways - convenience store dinners and storefront sandwiches. but, he also can't let you be dragged into his work again. He could see the effect it pulled you into, the worry that ate you alive every time you saw him. but, there must be an answer, some alternative to cold-turkey. you are an addiction.

"forgive you? forgive you for what? breaking apart our family? giving up? giving in to your cowardice? i don't think you understand -- you leaving me doesn't just affect you and I, it affects rin in ways we won't see until it's eating us alive. that's on you. it's your fault." always level-headed, always the voice of reason even if it's painful. kento nods, but can't look at you.

"forgive... me..." he pleads, emotionless and unblinking at the rugged floor. "...please."

you scoff, pushing away from him on the bed. you crawl to the other side, the side nanami left the bento, and take it as an excuse to run from this situation.

"you're just going to walk away?"

"yes! because i'm not dealing with your bullshit." he follows you out into the hallway, past your sleeping daughters room and into the kitchen. you can feel his shadowed eyes staring at the jutting expose of your ass through the nightgown, but for some reason it doesn't bother you. emotionally, you're as disconnected as possible, but your body still likes him. i mean, it's undeniable, kento will always be the most attractive man you've ever, ever seen.

it was not you who cut those ties. never you.

and he's crowding you as you turn on the faucet, opening rin's box and putting it under. kento is on you the entire time, but he actually corners you against the sink, huge body caging you in, hands planted at your either side. his breathing is nasally and pathetic. you're scowling.

"...ignore that."

you're squinting, trying to gauge what you're ignoring. then, you can feel it. anger rises your body temperature. an erection, pressing right between the swells of your loosely covered ass. "you're genuinely so unbelievable."

you've begun washing the dish, spinning soapy water in the painted pink plastic as he breathes on your neck. you wish you can push him away and lessen him to a lifetime of sexual pining and angst, but you're stoic.

the dish is washed, you're turning around, breathless. and just as you go to close your hand over his cheek and give in, a tiny voice from the hallway catches you.

"mama?" your little girl whines, one eye cracked open in the harshness of the lights. she's all messy-haired, red-faced and sleepy. in her left hand hangs a tattered kuromi doll. "I heard... dad..."

you've never pushed kento away like this, but he's being pushed, taking it like it's nothing, too. he understands that whatever rin needs comes first - he's okay not being at your attention.

and he loves seeing you two interact as you sweep her up in your safe arms. rin settles on your hip, long legs kicking into the air as she rests on your shoulder. "sleepy."

"i know, my baby." you coo, running a hand through her hair. "want me to put you back to sleep?"

staring at her twin, her dad, rin nods her sleepy head, using a fist to tug at her right eye. "dad... bye, daddy."

"bye, my princess." kento stands from his lean on the counter, closing in to kiss rin on the cheek. he lingers for a moment, peeking up to your unreadable gaze. you make him feel so little, now. like he hardly exists as a human, let alone the father of your child and the man you loved for over a decade. "sleep well. be nice to your mama, too. I'll be here to take you to school tomorrow."

as you tuck your girl back into bed, she's peaceful. "mama? are you and dad happy again? will he live here again?"

kneeling at her bedside, you smooth the blankets over her figure, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "probably not."

she whines close-eyed, turning her face away from you. "I didn't do anything to make you mad, so why is it my fault?"

"what? rin, dad and i not being together is entirely our fault." you're mindful to the core when speaking to her, deciding it better not to pin blame on you or kento, just for the respect of her mentality.

she whines again, shoving away from your touch defiantly. she's holding kuromi like she's stressed, and it kills you.

"please, mama. please fix it."