#i've been having trouble writing him

[find-the-path]

Fires in the North! You had my attention at the word “Corunir”

(for this ask game)

It is probably the oldest of the wips I mentioned, but is very loose for now as I haven't been focusing on writing this year as much as past ones. Structure is the problem with it now, so that was what I worked on for the sprint. Here's a snippet :D

The dwarves’ camp sat atop an outcrop of Nan Gurth, set between two Iron Crown roads that never bothered to investigate the lonesome-looking cliff. On one side, the swamps of Imlad Balchorth lay beyond a sickly sweet-smelling fog. On the other, sheer darkness blended with the black stoniness of Angmar.

The dwarves had named it Myrkworth, in honor of the view.

[soobvape]

i need brownies so fucking bad rn

[luvo27]

ok ok so. so at some point i might take a hard turn into writing ridiculously self indulgent connor hawke centric fic. also here's a fun fact: i write scenes really out of order but i also write out of order in the sense of like, a lot of the time i write dialogue heavy scenes first, and in those dialogue heavy scenes i write only the dialogue and then come back and add in internal monologue/actions/dialogue tags another day which if i ever come back to this, i'll probably add a little more description or whatever

Connor chews on his lip. He looks out at the archery range. His hands and back are empty. “My dad—” he starts. He cuts himself off. “Never mind,” he says. Next to him, Master Jansen hums, a neutral sound. He draws his bow, and Connor’s eyes can’t help but track the movement. “What about your dad?” he asks. “I said never mind, didn’t I?” Connor kicks at the ground. “But there’s a part of you that wants to talk about him,” Jansen says. “Or you wouldn’t have brought him up.” “I don’t want to talk about him.” “But you’re thinking about him.” “I don’t want to think about him either.” “Alright.” “But…” “You are thinking about him anyway.” “Yeah.” “It might make it easier if you talk about it.” “Maybe.” “I’m here to listen if you do.” “I know. I—do you know who he is? He’s—” “Oliver Queen. The billionaire.” “Yeah. I guess. That’s not…that’s not the important part.” “Then what is?” “He lived here.” Master Jansen hums again. “Did you know him?” “I didn’t.” “Yeah. Well. Neither do I. And…I don’t want to. He didn’t want to know me. If he did, he wouldn’t have left, right?” Master Jansen makes a noncommittal noise. “Right,” Connor says to himself. “He would have…stayed. Or something else, I don’t know. There are a lot of kids whose parents aren’t together who still know both of them."

[icewindandboringhorror]

Recent imageys

[meadow-mellow]

Man. I'm too old for ship fighting/discourse. I ain't 16 anymore, dunno how these ppl manage to remain so stagnated mentally cause you'd expect they'd outgrow this kinda thing.

[princekirijo]

You know thinking about it Riku could also be a Lovers Arcana character. His story + arc very much revolves around his relationships with other characters (particularly his family and most importantly himself).

Captain is ultimately his arcana however because I feel like his stubbornness and his like willingness to keep going is what makes him a Chariot character (as Captain is an alternative to Chariot). He's also a very devoted/emotional character and I think that plays into it too!

[daydreamerdrew]

Winter Soldier (2012) #15

[artficlly]

his girls [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x reader alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, alpine is a troublemaker, secret dating, swearing, kissing, alcohol, tony knows all, natasha too, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: hello! once again a fic no one asked for lol. i'm supposed to be on hiatus buuut i took some time this afternoon to write this because i'm procrastinating a uni assignment. i'm sure this concept has been done before, but i was thinking about that scene in rivals with the dog (iykyk) and yeah! step away from the usual angst and heartbreak i normally provide you all with. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You were careful.

Or at least, you thought you were careful.

For months, you and Bucky had kept your relationship under wraps. It wasn’t that you wanted to keep secrets from the team, but there was something thrilling about stolen moments and hushed conversations. About Bucky’s hand on the small of your back as he guided you through a crowded room, or the way he’d brush a kiss against your temple before disappearing down the hall.

You figured no one had noticed.

Until today.

It all started with one of many white hairs stuck to your t-shirt.

Natasha plucked it off you mid-conversation one morning in the kitchen while you were praying—desperately—to whatever all-seeing god might finally make the coffee machine work faster. Between the groaning, spluttering sounds and the blinking lights, it felt like the damn thing was possessed. With flawlessly manicured nails, Natasha held the hair up to the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the compound.

“Is this Alpine’s fur?” she mused aloud, twirling the long, pale strand between her fingers.

“Probably.” you replied absently, more concerned with the coffee machine’s latest refusal to cooperate. You jabbed the buttons harder, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes flickered with something dangerously close to amusement. 

“For all of Tony’s money, you’d think we’d have a coffee machine that actually works,” you grumbled.

“Turn around?” Natasha asked. There was a particular lilt to her voice, that barely concealed intrigue she tried—and failed—to mask whenever she was onto something. It set you on edge instantly, the tone that meant she was clicking a mystery into place, giddy with excitement beneath a thin veil of indifference. You didn’t trust it for a second.

“No, just—” You smacked the machine in frustration. It whined pathetically before the lights blinked off entirely. You let out a long, exasperated groan. “Why won’t this stupid fucking thing ever work—”

“Jesus, you’re covered in it—”

You froze mid-motion as Natasha yanked at your shirt, effectively grooming you like a monkey. Her sharp lips had turned up into a wicked smirk, the type of smirk that made dread pool in your gut. 

“Everything is covered in her fur,” you said quickly, still trying for casual. You reached for the plug, praying Natasha would drop it. “She sheds everywhere, especially on the couch.”

“Mm.” Natasha tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And yet, I thought Tony hired cleaners for that? Especially with Kate always bringing Lucky around?”

You yanked the plug from the socket a little too forcefully. “Honestly, Nat, I don’t know. I just want this damn machine to work.”

Right on cue, a familiar voice rumbled behind you.

“Machine giving you trouble again?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest before resuming its normal rhythm—though maybe a little faster. You turned just as Bucky strolled in, looking frustratingly good despite the early hour. His hair was a little dishevelled, sleep still clinging to him in a way that made him look too soft for someone who could snap a man’s spine in half.

“There’s a trick to it, remember?” He stepped in close beside you, skin brushing yours as he reached for the machine. The scent of his aftershave lingered, warm and familiar. You tried—and failed—not to watch the way the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins shifting beneath his skin as he pressed a series of buttons.

“Barnes, you’ve got cat hair all over you,” Natasha noted, not even bothering to be subtle. You didn’t dare look at her. Instead, you busied yourself wringing your hands, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of Bucky standing so damn close.

“Huh?” Bucky barely spared a glance at his shirt, where Alpine’s fur was unmistakably clinging to the fabric. “Oh. Yeah, guess I do. She always wants attention in the morning.”

Then, with one final smack, the machine roared to life. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air as liquid finally poured into your mug. You sighed in sheer relief.

“There you go,” Bucky said, looking down at you with a small smile, a few strands of dark hair falling across his forehead.

Your stomach did a stupid little flip. You smiled back, warmth creeping into your face. “Thanks.”

The machine beeped again, snapping you back to reality. You quickly grabbed the mug with both hands, muttered another thanks, and let Natasha tug you away.

“What was that?” She hissed, voice low as she turned to you with narrowed eyes.

“Huh?” You weren’t entirely listening to her words. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. You could still see Bucky standing in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for his own coffee. His back was turned, but even through the thin material of his fur-covered t-shirt, you could see the way his muscles shifted beneath it—

Natasha didn’t even humour your innocence. She crossed her arms. “You and Barnes?” 

“What about him?” You mumbled, pulling your gaze away as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.

Her lips twitched, amusement clear. “Are you two—?”

You made a face at her. “What are you on about?” 

Natasha didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

For now.

As the elevator hummed and Bucky was cut from your view as the doors shut, you took a sip of coffee, the liquid a few degrees between too hot and burning. It scalded your tongue, and with the phantom smell of Bucky’s aftershave no longer haunting you, you felt your mind snap back into action.

Right. Focus.

“We’re going to be late for the meeting,” you declared, shaking your head. “And that damn machine is the reason. You know what? Let’s take a detour to Stark’s lab and demand a better one.”

Natasha chuckled, pressing the button for a different floor.

“I like the way you think.”

—

You knew Alpine would be your downfall.

The little white menace was notoriously selective. If you weren’t Bucky, she wanted nothing to do with you. Everyone at the compound had suffered her wrath at least once—Sam even had the scars to prove it. Alpine liked to play dangerous games that usually ended in blood or a yowl of pain. You swore the Avengers bled more dealing with the feline than fighting aliens, wizards, or whatever else tried to obliterate Earth every other week. She was a cunning little creature, lurking around corners, hiding under tables, prowling along bookshelves. And just when you least expected it—bam. Teeth and claws bared, she would pounce, latching on like a tiny, vengeful spectre. This was her idea of fun. The Avengers had learned to tread carefully, tip-toeing around the compound whenever they knew she wasn’t safely curled up in Bucky’s room, where she ruled with an iron paw.

So, when you sat down on the couch one evening, and Alpine immediately hopped onto your lap, you knew you were fucked.

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as sniff at you in consideration before curling right up, purring loud enough to be heard over the football game droning on in the background—which you were only half paying attention to. 

You stiffened, caught between awe at the rare privilege and sheer dread at the witnesses currently gaping at you.

Bucky, for his part, had been sitting at the other end of the couch, flirting with danger in his usual way—stolen glances, conveniently placed touches as he shifted in place. Alpine, just as obsessed with him as you were (Bucky had taken to calling you both ‘his girls’ in private, which always managed to make you swoon.), had immediately perched in his lap when he sat down. Only when he carefully pried her off to grab another round of beers did the little white she-beast decide you were a worthy substitute, strutting over with lazy, languid confidence before settling down, blissfully unaware of what she had just unleashed.

The room fell into stunned silence. Several pairs of eyes locked onto you, breath collectively held. They were waiting for the yowl, for the inevitable attack, for you to tense up and leap to your feet in pain. But to your horror, the little sadist simply settled in. Cosy, unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.

“Okay, what the hell is this?” Sam finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger.

You blinked down at Alpine, then up at Sam, stroking the soft fur like nothing was amiss. “Uh… a cat?” 

You were foolish and desperate enough to pretend this was completely normal, to gaslight the others into believing Alpine was a perfectly gentle and affectionate cat. A sweet, loving companion. Not a tiny, vengeful menace who had terrorised them all—and definitely not a creature who had only warmed up to you in recent months because you spent more time in Bucky’s bed than your own.

“The same cat that tried to claw out my eyeball for getting too close? And now she’s just—” He gestured wildly at Alpine, who flicked her tail with the smugness of a queen on her throne. “—cuddling with you like you’re her best buddy?”

“She likes me, I guess.” You blinked innocently, turning back to the TV, hoping he would drop it, but Sam, ever the dramatic, was not satisfied.

“Are you kidding me? That cat has tried to kill me.”

Natasha snorted into her drink. 

Alpine smugly licked her paw before resting her head upon your thigh and blinking her wide blue eyes at Sam, who shook his head with an exaggerated shudder.  “This is bullshit, and you know it—”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Sam.” You huffed, scratching Alpine behind her ears. “She’s always been fine with me.”

“That is not true!” 

“She took a chunk out of my arm once,” Natasha added, ever the instigator.

“Remember when I gave her a treat and she bit me?” Steve piped up.

Bucky returned at that moment, frowning as he saw the conversation unfolding before him. You turned to him with wide, desperate eyes, silently pleading for help. Alpine, the little traitor, merely pressed her pink nose to your hand, rubbing her face against you with a contented sigh.

“She only likes people she’s comfortable with,” Bucky offered, setting the beers down with a clink, but his pitiful attempt to be helpful only added fuel to the fire.

The room exploded into a series of overlapping voices.

“I didn’t realise you spent so much time with Alpine?” Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her smirk primed to taunt you both. 

“Buck, doesn’t she spend all her time in your room—?” Steve leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, invested now.

Sam jolted upright like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now, hold on a second—”

“You have been covered in cat fur a lot lately,” Natasha mused. “And you two have been suspiciously close—”

As you glanced over at Bucky, you couldn’t tell if his repeated blunders were intentional or borne out of genuine panic. He cleared his throat, his brows raising as he casually popped off the cap of one of the beers with his vibranium thumb in faux nonchalance.

“Coincidence.” He muttered with a shrug, tipping back a mouthful of the brew. 

Alpine, completely oblivious (or entirely aware of the chaos she’d caused), didn’t budge as Bucky sat back down beside you, levelling you with a look that screamed we are so screwed.

“You two aren’t even going to try to lie?” Natasha pressed.

“Lie about what?” You feigned innocence, but the act was flimsy at best. The jig was well and truly up.

Bucky, clearly done with this little charade, let out a long-suffering sigh that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the telltale smirk tugging at his lips. Without another word, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you effortlessly against his chest, Alpine still coiled contentedly in your lap. The smug little she-beast didn’t even stir. She just purred loudly—too loudly, like she was taking credit for the entire thing.

“Wait a second!” Sam pointed a dramatic finger between the two of you. “How long has this been happening?”

“How long has what been happening?” Tony strolled into the room, a glass of amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey in hand.

“Her,” Steve announced, gesturing between the both of you. “And Barnes.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “Oh, I already knew that. You didn’t know that?”

Bucky turned so fast you were surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.  “You what?”

“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, making himself comfortable on the armrest of the couch like this was all just another day at the office. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of your room at ungodly hours for the past six months? F.R.I.D.A.Y. kept flagging intruders, and, shocker—it was just you two, utterly failing at stealth.”

Sam threw up his hands. “Did you say six months?!”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he just turned to you and, without hesitation, kissed you.

It was sudden but warm, his lips soft against yours like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The room erupted into even more noise, Sam shouting something unintelligible, Natasha making a sound of smug satisfaction, and Steve groaning like he should’ve known, but it all faded into the background.

You laughed against Bucky’s lips, breathless but entirely unbothered. “This is definitely her fault.”

Alpine, still purring in your lap like the devious little mastermind she was, flicked her tail.

Bucky just hummed, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Not complaining, though.”

And, truthfully, neither were you.

[mimpinightmare]

VERY HEAVYILY ON WHAT HAPPENED TO JOMO-

(I'm still waiting for that next season, MoonBug. /HJ & Half Delusional-)

never ask a man his salary. never ask a woman her age. never ask a supa strikas fan about:

early season dingaan (i still shiver to this day)

early season el matador (yeah this one's also REAL bad)

LITERALLY ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING FROM S1-2

why klaus is still not a starter... sigh its tiring out here

fc nakama. bc we'll be here all day

where the banger minor characters went!!!!!

the show's timeline. seriously i thought cognito was a new team but as rookie season goes... it's apparently NOT??

how old any of them are

WTF HAPPENED TO JOMO (MOONBUG IM LOOKING AT YOU!!!)

speaking of which. never ask me how tf invincible united got away w hiring an actor to play shakes' supposedly dead dad. that HAS to be a federal offense

sp*ke d*ws*n

s7 finale "game over"

the youtube thumbnails

which voice actor voices who exactly

how the fuck these guys keep falling for inyo's trap

dooma's debut

the show's obsession w feet

the characters' casual clothes... yikes

shakes/skarra. you don't wanna open that can of worms

HOW THESE GUYS ARE STILL ALIVE

what the show is about. DON'T EVER ASK ME THIS. I DO NOT KNOW

[thankskenpenders]

The Lara-Su Chronicles: Beginnings review

The day has finally come. Many, understandably, thought we'd never get here. Maybe we shouldn't have gotten here. We've been through so much. Lawsuits, reboots, redesigns, unreleased NFTs, empty legal threats over the fact that movie Knuckles has a dad, an attempt to license out Scourge the Hedgehog to fans that immediately got canceled (in both meanings of the term), and many, MANY idiotic Twitter controversies. But now, here we are.

Thirteen years after first announcing it in the middle of his legal battles with Archie and Sega that changed the American Sonic comics forever, former writer Ken Penders has released the first part of his new series: The Lara-Su Chronicles.

Yes. I had to buy the book. I had to take one for the team. Look at the fucking URL of this blog, a blog I've been using to talk about the American Sonic comics for nearly a decade while the specter of this book loomed in the distance. The one time I've actually been paid to write an article about anything in any professional capacity, it was an article about the Penders lawsuits. I'm cited on his Wikipedia page. There was no way I was going to skip reviewing this, and there was no guarantee that scans would ever turn up online given the incredibly small audience for this trash. (Only 166 people preordered this, and even that number feels way higher than it should be.) No, I had to preorder it to ensure I could get a copy and cover it for the blog... even if that meant my name would be forever immortalized in the list of "supporters" in the back of the book. These are the sacrifices I must make as a woman who stumbled ass backwards into being an amateur Archie Sonic historian.

So, what exactly is in this book? How much of it is new? How bad is it? How did we even get here in the first place? How can this exist without Sega pursuing legal action? What happens next? And, most importantly... why are there multiple depictions of an Archie Sonic character breastfeeding in this book?

I'm here to answer those questions as best I can, and in agonizing detail.

First, for those just tuning in to this decades-long saga or those who maybe don't know the full story, here's a refresher on the background info.

"What the hell is this?"

The Lara-Su Chronicles is Ken Penders' long-dreaded long-awaited continuation of his 1994-2006 run on Archie Sonic, ignoring everything written after he left by other writers like Ian Flynn. In particular, it picks up from the cliffhanger ending of the 2003-2004 arc "Mobius: 25 Years Later," which was set in what Ken considers the definitive canonical future of the series. It stars Knuckles' daughter from that future era, Lara-Su, among other new and returning characters. The project was first announced near the start of Ken's legal battle with Archie in 2011, and he's been posting WIP previews online for about a decade. Now, after all this time, a Lara-Su Chronicles book finally exists.

We'll get to the actual contents of that book in a bit.

"He can do that without getting in trouble with Sega?"

Believe it or not, yes, he can.

Thanks to the outcome of Archie Comics' woefully mismanaged lawsuits against Ken (yes, they sued him after he started filing for copyrights, not the other way around), he now has full legal ownership of every story he wrote for Archie Sonic and every character he created for the series. This was explicitly granted to him in the terms of the settlement between him and Archie (acting on behalf of Sega). He can even reprint his old Sonic material as-is to his heart's content. The main catch is just that he can't write new stories featuring Sega characters or trademarks, and his new stories also have to be distinct from Sonic at a glance to avoid confusing readers. As such, reprints can't use Sonic iconography on the cover, a few Sega characters (mainly Knuckles) have been renamed and slightly redesigned in the new stories, and the art style has been changed to less closely resemble Sonic. But otherwise, he can do whatever he wants with his own characters.

All of this is because Archie lost the original copy of Ken's work-for-hire contract that signed over the rights to his work. Without that (or any alternative that was considered permissible in court), his comics and characters are the property of their creator by default. Yes, those old comics are full of Sega stuff, but Sega doesn't automatically own the copyright for every drawing of Sonic in existence. And Sega put their stamp of approval all over those comics and let them get sold at retail for decades, even though (in the eyes of the court) there was no legal paperwork granting them ownership of any of it. It's almost like they were unwittingly distributing a fan comic for years and declaring it a fair use of their property, and now there's no takesies backsies. It's a strange and unique copyright situation. Again, they worked all this out in the settlement. And, yes, fans have long speculated that Ken stole and destroyed his own contract to regain the rights to his work, but frankly Archie was so incompetent throughout the lawsuit (it went so bad that they had to fire and replace their lawyers midway through) that I completely buy the idea of them just losing important legal documents.

Also, in case it needs to be spelled out: while Ken's a weirdo, it's ultimately a good thing for creatives everywhere that Archie lost their lawsuit against Ken. We do not want to live in a world where corporations can claim ownership of peoples' work without the contracts to back it up. That would be an incredibly dangerous legal precedent to set. And more comic creators, and artists in general, should own their own work! Corporations are not your friend! They'll delete your work for a tax write-off in a heartbeat! It's just bewildering that this guy, of all people, was the creator who ended up successfully getting his shit back, and that this is what he's doing with it.

"What about his old collaborators? Are they involved? Is he paying them?"

Ken is mostly doing The Lara-Su Chronicles solo, though he has, in fact, talked about compensating the artists involved in any material he's reprinting. The ones who give enough of a shit to get paid for a small scale reprint of something they did 20 years ago, anyway.

On the subject of his collaborators, it's also worth pointing out that Ken's wasn't the only contract that was lost. Most of the early Archie Sonic writers from before Ian Flynn's time seem to be in the same boat as Ken, with the ownership of their stories and characters defaulting back to them. Again, Archie fucked up big time. But like I said, most of them don't really seem to give a shit. For most of them, Sonic was just a random temporary gig they took to pay the bills while Marvel was busy going bankrupt in the '90s, not the thing that defined their entire careers.

The only other Archie Sonic contributor who's tried to do anything on the level of what Ken is doing was writer and editor Scott Fulop. In 2016 he attempted to sue Archie for the unauthorized use of what are now retroactively considered his copyrighted characters and stories, and he even announced a standalone comic about his most famous Sonic character, the recurring villain Mammoth Mogul (sort of a pastiche of DC's Vandal Savage and Marvel's Kingpin, with wizard powers added for spice). However, Fulop lost his lawsuit because he didn't put together a particularly compelling case. Since then he seems to have wiped all traces of his ill-advised Mammoth Mogul comic and his company, Narrative Ark Entertainment, from the internet. For now, this leaves The Lara-Su Chronicles the only project of its kind.

"What about those other Archie Sonic reprints he just announced?"

At the time of writing, Ken is once again claiming that he's trying to get the band back together to reprint all of Archie Sonic, now under the bad new banner "Floating Island Productions: MOBIAN LINE" that I can't imagine he consulted literally anyone else on.

So, like, look. As we've established, Ken can reprint his own stories. And if he can work something out with the other contributors whose contracts were lost, he can print their work, too. But there is no fucking way he's getting his hands on Ian Flynn's run, which Sega undoubtedly holds the copyright for. Even if they don't, Ian needs to maintain a good working relationship with both Sega and IDW if he's to keep his job, so he'd never go for this. Not to mention that Ian and Ken just... don't get along! Ken's whole plan here seems to be predicated on IDW going out of business (a thing he REALLY wants to happen) and freeing up the Sonic comic license, after which he knocks on Sega's door and goes "hey I've still got dirt on you guys," blackmailing them into giving him the Sonic license back so that he can reprint the later comics. Every step of this plan is ludicrous. It's never gonna happen.

He's been saying he wants to reprint the whole series for a few years now, though. This isn't really anything new. And despite his lofty plans that set Sonic Twitter ablaze, he quickly backpedaled. The only specific things in the works right now are a "two-volume omnibus" of all of his Knuckles stories and a collection of artist Scott Shaw's work on the very early Archie Sonic issues, since they're on good terms with each other. I have no idea how Ken plans on packaging these when he can't put any Sega characters or the Freedom Fighters on the covers, but these projects are small enough in scale that there's a decent chance they'll see the light of day. Scott Shaw only did like five issues. But anything beyond that? I'll believe it when I see it.

Or, y'know, this could've all just been a publicity stunt for his new book. I wouldn't put it past him. Let's just focus on the book that actually exists.

"So he finally did it? He made a whole Lara-Su book? It's out? He finished it??"

Yes and no.

The book that's out now is The Lara-Su Chronicles: Beginnings, a prologue for the series of seven graphic novels Ken somehow plans on making, even though it's taken him 13 years to put out literally anything new. I don't know whether or not this counts as book one of seven, because it only features 30 pages of new comics. 30.5 if I'm being generous.

Most of the book is actually just a reprint of his infamous Archie Sonic storyline "Mobius: 25 Years Later", which ran from issue #131 to #144 in 2003-2004. (Again, yes, he can reprint this, he just can't put Sonic on the cover.) Why's it infamous? Well, Ken had been building anticipation for this future era of the series for basically his entire run. We kept seeing King Sonic and Queen Sally from the future. Knuckles' entire backstory hinges on his dad having a vision of this future. Several years before Silver the Hedgehog was created, it was Lara-Su who was Sonic's equivalent to Future Trunks, the cool-looking child of one of the main characters who traveled back in time to try and prevent a dark future. Believe it or not, yes, there was hype for Lara-Su. And then we finally got M25YL, and none of that cool stuff happened. Instead it really ended up being about how unbearably boring the middle aged Sonic, Knuckles, Sally, and co. are in this peaceful future where Robotnik is dead and they're all married with kids, forced into traditional nuclear family gender roles. Lara-Su is present, but she mostly just does generic teen girl stuff and complains about how Knuckles won't let her do anything even though she REALLY wants to be the new Guardian of Angel Island, like, super bad! Come on, dad!!!

In its original printing, this meandering arc ended on an abrupt time travel cliffhanger that Ken was never able to follow up on before he left Archie in 2006. This new printing slightly changes that ending, using the unresolved timey-wimey shenanigans as a convenient excuse to alter the entire timeline. This creates the slightly different world of The Lara-Su Chronicles, where the few relevant Sega-owned characters have been replaced and everyone is ten times uglier.

After this, we finally get two short new stories picking up where M25YL left off: "The Storm," starring Acorn Kingdom super-spy and known creep Geoffrey St. John, and an early release of the first chapter of The Lara-Su Chronicles: Shattered Tomorrows, the first full TLSC graphic novel.

And now that we're all on the same page about what we're looking at, let's actually talk about the book!

The cover

Let's start by beating a dead horse. The cover art: it's still bad! But why is it bad?

The cover is, of course, based on Patrick Spaziante's cover from Archie Sonic #131, the start of the "Mobius: 25 Years Later" arc. (Ken did the layout for that cover, though, so in the eyes of the law he's the original creator who owns that cover.) That cover was, itself, a tribute to the iconic cover of Giant-Size X-Men #1 by Gil Kane and Dave Cockrum, the issue that introduced the version of the team with Wolverine, Storm, Nightcrawler, etc.

Ken seems to have forgotten that the point of both these covers was to hype up the arrival of a new cast of characters. The new guys are supposed to make a dramatic entrance front and center. That's the focal point. Meanwhile, the cover for Beginnings has the old timeline versions of the cast from Archie Sonic dramatically bursting out of a shattered crystal ball, while their new counterparts look on in mild bemusement - if they're even bothering to look at all, since most of the characters here are just copied and pasted from their profile pages. That's just not how you do this particular homage! The point is supposed to be "out with the old, in with the new." And why are they using a crystal ball to view the past? Hell, why are they even using a crystal ball at all? The original arc was presented as a magical vision of the future courtesy of Tails' uncle Merlin (don't ask), but the new story leans all the way into being futuristic sci-fi.

Of course, there is no real artistic intent at play here. The old versions of the characters are placed front and center in the crystal ball simply because Ken traced over Spaziante's original art of Lara-Su and Julie-Su (the only two characters on the Sonic cover he owns) and threw out the rest, ruining the composition in the process. Look at the awkward empty space where Sonic, Sally, and Rotor once were, and the new drawing of The Character Formerly Known As Knuckles who's no longer properly centered between his wife and daughter. Even if Ken can claim ownership of the cover because he did the original layout, this all just feels scummy and lame.

And, yeah, if it needs to be said, the new characters and Ken's new rendering style look like absolute fucking dogshit. Putting new Lara-Su directly next to old Lara-Su does her no favors. The shattered glass effect looks absolutely atrocious. I could go on, but we'll have plenty of time to talk about the art style when we see how bad the stories inside look.

Changes to "Mobius: 25 Years Later"

Overall, 99% of M25YL is presented identically to its original printing. Sonic, Sally, Knuckles, et al. are still present with no changes to their names and no tweaks to the art. Even the original cover for issue #131 is included only a few pages into this book with its Archie, Sonic, and Sega logos still intact and everything. Again, because of the weird copyright situation described above, these preexisting comics can be released without any changes.

There is exactly one bizarre change to the art, though, where a hand drawn shot of Angel Island is replaced with an unfitting photo background and the ugly Floating Island photobash that Ken has been using as his personal logo for decades. I think he only did this as part of a test for his motion comic app that nobody asked for. I don't know why this had to make it into the print version. It's like the book is firing a warning shot for what's to come if you keep reading.

The new content begins on the final page of M25YL. In the original wet fart of a cliffhanger ending, Sonic and co. accidentally alter the timeline with an old time machine of Robotnik's and Lara-Su begins to fade away. Then, after everything goes white, we just cut to the present day heroes going "gee, you ever think about the future?" In this new printing, that last bit has been cut, and the rest of the page has been awkwardly shrunk down so that Ken can fit in a new panel. We now see the hands of an off-screen villain, seemingly named "Override," proclaiming that "the Praetorian" (Knuckles) has messed up the timeline again and that they'll finally get their revenge.

Who is this Override? I have no fucking clue. The new stories in this book make no mention of them. You have to buy the next book to find out.

My confusion over the identity of this villain overlaps with another big problem: name changes. So many names and nouns have been arbitrarily changed in The Lara-Su Chronicles, even ones Ken didn't have to change for copyright reasons, and I only know what half of them are replacing because Ken's been tweeting about this shit for years.

The echidnas are now a totally original alien race called "the Echyd'nya." Even in flashbacks to events from M25YL attempting to mimic the old art style, if it's on a new comic page, they're gonna call themselves "Echyd'nya." Evil echidna faction the Dark Legion is now the "Cyberdark Dominion," hailing from the "Cyberdark Colony." The Brotherhood of Guardians is still the Brotherhood of Guardians, but now the main guardian is called "The Praetorian." Angel Island is still called "The Floating Island," like it was in the older Archie comics, but it's ALSO sometimes called "Avion"? When I read this I wasn't sure if he had randomly renamed Albion, the other echidna city from the Archie comics. But no. Now we have an Albion AND an Avion. Sally is mentioned simply as "Princess Acorn," while Sonic is referenced once as an unnamed "blue-spined Erinaceinae," using the scientific name for hedgehog to make it sound more sci-fi. In an incredibly ballsy move, Ken even mentions Robotnik as "the Insurrectionist Kintobor," retaining his original surname from the Archie comics that's just "Robotnik" backwards. Guess Sega never trademarked that one.

Aside from every name change being a downgrade, this leads to confusion when you're not sure if something is supposed to be new, or if it's just an Archie thing you're supposed to recognize despite having a new name and design. Is "Override" someone I'm supposed to know already? Am I just supposed to have read a fucking tweet from Ken where he said he changed the name of some existing villain to "Override"? The answer is no, but I had to term search his Twitter just to verify this.

Moving on!

New story #1: "The Storm"

If you've been following the WIPs, this is that story about Geoffrey St. John that Ken's been posting previews of for almost a decade. The title page copyright dates it to 2015, and that absurdly long gestation is probably why the art is so inconsistent here. Even the style of speech bubbles and the font change between pages two and three.

This is a problem when there's supposed to be a deliberate and noticeable change in art style here signaling the moment where the time travel stuff alters the timeline, replacing the Archie Sonic world with the Lara-Su Chronicles world. If you don't already know that's what's going on, the idea isn't conveyed clearly at all. It just goes from one hideous art style to a slightly different one with no explanation.

The main problem here is that Ken has hitched his wagon to a franchise about anthropomorphic animals when he can't draw furries to save his life. (Though a bit later in the book we'll also begin to wonder if he can even still draw humans.) He's shifted away from the cartooniness of the original designs and given them more human proportions and facial features, but this just ends up making them look incredibly uncanny and lumpy and gross. With some designs he's trying to lean into more of a Star Trek alien vibe, but then he still insists upon retaining the giant Sonic eyes on most characters even though he has no idea how to make them emote.

The rendering of these godawful designs doesn't do them any favors, either. Ken's going for more of a painterly look now, but it almost seems as though he's shading everything with Photoshop's burn and dodge tools that are designed to darken and lighten select areas of a photo. The result is a muddy, smudgy look that makes it feel like the color layer has been smeared in vaseline. And it only looks worse after coming off of 14 chapters of M25YL that have way more palatable art.

The backgrounds, too, are a complete mess, a jumble of low res jpeg photo elements (sometimes with extremely noticeable pixelation), stock textures, and smooth digital gradients. There's no real sense of place here, and it gives everything a surreal, dreamlike quality when you can't really tell where anything is supposed to take place. This first story is seemingly set in a high-tech stronghold below Castle Acorn called "the Bunker," but it could just as easily be confused for the bridge of a spaceship. This whole story features characters speaking to each other over floating video displays and hologram projectors from three different locations, but without a hologram effect and without a clear sense of where the characters are it often feels like they're just in the same room as each other. Characters will be in one location on one photo background, and then the camera angle changes and they're in a completely different place, because Ken just uses mismatched photos off of the internet. It's been like 25 years since he first tried using photo backgrounds in the Archie comics and he hasn't gotten any better at it.

When I had my boyfriend read the book to see if it made literally any sense to him (it didn't), Anthony said this: "This is the kind of shit I'd see linked on a Second Life world that hasn't been touched since 2004." I think he really hit the nail on the head. Now, there's actually a contrarian part of me that thinks that might theoretically almost be kind of cool, in sort of a messy counterculture way. I love weird indie shit. I was a Homestuck reader! But this isn't a scrappy mixed media zine, or experimental outsider art from someone just messing around with Photoshop, or a loving throwback to weird old internet art, or even something intentionally bizarre and offputting like Xavier: Renegade Angel or a PilotRedSun video or whatever where the fact that it's weird and ugly is part of the humor. This is supposed to be a sincere sci-fi epic drawing on Star Trek and Jack Kirby comics, made by a guy who's been drawing comics professionally since the '80s. This is supposed to look good. This is supposed to compete with mainstream comics that are on sale right now. He thinks any day now IDW's gonna go out of business and Sega will come crawling back to him so that he can stamp the Sonic logo on shit like this. It just doesn't work.

But, okay. It's ugly. We knew it would be ugly. But that ugliness would be much easier to accept if it was in service of an otherwise genuinely good story. So what about the writing? After all this time, how does Ken choose to kick off this new saga? Well, credit where credit's due. "The Storm" feels like a proper continuation of Ken's writing style from M25YL.

Because it's eleven pages of characters standing around and talking while nothing fucking happens.

Here's the synopsis: A dog woman named Brownie, an ensign in the Royal Secret Service fresh out of training and the only character who's almost cute, walks up to Geoffrey to deliver a report. He's immediately suspicious of her, asking who let her in and if she's a spy for Elias (Sally's brother, if you're new here) or Alicia (Sally's mom). The art style suddenly shifts when the timeline is altered, but the scene continues uninterrupted. Geoffrey points a gun at Brownie when she won't say whose spy she is. Geoffrey is distracted by a call and proceeds to have a conversation via a mix of holograms and video screens with Remington (head of Echidnaopolis security), Spectre (Knuckles' great great great great great grandpa, the one with the helmet who always looks evil), and a new scientist character named Dr. Zephyr/Zephur. (The spelling of this character's name changes multiple times throughout the 11-page story, because I guess nine years wasn't enough time to spellcheck this shit.) They say a bunch of made up technobabble nonsense about how it looks like the timeline was just altered and Knuckles and co. seem to be involved. It's complete drivel that I'm not even going to try to make sense of. Everyone decides to investigate further, and the conversation ends. Brownie tells Geoffrey she's his spy, then walks out and implies she's actually Alicia's spy in her inner monologue.

To be continued!!!

Yes, that's it. It's really just a bunch of technobabble where some characters talk about how it seems like the timeline has been fucked with. That's it. The whole time Geoffrey doesn't even get up out of his damn chair, which he's of course sitting in backwards to show how cool he is. It's just 11 pages of Geoffrey sitting in a chair and talking to people and looking uglier than he's ever looked. Nothing happens. Nine years for this.

I'm also struck by how meaningless all of this is to anyone who hasn't read Archie Sonic. The added context from M25YL may help a little, but "The Storm" focuses on characters who weren't in that arc, and the story does very little to introduce who any of them are. Brownie could've been super useful as an inexperienced point of view character who's only meeting the others for the first time here, but instead she's really just a passive observer who's here as part of some kind of 4D chess game between Geoffrey and Alicia, an off-screen character whose motivations in this era of the story are completely unknown to even returning readers. Who are the good guys and bad guys here? What are the conflicts and the stakes of the story moving forward? What do these characters want? Basic questions like this aren't really answered. I can't imagine a new reader being able to make heads or tails of this. Hell, I can't really imagine a returning reader who hasn't been following the last decade's worth of Ken's tweets about this story making heads or tails of it, either.

...Maybe more will happen in the next story?

New story #2: Shattered Tomorrows preview chapter

After another message from Ken, the story of The Lara-Su Chronicles proper begins with the redesigned Lara-Su walking along a jpeg photograph beach at sunset and crying while thinking about how Knuckles - sorry, his name is K'Nox now - is dead.

Yep! Straight into the dad stuff!

Look, I'm the last person to complain about writers getting super personal and drawing from their own baggage in their writing, but Ken's just no fucking good at it. There's no nuance, nothing interesting to say. He just keeps writing mediocre-to-horrible dads whose misdeeds are always justified by their "good intentions," and then sometimes they die and their kids are like "we may have fought but actually you were the bestest dad ever and I'll miss you forever, I'll never be able to fill your shoes!"

This is the only part of the new material here that feels like it has any heart behind it, because I know how much his complex relationship with his late deadbeat father means to Ken (there's an author's note in this outright saying as much). But the guy died 42 years ago, and it doesn't feel like Ken has had any new thoughts about this part of his life in those four decades. He's just not an introspective or self-aware enough artist to actually mine his personal baggage for anything beyond "father knows best."

Anyway, so then it jumps forward in time(?) and now we're following this human guy who looks like this.

Previously, Ken got a lot of shit for literally just using the likeness of Anthony Mackie for this guy, based on his IMDB profile photo. Ken has thus redesigned the character... and by that I mean I think he looks more like Ernie Hudson now? Ken's clearly just working off of photo references (if not straight up tracing), given his face is the most detailed and realistic-looking thing on any page where he's present.

But you may be wondering: who is this, and why is he here? Well, for one, he's here to run around in front of some low res space photos while making trite references to things like Planet of the Apes and Star Trek. Haha, he makes a joke about red shirts! Original!! But beyond that, Commander Mykhal Taelor (yes, that's really how he chose to spell it) is a human... from Earth! Archie Sonic readers are probably confused, because in those comics Mobius is Earth in the distant post-apocalyptic future. Well, despite being a Planet of the Apes fan, Ken always hated that particular worldbuilding decision from Karl Bollers, always preferring to think of Mobius as a separate alien planet. And now he gets to make that canon in his own stories and throw out Karl's ideas. So Mobius is basically just, like, a Star Trek planet now, with its own alien creatures that sometimes just so happen to look like anthropomorphic Earth animals.

Also, at one point Taelor wonders if the inhabitants of the dead Mobius might have been human, and the alien ally he's talking to over the radio says it's unlikely. "I don't understand why your kind has a problem understanding you're a minority within a minority." Perhaps poor wording for a line said to the only Black character in the story.

Anyway, Commander Taelor here seems to have discovered the uninhabited husk of Mobius after the vague time-space cataclysm everyone was worried about in M25YL has come to pass, and he finds an audio log from Lara-Su that I presume will explain what happened. I guess those are the titular Lara-Su Chronicles. In theory this flash forward establishes some sense of pressing danger, but when the threat to the planet is so unclear and technobabble-y it just kind of lands with a thud.

It doesn't take long before we get back to Lara-Su being sad about her dad. A good little chunk of the chapter is spent with this new timeline's Lara-Su recalling moments in her life, including echoes of the original Lara-Su's memories from M25YL, which feels redundant coming hot off the heels of a straight reprint of that entire arc. And boy, for anyone who read the later Archie Sonic comics, the protagonist having vague memories of the old version of the series from before a lawsuit-related timeline reboot sure does sound familiar, huh?

The art inconsistency somehow becomes even worse in this story, with Ken flip-flopping on whether or not he wants to use outlines, with the no-outline art managing to look even worse by relying entirely on Ken's awful rendering. By this point in the book, readers are also likely to start noticing how often Ken reuses art from previous panels. This is a shortcut that tons of comic artists use, of course. Invincible famously did a joke about this. It's often understandable. But, again... it sure does stand out in a book that took 13 years to make with only 30 pages of new art. Amusingly, Ken even manages to combine his inconsistency and recycling problems by reusing the same art with and without outlines. And, of course, any time Ken tries to draw the Archie era designs it's just... the worst.

And, yes, it's in this dreamlike montage sequence of Lara-Su's life that we get...

The uncomfortable family nudity scene, followed by the dual timeline Julie-Su breastfeeding scene.

Yeah, you might have heard about this one already. If this incredibly eerie presentation of Lara-Su's hazy memories of the two different timelines make it hard to tell what's going on, don't worry. There's another, clearer version later in the book as part of Julie-Su's character profile, because I guess Ken was just so proud of it.

(I censored these myself because I'm not playing Russian roulette with Tumblr's inconsistent nudity rules and risking getting banned lmao)

Like, okay. Is a mother breastfeeding her child really that shocking of a thing to see in a story? No, not at all. But, like... when it's two characters who you previously created for an officially licensed Sonic the Hedgehog comic for 7-year-olds... and some of those officially licensed Sonic the Hedgehog comics for 7-year-olds are reprinted in the same book... and when it's drawn like this... yeah, it's kind of a shocker.

It just looks so unnatural. Julie-Su is posed very deliberately so that you'll see both of her breasts, and in the new timeline version she's barely even holding Lara-Su so you can really get a good look at her supermodel body, showing zero physical signs that she just gave birth. Most people will immediately jump to this being Ken putting his fetishes in his work (a type of criticism that I'm incredibly tired of - it's 2024, all the cool artists are blatantly putting their fetishes in their work now). And my immediate response is that, no, this is probably just Ken trying to come off as really mature on a surface level, a thing he's been obsessed with since the Archie days. Free from the shackles of writing a licensed children's comic, of course he's going to jump immediately into depicting some nonsexual, artistic nudity to try and prove he's A Real Mature Artist For Grown-Ups who just thinks the human body is beautiful and breastfeeding shouldn't be a taboo etc. etc.

But then, like. You look at some of the other character designs. Like Espio's daughter Salma, who's now this horrifying alien lizard person who's always nude, and her scale pattern puts scales exactly where her nipples should be. Or you look at his comments about the Echyd'nya age of consent. Or you look at how he keeps drawing Lara-Su in this. Like, does the shuttle really need this, like... reverse chaise lounge thing in the cockpit? So that we can keep getting these shots of the 16-year-old Lara-Su lying on her stomach and posing with one of her legs kicked up, her naked ass in plain view?

The vibe isn't great, is what I'm saying!

I'm not going to try to ascribe authorial intent here. I don't know. I'm not a psychic. Given his very blatant reliance on photo references elsewhere in the book, it's entirely possible he just referenced some figure drawing photos that were maybe just a little too sexy. And also, he's an American comic book artist, and a boomer one at that. Those guys tend to draw women a certain way, even when it's not supposed to be sexual. I don't fucking know. It just sucks. I'm not gonna make some hyperbolic statement about how this makes him a literal pedophile who should be in jail, but it is deeply offputting and objectifying.

But if you already knew about the nursing scenes and were hoping there was some other really shocking stuff in there for me to talk about in this review, sorry to disappoint, but nope. That's the only shockingly weird new thing in here. Once again, not a lot happens in this story, and what does happen is pretty boring.

Once we get past the recap stuff and the human guy, the plot developments boil down to this: The timeline was altered at the end of M25YL... but not as much as you might think. In the new timeline, Knuckles ("K'Nox"), Cobar (now looking significantly younger), and Rotor (now a rhino just called "The Emissary") still traveled via shuttle to go find a time machine in the Badlands and fix the time-space continuum, like in the climax of the original arc. This time, though, Sonic wasn't there, and Lara-Su came along without having to stow away. Lara-Su watches the ship while the grown ups go deal with the time machine, and then after a couple panels Not Rotor comes back with Cobar and is like "Hey, Cobar got hurt, we gotta leave. Dunno what happened to your dad." And then they just, like. Presume that Knuckles must have died. Even though we have no idea what happened to him. And then they just fly away. And then Lara-Su is sad that her dad died.

And that's pretty much it!

This is supposed to be a really emotional sequence - it's literally the scene where Lara-Su learns that Knuckles is dead - but instead it comes off as unintentionally funny because of how poorly it's portrayed. Not showing Knuckles' actual disappearance is a huge misstep, for one, making his uncertain fate more confusing and anticlimactic than dramatic. But also, Ken keeps just using the same two drawings of Rotor for two pages, so he doesn't really seem to be emoting at all, and he's in this spacey hazmat suit that honestly just makes him look like fucking Moltar from Space Ghost. So the whole time I'm just reading his dialogue in Moltar's deadpan voice as he's like "I dunno. We did what we could. Anyway, let's leave."

After this, we get a two-page spread previewing the rest of the story from Shattered Tomorrows. It's basically like a trailer in comic form. It has one of the most mystifying layouts I've ever seen in a comic book. I have no idea what order I'm supposed to read this in.

Yeah, I kinda have a feeling this is the full extent of what Ken has drawn for the rest of that book. I'd love to be wrong, but I fear that I'm right.

Bonus material: Data files

These are mostly very dull, recapping a lot of events shared between Ken's Archie run and the new Lara-Su Chronicles timeline. It seems like almost his entire run is still considered canon to the backstory of the new timeline, just with some names changed, and things only really diverge at the climax of M25YL. But I'll share the interesting stuff here.

Lara-Su

The main thing you'll notice in Lara-Su's profile is the massive, unreadable wall of text where Ken felt the need to list the entire Knuckles family tree, split across both pages.

This is literally so long that Lara-Su's personal history has to awkwardly cut off mid-sentence and be continued on the final page of the book, after the rest of the data files.

Also, please note that this list gives Julie-Su's mom's full name as Mari-Su of the House of Atrades. Incredible on all levels.

There's also a reference to the dark timeline Lara-Su was originally supposed to come from. You know, the one where Julie-Su is the leader of a rebel movement fighting against a Knuckles who had gone mad with power? The timeline that would have been way more interesting than the one in M25YL? Here it seems to have been written off as the result of another "timeline disruption." Lara-Su allegedly has vague memories of this timeline, in the same way that she has vague memories of the M25YL timeline.

Geoffrey

Geoffrey's bio mostly recaps events from the Archie comics, which means the Sonic/Sally/Geoffrey love triangle has to be alluded to. His rivalry with Sonic is described like this:

"He would later resurface when Kintobor was transporting his latest hi-tech weapon, the Dynamac-3000. It was during that mission he discovered a rival for the Princess' affections. Whereas the Princess would be one of a line of conquests where St. John was concerned, the blue-spined Erinaceinae who protested doth a bit too much regarding his affections for the Princess for St. John's taste would prove to be a source of great sport and amusement."

Yes. It's gross. Saying that Geoffrey saw Sally as "one of a line of conquests" is gross. Ken writing this and then still treating Geoffrey as the coolest badass ever is gross. The "Princess Acorn" is also first on the list of Geoffrey's "female relationships" elsewhere in his bio, though I suppose how much of a "relationship" they had is left vague. Honestly, at this point the fact that Ken didn't explicitly confirm that Geoffrey took the underage Sally's virginity in the book comes off as a display of restraint. The bar couldn't be any lower, I know.

Remington

His bio is, frankly, shockingly long for such a minor character, though I guess he does get a large portion of the word salad dialogue in "The Storm." There's a lot of stuff here about how the identities of his biological parents are shrouded in mystery, a plot point that fans have long speculated Ken just straight up forgot about in his time at Archie. (Ian confirmed that Kragok from the Dark Legion was Remington's dad, though, so this isn't really much of a mystery.)

Lien-Da

She gets a bio even though she's not present in the two new stories, just so we get to look at her awful new design and compare it to how Steven Butler drew her earlier in the book:

Commander Taelor

We get to see two drawings of him with the same exact Ernie Hudson face side by side! That's fun.

Julie-Su

She gets a list of "known friends," but the only character listed is Knuckles' mom. Poor Julie-Su.

Also, Ken feels the need to reiterate that Knuckles and Julie-Su are still distant cousins. He made a whole new timeline where he can change whatever details he wants, but THAT had to remain canon. Thanks, Ken.

And then after the data files we get the special thanks page, listing everyone who preordered the book and/or bought TLSC merch from Ken.

With my name on the list. Because I had to buy a copy to cover it for the blog.

My name is on the very next page right after the breastfeeding panel in Julie-Su's data file.

Yep. He got me.

Is it at least a well put together book? Like, in terms of manufacturing quality?

Its physical quality is... fine. It's a nice, sturdy hardcover. The print quality seems fine, though mine does have a bit of smudging from some sort of printing error on one page. The pages don't seem like they'll fall out on me. The image quality is crisp. The colors are vibrant. This is a low bar, but this is one of the few places where I'm able to give this book anything resembling praise.

The formatting and graphic design work, on the other hand...

(I didn't crumple those page corners, it came like that.)

For one, the placement and sizes of the M25YL pages is inconsistent, largely due to the fact that the book doesn't actually match the proportions of a comic. A lot of pages aren't properly centered vertically. Some pages go all the way up to the top edge of the paper, while others leave a visible gap of about half a centimeter. Every page has a 1cm gap to its left and right, which is sometimes filled in with a solid color or gradient that doesn't quite match the page it's surrounding. I have to assume Ken didn't have any sort of source files or original artwork to work off of, as those ideally would've had more generous bleed to account for slight shifts in printing. It kind of seems like he just got the highest resolution versions he could find of the digital releases online and printed those. The colors are a dead ringer for the digital versions, which have always looked slightly more saturated and pastel than they did in print.

I can't say this bodes well for his further plans for Archie Sonic reprints - sorry, Mobian Line reprints. If they ever come out, please, for the love of god, do not buy those. I don't care how much you love Archie Sonic, they aren't going to be good reprints. For comparison, IDW's similarly priced hardcover Sonic collections have none of these formatting problems, because they're made by people who know what they're doing with access to the actual source files.

The book also has its fair share of text-focused pages, split between the data files and messages directly from Ken about the history of his career and this project, and these are formatted in the most amateurish way possible. Just massive walls of Arial text over either plain white backgrounds, simple gradients, or faded photos. I've seen school yearbooks with better graphic design. Even ignoring my subjective feelings about the art and stories within, this book does not feel like it's worth $36 USD.

It's frankly shocking how shabby he let this thing look considering it's supposed to be his baby. And doesn't that really sum it all up?

Closing thoughts

Obviously, I did not expect this to be any good. But I'm still left kind of dumbfounded by it.

I think what really strikes me about it is that Ken had a blank check to do whatever he wanted here. He got an opportunity many writers would kill for when he gained complete ownership of his most famous work. He's free from the limitations of a monthly licensed comic book for children, free to make whatever creative decisions he wants without editors or other writers or Sega to worry about, free to completely reinvent the series to his heart's content and finally tell the story of his dreams. And with that opportunity and 13 years of his time, he made... this. A direct continuation of "Mobius: 25 Years Later" that barely changes anything about the characters or world beyond their awful new designs, even though much of the word count is spent rambling about how the timeline has changed. A story that makes zero concessions for new readers, or even returning readers who don't already have the last decade's worth of Ken's tweets explaining his creative decisions burned into their memory. 30 pages where nothing really happens and the story barely moves forward an inch despite the decades-long wait - but maybe something will happen if you buy the next book!

Who is this for? Maybe this really is a project for no one but Ken. Maybe he just really, really wants to finish the story he started, a story that's personal to him due to the family history it evokes, and the number of people who enjoy it or buy it beyond that is irrelevant. I think that many of the best artists are incredibly self-indulgent ones working with that exact mindset, artists whose enthusiasm for their own work jumps off the page or screen. So, if that's the case, then why the fuck isn't he telling the damn story? What's stopping him? Why is he still spinning his wheels? Where is that passion for his own work? Because it sure as hell isn't there on the page. There's a huge part of me that really wishes I could say "Man, what a weirdo, but you do you, Ken. You tell your weird little story." But there's barely any story here. It's like he loves styling himself as a storyteller, but he's terrified of finally having to actually tell a story after all this time. He's still stuck in the exact same mode of writing he was in almost 30 years ago when he was doing 6-page backup stories about Knuckles, just killing time and stringing readers along until he's eventually able to truly realize his vision. If not now, then when, Ken?

Even the back cover blurb is mostly just a dry recap of the history of this thing. It was a Sonic comic, the original arc was published in these issues, it went unfinished, Ken left Archie, the lawsuits happened, now he's continuing the story. There's nothing about why anyone should give a shit about this as its own story, even though Ken has spent years trying in vain to convince people TLSC is its own beast that shouldn't be judged as a Sonic story. I think deep down he knows that there's no pitch for this beyond the novelty of it originating from Sonic. And that's why, despite declaring that he'd leave the site, he's still on Twitter riling up Sonic fans. It's the only attention he gets at this point.

Maybe this is too harsh when those 30 pages of new comics are just intended as a preview for the "real" book. But the elephant in the room is that we have no idea if that "real" book will ever actually come out, let alone the entire series of seven graphic novels that will supposedly complete this saga.

Ken is undeniably a complete jackass and all around unpleasant, vindictive person who's rightly become an industry pariah. He's a self-proclaimed paragon of progressive values who'll send Comicsgaters after his successors for the crime of not worshiping the ground he walks on, and then turn around and announce he's going to reprint their work without even consulting them. He's a sore winner who already won his copyright battle on a level most comic writers would never dare to dream of, and yet still won't truly be satisfied until he sees an entire major comic publisher go out of business, putting god knows how many people out of work, because he thinks this would get him back the license to a video game franchise he doesn't even like.

But I still have to pity him.

As an artist, the trajectory of his life is my nightmare. I think all of us fear dying before we can tell all the stories we want to tell. There's simply never enough time to do everything. And here's Ken in his 60s, talking about how he's still planning on making his magnum opus all by himself out of stubbornness and pride, despite demonstrably proving he can't handle the workload, and also talking about how if he dies before the project can be finished he'll have to pass the torch on to his kids and get them to finish it for him. It's so grim. Even just typing that sends a shiver down my spine. It took nine years of his limited time on Earth to finish and release an 11-page comic about Geoffrey St. John sitting backwards in a chair.

This is a purgatory of his own creation. And yet... I'm not sure he's ever been prouder. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

I guess if I want people to take anything away from this review, it's this:

Lesson one: If you're an artist or writer of some kind, or an aspiring creator, don't wait around. No one else is going to tell your story for you. Start writing that novel. Start drawing that webcomic. Start making that game. If Penders can put out this damn book that no one asked for after 13 years of work, then proudly proclaim that he's still going to make six or seven more books and also reprint hundreds of comics he doesn't have all of the rights to, then show up to cons with that foul Lara-Su Chronicles: Shattered Tomorrows banner and sit in front of it beaming with pride, fully aware of his critics but saying "fuck 'em, I know I'm hot shit," then you can do fucking anything. Tell the weird, sincere, cringe story of your dreams. If Ken Penders doesn't have imposter syndrome, then nobody should.

And lesson two: Don't buy Ken's books.

[slowdivinqs]

Presentiment

Stalker! Joel Miller x f!reader ( 18+ MDNI )

summary : no one is truly alone in the world, especially not you.

w/c : 12K

warnings : no use of y/n, horror themes and elements DDDNE, stalker behavior, feelings of isolation and depression, existential crisis? Kidnapping, cynical thoughts about life described, abuse, violence against the reader by Joel, old!Joel. slowburn-ish. dub-con?. unprotected PinV. Oral f!receiving. Manhandling. Hunter / prey kink. Twisted daddy kink but no use of the word 'daddy'. Joel popping a viagra. VERY Large age gap ( 35+ years ) . Manipulation. Obsession. Reader’s mother is described as a drug addict. Shitty men, harassment and pervertedness from a co-worker. Murder / death of side characters. Stockholm syndrome. Reader is toxic too. Religious imagery. Can be pixel or pedro Joel. The reader is implied as being thinner due to life long poverty, but her body type is not described or stated.

a/n : This was made for @pedgito's writing challenge and kind of ran away from me. It was such a blast, I've never tried horror or a specifically dark fic and it was sm fun! I’m sure the characters I wrote will stick with me forever. I sat with this fic for a long time before posting, and it's the longest thing I've ever written!! Not sure how I feel about it still. Thank you for letting me participate! Happy birthday ♡

if you don’t like dark themes, listen to the warnings and don’t read the fic.

masterlist

—— ☓ ——

Something feels wrong before your eyes have had the chance to open – a kind of warning, an omen, baked into the morning light stabbing your iris through moth-eaten curtains.

It was the way your body ached as you tried to sit up, stomach screaming for food you just don’t have. Your mother hasn’t been home for a week and you know she’s either run off with some incest-bred asshole who’s promised her a beer or she’s passed out in a crack-house miles away.

Your shift at the diner starts in thirty minutes. 

The men that pass through this town are all the same. 

Truck drivers – men who think all women in the world are there to satisfy their needs. Iagos of the world, the dark underbelly. 

The men that stay in this town are not dissimilar, your days a monotonous blur of wondering when something better will drop into your desperate palms.

There is one man who feels like your only friend in the world. 

Standing at a whopping five foot seven, and still kicking up the diner’s jukebox at eighty three, he makes sun shine out from your soul. You can confidently say that Jerry is the best. 

He usually sits with you the entire day at work, and makes sure to fill your empty time by teaching you to dance to El Toro Rabón, and La Bamba. His rich hands, littered with wrinkles yet full of life, hold yours while he makes you laugh. Clapping as you finish off with an animated twirl and curtsy. 

Jason usually eyes you from the kitchen, rolling his sleazy eyes at the sight of you having so much fun with your elderly best friend. Going back to making greasy burgers and puffing on a cigarette that’s gotten him in trouble with the owner before. 

You never agreed with the sentiment that old people were cute until you met Jerry and his late wife during your first shift at the diner : fourteen years old and composed of an exhaustion that was ill fitting for someone so young. He’d been your first ever customer, seventy seven and still wearing that cowboy hat of his.

The first thing you noticed about him was his mustache, the way he uses wax to curve up the tight white curls into points, how it covered his top lip when he spoke, making him look like a cartoon character –  his oak brown eyes that has gotten increasingly red and yellow around the corners as he’s gotten older. The way his warm skin has developed patches of darkness, yet he still looks the exact same as the photo of him he showed you from thirty years ago : fresh off his racing horse in Mexico, holding the same cowboy hat over his chest that he adorns now, smiling brightly. He kept his hair looser back then, his ringlets looked shiny even in those black and white photographs.

He calls you bumblebee, and you think he’s the first person that’s ever loved you – and he’s the first person you’ve ever loved. He’s your sunshine, a tether to the world past your 18 hour work day. 

Every morning he’s seated in the diner at 8:30 AM with a joke to tell you, stories of his racing days, growing up in Cuajinicuilapa, his time travelling around South America before settling down in this small town near Wyoming. He tells you of his late brother, his views of the world and the people he’s met. He talks of humanity and how love is what is most important in life.

You feed off of the stories he tells you : meeting people from all walks of life under the pretense of coffee, sitting around the same food stand, chatting to strangers who would play guitar on the side of the street for no other purpose than passion. 

You feel the desire for this ideal world thrum in your veins vicariously.

He used to come in with his wife Dolores until she passed two springs ago – he talks of her jewelry often, thinks that you should inherit it : they were never able to have children. You serve his coffee fresh and hot – asking Jason in the back to make his eggs perfect and his toast golden brown. You sit across from him at the counter to play bullshit with him while he eats – he always knows when you’re lying, his cheeky smiles catching you out, and his joy wraps it’s warm arms around you.

Your days are filled with giggles and smiles whenever he comes to see you, and he never leaves without a hug. 

Jerry does not like Jason one bit – eyeing the skinny, pale cook through the serving counter, telling you that a man like that is ‘no good, honey’. You don’t blame him – Jason had tried to coerce you into giving him a blowjob a few weeks before your 18th birthday – but never forced you when you had threatened to go to the sheriff and have them run a much needed background check. Jason has steered clear of you since then, knowing you weren’t shooting empty threats. You never told Jerry about that, but you think he knows regardless. 

He jokes that the forest behind your house has eyes – the kind only the old and the dying could feel. You never found it funny. 

Your clothes were not too crinkled this morning when you pulled them on : giving you a small mercy as did your almost-dry mascara surviving one more day. That hadn’t quelled the uneasiness you’d felt all morning, the whole drive to the diner. All you could think about was seeing your friend, and hoping that he would give you a hug and tell you all those happy stories again.

The second you clock in, and Jason comes back in from his third smoke of the hour, Jerry opens the door to the diner. 

You float over to the counter with a genuine smile, but it flickers when you see the look on his face. 

He talks a lot that day – about his wife, about his old job, even the time a fight broke out in his hometown and his father died, how the horses he looked after got caught in the crossfire : admitting he had hurt the perpetrator afterwards and it haunts him. He tells you everything, even the things he’s told you time and time before – forgetting he ever mentioned it. He’s never forgotten a thing about you, but he talks as though he’s in a hurry, as though he needs to get everything out.

He does not come in the next day or the day after that, and when he doesn’t arrive on the third day you take time off to confirm your fears at the hospital. You do not hear it from a nurse, or a doctor, but from the silence you are met with when you ask for him. That silence, the loneliness that instantly sunk into your bones, shattered your heart into millions of pieces. It is destroying.

You did not come to see him when you could, there was still time to be had, stories to be told. He never saw you make something of yourself, he will never walk you down the aisle like you dreamt he would one day. 

You are all alone in the world. No one to speak to, no one to comfort you. No one to make you think life might not be as meaningless as the whispers of your mind seem to believe. The warmth of him is gone, and you feel as cold and grey as the forest that surrounds this town, as if the sun has gone into eternal hibernation.

You want to bury yourself in your room for hours, to not surface for months and months until your body reflects the rot you feel on the inside. Hollow. Your sunshine is gone. 

You tell yourself Jerry is now with Dolores, and laugh at the fact that your mind even supplied such a deluded thought. You never believed there was something better up there, not for long anyway. 

You still go to his new tombstone, next to his wife’s, and speak to them. They were both religious, crosses carved into the place their names will stay forever, and so you ask any god out there to let them rest peacefully as though they are back in their hometown with their horses and not worry about you. 

That evening you sit on your porch, chain-smoking the packs of cigarettes you had been saving, staring at the stars caged by thick trees. You realize you do not have a purpose. You don’t have a want – can’t have one, there’s not enough money for the luxury of wanting something. You’ll live and die in an 18 hour work day.

Your thoughts are scary and boring at the same time, so you begin to look out at the illuminated forest. The sounds of the night – it scares you as well sometimes, an entire empty forest just outside your door, nothing but rotten wood and locks keeping you safe.

Today you found out you will be alone for the rest of your life, but when you sit out on the porch, flicking your third cigarette – you don’t feel entirely alone at all. You feel as though there is something out here with you, your skin rippling with bumps. 

You blame it on the Grim Reaper licking at your heart today.

The cabin on the other side of the forest you’re staring at now has been vacant since you were born. Never a light, a sound – it haunts you.

The closest you’ve gotten to it was at the ripe age of 8, venturing through the forest to explore. You had come to the front door until the house moaned at you, and the forest went quiet. You can still vividly picture the glance you got of the cabin while you ran all the way home. 

You leave the shadow of the cabin in the dark forest behind, you need to get dressed for your shift. Money waits for no one, not even for the death of your best friend. 

Down the empty highway, not a car in sight – the image of your headlines whirring past the thousands of trees burnt into your retinas from seeing it every single night. Your eyes are puffy and raw from crying, a headache pounding behind them.You pass the single off–ramp road you’ve never been stupid enough to take, the one that winds through the forest, all the way to an open clearing, a small path that can barely fit your sputtering car – leading all the way to the back of your rotting house. You used to play in that clearing as a child, pulling out grass and flowers and making huts out of branches until the day the forest went quiet for a second time – and you knew something was out there with you. 

You had told your mother after running inside, but she pushed you away from the comfort of her arms and told you it was just jackals – you knew it wasn’t, even then. 

It had seemed you knew something was coming your whole life, constantly looking over your shoulder – watching, listening. Sensing all and any kind of movement anytime, wary. You didn’t like the silence, you didn’t like being alone – yet you were singled out, not a soul or sound to comfort you through your isolated existence. 

The gas station is empty as it is every night, you use the time to read. To think, to wonder what it’s all for in the end. If you should run away, leave and never come back. Go and find the ocean, let it swallow you whole.

The sliding doors of the entrance ding as they open. Your eyes flick up so quickly it hurts. A man walks in, and your stomach swoops. Everything falls quiet, and you think of the thing that your mother called the jackals, you think of the forest falling silent : baby birds quieting in the face of danger.  He disappears behind a shelf, a glimpse of a Carhartt jacket that sparks a warmth : a remembrance of your dear friend who is now gone, the once comforting material on someone foreign, scary.

Your breath shallows. You don’t know why. It’s not just the quiet – it’s the kind of quiet that makes your blood congeal. Like the silence before a scream. 

You glance to your side, below the counter, a bat sits for emergencies. You’re not sure why you are panicking the way you are, if it’s the hour, Jerry’s passing, the presentiment you’ve felt all week. 

There is something silent, and something wrong. 

When you look up, you still don’t see him. The light behind you flickers, and you almost want to cry at the fear that’s bubbling up in your throat, your hair is standing on end. Your ears prick at any sound, a fridge door opening and shutting. 

Your body is shutting down on you, your heart crawling up your throat by claws : fighting and fighting for a chance to survive while your body quivers with the force of your instinct to run. Grab the bat, over the counter, out the door to your car. 

You blink, realizing you haven’t been seeing a damn thing, and he’s on the other side of the counter. Looking at you with a blank expression. 

Your heart fizzles and falls back to its place, your hands are shaking. 

“Forgot milk.”  His voice is entirely too flat, disarming and discerning. 

You glance down at his hands, calloused and holding a single jug of full cream milk. He’s waiting for you to scan it. 

“Right, sorry.” You mutter, sliding the milk over the scanner and taking the cash from him before returning the change. He hasn’t looked away from you once, he seems tired and bored : a normal milk run, but you’ve never seen him before. It’s shocking for a town with under five hundred residents. 

He nods his thanks and leaves. The sound of his car sputtering away allows you to finally exhale. 

You cash out and go home soon after that, shaken, like every ounce of fear you’ve felt in your life crashed through you the second he entered the store. An omen, a warning. 

You wake up to a box at your door the next morning. In your sleep-shaken state, you have half the mind to stomp on it, fearful it came from The Man last night. Fortunately, curiosity seemed to be on your side this morning, as upon opening the box you find Denise’s necklaces, bracelets, rings and books. Paintings, antiques, and most importantly - a cowboy hat. Your favorite hat in the entire world. He had left everything of his to you, when he wrote his will you do not know. Maybe Jerry knew what was coming, he always was wise, connected to everything there is in a way you wish you could be.

You cry all morning, through your miserable shift at the diner. You must look like some sort of slug, because Jason asks you if you’re okay, as does the girl from your old english class who came in that morning all the way from New York : in town and visiting her parents. She dyed her hair and found her style. You see the sparkle of the world in her eyes, and your dirty fingers itch to steal it, to run outside with her car keys, assume her role as a real person. You do not feel real at all. 

When you return to your rotting home you watch an old western - Jerry’s favorite - while you wear his cowboy hat, toying with the new jewelry that was sent to you when the police must’ve got around to acting out Jerry’s will. You feel loved and, oh, so lonely at the same time. You are a ghost in your own home, and the appearance reflects it. No real girl would live in a house of mold and quiet, where it is abandoned despite having a resident. 

—-

The Man returns this evening as well, in the moment you were humming the iconic tune from your new favorite movie. Jerry had good taste. The world goes silent, and he grabs a pack of beers before heading to the till. “Marlboro Reds, please.” He has a Texan accent, and you stare at your hands as you give him what he wants. He leaves after that again, your only customer of the night. 

 

The next night, he takes his time browsing the store. You watch him, watch how he languidly moves, scanning the items like his eyes would not eventually land on you. Approaching the counter with his chosen trifle.

 “You don’t get scared workin’ nights?” He asks, and now you know your concerns were not unfounded. 

“No.” you lie, meeting his eye for the second time since the first night. He does not have facial expressions, you realize. Blank, revealing nothing. He is a handsome man. An eerie man. He nods, holding eye contact as he grabs the useless item and goes back to his sputtering truck outside. He looked like he wanted to call you a liar. 

You do not show up for your shift the night after that. Your gut tells you to stay home, to lock your doors and keep your father’s old pistol near you. To close the blinds – sit and listen to every sound of the night. Check under your bed just in case.

You’re late to the diner the next morning, greeted by Jason’s complaining that he had to serve the first customer’s coffee, asking for you to make it up to him. When you peep through the corridor, your heart drops at the only customer in the restaurant. 

The Man has come to the diner. He knows you, he knows where you work – probably where you live. 

Maybe he lives here, maybe it’s all some coincidence. Maybe it’s not what you think. 

You bring him his eggs and bacon, and when you look up to his face he’s already looking at you. He does not move, does not touch his knife or fork. He’s staring at you. 

“Leave me alone.” You say, quiet yet firm, standing over him as he blinks and looks down at his food. Your fear is making you angry, fire spitting in your eyes. He doesn’t answer you, and after two moments of being unable to bear the energy that exudes from him – you walk away, into the back of the kitchen to watch Jason work, peeping through the slits of the serving station to watch The Man eat his food. Your body hair prickles into points.

Jason eyes you, glances at The Man, and raises a faint eyebrow at you. 

“That your daddy?” he asks, staring at the popping bacon. You watch the grease heat and solidify, the sweat sticking on Jason’s skinny yet defined triceps, coated with wiry hair that’s never been tended to. 

“No.” you whisper, tucking your hands under your legs : they are cold, and your skin is overridden with goosebumps, hair standing. You feel as though you’re about to be swallowed, like large claws will pick you up and drop you into a maw of sharp, hungry teeth.

“Why’s he givin’ me the stink eye, then?” Jason grunts, picking at his gold tooth with a grimy finger as he lazily looks over to your thighs, then your face. Raising an eyebrow at how fearful you look, he glances back at The Man. Something like concern flashes across his face, and he lifts his cap to rub over his short, receding hair. It’s the first time his eyes have ever looked soft.

“Dunno.” is all you manage to mutter as you brace a peek to find The Man has looked away.

He’s slow, takes time to eat every piece of food while staring blankly out the window, like he’s watching the world as though he’s never seen it before, unnatural. You want to tell Jason about your all consuming fear that this man is going to hurt you, but his eyes have changed and he makes another comment about how good you look in the plaid dress that happens to be your uniform.  You choose to wait outside of the building instead of enduring the male specimen of your species. It feels like you are alone in a world of monsters.

When you return inside, there’s a fifty dollar tip next to the spotless plate, everything stacked for you to carry. 

You don’t return home that night : you ditch your job at the gas station for a second time,  leaving your car at the diner to book a room at the shitty motel. It feels as though you died the same day Jerry did, maybe you are dreaming : alone in an empty world, your only companion being the monster. Nothing feels real.

You fall asleep to the sound of ugly moans, watching the handle of your door : your heart beating faster than your body can manage. Rocking yourself back and forth, humming a soft tune your father used to play on the guitar when he was sober enough to think. 

You feel as though you are living on borrowed time, as though this opportunity to wait is a mercy.

He is not at the diner the next morning. Neither is Jason, it’s closed up and the lights are shut off – it is Jason’s job to open up and get the stoves burning. You try to call the owner with the small amount of change you have on the payphone, but no one answers. The sound of the dead line ringing in your ears as you look around in a panic. 

You suddenly feel as though you’re back in that patch of forest, surrounded by tall trees and a monster waiting to swallow you whole. Watching. A fear so curdling you fear you’ll throw up over the plastic phone. 

You’re wide awake standing behind the counter of the gas station. Watching the fluorescent lights flicker. You parked your car out back. You’re holding the bat in your right hand under the counter. You are waiting for him to come in. You should have driven far far away, but you have a sinking feeling he would have followed. 

The night is completely quiet. No people, no sounds except for the humming of the fridges. 

You glance at the back door, and the moment your eyes turn away from the sliding doors they ding. Your hair rises and stands violently. Skin alight and blazing as the first footstep echos in the store.

You don’t think about it, your body tells you to run and you do. 

Out the back, to the edge of the concrete until your feet are pounding along the road, bat gripped tightly in your fist. The sound of your own feet are drowned out by the ones behind you, big and stomping. The trees framing your attempt at an escape as they yawn and stretch above - caging you in, suffocating. They grow tall as you sprint, closing like they will eagerly crash down and trap you like a wave from the ocean you’ve never seen.

You push with all your might, and you thank the lord you took track during school, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you run so fast the sound of feet behind you fade. It feels like victory, like being free – your chest blooms from the burn and the success. You think of the gun in your bedside drawer, and turn down the off-road into the woods you’ve never been brave enough to take before. The only sound is the one of your own feet : you’re not stupid enough to look behind you.

The moon lights up the forest floor, you don’t trip over a single root or branch. You’re moving faster than you ever have in your life : your lungs screaming, fear rising in your lungs like bile. You break into the clearing, the one that has always been haunted by Jackals. 

You’re almost home. 

A force heavier than you think you’ve ever felt crashes into you from the side, you’re slammed down into the one patch of grass you often picked, the bat flying out of your hands and rolling to the dirt in front of you.

“Knew you’d run here.” A deep, breathless voice says right into your ear, your hair is pulled as a hand clamps down on your struggling wrists, excited. “Always liked playin’ here, didn’t ya?” he grunts, pulling something out of his pocket. You swing your elbow up, knocking him straight in the jaw. He sways for only a moment, but it’s all you need. You dash forward, crawling away from him before you find your feet, grabbing the bat and smashing it down over The Man’s skull. He groans and stumbles, gripping the back of his head as you trip over your own feet to stumble away. You run towards your rotting home, you can’t think about the fact he knew where you played as a child, all you are thinking about is the gun. 

You don’t even get to the steps of your back porch before he’s tackling you to the ground again and hitting the side of your face hard enough to make you cry, your head fuzzing. Your face stings and your eye throbs. You want to bring your hands to cup over the hurt, hold yourself in an attempt to make it better, but he is holding your hands. He curses at you, spitting vile words for managing to get solid blows at him.

“Come on, darlin’. You think that little gun ‘s gon’ do anythin’? It don’t even got any bullets.” He grunts, you feel zip ties around your wrists, your mind racing as you continue to struggle and kick until his hand is around your throat faster than you can think. “Don’t make me hit that pretty face again, bitch.” 

You go still, and slumped. Trapped in a wolf’s jaws. 

His hand squeezes tighter and tighter as you squeak a protest, until you can’t think anymore and the last of your squirming falls away. 

The first thing you smell when you wake up is smoke, the kind that comes from a fireplace. The first thing you see is rich, dark wood. You’re on a bed and you glance up to see you’re handcuffed there. Your skin isn’t just throbbing – it's raw, the skin bitten where the metal has scraped against you. Your head pounds like it’s been split open, the ache thick and blinding.

You can feel he is somewhere within the room, the twist of your stomach and the lingering presence on the back of your head tells you he is there. A creak of a chair behind you finalizes his presence but you can’t be bothered to do anything besides slump back against the mattress, curling up into a tiny ball. 

He says your name to get your attention, and you don’t attempt to look at him, your skin is already crawling with what you think he wants to do to you. Future years of using and hitting flash through your mind, wishing for the mercy of death.

He walked next to the bed too fast, too silent. A wall of muscle and heat as large as him should not be so quiet.  He is touching your hair, stroking down your cheek. His hand is rough and warm, he smells like a cologne that reminds you of your father. You think you might be sick.

“I was bein’ nice. I waited.” he says softly, pressing down with his pointer finger on the bruise that has molted under your skin, making you wince and shuffle away from him, glancing up at him to find his striking, dark eyes on you. His jaw is bruised where you hit him with your aching elbow, a trickle of dry blood still stuck on a piece of his salt-and-pepper hair. You made a crack in his head – a small trickle of pride filling your veins at the fight. 

It is small lived, and dies out at the next throb of your wrists.

He sighs at this reaction, before walking out of this bedroom and shutting the door behind him. 

You lie there for what feels like hours, only moving when you notice the water and ibuprofen on the bedside table : still in its packaging. Your whole body aches, the last throttles of your adrenaline were beaten out of you with his hands. 

It’s only when you sit up that you notice where you are. The view outside the window is the forest behind the cabin that groaned at you, that haunted you as a child. 

He’s lived here the whole time : he’s been here the whole time. The feeling of impending doom that curdles your skin when he’s been near. The jackals you felt as a child, the forest going quiet. 

It’s been him. It’s always been him.

Your skin feels as though it will turn inside out, every hair on your body standing to a rigid point. The fear feels as though you’re dying. 

You don’t have to look to know he’s silently opened the room again, and you speak.

“You some kind of pedo?” You spit as your head throbs, sitting up on the bed, tugging on the cuffs, rage curdling and bubbling up on your skin – you think of your mother. 

He stops moving at your words, “what?” 

“You’ve been watching me since I was a child.” 

“It wasn’t like that, Jesus.” He grunts, sounding uncomfortable at the idea. You almost want to laugh. In your periphery you see he’s ditched his canvas jacket, wearing a navy flannel that shows you just how large he is - as if you didn’t feel it the night before when he tackled into you so violently, stealing every inch of breath in your lungs.

“Oh, well sorry for assuming some old, sick pig stalking a young girl since she was a child isn’t a fucking pedophile.”

He smacks you over the throbbing patch of your skin, and you finally glare up at him with every bit of ire in your body. It was not any kind of hit, it was the kind that made you feel like dead weight, that knocks all the air out of your body as if you are a puppet with it’s strings cut. 

He’s staring down at you.

“I’m not –  christ, it ain’t like that.” 

“So you’re just going to kidnap and keep me? You’re not going to – to do anything, is that right?” You scoff the words out, holding your hand to your cheek. The ache under your skin feels like it could stay there forever. 

“I don’t want to do anything to you.” He seems to notice the irony of his words when you let your palm drop, face swollen. “I didn’t want to have to hurt you.”

You look out the window and go silent. 

“You didn’t have to hurt me, this was your choice.” You spit, and he looks almost surprised by your words. There’s goosebumps that break out over his skin, and the energy in the room constricts as he backs away from you.

He glances out the same window before handing you a warm bowl of stew, pieces of meat and potato bobbing up from the thick, stock smelling liquid. You stare down at it, and then glare back up at him. 

“Is it poisoned?” You’re not serious, you’re angry.

“If I wanted to kill you I would have done it earlier.” He says it as though it’s as casual as the weather, as though killing something – a person – is as boring as can be. Idle reassurance. 

“You seem to like the waiting game.” You huff, staring at his large, twitching hands. His watch is broken.

He looks like he wants to smile at your quip, eyes crinkling in the corners.

“Eat.” He tells you, closing the bedroom door softly as he leaves you be.

—

You have been here for two weeks, only knowing this due to the little alarm clock next to the bed that he brought you from your house. 

True to his word, he hasn’t touched you – in fact, he’s been taking care of you in ways you have never been before. It’s intimate, and a sick hunger has begun to heat low in your belly alongside the fear. 

You feel as though you’ve been living in a small bubble where time never passes. He watches you at all hours of the day, asking you questions about the men you’ve worked with, if there’s anything from your house you want him to fetch. He tries not to hit you when his anger bubbles up at your persistent silence. He asks you questions about yourself, not ones like favorite colors, but if you think all people in the world are unsavable. 

He looks like he’s hoping you will tell him he can be saved. You do not. 

He makes you eat dinner with him every night, bathes you as well. The first time he tried it, after letting you rot in bed for three days, he had to wrestle you into the bathtub after trying to be nice, held you down while you kicked and splashed and scratched at him until he pressed his fingers over your injured face in an unforgiving manner until your cries went quiet, and you almost fainted from the pain. He made you apologize for making him have to hurt you. 

You swallowed the clawing, raging voice at the back of your throat and did it. When he kissed your forehead and told you it’s okay, a warm sickness swirled in your stomach, nauseating and tentatively delicious all at once.

You have not tried to fight him after that night, scared of what would happen if he were to comfort you. 

He tucks you into bed most evenings, pressing the blanket to cushion you and arranges the pillows. In the first nights, it had scared you : you hadn’t slept a wink, terrified he would slip into bed and his patience would wear thin. Now, it feels like something nice. He tries to tell you happy stories, he usually fails – but it makes you think of Jerry and you feel better regardless, it makes The Man seem more real, like a human rather than a monster. 

He asks you to curl up next to him on the couch so he can read aloud to you, books you’ve heard about in passing but never read : he has a liking for Cormac McCarthy and the Wild West. He bakes cookies for you when you ask him your first question, letting you sit at the table with a glass of milk to enjoy them. You feel warmth radiating from inside of you, spiked with fear – no one has baked cookies for you before. You finish them, and he says he’s proud.

—-

The sinking feeling comes slowly. Seeping into your bones whenever he holds you. It gets worse when you begin to dream of him, a possible reality, one of him holding you and kissing you – telling you you’re lovable, perfect, worthy. Six months have warped your brain, slipping out of your grasp like sand. You wake up to slickness between your legs, a desire to go find him in the kitchen making breakfast and nuzzle under his broad arms, let him squeeze you tight and surround you with his scent. You don’t have to beg him to make you feel loved, he’s always loved you : he’s made that clear. 

You had realized long ago that he is too big for you to fight, he is all consuming and overpowering. The sinking feels like acceptance, and you think it’s close to dying. 

It’s a sunny day when it all hits you. He’s been out for half an hour – at the grocery store a few towns over – the moment he said goodbye you had felt a twist in your stomach. You didn’t want him to go. He hugged you and told you he would be back soon, kissing your cheek when you got teary, his whiskery beard tickling your soft skin. 

You don’t know when the terror began to feel like safety. You only know that when he’s gone, it feels like you’re alone with the jackals instead of how it was when he found you. When he was the monster.

The worst part was you knew why you reacted that way. Sitting in the sunny room, you forced your mind to constantly think of escape routes, of the disgusting actions he had committed, the way he has trapped you in this little house. Your mind adamantly hates The Man, but that large pit, the self that was unloved and uncared for – alone, has already started to need him, to ignore the stupidity in believing he loves you. To latch on like a leech and suck up all of the love and care he has, not caring if it’s real or pure, to see if it’ll make you round and fat with it – satisfied.

 

The hunger for what he has to offer you makes you feel like you might be the true monster in the house : your desperation for what you have never tasted knows no bounds. You think you’d kill for it. You might have been the jackal the whole time, the hole that lived inside you might have turned you ugly from a young age. 

You are scared of your own desperation. 

He bathes you every night – ritualistic and precise. Guides you under the water until you reappear, clean and new to a kiss on your cheek, hands scrubbing you clean. Every time the surface breaks and you come back to him, the forest grows denser : tighter and vast while the home, your home, becomes all the more simple and clear, exactly how it is supposed to be. 

You need him, and you think you love him. What that makes you, you’re not sure and you no longer care. 

He goes out months later, telling you he needs to get food and soap, baby - he leaves the window open and the door unlocked : he knows you will not leave. He says he’s going to grab soap, but he is carrying a prescription slip with a little baggie, what he’s actually going to get remains a mystery to you. 

The nightmare you had in the middle of winter had shifted something deep in your foundations – the fear that licked up your spine at the thought of being alone – the much lesser, flickering fear that your body had instinctually looked for him in his room, the dull scream your mind let out at the way you climbed into his bed, burrowing under his large, comforting arms until your brain went quiet and he pulled you closer. Those dull screams of fear and resistance from a lifetime ago have been washed away from his hands, and now a need so gravitational has birthed in its place. You want him.

Dusk comes softly in the weeks after taking residence in his bed. He still has not touched you, and you are beginning to feel ire towards his morality. A wrongness in the way he tries to be right. The cabin is warm with firelight, the smell of smoke wrapping around you like a blanket, similarly to his flannel that stretches over your skin. He jostles open the door slowly, grocery bags lining his fingers in a way that is dangerously domestic – his hair is tousled. His eyes catch onto the fabric, and he pauses.

“You’re in my shirt.” He states, but you know it’s a question. Your eyes search for the little baggie he had, wondering what he put in there. 

You close the book he gave you to read, the cover sliding across your fingertips, “It smells like you.”

Something in his expression shifts. You think it might be guilt. Or pride. Or both, layered on top of each other until they’re indecipherable. He sets the bags down and moves to you, slow and steady – crouching to your level in front of the couch. 

“You missed me?” He asked, eyes wild and dilated, hands skirting over your exposed thighs. Up and down. 

You look away, unable to meet the gaze that is burning into you, to admit how far you’ve gone to his face. Yet your head nods, eyes flicking to his as your chin wobbles, bottom lip jutting out before tightening in a grimace. He wipes a tear from your eye.

“’s okay to miss me, I’m the only one who’s here f’you, darlin’.” He cups your cheek, rubbing the skin there. You meet his eyes this time, close them before you’re leaning in, resting your head on his shoulder as he sits next to you, guiding you onto his lap and telling you it's okay, and it’s natural, baby and finally I love you, don’t cry sweet girl.

You’re tired of the tears, of the fight. Tired of the empty woods and the silence – the loneliness that lives in your bones. You’re tired of running from the thing that makes you feel whole and real.

You wonder if Jerry ever saw this coming, and if he did – why didn’t he ever warn you something so soul destroying would be waiting to swallow you? Why didn’t he tell you the most human monster in the world would be the only one to see you without the shiny idealism behind cataracts? You feel guilty for admitting that The Man knows you better than Jerry ever did. The Man knows you are not made of sunshine and flowers, he sees the hole carved in your stomach that makes you so achingly hungry, and shows his own back. 

— 

You noticed the loose floorboard on the second day, and now you pry it open. While you care for The Man, you are acting on instinct.

He had shouted at you this morning while you were still curled in his arms, gotten rotten and angry, called you a stupid bitch when you had asked him to come with him to the store, wanting to see the world again. 

You were hopeful he would trust you, that he would prove you are, in fact, not living in a cage. 

He had stormed off, and for the first time in eight months he had locked the door on his way out, shoving a small plastic bag in his pocket. 

Spiders crawl out from the floorboard, and you jump back, standing on the couch while you throw The Man’s shoes at them, you wish he was here so he could take care of it, could laugh softly at your fear and hold you in his arms – away from the floor – to protect you. 

You remind yourself you do not know his name and that you’re trapped here, a jarring reminder of the way you have settled.

You need something to prove he was a real, living man before his life revolved around you. You need to rebel against him, like a petulant, scared child because of his rudeness this morning. 

Once you feel safe enough, you roll up the sleeve of the lacy undershirt he gave you and stick your hand inside. Searching for some sort of ocular truth amongst the bones of his own rotted cabin.

A pair of old boots with a ‘J’ engraved in the sole is the first thing you pull out. An army knife next, then a bunch of guns and weapons. 

No matter how strange it is to find guns and knives buried in someone’s house, for The Man it’s quite boring.

You pull out a shoe box next, placing it next to you on the floor before blowing the dust off of the top. It doesn’t help much. From the amount of grime, it looks as though you are the first person to touch this box in years.

The lid sticks to the rest of the compartment from cobwebs, but you discard the thing anyway, desperate and careless.

 

A photo is the first thing you find, old and yellowed.

A little girl.

At first you are fearful she is a victim, until you see the photo of The Man - much younger - holding her in the hospital. Your stomach curdles, and it feels like rotting, eating itself from the inside. 

A daughter. 

Your heart swoops low, pensive. You think of the room he keeps locked, the warm light that streams under the gap of the door - reflecting something pink inside. The way you would watch the beams dance on the floor like a whole soul was trapped inside there, wilting as the sun set.

Her birth certificate is the second thing you find. 

  Sarah Miller : 1983 / 03 / 18   

  City of origin : Arlington, Texas. 

  Father  : Joel Miller  

A name, a life, a whole world buried in the foundations. 

You gawk at the fact that The Man – Joel – is 60 years old. 

Her missing poster is what you find next. Bile rises like acid on your tongue, a smiling, happy girl plastered with information about her last whereabouts, the pink shirt she was wearing and how tall she had gotten. She went missing on your third birthday. Your head swims. You drop the documents back into their casket with trembling hands and weak knees.

 Stupid, stupid girl – why did you have to look?

The last thing you find is a golden tooth, familiar in its grime and dullness. You can imagine a sleazy tongue gliding over it in irritation. Jason’s golden tooth. You drop it immediately and slam the loose floorboard shut, burying what was meant to stay that way once more. 

The room looks as though nothing has changed, yet everything inside of yourself is different. A storm of fog and clarity, adrenaline pumping for running and the desire to stay still.

You throw up outside the living room window.

Everything feels like a blur after that, grabbing your boots he stuffed away - a coat and a knife from his kitchen.

Run, just run. Don’t look back. Get away, fast fast fast. 

You climb out of the bedroom window and run all the way to where you left your car the night he caught you, cold wind whipping past your face and sending a burn through your nose. Your feet pound along the ground like the whole world is weighing you down, like every stone is hoping to trip you and let you fall, to cut your knees open and stop you. 

You eventually arrive at the gas station.

You're stunned that the place is closed and rotted, not a single soul in sight.

Your lungs are burning, you feel woozy, and you let out a pathetic cry when you see he has slashed your tires. 

Stopping at the rough concrete of the shop, you attempt to open the back door, only to spot a poster plastered on the side of the wall. 

A missing poster. Your missing poster, with not a single person in the world to care for its presence besides a man who you ran away from, who would tear it down and remove you from an existence that is not with him, that would try to come find you to bring you back.

You decide to keep running in the opposite direction of his home. A large part of you is screaming at you to run to the Sheriff’s office and tell them what happened, that Joel will find you if you try anything else, but a shamefully large part - a sick part of you does not want to run away from him. He has cared for you - he has watched you all your life, and you know – regardless of purity or morality – he loves you. All that is left for you without him is a town that would freeze in time if you were to vanish, fake in its existence, a facade for the life you were always meant to live.

To your horror, the twist in your chest tells you that you love him too, it’s a surety now.

You think of the soft kisses he pressed to your hair, the way you got used to him telling you of things he liked about you, that he only would have known from watching. The way he told you he too liked Jerry, and liked the movie you watched after his passing. He let you watch it every night for a month, and began to quote the lines with you in an exaggerated version of his accent to make you giggle.

He saw you, he has always seen you. He loves you and wants you and needs you enough to take you for himself. 

You have stopped running, standing still for a moment before slowly turning around, feet shaking in your soul’s indecision. Torn and trembling. The forest is completely silent, yet this time you feel all too real – too alive. 

Your mind is not what it used to be. The shake of your hands comes from the part of you that is pleading for you to run, to see the clear manipulation : the rose coloured glasses that have been forced over your eyes. The other part – the part that you are starting to believe is the truth of who you are – wants to run back to the cabin before he sees you ever left, to cup his devastatingly handsome face and let him take what has always been his, to be made a real person.

It is consuming, this primal want.

A twig snaps.

You don’t need to turn around to know he his standing close behind you. 

You clench your fists and turn around, fear curdling and boiling in your belly, making your knees weak and shaky. 

The look on his face clears your rational thought once again, and you quickly attempt to scramble away from the monster. He looks absolutely, impossibly, livid. 

You do not know why you ever thought you could run, why you thought he would not find you, that he would let you go. 

You burst into tears the second he has you against the forest floor once more. The ground ripping the skin from your cheek as you fall, crushed under him once again – worse this time : you knew better.

“Why’d you do it, angel?” He says softly, entirely contrasting from the way his arm is curled around your head, large biceps restricting your breath. 

“I-I was scared.” You cry, trying to stop the hiccuping of your lungs to keep the breath you have. 

“I know baby, I know.” He soothes, deep voice right next to your ear, his mostly salt and slightly pepper beard tickling the skin. “You made me so scared, sweet girl. Thought you cared ‘bout me.” he whispers. You do not know if the tightening of his arms was intentional, or if he is so upset at the idea you could hate him that he is consumed with it. 

“I’m s-sorry,” You gasp, clawing at his arm, “I do care, ‘s why I–”

He raises his hand quickly, yet it hangs in the air for a moment. Hesitation, guilt – trembling like he’s stuck. You see something raw flicker in his eyes before it’s gone and he’s striking the ground next to your face, barely missing you – a last second decision. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me.” Desperate, angry, scared.

You need to placate him before he does something stupid.

“I turned back– I was going to go back home I promise, please.” you cry, looking into his eyes. You loathe the fact that your words aren’t lies, that the care he sees reflected in them is real. You want him, you need him.

He watches you silently, frowning. Waiting to see what you have to say to him. 

“I snooped, I’m sorry. I was angry about this morning and I saw– I saw Jason’s tooth and–” 

The sound that leaves him is punched from deep within his chest.  

He is silent for a long time. Pulling away from you. 

You do not breathe, scared – the back of your neck is bared to him. Your life depends on his reaction. 

“You saw my girl.” 

You tremble in his slackening grasp. He seems to be staggering for a moment, unprepared and assaulted by the memories you have brought back. His hands grip tighter and tighter. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know.” you whisper, tears streaming out of your eyes as you look up at the setting sun, these must be your last moments. Your body trembles and your hiccuping noises are ugly. You wish you could take this all back to before. 

“You ain’t supposed t’see what’s down there.” he’s lifting his hands off of you, and you think the scariest thing about this moment is how human he finally seems. Like you are the one seeing him after all this time. You stay down, turning to look into his eyes – all you can see is grief.  “You know what it’s like to be lonely, that’s why you were brought to me, baby.” His hands wrap around your neck again, and you shriek a small protest, scrambling. Your nails crack and bleed as they attempt to rip yourself away from him by holding onto the ground and pulling.

You feel drops against the back of your neck, and fear lurches in your stomach at the fact that he’s crying. “She would have hated me, she was so good.” His hands are constricting, crushing. You choke and gasp for breath. “But I ain’t got her anymore. I got you. And God help me, I need you, sweet girl.” 

“I’m sorry.” you whisper again, looking into his sad eyes with your teary ones. 

“I know.” He says softly, and you whimper as his hand comes to your face. He rubs the skin for a few moments, letting himself breathe and feel you. It feels like an eternity, lying under him, trapped.

“I’m goin’ to give you a choice, sweet girl. I ain’t given you one before.” His voice builds up as he says it, like the memory of his daughter drives him to formulate a plan – a way to somehow fix everything he’d done. Your heart stops as he slides off of you, picking you up with him and holding you, the tips of your boots brushing the ground. He stares at you seriously, and he looks so different from the monster, like he’s trying his best to do the right thing after all this time, pretending it’ll take everything back. 

“I’m goin’ to let you run, sweet girl. You can choose to go to the sheriff– or, or steal my truck, do what you want.” He swallows thickly, eyes wild. “I’ll let you go, I should let you go.” He whispers almost to himself. “But if you choose t’go back home…I won’t let you leave me again, baby.” He smooths his hand over your hair after setting you down. “You’ll be mine, honey. And I’ll be yours, we can be fair and make this right. I’ll take you, and I’ll tell you everythin’.” 

You thought your heart was going to rip out of your chest. Everything is primal, it’s all desperate and ugly and raw. He lets go of you, taking a few difficult, staggered, paces back. His fists are clenched tightly at his sides. 

“Go,” he nods slowly, like he’s trying to assure himself this is the right thing to do. “If you run now, I won’t stop you, I swear.” his voice breaks like he’s not sure of it himself — scared of what he’s capable of yet consumed with need. His eyes are soft and round, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen. You are scared, but more importantly you are tired.

For the first time someone has loved every rotten bit of you – so desperately they leave morality behind. How could you run away from this? 

You hesitate, stagnant and unsure. Your heart and your brain have gotten so tired from fighting it feels they have turned off all together, what happens now is primal – instinctual, you feel out of your own body, vaguely aware of the blood pulsing through you. 

You turn around and run swiftly down the road, scrambling over a few loose stones. You glance back at him once, surrounded by the trees, watching you like a dead man watches water. Your heart lurches. He looks heart broken, shattered and as alone as you’ve always felt, like this is the last time he’ll ever see you. 

Silly old man, you think. 

You were always going to run back to his cabin. 

You’ve got no need to disappear into nothing for the sake of rightness when everything you’ve ever wanted lives in the warm, wooden walls of his — your — home. 

He underestimated just how hungry, how broken and corrupt you are. 

You know now that you love him, and you know that you have always been just as much of a monster as he is. Rotten and broken and impure, tainted and shattered. 

You have always been his match. 

Your boots carry you home like you weigh nothing, light as air as ribbons of your past fears and wishes string and rip behind you. A flurry of ideas and thoughts until there is nothing except for yourself standing in that same flowery spot with plucked grass and no-more- monsters. 

  You bask in the silence of the forest. You have since lost track of the hurt, the burn of fear rising in your throat. You think of gold teeth and little girls and bright, wrinkled eyes surrounded by rich, dark skin – before your thoughts fall silent too.

You are under water. By the time you see his cabin : dim with no lights on as it always was until he found you – your mind is somewhere else, hollow and empty and replaced with something molten in your stomach. An ache, gnawing away at your belly. 

You don’t knock, you let the stairs creak as you silently open the door. 

  He had not followed you, true to his word. The house is just as you’d left it. 

You feel settled, clam and composed as you slowly begin to strip. Boots at the door, jacket in the living room. A trail made from your scarf leading to shorts and small socks. At the side of Joel’s bed, a lacy undershirt and bra. 

  You have already started to drift off by the time the cabin door opens. Two shuffles of feet before they stop short. 

He takes time to make a fire, the sound of crackling wood creating a comforting blanket to your sleepy state, in and out of the haze, yet aware. 

You are silent and waiting, your breath fanning softly as your eyes struggle to stay open. Somewhere deep, your heart throbs – the last fizzling jump of fear before it dies and fades away for good. You hear the opening of a small, plastic bag somewhere in the kitchen, little taps of what sounds like a pill falling against the counter top– a gulp of water a few seconds later. 

The mattress dips as he climbs into bed behind you. 

His callouses catch on your skin roughly as he traces the side of your face, bare chest pressing against your lower back while he buries his face between your shoulder blades. 

You let your eyes flutter shut as he places open-mouthed kisses up your spine, wet and shaky. His hands grip your hips like you’ll turn to smoke if he doesn’t hold on. His beard tickles your shoulder as he continues, cradling you against him as if he is trying to stitch himself back together again, to become real and whole.

You let him. 

He is shaking when you turn to face him. Neither of you speak, words unnecessary in the softness and stillness of the night : no need for words when there are only two people in the world who are so entwined already. 

His palm cups your face, turning you to look at him, thumb stroking over the corner of your mouth like a prayer. You whisper his name to him for the first time, a shaky breath escapes him as he whispers yours back. A small ruffle of the familiar duvet as you turn to face him, his warm palm cups over your tit – your pounding heart – as you turn to face him. Eyes shining as they meet yours. He looks so human.

He presses his nose against your own before his chapped lips finally meet yours in hesitation, like he’s trying to confirm that you’re really here next to him, that he hasn’t lost the only thing he has. 

It’s soft for only a moment before you both let the hunger take over – hot and wet, lips moving faster and faster as his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. They part without hesitation, taking the warm wetness of it inside your mouth and sucking gently, rolling over the other’s until your tastes are the same. 

  You gasp as his hands – rough and trembling – slide down your body, tracing every feature he studied from afar that is now finally his to touch. His mouth nudges along your jaw, nipping at the skin before he’s burying his face in your neck and inhaling. 

When you whisper his name softly, he shudders like you’re the first person to ever truly call for him. 

Your hand glides down to his stomach, running through the silvery hair that coats it desperately, trying to ground yourself to him. To pull him impossibly closer like you want to merge your bodies into one, consuming. 

His hands are everywhere as he groans into your mouth, surrounding you completely. One grips your hair, pulling back gently to bare your throat to him as the other runs down your breasts, pulling and squeezing your nipples into tight points, breath panting from the intensity. He paints your neck with bites, blooms where he’s sucked and tugged on your skin until his mark has been made – groaning as he licks over the skin, like he’s trying to infuse you into his bones. Your skin tastes like his surrender, like the salt of his prayers. It’s not forgiveness he asks for – but belonging, trying to carve a place for himself in the crook of your neck. 

Your fingers slip under the band of his boxers, searching for that rigid warmth that’ll complete you, retreating slightly on a shaky gasp as his hot, wet mouth envelopes your nipple, pulling and licking. 

He’s on top of you within seconds, hands splaying across your shoulder blades as he shows equal treatment to each breast, arching you against him. His heavy sighs travel across your skin as he exhales. Groin slotted against the warmth of yours, he lets your hands tangle in his hair as he moves Southwards, kissing as he goes.

You whine a protest, whimpering for him to join the two of you together, and he answers your previous curiosities in a deep rumble, “Gotta give it time to work, sweet girl. I ain’t young no more.” 

You let your head fall back against the pillows, a spark of electricity running through you at the reminder of his age, wetness seeping out into the gusset of your panties as you try to close your legs – an attempt at alleviating some of the heat that’s been building there. 

He grunts at this, large hands gripping your soft thighs as he plants them wide and flat against the mattress, “Easy, darlin’ – gon’ take care of you now.” He rumbles against your lower stomach, right over your womb as he reaches up to pinch your tit, prompting you to look down at him between your thighs. Those eyes you once used to fear with such intensity now only make more slickness spill into the cotton that conceals you. 

“Want you t’look at me while I taste this pretty little cunt for the first time.” He whispers on a kiss against your mound, dragging your panties down by latching his teeth onto the little bow adorning the front and pulling. You moan softly at the sight, hands fisting the sheets next to your head as his broad, muscular shoulders keep your legs spread wide, baring your warm pussy for his taking. 

  His eyes meet yours as his breath falters at the first glide of his tongue through your cunt, breaking off into a deep groan as he tastes you. A small cry of his name leaves your lips at the new sensation, hands immediately going to tangle in his soft hair. His tongue is ravenous, licking up every ounce of arousal as his eyes stay on yours, only dropping down when your head falls back once more. 

He sucks your clit into his mouth, beard tickling and stimulating you – sending head through your bones. His lips tug on your bundle of nerves, pulling so deliciously your hips cant up onto his face, letting your wetness coat his beard until it’s soaked.

He lets go of your throbbing bud with a pop, licking his lips as he lets his mouth glide lower. 

“Taste so fuckin’ perfect, my angel.” He groans as his tongue digs over your hole, an obscene sound of him slurping up all you’ve given him echoes through the humid room, and your moan of approval follows soon after. His nose digs into your clit as he pushes his tongue inside you, letting it glide into your gummy walls as you clench around him. His moans of approval course through you, heat rising blindly through your bones as you cry out for him, hips bucking as he presses against your lower stomach with a large palm. The rough material of his watch-strap scratching your tummy as his brows furrow, focused on eating you alive. The smacking sounds of his lips against your wetness make your eyes roll as he digs his tongue inside. His hand moves lower, skirting against your entrance before he’s pulling his tongue out with a slick pop, replacing it with his fingers as he sucks on your clit once more. 

“Joel I-I’m gonna…” You trail off into a high pitched gasp, body trying to twist away from him as his thick fingers curl, pads of them bruising a spot inside of you that makes wetness gush out onto his wrist. 

  “Cum f’me, sweet girl, look at me.” He grunts, waiting until your eyes meet his to suck on your clit harshly, tongue running against the underside as he spreads and lifts his fingers to press against your gummy walls.

Your first orgasm crashes into you when you realize he’s humping the bed, his hot tongue desperately lapping up the slick that gushes from your spasming hole. He moans at the taste, making sure to drink it all down before he’s pushing up the bed – capturing your mouth in a wanting kiss as his thick hardness leaks against your leg.

His pill must’ve worked.

“Joel.” You whisper against his lips, nails dragging down the muscles in his back as you try to paw his underwear off with your foot, cunt clenching around nothing, desperate to grip and coat his cock in your slickness.

He offers his body to you in a way that feels holy, the glide of him through your messy folds makes a sound so perfect leave his mouth you feel as though you’ve gone to heaven. 

“I’ve got you.” He whispers against your lips, the hand that is not cupping your face is notching his fat, drooling tip at your entrance. “I’ve got you, baby.” 

The first time he pushes into you, it’s gentle. A broken sound rips from him like he can’t bear it, face strained as he takes his bottom lip between his teeth, watching his cock sink into you at a sinfully slow speed. Only when your nails sink into the skin of his back does he look into your eyes, seeing his own want, need, obsession painted in your irises.

He rocks into you like he’s trying to carve a home for himself inside your body, bringing your hand up to cup at his face while you lose yourself to the delicious stretch of him – cunt gripping him so tightly he can barely leave. You were always meant to be wrecked by hand like his – hands that tremble, hands that destroy, hands that worship. 

His moans fan across your lips, shaky as they exit. He’s slow, letting you feel every inch of him, every vein, as he glides into your soaking cunt. His eyes have rolled, but you lean up to bite your own mark into his neck, pussy clenching as he moans raw and deep at the bright red mark you suck into his skin. 

He watches you now, staring into your eyes. You want him to see the hungry, ugly, ruined thing he’s made. You want him to love it. 

And when he leans down to kiss you like this night has changed him forever, you know he loves you. He is searching for his salvation in your body. 

You anchor yourself to him like the earth is shaking, moaning a soft gasp as his forehead pressed against yours. Reveling in the feeling of his sac slapping against your backside, the sounds of lewd smacks and wetness – his own moans and whispered words of praise floating around you as the sheer size of him swallows you whole. He fucks you like he’s praying at an alter and you devour him whole. In the darkness, there is no difference between love and need, no line between hunger and worship.

Every thrust feels like a prayer, a confession, like he’s spilling the truth of himself into you on every plunge, letting you see every crack of his soul, the ugliness through the pounding of his hips against yours. Rocking together, bound by the loneliness and hunger and something older than love.

You cry under him, silent and open as he digs into you, so big and taking that your body can hardly bear it. He kisses every tear like an apology, licking up the salt as he coos above you, kissing the tip of your nose as he lets the heavy weight of his cock sit and twitch inside you for a moment, pubic hair sticky from your arousal as it grinds against your clit. He buries his face against your neck as he begins thrusting shakily again, and you know he’s crying too.

“I love you.” He whispers against your skin, broken and raw as he shakily moves his hips, eyes flitting to you, hopeful and soul-crushingly vulnerable.

Your breath is shaking, heat coursing through you at the glide of his cock against that place, tailor made for him. Your eyes falter, fluttering as the last of your tears stream down your cheeks, clenching around him so tightly. Every shared breath tastes like forgiveness neither of you have earned.

“I love you too.” You whisper, shattered. Body light as a feather as you let yourself fall. 

His breath hitches as he comes inside of you, unprepared for it – hot pulses of his seed spurting quickly, flooding you as he sobs out moans against your skin, gripping your hips so tightly you think you’ll break. You follow immediately, arching into him as his arms wrap around you, pulling you impossibly closer to him as you ride out the waves of your pleasure together, knowing it is so much more than this. You are no longer a scared bunny, alone in the world, and he is no longer a jackal hunting you down — you are only two humans, connected in a way that ascends your lives : cosmic. 

It’s not just sex, it’s not just lust – it’s your whole life that has led up to this, to him. Two people who are too broken to live, yet too stubborn to die.

He’s made you his. 

You’ve made him yours.

And lying in his arms, letting his hand rub up and down your back, you know neither of you stood a chance.

-------

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed please reblog and comment, it's great encouragement for writers ♡

[cocklessboy]

The biggest male privilege I have so far encountered is going to the doctor.

I lived as a woman for 35 years. I have a lifetime of chronic health issues including chronic pain, chronic fatigue, respiratory issues, and neurodivergence (autistic + ADHD). There's so much wrong with my body and brain that I have never dared to make a single list of it to show a doctor because I was so sure I would be sent directly to a psychologist specializing in hypochondria (sorry, "anxiety") without getting a single test done.

And I was right. Anytime I ever tried to bring up even one of my health issues, every doctor's initial reaction was, at best, to look at me with doubt. A raised eyebrow. A seemingly casual, offhand question about whether I'd ever been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. Even female doctors!

We're not talking about super rare symptoms here either. Joint pain. Chronic joint pain since I was about 19 years old. Back pain. Trouble breathing. Allergy-like reactions to things that aren't typically allergens. Headaches. Brain fog. Severe insomnia. Sensitivity to cold and heat.

There's a lot more going on than that, but those were the things I thought I might be able to at least get some acknowledgement of. Some tests, at least. But 90% of the time I was told to go home, rest, take a few days off work, take some benzos (which they'd throw at me without hesitation), just chill out a bit, you'll be fine. Anxiety can cause all kinds of odd symptoms.

Anyone female-presenting reading this is surely nodding along. Yup, that's just how doctors are.

Except...

I started transitioning about 2.5 years ago. At this point I have a beard, male pattern baldness, a deep voice, and a flat chest. All of my doctors know that I'm trans because I still haven't managed to get all the paperwork legally changed, but when they look at me, even if they knew me as female at first, they see a man.

I knew men didn't face the same hurdles when it came to health care, but I had no idea it was this different.

The last time I saw my GP (a man, fairly young, 30s or so), I mentioned chronic pain, and he was concerned to see that it wasn't represented in my file. Previous doctors hadn't even bothered to write it down. He pushed his next appointment back to spend nearly an hour with me going through my entire body while I described every type of chronic pain I had, how long I'd had it, what causes I was aware of. He asked me if I had any theories as to why I had so much pain and looked at me with concerned expectation, hoping I might have a starting point for him. He immediately drew up referrals for pain specialists (a profession I didn't even know existed till that moment) and physical therapy. He said depending on how it goes, he may need to help me get on some degree of disability assistance from the government, since I obviously shouldn't be trying to work full-time under these circumstances.

Never a glimmer of doubt in his eye. Never did he so much as mention the word "anxiety".

There's also my psychiatrist. He diagnosed me with ADHD last year (meeting me as a man from the start, though he knew I was trans). He never doubted my symptoms or medical history. He also took my pain and sleep issues seriously from the start and has been trying to help me find medications to help both those things while I go through the long process of seeing other specialists. I've had bad reactions to almost everything I've tried, because that's what always happens. Sometimes it seems like I'm allergic to the whole world.

And then, just a few days ago, the most shocking thing happened. I'd been wondering for a while if I might have a mast cell condition like MCAS, having read a lot of informative posts by @thebibliosphere which sounded a little too relatable. Another friend suggested it might explain some of my problems, so I decided to mention it to the psychiatrist, fully prepared to laugh it off. Yeah, a friend thinks I might have it, I'm not convinced though.

His response? That's an interesting theory. It would be difficult to test for especially in this country, but that's no reason not to try treatments and see if they are helpful. He adjusted his medication recommendations immediately based on this suggestion. He's researching an elimination diet to diagnose my food sensitivities.

I casually mentioned MCAS, something routinely dismissed by doctors with female patients, and he instantly took the possibility seriously.

That's it. I've reached peak male privilege. There is nothing else that could happen that could be more insane than that.

I literally keep having to hold myself back from apologizing or hedging or trying to frame my theories as someone else's idea lest I be dismissed as a hypochondriac. I told the doctor I'd like to make a big list of every health issue I have, diagnosed and undiagnosed, every theory I've been given or come up with myself, and every medication I've tried and my reactions to it - something I've never done because I knew for a fact no doctor would take me seriously if they saw such a list all at once. He said it was a good idea and could be very helpful.

Female-presenting people are of course not going to be surprised by any of this, but in my experience, male-presenting people often are. When you've never had a doctor scoff at you, laugh at you, literally say "I won't consider that possibility until you've been cleared by a psychologist" for the most mundane of health problems, it might be hard to imagine just how demoralizing it is. How scary it becomes going to the doctor. How you can internalize the idea that you're just imagining things, making a big deal out of nothing.

Now that I'm visibly a man, all of my doctors are suddenly very concerned about the fact that I've been simply living like this for nearly four decades with no help. And I know how many women will have to go their whole lives never getting that help simply because of sexism in the medical field.

If you know a doctor, show them this story. Even if they are female. Even if they consider themselves leftists and feminists and allies. Ask them to really, truly, deep down, consider whether they really treat their male and female patients the same. Suggest that the next time they hear a valid complaint from a male patient, imagine they were a woman and consider whether you'd take it seriously. The next time they hear a frivolous-sounding complaint from a female patient, imagine they were a man and consider whether it would sound more credible.

It's hard to unlearn these biases. But it simply has to be done. I've lived both sides of this issue. And every doctor insists they treat their male and female patients the same. But some of the doctors astonished that I didn't get better care in the past are the same doctors who dismissed me before.

I'm glad I'm getting the care I need, even if it is several decades late. And I'm angry that it took so long. And I'm furious that most female-presenting people will never have this chance.

[pedroscurls]

in every lifetime

summary: you lost logan in this universe. logan lost you in his. what happens when you both see each other again, but realize that you're both from different worlds? pairing: logan howlett x fem!reader warnings: post deadpool & wolverine ("worst" logan!variant), angst (mentions of death, loss from both reader and logan), no use of y/n. word count: 2.1k a/n: this is my first logan fic, so if anything is ooc, i'm sorry in advanced! just like everyone else, i've been obsessed with hugh jackman / logan after watching deadpool & wolverine (if it isn't obvious lol)... i had the song 'unchained melody' in mind when writing this story because whenever i hear it, i think of logan for some reason lol (tried to embed it but it didn't work, but i'd highly recommend listening to the song while reading this!) anyway, hope you enjoy! next part.

“I’ll be back.”

“But what if–”

“I always come back, bub.” Logan’s looking down at you, hand cupping your cheek. In moments like this, you can see the age in his features. The crows feet at the corners of his eyes. The gray in his hair and beard. 

“Logan…” Tears sting your eyes. You know he has to leave, has to go help Charles, but there’s a feeling deep in your gut that knows that if he goes, he isn't coming back. 

“Wait for me, then.” He says, dipping down to gently peck your lips. “Okay? Wait for me.” 

“Logan,” you repeat. “What do I do if I– if I lose you?” 

There’s a feeling in the pit of Logan’s stomach, a sense of dread and fear that he’s only ever felt when you were concerned. This feels a lot like a goodbye… That maybe if he does go, he won’t come back. And the thought alone scares him. He never used to have to think about the possibility of dying, his regenerative powers always healing him in record time, but he knows that he doesn’t heal as quickly as before. He feels more pain now than he ever had. And he knows he’s sick, knows that the adamantium that once gave him strength is now slowly making him weaker.

But now, the thought of dying… It fucking scared him. It scared him to think that he’d leave you here, all alone, grieving him. He had never thought he’d be deserving of someone like you, to be loved and taken care of so gently, so sweetly, so patiently. Even with all of the baggage he carried, you never pushed. He knew, right off the bat, that you deserved someone so much better than him, but you stayed. 

Through it all, you stayed. 

And Logan would forever be grateful. After everything he’s been through, the things he’s seen, the things he had to do, the people he’s lost, you gave him a life that was finally worth living. 

“Then, you move on, darlin’.” Logan finally answers. 

“And if I can’t?” 

“You’ll have to.” 

“I don’t… I don’t want you to go, but I know that you have to. Charles needs you and–”

“I love you with every fiber of my being, baby,” Logan interjects. “And I will love you in every lifetime.” 

And that was almost a year ago. The moment he stopped calling, you knew that was it. That he either got into some real trouble or… Or that he was no longer here. It wasn’t until a young girl named Laura showed up on your doorstep, holding his dog tags that your assumptions were correct. 

You had fallen to your knees, a sob escaping your lips, as you felt your world come crashing down. Logan’s death had left a gaping hole in your heart, in your life, and everywhere you looked and everywhere you went, all you could see was him. 

You learned from Laura that during his last moments, he had told her to come and find you, that you would take care of her and give her a good life. Whenever you were around her, you tried to be strong, tried to put on a brave front, but behind closed doors, you were a complete mess. There were days where you didn’t want to get out of bed, didn’t want to eat; you just wanted the pain to stop. Every night, whenever you closed your eyes, you forced yourself to sleep because that was the only place where you could be with him. 

In your dreams, he was alive. 

In your dreams, he had made it back home.

In your dreams, he was here with you, helping raise Laura. 

And every time you woke up, you were welcomed with the sudden reality that he wasn’t alive. He wasn’t coming back home. He wasn’t ever going to be here with you to help raise Laura. 

Logan was dead and now, you had to try and learn how to move on. 

For yourself.

For Laura.

For Logan. 

—

He didn’t know what he was doing here, why he agreed to stay with Wade because it was driving him crazy. This wasn’t even his timeline; he wasn’t even meant to be here. Despite saving Wade’s timeline, Logan still found it hard to fit in. He tried to keep Wade and every single one of his friends at an arm's distance because he knows what happens to people he cares about. 

But the more time he spent around them, the more he felt at ease. Logan would be lying if he said he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but when Laura mentioned your name at one of Wade’s family dinners, his heart skipped a beat. When he realized he would be able to stay in this timeline, you were all he could think about. 

Logan wondered if you existed in this world and what he would do if you did. So, when Laura casually said your name, his head turned around so quickly that he felt dizzy. There were so many things he regretted in his own timeline, but you were his biggest regret. 

Just like he failed the other X-men, Logan had failed you too. You had been there with the other X-men, trying to warn them of a planned attack and ended up getting caught in the crossfire. You had called out for him, just like Scott, like Charles, like Storm. 

He managed to get to you before you had taken your last breath, holding you in his arms. Logan begged and begged for you to fight, that he’d do things right from now on as long as you just held on, but you were losing so much blood and Logan couldn’t stop it. 

Even then, when you had every right to be angry with him, you gazed up at him with an understanding look on your face. You had always been so patient and kind, so sweet and considerate. You had made him so happy and it scared him, which ultimately ended in pushing you away because he didn’t think he was deserving of it. Of you. 

“I love you, Logan,” you had said, wincing at the pain. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m–” Logan felt a sob catch in his throat, tears stinging his eyes as he looked down at you. “Please, baby, please please please, don’t–”

“I–” you coughed, eyes fluttering as you felt the pain overcome your entire body. “I will love you in every lifetime, Logan.” And then, you took your last breath, eyes falling shut and body falling limp in his arms. 

Since then, Logan drank himself day after day, from dawn to dusk. The alcohol never truly helped, his regenerative powers sobering him so fast, but with every swig of liquor, it burned. And he spent years bringing pain unto others, including himself. 

That was, until he met Wade who had given him a chance, a reason to fight for something… To not turn his back on someone who relied on him. A chance for redemption, to finally make things right. 

“So, will you meet her?” Laura asks, holding Dogpool in her arms as she gazes up at Logan. “She– She used to be with this universe’s Logan and…”

“No chance, kid.” Logan interrupts, shaking his head. “I’m not him.” 

“Did you have someone like her in yours?” she asks. “She’s always put me first, always made sure I was taken care of even when she didn’t have to, when she was grieving. And I think–” Laura sighs. “I think if she knows that some version of you is alive, it would make her real happy.”

“I’m not him,” Logan growls, feeling his irritation spike. “‘Sides, she’s better off without me.” He stands from the table and walks out into Wade’s balcony to get some fresh air, shutting the door behind him as he leans against the railing.

“But she’s coming tonight,” Laura finally says, long after Logan’s walked away.

Throughout the rest of the dinner, Logan remains outside. He can hear the muffled laughter coming from inside and it only angered him because it was just another confirmation that he didn’t belong here. He’s already on his fourth bottle of beer when he hears a familiar voice, smells a recognizable scent. He turns slightly and catches you stepping into Wade’s apartment, an arm slinging over Laura’s shoulders so casually, so maternally. 

He feels his heart rate pick up. Your smile still lights up a room and he can’t help but his lips turning upwards at the sight. With his enhanced hearing, Logan can hear your voice and he shuts his eyes for a moment, tuning all of his attention on you until you’re the only one he hears. 

Then, he hears your laugh and he lets out a sigh. He never thought he’d be able to hear that again, but his eyes shoot open when he hears you say his name. There’s a shocked tone in your voice, laced with sadness and hope. It all but crushes him because he knows that you’re probably expecting someone else, expecting this world’s Logan and he doesn’t want to disappoint you. Not again. He doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it if he were to hurt you again. 

But when he looks at you, his breath catches in his throat when your eyes meet his. Logan notices the surprise look on your face, but before he could try and escape, you’re already walking towards him. When you open the door and step out with him, your scent fills his senses and it makes him dizzy, like he can’t fully concentrate. 

“You…” he hears you say, voice unsteady. “You’re not… I’m–” you sigh and shake your head. 

“I know who you are,” Logan finally says, his own voice shaky. 

Your hands reach out for him, but stopping halfway when you realize this isn’t your Logan. This is not the same man who died all those years ago. This is some version of him – much younger, less wrinkles and gray hairs in his hair and beard, but he still has that same look on his face. The scowl. 

“From Laura?” you ask hesitantly. 

“From my universe,” Logan answers. 

“There– There’s a version of me in your universe?” 

“There was.”

“And what happened to me?” 

Logan’s jaw tightens. “The same thing that happened to your Logan in this universe.”

“Oh.” Your face drops, eyes softening. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

Logan wants to run far from here, far from you because he feels himself yearning for more. He almost forgot how it felt like to be near you, to be inches away that he can just reach out and pull you into his arms. Your eyes captivate him, the kindness it expresses makes him feel like he matters. You had always made him feel that way that even through all of his anger, through all of the walls he put up, you showed him that he was deserving of something good. Even if he didn’t believe it himself. 

And you… You were the best thing to ever happen to him.

“Don’t know why you’re apologizin’,” Logan mutters. 

There’s an uncomfortable silence that engulfs the both of you. He can see the tears threatening to spill over, can see the way your lower lip is beginning to tremble and he has this sudden urge to console you, to wipe away the tears that have now fallen down your cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, bringing your hands up to wipe away the tears that seem to be trickling down your face nonstop. “I just– Losing my Logan just crushed me and I don’t think I’ve ever recovered.” 

My Logan. 

Logan can practically feel his heart beating in his chest. This isn’t a conversation that he thought he would be having and certainly not with someone he loved and died because of him. 

“That’s okay,” Logan responds quietly, his tone softening. “I don’t think it’s easy to recover from losing someone you love.”

“Did you– Did you love me in your universe?” 

Logan nods slowly, tightening his jaw as he gazes down at you. “With every fiber of my being.” 

Your eyes widen and stare up at him. This might be a different Logan, but hearing those words again just brings you back to the moment you last saw your Logan before he left to go take care of Charles. 

“Did you love me in yours?” Logan asks hesitantly.

You nod instantly, tears trickling down your cheek as you stare up at him. “I’d love you in every lifetime.” 

Logan feels his own set of tears pool at the corners of his eyes and he moves a hand to rest on the railing, fingers lightly brushing against yours as he stares into your eyes. 

“I’m not him,” he whispers. 

“I know,” you say quietly. “And I’m not her.” 

[juustokaku]

Another load of Jealousy - Yunho x f!reader

Summary: Yunho isn't about to even entertain the idea of his girlfriend talking to another man. It doesn't matter how many loads of love, care, and cum it takes to make her remember that she is his and he is hers. Genre: smut (mdni!!!) Pairings: bf!Yunho x f!reader Tags/Warnings: SMUT MDNI, mean dom!yunho (kinda sweet after some time), sub!reader, fingering(?), penetration, unprotected sex, established relationship, jealousy, possessiveness, breeding kink, choking, bulge (lmk if something is missing, I have never done this) A/N: This is the 3rd smut I've ever written in my life... I haven't posted the first two since they were written a couple years ago and were bad, so I hope this is worth posting. The plot isn't anything great because this was mostly for trying to see what it's like to write smut and I didn't want to waste a good plot on this if this turned out bad LOLLL. So please, keep in mind that I've almost never written smut! Word count: 2 300 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ If someone asked you if you loved Yunho, you’d answer ‘yes’ in a heartbeat. He was more than just a lover or a boyfriend; he was your worshipper, kissing the ground you walked on. And if someone asked you if you’d ever cheat on him, you’d give a firm ‘no’ and tell the person off. Although you wanted to make it clear to everyone you were Yunho’s girl because you loved him, it wasn’t the only reason to push people away. You’d be in big trouble if he started to consider the possibility of you holding affectionate feelings for anyone else than him. 

“Baby, what are you doing? ~” 

Despite Yunho’s needy tone and presence next to you on the couch, you couldn’t tear your gaze off of your phone. 

“Wait a second, Yuyu,” you murmured. 

He watched as your fingers tap-danced on the small screen, obviously writing a message to someone. Someone who was robbing him of your attention. Your eyes reflected the light coming from the phone screen but Yunho’s eyes shone with something else. He was getting frustrated. 

“Please, I’m lonely,” he whined, his hand creeping up on your thigh, trying to go unnoticed yet wanting desperately for you to pay attention to him. 

Still, you didn’t even glance at him. It was subtle but Yunho noticed how you tried to hide your phone screen, leaning away ever so slightly. 

The longer your attention was on the mysterious person you were talking to, the angrier Yunho became. 

You felt him squeeze your thigh, silently demanding you to finally look at him in the eyes. It was a final warning. Only when his long fingers dug onto your inner thigh, you turned to face him. 

“Who are you talking to?” 

Yunho’s icy voice shouldn’t have surprised you – this was nothing new, given his possessive nature. And like always, while it made you nervous, it also caused your pussy to clench around nothing. You couldn’t help but get horny when he looked like he’d devour you any second now. 

“Just work stuff,” you murmured, taking a glance at his hand. No matter how many times his beautiful fingers had been inside you, reaching the deepest, sweetest spots, you just couldn’t get enough. 

“At this hour? That’s bullshit.” 

While Yunho’s eyes were cold, they were undeniably burning with both fury and lust. You knew the look way too well just like he knew your body. 

“I’m friends with him so I feel comfortable texting him even in the evening. It’s just about a work project.” 

“Him?” Yunho’s eyes narrowed. 

You were too nervous to break eye contact with him, but you didn’t need to see to feel his hand hover over your core, so close but so far. Even though he was barely touching you, he was probably able to feel how your wetness seeped through your night shorts. 

“Please, Yunho... Don’t tease me,” you let out a quiet whine, hoping it’d persuade Yunho into touching you. 

Immediately, he pulled you roughly into a kiss. In a normal situation he would have kept you begging for him, but right now his desire and anger towards you were too much to handle for both of you. His lips claimed yours and showed no mercy or signs of going easy on you. You were enthusiastic to kiss him back, but his need to have you was even stronger. 

The way he started nearly biting on your lips would have soon left bruises, if you hadn’t pulled away. The both of you were breathing heavily after the intense moment, but Yunho wasted no time in trying to rest. 

“Who is that coworker? A friend you say?” 

You felt your pussy get wetter by his demanding words and you tried your best to give him an answer – one that would satisfy him enough yet encourage him to fuck you senseless. 

“We’re not close, but enough to be considered friends-! Yunho!..” 

He interrupted you with his fingers suddenly under your clothing, circling your clit. 

“What do you need friends for when I’m here? Don’t I give you all you need?” 

You squirmed around at the movements of Yunho’s skillful hands. It was hard not to feel even slightly embarrassed; you didn’t want him to know how aroused his possessiveness made you. 

“Y-You can’t do work projects for me... I need him.” 

Your choice of words pushed the wrong buttons in Yunho, and he took his hand out of your panties. He didn’t care when you whined at the loss of contact, just pure jealousy burning in his eyes. 

“You say you need him? Baby, I’m all you need,” his voice was low and dangerous, “There’s nothing and no-one else.” 

It didn’t take long for him to have dragged you into the bedroom, his fingers wrapped around your wrist in a bruising grip. You tried to savor every moment despite knowing there were more to come after this. 

The streetlights outside were the only source of light in your dim bedroom. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the darkness, but apparently Yunho saw well enough to push you onto the bed. Maybe he wouldn’t have cared anyways if he had pushed you accidentally on the floor. Whenever he got like this, satisfying his need to claim you was the top priority. 

“Strip.” 

You immediately started taking off your nightwear which you had just changed to after shower. Your hair was still damp and smelling like your shampoo. It was definite you’d have to take a shower again after this – preferably with Yunho. 

“You’re too slow,” he scolded. The way he started pulling your shorts and panties off was surprisingly gentle; even though he was mad at you, he was still your mere worshipper and saw you as his goddess. 

Finally, when you saw him properly, your breath caught in your throat. He wasn’t standing, just on his knees on the bed, but his height was still intimidating. You loved it though. You loved every moment of this, and your pussy throbbed with desire to have him fill you up to the brim. 

His chest was heaving with anticipation, and although seeing it bare always excited you, your eyes were fixated on that cock of his. 

“I-It’s bigger than I remembered...” 

“You’re going to take it nonetheless. You don’t deserve this after how you’ve acted but I need this now,” Yunho stated, his tone leaving no room for discussion. 

You felt like a prey, his next meal, as you watched him crawl closer on the bed and lay you down rather harshly. The intense eye contact just added to the arousal you felt leaking out of you. You needed him so bad, and your legs spread open automatically to give him way to your core that was aching for him. 

“You need a damn reminder every week of who you belong to. I don’t know if I want you to stop teasing me like that or not,” Yunho whispered, his right hand finding its way to your neck, “At least I get to fuck you like this.” 

He turned your gaze back up to him by gripping your neck, when you tried to look at his cock. You managed to see how its tip was covered in clear precum. It was as hard as it always was when you had moments like this, if not even harder. You wondered how it had ever managed to fit inside you with the impressive girth and length. 

“Look at me in the eyes. I want you to look at me clearly so you’ll remember my face every time you talk to another man.” 

You didn’t have time to process Yunho’s words. As he pushed his cock inside you, it was impossible to think about anything else than him. Although you were as wet as ever for him, it was still almost hard to take him in. No matter how many times he had made love to or fucked you, no matter how fast and rough or slow and romantic, he stretched you up nicely every time. 

“My girl. My baby,” Yunho muttered more to himself than to you. His hips had started moving some time ago already, but only now you were coming down back to Earth. 

His hand was on your neck like to use it to support himself, but the grip was still somewhat gentle. It tightened every time he thrusted in, and the lack of air just made you lose your mind in the pleasure even more. 

Your walls were slippery and starting to adjust to his size, so he slid inside with ease. It didn’t mean there was no delicious friction left though. 

“Who do you belong to? Him or me?” he growled into your ear. Although the pace of his hips had grown faster, he made sure to push deep inside you, drawing out every moan he could get from you. 

Your attempt to answer was cut off quickly as Yunho’s hands started squeezing your throat. It would have been hard to breathe even if you weren’t breathless already from having him ram your insides. 

“Answer me. A little choking shouldn’t shut you up like this.” 

Again, you tried to tell Yunho that you were only his to love, fuck, and take care of. But he held your throat tighter again, clearly teasing you. It was impossible to win this game, and you loved it that way. 

A mocking smirk spread on Yunho’s lips, “You don’t have to say it. I know you’re mine by the way I’m the only who ever gets to be balls deep inside you.” 

He released your neck and pressed his hand lightly on your lower stomach. It was no secret that your boyfriend’s cock was big, but the way you could see a clear bulge, the way your lower abdomen moved up and down with Yunho’s thrusts, made you clench down on him. 

“F-Fuck... You make it so hard to stay mad at you,” he groaned out. 

You watched his eyebrows furrow as if he was holding back. Finally, you had been able to catch your breath, although it was still difficult due to his relentless thrusts. 

“I love you. I’m yours, Yunho...” 

Your pleasured admission not only softened his heart a bit but made him even more lustful. He knew you were his. If you tried to leave him, he’d find a way to make you stay – even with force if necessary. But hearing you say out loud once again that you were his satisfied him. 

“I know. I know, my pretty girl, and I love you too,” his eyes met yours in a gentle way even. 

A loud moan slipped past your lips as Yunho’s fingers found your clit, finally continuing what he had started on the couch in the living room. Circling, pressing, and pinching on it – he did it all. Your sensitive skin tingled and almost felt like on fire. 

“W-Will you fill me up?” you grasped at the sheets under you, making them all rumpled and look unkempt. They were dirty anyways due to the sweating. 

Yunho moved your hands on his shoulders. There was nothing more that he wanted than to see your nail scrapes on his skin, a mark of who he belonged to. 

“I’ll fill you up, baby. My cum will be leaking out,” he looked at you before turning his eyes to his cock, slightly amused, “I’ll just fuck a new load tomorrow then. You’ll have my babies in no time.” 

His talk about breeding you brought you closer to your release, and he definitely noticed it by the way your pussy squeezed his thick cock. 

“Look at your pussy, how it’s clenching down on me. It likes to be bred, huh?” 

“Yunho, I-I'm close... so close,” you whimpered, gripping his shoulders like they were your savior. But you knew nothing could save you from the climax you were reaching quickly. 

Yunho smiled down at you a bit cockily, “Have I made clear who you belong to?” 

“Yes!” you whined, thighs trembling. 

“And who do you belong to, baby?” 

If you weren’t in such a state of mind-blowing pleasure, you could have teased him on purpose and said the name of your coworker. However, now that you were so close to coming, you couldn’t ruin this. 

“You! You, Yunho!..” 

A genuine, sweet smile tugged the corners of his lips slightly upwards. By looking at his furrowed eyebrows, it was clear he was holding back as well, near to orgasm but fighting back for your sake. 

And Yunho knew your body so well, that he recognized your sounds of enjoyment and body language, so that just when you reached the peak, he closed the distance between your lips. Your cries of pure pleasure were muffled by his mouth. 

His body shook and it didn’t take long for him to go over the edge, to let out a few stifled groans. Hot cum spurted out inside you, filling you just like Yunho had promised. 

“So, you’re going to block that man’s number, right?” Yunho mumbled, his head lying down on your chest. He could hear your heart beating rapidly after the intense session but eventually calming down to steady, slow beats. 

You chuckled, caressing his hair slightly damp from the sweat, “I can’t block my coworker’s number.” 

A surprised and disappointed whine fell past your lips as Yunho got up and pulled his now softened cock out of you. He looked down at your pussy, watching with glee how his fresh cum leaked out. There was a lot of it still inside you, but it wasn’t enough for him. Nothing was ever enough for him when it came to you. 

“I guess you can take another load then.” 

[ellewritesx]

terms of service

(part two of the sugar, baby series)

Summary: Before he can break you in, he needs to know exactly where you break.

Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, fingering, oral (f!receiving), use of vibrator, mention of handcuffs, blindfolding, a panic attack, repeated use of safe words, a ton of ''good girl'' (oops), dom!Harry, it just gets kind of intense guys

A/N: i had so much fun writing this and i've got sooo much still in store for the series! i have no idea how this ended up being almost 5k words cause it feels shorter than anything else i've written but yk what i'll take it. let me know if you like this x

Word Count: 4,870

...

The morning after that first night with Harry, you wake up to the shrill buzz of your phone, a new notification lighting up the cracked screen. Bleary-eyed, you swipe it open and freeze. Your stomach drops. You blink once. Twice. But the number doesn't change.

Ten thousand dollars.

Deposited directly into your checking account at six o'clock in the morning. For a moment, all you can do is sit there, fingers trembling slightly where they clutch the device, heart hammering against your ribs like it's trying to punch its way free. It feels unreal, like a glitch in the system, like some impossibly generous mistake you should scramble to correct.

Before you can spiral too far, another notification rolls in.

Harry: For your trouble. Don't get any ideas, it won't always be this generous.

You don't know if he's joking.

Still in your pajamas, still half-numb, you stumble over to the kitchen table and open your laptop. In a daze, you pay off two months' rent in advance. Clear the electricity bill that's been relentlessly stacking up with threatening red letters. Kill the last of your credit card debt, the looming, gnawing anxiety that's been a permanent fixture in your life for as long as you can remember. With one click, it all vanishes. Just like that. You release a breath you didn't know you were holding.

You sit back in the wobbly wooden chair and stare at the zeros. No debts to pay off. Rent covered for months. You blink slowly, feeling weightless and heavy all at once.

You should cry. You'd expected you would. But no tears come. Only a heavy, eerie kind of calm. Like you were standing on the edge of something vast and bottomless and have just taken your first step backwards, away from the deep end.

Later that afternoon, your phone pings again.

Harry: Quit the fucking cafe. Waste of time.

You stare at the message, thumb hovering over the screen. It would be so easy. To type out a resignation email, walk out of that dingy little shop with its sticky counters and fluorescent lights that make your head ache, and never look back. To let Harry sweep you up and off your feet and stay at home, maybe pursue a hobby.

But you don't. You type out a short, almost defiant reply. Can't. I like it.

You don't explain that working keeps you tethered to yourself. That hard work isn't just something you do; it's part of who you are. You've never had anything handed to you before. You've worked for every scrap, every small victory, every breath of air above water. Walking away from that would feel too much like walking away from yourself, even if a selfish, aching part of you wants to.

You wonder if your answer will piss him off. You wonder why a wicked little part of you wants it to.

When he doesn't reply, you expect to be iced out. Canceled. Game over before it even begins. It makes your stomach churn in fear. But the next day, after a particularly exhausting shift, a message comes through, curt and demanding:

Harry: Come to mine tonight. 9PM. Need to finalize terms.

His tone is sharp and professional, but something about it makes a subtle anticipation bloom between your legs anyway. You spend an hour picking out an outfit, second-guessing yourself the whole time. In the end, you settle on something simple. Comfortable, but soft. Easy to take off. You tell yourself it's practicality, but the fluttering in your stomach calls you a liar.

You take the bus to his place, cringing at the cost of a ticket until you remember that you've got more than enough money now. Hell, you could've ordered a limousine if you'd liked.

You never visit this part of the city. The people here wear designer sunglasses that cost more than a year's worth of your salary (besides, what's the point of wearing sunglasses when it's nearly pitch-black outside?), peering over them at you like they can sense that you're not like them. That you don't belong here.

When you knock on his door, Harry answers immediately, like he's been standing just behind it, waiting. His lingers in the doorway, broad shoulders framed in a loose black hoodie, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his curls damp like he's just stepped out of the shower. The faint smell of vanilla and mint clings to his skin, warm and heady in the cool night air.

He leans against the doorframe, appraising you silently for a moment with those unreadable green eyes, and something tightens inside your chest. You wonder if he notices the dark circles under your eyes you've tried covering up, exhaustion having clawed its way into your skin, unrelenting. You wonder if he resents it, a reminder that you aren't fully his yet. That you still belong, even a little, to a life outside of what he's trying to build around you.

''Come in,'' he says finally, voice low and gravelly. It's not a request.

You step inside, heart hammering.

"You're late," he says without looking at you, voice dry, turning his back on you and walking back into the apartment like he already knows you'll follow.

Your breath stutters. "Five minutes."

He only shrugs, like it doesn't matter, like you don't matter, and maybe you don't, but something in the way he leaves the door open, wide and waiting, soothes the sting a little. An invitation, even if it's a sharp-edged one.

The apartment smells like expensive cologne and the faintest trace of smoke, like he aired it out but not quite enough. The lighting is low, casting long, moody shadows across the heavy furniture: sleek, cold, and obscenely rich. Dark leather sofas. A steel-and-glass coffee table. No rugs, no paintings, no photos. No personal touches at all. You take a few cautious steps inside, pulse thrumming, letting your eyes roam while he moves into the kitchen.

The place feels like a model home. It's sterile. Hollow. Like a space meant to impress but never to be lived in. There are no family portraits, no framed snapshots of drunken nights with friends, no messy piles of mail or keys on the counters. Just the necessities. Barely even that. You wonder what kind of person chooses to live like this. You wonder if he even notices the loneliness curling in the corners of the room, or if he's too used to it by now to care.

You hear the clink of glass behind you; Harry fixing himself a drink. Something amber and expensive sloshes into a crystal tumbler. Without asking, he pours a second drink, slightly lighter, and sets it down on the counter with a muted tap.

Decided for you, like everything else. You take a small sip. It's good. He knows you better than you think.

When he finally turns back to face you, he's cradling his drink lazily in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants. He cocks his head, surveying you like you're something he's bought and isn't quite sure he's satisfied with yet.

"Clothes off,'' he orders without ceremony, without even offering the barest pretense of conversation or kindness.

You blink, caught off-guard by the bluntness of it, the complete lack of foreplay, not sexual, but social. No small talk. No polite lies to smooth the way. Just a command.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, the blood in your veins boiling unpleasantly with offense. It's not like you didn't know what this was (you agreed to it, after all), but still, something about the way he dismisses any human interaction and social norms you're used to stings a little more than you're prepared for. Like you're less a person, more an object now. A thing he's purchased fair and square, and can use however he sees fit.

For a split second, you hesitate. The frown that flickers across your face is small, barely there, but it flashes quick and instinctive before you can school your features.

And Harry sees it. Of course he does. His eyes sharpen, a glint of something unreadable flickering behind the casual facade. He lifts the tumbler to his mouth, sips slowly, never breaking eye contact.

But he doesn't apologize. Doesn't explain himself. Doesn't soften the command. He just lets the silence stretch, heavy and deliberate, until the only thing you can hear is the faint hum of the busy bustling outside and the sound of your own breathing.

Still, something shifts almost imperceptibly in the air between you. Like he's offering you a choice, even if it's silent. Testing you. Waiting to see if you'll push back or fold.

Your fingers reluctantly move to the zipper of your dress, fumbling slightly. The fabric feels heavier than it should, thick and stubborn under your touch. Your cheeks flame with heat as you let it pool around your ankles, the air cool against your bare skin. You don't dare meet his eyes. Your panties come next, sliding down your legs in a slow, humiliating crawl.

You stand there, naked and flushed, heart jackhammering, feeling less like a goddess offered up on a velvet throne and more like a product left bare on a shelf for inspection.

Harry finishes his drink in one long swallow, sets the glass down with a sharp clink. Then he moves, slow, deliberate, until he's standing right in front of you, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. Two fingers tilt your chin up until your gaze locks with his.

"Color?" he asks quietly, almost gently, surprising you.

The simple question unravels something in you. You swallow hard. "Green," you whisper, the word catching slightly in your throat.

His mouth curves, not a smile, exactly, but something close. Satisfaction. Approval. Good girl.

You don't know if you're trembling from the cold or from the way he's looking at you like a man starved.

"On the bed," he orders, voice lowering, rougher this time.

You hesitantly walk toward the bed, your nerves buzzing like an electric current, your skin prickling under his watchful gaze. He follows behind at a leisurely pace, his steps deliberate, as though he owns every inch of the space between you two.

When you sit, knees pressed together tightly, a nervous instinct, you can feel his eyes on you, sharp and calculating. He doesn't say a word, but his stare is almost suffocating, like he's dissecting every tiny twitch of your body. You think you're hiding it, the tension coiling in your gut, the sharp breath you can't quite control, but Harry notices. He always notices.

"Spread."

You hesitate, just for a second, but that's enough. A flicker of amusement passes over his features, the kind that tightens your chest even more. You obey, reluctantly, the cool sheets beneath you feeling too uncomfortable, too foreign, your breath stuttering as you do what he says. He slowly kneels before you, like he's got all the time in the world, his hand casually holding something you hadn't even seen him grab: a slim, black vibrator, sleek and intimidating.

Your stomach flips. You open your mouth, but the words get stuck somewhere between wanting to beg him to stop and wanting to prove yourself.

"We're gonna test your limits," he says simply, his tone darker, more serious now. "Gotta know what you like. What you don't."

You swallow. "I thought we were... going to talk about the arrangement. Finalize the terms?"

He smirks, slow and cruel. "We are, baby. This is part of it."

Your heart races as he rolls the vibrator between his fingers, eyes glinting as he examines you. He's studying your every reaction, every subtle change in your body language.

You shift uncomfortably. Your hands are trembling, but you try to control it. You're not good at this, not good at admitting when you're not okay, not good at showing your hesitance.

The vibrator hums to life with a quiet buzz, low at first. He starts slow, teasing the inside of your thighs, moving closer to your hips, barely brushing against where you need him. Your body clenches, straining towards it instinctively. He watches you, eyes focused, reading every tiny twitch in your expression, every sharp intake of breath, every subtle, desperate movement of your body.

"No lying," he says, voice serious now. "I'll know."

You nod shakily.

His fingers hover near your skin, just enough to make you ache for his touch, but not enough to relieve the pressure building inside you.

"Beg."

"Please," you whisper, barely audible.

"Please, what?"

"Please touch me."

His smile deepens, satisfied, and he presses the vibrator firmly against your clit. Your hips jerk violently at the sensation. You need more, so much more, but it's too much at the same time. Your body can't decide what it wants.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice low and guttural.

He keeps the vibrations steady at first, gentle pulses that send waves of heat and discomfort through your body, your breath ragged, eyes shut tight. But then he turns it up, gradually increasing the intensity, and you feel like you're losing your mind.

Your body is already sensitive, already overstimulated from a long day at work dealing with insufferable customers, and the more he pushes, the more your thoughts scatter.

When the toy brushes lower, teasing your entrance, your body tightens reflexively. You flinch. You can't help it. The discomfort, the anxiety, it all hits at once.

He immediately pulls back, eyes narrowing as he watches you, still calm, still in control.

Your breath is shallow, your chest rising and falling too quickly, too erratically. You're embarrassed. This is not the reaction he was hoping for. He's watching you, scrutinizing you.

"That's a no, then?" he asks, voice still cool, but there's a hint of something else, a hint of curiosity.

You blink quickly, nodding hesitantly as you try to steady your breathing. Your chest is tight. Your hands are still fisted in the sheets, trying to ground yourself, but it's hard.

He clicks the vibrator off, the absence of the buzzing almost as deafening as the silence between you. He moves up the bed toward you, his gaze softening just a little, but the dominance in his posture remains.

"You should tell me when you don't like something," he tells you, voice low, almost like he's lecturing you, but there's no harshness in it. ''It's not my job to guess what you want. You've gotta speak up when things aren't okay."

Your throat tightens. "I didn't want to... disappoint you."

He laughs softly, not unkind but with an edge of exasperation. ''You're not a fucking robot, baby. Don't play me for one. I'm not paying for you to pretend.''

His bluntness cuts through the shame, leaving you raw, exposed.

"Let's continue," he announces, the smirk tugging at his lips. You nod, dazed, unable to think clearly.

He presses his lips to your neck, nipping at the skin with sharp little bites, and you gasp, your whole body reacting to him.

He doesn't give you time to recover before his hand disappears under the bed, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. The cold metal glints in the dim light, and your stomach plummets, dread pooling at the pit of your stomach. Your eyes flick to the cuffs, to him, to the way he's watching you, waiting. You don't want to seem weak. But the panic is rising, bubbling just under the surface.

He sees it. That flicker of fear. And to your shock, he tosses the cuffs aside without a second thought.

"No?" he says, arching a brow, the coolness of his voice making your heart beat faster. ''That's alright.''

You don't know whether you're relieved or disappointed. But you're grateful, more than anything, that he noticed. That he cared.

He shifts you, gently but firmly, positioning you on your stomach, ass up. He pins your hands behind your back, his grip firm but not painful, his fingers like iron. You can't move, can't escape, but it doesn't feel like punishment.

"This," he mutters, low and dark with satisfaction, his voice laced with something rough and possessive. "This I know you like."

You can't help the soft whimper that escapes your lips as his body presses against yours, grinding slow and punishing, drawing out each movement. Your mind starts to unravel as he moves over you, your body arching into him automatically, desperate for more.

Harry's hands let go of your hands and stroke slow along your arms, down your sides, grounding you in the bed's soft sheets. His touch is almost tender, but his voice stays steady, purposeful, like he's still holding back, still working toward something darker.

''Wanna try something,'' he mutters, his mouth brushing over your ear. ''Think you can handle that, baby?''

You hesitate, heart jumping a little too fast in your chest. But you nod, eager to please, eager not to disappoint him, even if there's a pit opening up inside your gut.

He notices the slight delay in your answer, a flash of reassurance passing over his face before he pushes up from the bed and retrieves something from one of the drawers in the nighstand beside his bed: a long strip of black silk. Smooth, intimidating.

You tell yourself you're fine. You tell yourself you can handle it.

He straddles your hips, pinning you lightly to the mattress with the weight of his body, and your breath catches when he brings the silk to your face, letting it ghost across your cheeks. He watches you, studying every twitch of discomfort, every tiny tremble of your lips, but when you don't say anything, he smiles, slow and satisfied.

"Good girl," he breathes, tying the blindfold tight around your eyes.

Darkness falls immediately. Your world narrows to the sound of your breathing, too loud in your ears, and the rough scrape of Harry's sweatpants against your bare skin.

You feel his hand trail down your side, but you can't see it coming, can't prepare for the way it jolts through your body, can't anticipate where he'll touch next. The loss of control makes your heart hammer faster, panic starting to simmer under the surface.

It's fine. It's fine.

Except it's not.

You can't see him. You can't read him. You can't breathe.

The air in the room feels too thick, too heavy. Your chest tightens, your hands gripping at the sheets helplessly, your body locking up beneath him. You try to stay quiet, you try not to ruin it, but your breathing gives you away, short, ragged little gasps that stutter out of you uncontrollably. The harder you try to stop it, the worse it gets.

At first, Harry doesn't notice. His hands are moving, teasing, rough and unrelenting, dragging noises out of your mouth you don't even recognize. But when you whimper softly, not in pleasure, but in fear, you feel him freeze above you. His body goes stiff. You realize, even through the roaring of your rapid heartbeat in your ears, that he's gone completely silent.

''Take the blindfold off,'' he commands sharply.

You struggle to move, shakily reaching up, but he swats your hands away and rips it off himself, tossing the silk onto the floor. His face is right there, inches from yours, his brow furrowed, his mouth drawn into a hard line.

''What the fuck do you think you're doing?'' he demands, voice low and cold and furious.

You flinch, shrinking down into the bed, heat flooding your cheeks in shame. You don't know what to say. You don't know how to fix it.

He sees the panic still written all over you, the way your hands are still trembling, the way you're practically vibrating with anxiety. His mouth curves into something crueler, something sharper, the fire of burning frustration clear in his eyes.

He's disappointed. You've responded poorly to nearly everything he's into. You bet he's offended. You bet he regrets picking you.

"You think I'm mad you're uncomfortable?" he growls, voice harsh enough to make your stomach drop, like he knows exactly what you were thinking and he doesn't like it. "I'm not mad you didn't like it. I'm mad you didn't fucking say so."

Your throat closes up, tears stinging behind your eyes, but Harry doesn't let up. He grabs your chin roughly in his hand, forcing your gaze up to meet his.

''You have a mouth. Use it. I'm very fucking strict about my safe words. You hear me?''

You nod quickly, shame burning through you, but it's not enough for him. Not nearly enough. He sits back on his heels, looming over you, voice cool and clinical like he's disciplining a disobedient pet.

"You're gonna sit there and answer me properly," he says, voice sharp enough to cut. "And you're gonna think about what you say. Understand?"

You nod, small and desperate.

"Use your fucking words."

"Yes, Harry."

"Good," he mutters, eyes narrowing.

He leans in a little, his hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. His thumb strokes lazily over your pulse, feeling it race.

"What do you say," he begins, voice low, "if I've got my hand around your throat... just like this... and I'm fucking you slow, deep, making you feel so full you think you're gonna split apart... and it feels good, but my pace is leaving bruises? Hm?"

You blink up at him, breathing shaky. "Yellow." Slow down.

His mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. "Good girl."

"What do you say if I'm making you suck me off, not letting you breathe, holding your head down, spit and tears dripping off your chin, and it starts feeling like too much at once?"

You shiver, heat flooding through your body at the image, even as shame creeps higher up your throat. "Yellow," you whisper.

"Louder."

"Yellow, Harry."

He nods, satisfied, squeezing your jaw in his hand.

"And what if I decide to cuff you to the bed," he murmurs, "and leave you there for hours. Touch you, tease you, never let you come. What then, hm? What if you realize you fucking hate it?"

Your breath stutters. "Red." Stop.

"Say it like you mean it."

"Red!"

"Good girl."

He shifts closer, his knees spreading your legs wider, his hand sliding dangerously low along your stomach, stopping just before your core.

"What if," he growls, "I'm slapping your clit, making you sob for it, and you're struggling to breathe?"

You flush so hard your vision blurs.

"Yellow," you stammer.

"Good girl," he praises darkly, the words sliding over your skin like a brand. "Now, what if I'm spanking you... so hard you can't tell if you love it or hate it... and you panic? What do you say?"

"Red!"

"And if you want to fucking leave?"

"Red, Harry, red!"

He pulls back finally, still watching you, chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.

"You don't ever sit there like a dumb little doll and hope I notice," he says, voice cold and cutting. "If you feel it, anything, you say it. If you even think about feeling it, you say it. Got it?"

"Yes, Harry," you breathe.

His hand cups your cheek roughly, thumb pressing into the corner of your mouth until you open obediently for him. His face softens, barely, the smallest flicker of reassurance in his gaze.

"Good girl," he mutters. "That's better."

He doesn't touch you right away, just sits there, watching you through hooded eyes, the heat of his body wrapping around you like a heavy blanket. Your chest is still heaving, nerves buzzing just under your skin, but you force yourself to stay still, to breathe. You've earned that tiny nod of approval, the glint of something warmer in his expression. You don't want to lose it now.

"Lie back," he says finally, voice low but not sharp anymore. You obey immediately, heart hammering, limbs trembling a little with the aftershocks of your panic and the brutal interrogation that followed. But he doesn't punish you for it. He doesn't mock you or push. Instead, his hands slide over your thighs, slow and steady, coaxing them apart with a patience that makes your breath hitch.

The first touch of his fingers is almost unbearably gentle, just the barest ghost of contact over your folds, tracing the wetness there like he's reacquainting himself with you. His thumb brushes your clit so lightly you barely feel it, and a broken sound escapes your throat.

"Shh," he murmurs, voice soothing. "We go slow. Yeah?"

You nod, desperate to be good, to show him you can handle it, and he rewards you by pressing a little more firmly, circling your clit in those slow, devastating spirals that make your hips twitch off the bed. His free hand anchors your thigh down, keeping you open, keeping you grounded.

He works you open with maddening care, two fingers sliding in eventually, curling shallowly inside you, his palm keeping constant pressure against your clit. Every movement feels deliberate, measured, for you, not for him. There's none of the bruising pace from before, none of the overwhelming force. Just the steady building of heat, the way your body starts to bloom under his touch.

At one point, you feel his mouth replace his hand, the scrape of his stubble against your inner thigh, the warm flick of his tongue over your clit making you whimper. He's thorough, almost clinical about it, not showy or indulgent, just focused, relentless, coaxing you higher and higher until your body locks up, shuddering through a release so gentle it almost feels like floating. He licks you through it, slow and steady, until you're gasping and twitching under him, pushing weakly at his shoulder.

He pulls back then, finally, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks at you, really looks at you, like he's checking that you're still whole.

"You did good," he says quietly as your eyes flutter closed. You feel the mattress shift when he gets up.

You barely register him moving around the room, but when you blink open your heavy eyes, there's a cold bottle of water being pressed into your hand. You clutch it gratefully, gulping it down while he disappears into the ensuite. A few minutes later, he comes back, tosses a towel onto the bed without a word, and jerks his chin toward the open bathroom door.

"Shower's yours."

You stumble toward it on shaky legs, grateful for the excuse to hide your face. His bathroom is ridiculously luxurious, heated floors, fluffy towels, expensive soaps that smell like cedarwood and spice. You take your time, letting the water wash away the sticky remnants of your anxiety, trying to piece yourself back together.

When you return to the bedroom, he's already under the covers, scrolling lazily through his phone like he hasn't just shattered you and stitched you back together in the same hour.

You hesitate for a moment, but he flicks the blanket up wordlessly, making room for you. Your heart swells a little, and you slip in beside him, careful not to touch him unless he invites it.

For a long moment, there's only the soft sounds coming from his phone, the quiet hum of the city outside his window.

But you can't help yourself. The questions bubble up, tentative and trembling, before you can think better of it.

"Harry?" you whisper.

"Hm?"

You pick at the edge of the blanket, voice barely audible. "Are you... seeing other people?"

He doesn't look at you. Just scrolls once more, then locks his phone and sets it on the nightstand. He turns his head toward you.

"No, baby," he says simply. "I told you this arrangement is exclusive. You're the only one."

Your breath catches.

"And... and how often would I... I mean, how often would you want to... see me?"

"Couple times a week. More, if you're okay with that."

"And... the payment?"

He smirks slightly. "We'll work that out. Money. Gifts. You can have whatever you like."

You chew your lip, heart pounding. "And if I... if there's something I can't do? Or I... I can't—"

"You say no," he interrupts bluntly. His voice is firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "You use your fucking words. I don't want your obedience unless you're giving it to me freely. Understand?"

You nod quickly, throat tight.

He watches you for a long moment, something shifting in his expression, almost imperceptible. And then, so quietly you almost miss it, he says:

"Don't like when people fake things with me. Had enough of that for a lifetime."

Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. You don't know the story behind those words. But you know it's not a conversation you're meant to push. Not tonight.

So you just murmur a soft "Okay", and burrow a little closer under the covers.

He doesn't touch you. But he stays close, close enough that the heat of him soaks into your skin, close enough that when you finally drift off, you swear you feel the edge of his pinky finger brush against yours, the smallest, secret tether.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

sugar, baby series tag list

@indierockgirrl @prettygurl-2009 @cherryflavoredbyme @dipmeinhoneyh

general tag list

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...

[the-secret-formulaone]

prompt: you and max have been secretly together for years. neither the fans or the media have a clue. what happens when you and max are neck and neck for the drivers championship and you get the unexpected news that you’re pregnant?

pairing: max verstappen x ferrari! reader

word count: ~7.6k

warnings: 18+, cursing, mentions of sex but no real smut, mentions of miscarriage, some mention of blood

a/n: hello, i'm brand new at writing fanfic for f1. i've had this idea for a while and it was eating at me so i hope you enjoy. i thought it would be cool to have it be like a normal fic with a bit of that social!au content that the fandom loves.

this is pt.1 of how everything is going down and then the next and final part will be what happens after, her pregnancy and what reader does this time around. along with some fan social media mayhem.

id love to hear your thoughts!

enjoy!

LAS VEGAS, USA | NOV 2024

The nausea settling in the pit of your stomach is unbearable, it gets worse with each lap you complete. You're confident you can push through and finish the race without throwing up in your helmet, until the track begins doubling and tripling.

You haven’t felt this dizzy since you crashed in Spa three years ago due to rain. There were no stakes then as you were having a bad race weekend and started P7. Today you’re P1 and the gap between you and Max is getting shorter as you slow to try and compensate for the nausea and dizziness.

You hear your team in your ear, asking you if the car's giving you trouble since there’s no apparent reason for you to be slowing down at this point. Especially with ten laps to go.

“The car is fine,” you say through gritted teeth, trying to relax your abdomen to keep the nausea at bay.

“Then what’s the matter? Are you okay?” Riccardo, your race engineer, asks. His tone is stern yet concerned.

“Yeah, I’m perfectly fine. My head feels like it’s spinning is all.” You're nonchalant but deep inside you’re panicking. This race means so much to you and your team. Now is not the time to get sick.

“Can you finish the race?” His filtered voice asks through the radio.

“Yes, I’m finishing the bloody race,” you curse, pressing on the gas pedal and tightening the hold on the steering wheel.

“If you continue feeling this way, box immediately,” he orders, not wanting to risk the safety of his driver, “By the way Max is 2 seconds behind you.”

“Fucking hell.” After all the work to create a 10 second gap Max is catching up because your body decided to get sick.

There’s rage building inside of you, keeping Max away is the most difficult part of racing. It took pure skill to keep him at a distance, he’s only catching up because you’re slowing. You're letting yourself down.

It’s been a battle of pole positions and fastest laps for you two. The championship is within your reach, threatening to break Max’s two year streak. It's why Max is giving everything he has to get ahead of you. If he wins this race he’ll be on top once more.

Another bout of nausea takes over your body, shivers running down your spine. Why are you nauseous and dizzy? You were hydrated before the race, the temperature in the car is warm as always but it’s cool outside, unlike Singapore, and you felt perfectly fine earlier.

It’s most likely karma for teasing Max this morning and leaving him with a raging hard on.

You notice Max in your peripheral vision. He’s ready to attack and regain P1. You accelerate and block him as best you can but nearing the turn you miscalculate giving Max the perfect opportunity to pass you.

He settles right in front of you, mocking how he got ahead so easily. If you didn’t love him and felt the bile coming up your throat you would’ve cursed at him. You were famously known for insulting the men driving the other cars.

At this point, you weren’t driving straight and your race engineer, Riccardo was telling you to pit and pull out of the race.

“I promise you I’m good enough to finish the race,” you say after a moment to swallow the bile coming up. You'd rather die than DNF'ing with a handful of laps to go.

“Norris is catching up. Let’s finish this race quickly so you can get checked.”

You’re glad you created a gap at the beginning of the race, otherwise Lando and Charles, your teammate, would’ve caught up already.

You see Lando trying to overtake you but you surprisingly block him and go as fast as you can. It’s not your best work and the FIA will have something to say about it but you make do.

Finally, down the final straight you press on the gas and cross the finish line. You finish the race out of pure muscle memory since you can’t rely on your distorted vision. Ignoring the celebratory cheers, you pull up on the spot marked #2. No one says anything about the askew parking job.

Your hands are clumsy, pulling out the steering wheel and standing. One of your teammates is right there giving you the hand you clearly need as you sway and almost fall straight out of the car.

Max is none the wiser, calmly getting out the RB and running over to his team who congratulate and scream his name. In his head, you lost control of your car, giving him a way to pass you. That's how F1 works.

You pull on your helmet and all the straps fast, the Ferrari team member helping you when he sees your urgency. As soon as you pull off your balaclava you bend over and empty the contents of your stomach.

Privacy be damned.

It’s not pretty. You’ve been holding this in for 20 laps and it’s not going to stop any time soon. The cameras focus on you as you push away the Ferrari team and finish throwing up. Ready hands catch you and you’re sat on a wheel chair as they roll you over to the medics. You close your eyes and throw your head back, everything around you spinning.

The murmurs of the crowd and the media cause Max to notice. He catches sight of you being wheeled away into the back. He takes a tentative step towards you, itching to be by your side but remembers the agreement you made to keep your relationship a secret.

Sometimes he hates how stubborn you are. At this point, the world should know you two are together, married even. Yet he understands your hesitancy with how cruel the media and the fans can be.

Max stays rooted on the spot, watchful eyes and dozens of lenses noticing every movement. Lando gets close to Max trying to avoid the cameras.

“What happened?” Lando asks referring to you.

“No idea, mate,” Max says, staring intently at the door you were just rolled through. A sleuth of Ferrari members following.

“She wasn't driving straight,” Lando shakes his head. He knew something was off when he caught up to her. “It was so unpredictable it made it harder on me to battle it.”

Max didn’t think much when he pulled up behind you but he did think it was strange how easy it was to overtake you. You always give him the hardest time.

He remembers this morning when you were in bed kissing him, touching him, teasing him. You were so cheeky, his length in your hand as you sweet talked him. 'Convincing' him to throw the race. Not like he’d ever do it. You were simply having your fun with him.

There wasn’t any sign of sickness then. It’s not like you spun out during the race either. You had been flawless out on the track until you weren’t.

“I'm going to check on her,” Max tells Lando, motioning with his head and wondering what exactly is wrong with his wife.

"Just wait," Lando stops him with a hand on his chest. They notice Charles in the Ferrari garage, heading to the back where they have you. "If you go, it'll stir up rumors."

Max tenses his jaw and looks away. With a roll of his eyes he turns to get weighed. He doesn't like it but Lando is right. He doesn't give a damn about his reputation only yours and the promise he made you.

f1_news tweeted: Ferrari’s Princess is transferred to hospital after race. It was heard through their radio she was having severe motion sickness, giving Max Verstappen the lead. Not many details are known as of this moment. More updates coming soon!

comments:

user2: hope she’s doing okay! she needs to come back to kick max's ass and take the championship from him 😮‍💨

user3: bet max is celebrating

-> user4: he looked very concerned when he saw her in the wheelchair

-> user14: who wouldn’t, she looked like death 💀

user4: did ya'll notice max disappear after the ceremony?

-> user5: lol he was making sure his favorite rival was okay 🤣

-> user101: no point in staying if he can’t rub it in her face 🤐

user6: our ferrari princess 👸 looked out of it. not sure how she made it out the car

user7: the podium felt so empty without her in it 😓

-> user8: did you notice max kept looking at the spot she was supposed to be as if expecting her to suddenly appear

-> user9: she’s like his best friend and his enemy wrapped in one. can’t live with her, can't live without her

-> user10: i swear he’s in love with her. 🗣️ it’s not normal the way he looks at her

-> user11: please, she’s married. you guys need to stop being delusional and stop shipping her with every guy on the grid

-> user10: not every guy, just max and maybe charles… -> user76: let's take a moment to appreciate charles immediately asking about her and leaving the track to see how she was. it's a win for us predestined x princess shippers

In the hospital, they quickly take you into a private room. The nurses retake your vitals and give you a shot to help with the nausea. A doctor comes in relatively quickly, asking you an array of questions to help him figure out why you got sick.

"The nurse should be in quickly to draw blood. I'm not too worried about this being anything other than a virus but we just want to make sure you're all good before leaving."

"Thank you, doc," you respond, lying back on the bed. They've given you one of the flimsiest hospital gowns in existence but you've gotta admit it's more comfortable than your race suit.

It's awfully lonely in the hospital room but it gives you time to relax and wind down. Fred and Riccardo were extremely concerned for your well being- not related at all to the fact you're on the run to win the championship-forcing you to go into the hospital.

Their stressed energy, the ambulance ride and then the nurses fussing over you was overwhelming. It would've made your nausea worse had it not been for the shot.

You're snoozing off when the door opens and your husband walks in. Max has a backpack slung over his shoulder with a set of clothes for you, along with your phone and other personal belongings you left at the paddock. He hurries over to you, dropping the bag and wrapping his arms around you.

"I was so worried, schatje," Max says in your ear, kissing your temple. The softness of his hoodie and the familiar scent he carries is comforting.

"I'm okay. You should keep your distance though, doc says I have a virus," you tell him, slightly pushing him away.

He’s stubborn as he keeps hold of your hand. "I don't care if I get sick. We've got two weeks until the next race, plenty of time for me to get better." Max sits on the chair next to your bed, asking you what happened during today’s race and listening to every word you say.

"What did they do for podium?" You later ask curiously, turning on your side to get more comfortable. Max props his head on his hand as he leans on your bed, getting closer to you despite your protests.

"Riccardo was there to accept it," Max tells you, kissing the back of your hand. He had been really worried. A part of him kept checking his surroundings for any sign of you.

It’s days like today where he wishes your relationship wasn’t secret. Max wants to express how worried he was about his girlfriend wife. He wanted to say ‘fuck you’ to all protocol and go after you.

He understands your reluctance and the need for privacy in your personal life. He knows what it’s like to have his privacy invaded and Max agrees that good things have come out of keeping your relationship a secret but you’ve also had to miss out on others. One day, you’ll have to come clean to the public to be able to live your life to the fullest.

The doctor returns before he can vocalize this. He knocks on the door as he steps into the room, a tablet in his hands. “Results have come back. Would you like the gentleman to step out or is it okay if he stays?”

“He’s my husband,” you tell the doctor.

You're used to people not recognizing you outside of Formula One but Max is more known than you. You wait for the doctor to react at the sight of Max, except there’s not an ounce of recognition in his face. Good, or else, you’d have to rely on his patient-doctor confidentiality.

“Let’s get into it then. Lab’s show dehydration which is normal for the state you came in like. In addition, to the fact, you had just finished a physically demanding race. Surprisingly they also showed that your quantitative hCG levels are high meaning—"

“I’m pregnant?” You pan, shocked. Max's hand tightens around yours. Last year's endeavors left you with enough knowledge to know what that term means.

“Yes, you are pregnant,” he nods.

Max instantly turns towards you in complete shock. There’s part of him that’s happy but then there’s another that’s concerned. Personally, he’d love to have a child but it would mean you would have to sacrifice the championship.

You stare at the doctor with parted lips and furrowed brows, “That’s impossible. I have an IUD.” This couldn't be happening at a worse time.

“All methods of contraception have a percentage of failure,” the doctor sighs. “Your pregnancy explains today's sudden dizziness and nausea.”

“Do you know how far along she is?” Max asks, holding your hand tightly to show his support.

“We would need an ultrasound for that but based on her last menstrual period it can’t be more than 6 weeks.”

“Six weeks,” you breath out. You could only hear your pounding heart and the air coming in and out of your mouth. God, you've been training and driving the whole time. For fucks sake, just two weeks ago you had been celebrating your win with lots of alcohol.

You hardly hear the doctor excuse himself, leaving you and Max alone. Tears brim your eyes at the cruelty of the universe. You have in your hands the two things you want most in life. A shot at the championship and the opportunity to become a mother.

Max sits on the bed, wiping away your tears. He doesn’t say much, at a loss of words. There’s not much he can say to make this better but he thumbs away your tears and pulls you into a hug.

You fist his shirt in your hands, crying onto his shoulder, “This is not fair.”

“I know, schatje.” Max is at a loss. He understands the conflicting feelings you have. It’s no easy thing especially after everything you and Max went through.

“I can’t go through this again,” you sob, remembering the painful memories of the previous year.

United Arab Emirates | Nov 2022

The last race of the season has come quickly, deeming Max the World Champion for the second time running. He’s at the top of the podium as the Dutch national anthem plays. You look up at him from the third position, smiling at him proudly.

You’re frustrated that you weren’t able to catch up to him but you’re confident your time will come. Every year you’ve spent in the grid you’ve been able to rise through the ranks and get great contracts.

Mercedes took a chance on you this year and you’ve made them proud. It was a challenge against Ferrari and Red Bull but as the only woman you’d say you did brilliant.

You’re going to miss this next year but a break is due. After years of hard training and dedicating everything to your career you’ve decided to focus on your personal life.

It’s been nearly a year since you’ve married Max and the conversation surrounding children becomes more constant. It's a nagging sensation in the back of your head. A longing you can't stop.

Feeling at peace with your performance, you decided to take this next year to become a mother. You’re young so in two years you’re sure you can come back stronger than ever and give Max a run for his money.

As the ceremony comes to an end, the party begins and the champagne bottles are brought out. “Don’t run,” Max laughs, spraying the frothy liquid in your direction.

You fight back, shaking the bottle and spraying some at Max and Charles. They gang up on you as Charles blocks your way and they both spray you. That will keep the fans making edits for months to come, the implication of the action clear.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Charles yells over the cheers when you aim the spray at his mouth.

Getting off the stage and into a private room, Max takes off his hat and pulls you in by the waist to press his sweet tasting lips against yours. You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. “Congrats two-time world champion.”

“Thank you, schatje,” Max responds, brushing back the hair sticking to your forehead.

“Get a room you two,” Charles huffs, knowing you forgot he was there.

“Sorry,” you say with a blush.

“I’m not,” Max laughs, stealing another kiss.

Outside, reporters of all kind were waiting to interview all three of you. They want Max’s celebratory words and you and Charles’ disappointment and regret. They live for the heartfelt promises you'll make for next season.

“Over here!” A reporter calls you, handing you a microphone. “What’s the plan for next year? Are you renewing with Mercedes or is there another team making offers?”

“I come with sad news,” you pout at the camera, “I won’t be on the grid next year.”

The reporter stares wide-eyed at you. This is the first time you've said those words out loud. “Could you share with us why?”

You nod at his question, fixing your hat as you speak the words you rehearsed many times before. “Since I was young I was prioritizing racing and getting into Formula One. I love how far I’ve come but I want to take a step back and enjoy my personal life for a little while. As you know, I got married a year ago and I want to enjoy that newlywed life. I will be back though,” you say with a smile and a wink at the camera.

“Is there a chance you’ll tell us who the lucky guy is?” The reporter questions, not really expecting you to answer. That the one thing you won't disclose.

You laugh, shaking your head at him, “No chance. I like to keep my personal life private.”

“Worth a shot," the reporter laughs with you. "Thank you for your time and we hope to see you soon!”

youtube upload: The Grid's Princess QUITS

thumbnail 📸: Toto Wolff looking angry and yelling at a Mercedes staff member. Lewis Hamilton with an arm around an upset looking reader.

comments:

user25: our queen is leaving? 😫 user30: who is going to keep the boys in check -> user5: i bet that’s why she’s taking a break, it’s not easy keeping charles and max under control user6: aren’t we curious as to who this mystery husband is? 👀 -> user17: i bet it’s either someone old or a billionaire, or both, i mean did you see the rock on her finger? -> user 46: oh they must be loaded to win over the grid's princess -> user96: i'm sorry but until i see proof of this man i will continue to set her up with charles user59: please, use a more dramatic title user48: i'm ready to fight 🤺 whoever made her stop racing. she's the only reason i watch them go in circles. who else is going to learn french to curse out charles properly? user55: *sigh* guess it’s time to rewatch all of the edits of her and max on repeat until she returns user104: let’s make a game. take a shot every time max and charles mention her next season.

Monaco | March 2023

When you temporarily retired, you thought you'd become pregnant in a matter of weeks. That is not the case.

Movies make it seem so easy to become pregnant, when in reality, it’s a challenge. It took nearly four months and multiple doctor visits for you to become with child.

The Winter break was spent tangled in sheets, keeping warm in each others embrace. Max was insatiable and so were you. Any chance you had you’d be dragging him somewhere private, his hands pulling at your underwear to tug them off...or to the side.

Max's voice would be in your ear as he spoke of how good you take him. He'd encourage you with words he'd never otherwise use. His cologne would intoxicate you, putting you in a trance.

His hold was firm and steady, making you shake and arch against him. His length sinking into you until you came with his name on your lips and his seed inside you.

Then, it finally happened. A positive pregnancy test in your bathroom counter. The alarm rang loudly, making you and Max share a nervous glance.

“You look,” you say with a shaky voice and shakier hands. Your period was late, followed by your tender breasts and the morning sickness. You fear your body was making it up because you wanted it so much.

“Before that,” Max says, cupping your face, “Don’t be disappointed if it’s negative. We’re just getting started and we have a whole year to try, yeah?”

You place your hands over his and nod with a small smile. Max presses a kiss to your forehead before he picks up the home test.

Max erupts in a smile, nodding and showing you the word positive. You scream, falling into his arms. He spins you around, kissing all over your face.

You and Max are over the moon, giddily waiting for every appointment with your doctor. Every ultrasound was recorded along with the babies heart beat.

Max is ecstatic. He's been wanting to have a family with you since he realized you were the one. He thought it wouldn't happen for a long time but then you revealed you wanted it too and soon despite your career.

It took a long conversation to figure out how to go about it with both of your careers being at their peak but you came to an agreement. He was ready be a father and you were ready to be a mother, even if it meant putting your career in pause.

Your desire to bring a child into the world was greater than giving the championship another shot. Whenever you're ready to return to F1, he'll take a step back and support you.

Max planned a dinner with the whole family where you told them you were expecting. Plans to decorate the nursery littered your coffee table and your internet browser history was filled with shop links with cute clothes and baby items.

Weeks later, it happened. Something felt wrong, off.

“Maxie,” you breathe heavily, feeling wet between your legs. Cramps littering your lower abdomen.

“What's wrong?” Max sits up in bed, sensing your distressed state. His gaze fixes on the red stain forming on the white sheets.

“I’m scared,” you cry, afraid to move or do anything. Cramps squeezing your insides like a bad period.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m here,” Max reassures you, “Let’s go to the bathroom, yeah? I’ll call the doctor.”

A quick trip to the ER confirmed it. You miscarried.

You couldn’t look at Max that night, hugging yourself tightly as he drove home. You ignored all the glances he threw your way, shiying away from the hand that reached out for you.

All that happiness you felt drained out of you, leaving complete sadness behind.

Max was sad about the baby but he was more focused on you and the toll it took on you. It was always a possibility. The doctor spoke about what to expect on the first trimester and this was one of the things he mentioned. You both chose to ignore it at the time.

Max kept most of the lights off in the apartment. Remembering the bags with baby stuff from your online shopping. He kept the spare bedroom closed, where you were planning how to arrange it and paint it to transform it into the nursery.

He’s never seen you this devastated. After years of knowing you and dating you he never had the chance to see you at your lowest. It breaks his fucking heart.

Max holds you that night while you're in pain and bleeding. He rocks you as you cry, tears spilling from his eyes too as all that new hope is crushed.

You need him. Max is all you have at the moment because while he goes to race on the weekends and clear his head, you stay home with the weight of losing a baby.

Zandvoort | August 2023

With medical clearance and a couple of months to heal mentally. You and Max got to trying again.

You aren’t quitters and again you both desperately want a child. There's lots of sex, more than before. Something reignited in the relationship, like when the relationship began. Nothing could keep you away from Max back then.

He would fuck you wherever he could. Often times risking being seen. It was a moment where neither of you cared about being caught or being exposed to the whole world.

The Two-Time World Champion and the Grid’s Princess. Happily Married and Horny for Each Other.

The second time you found out you were pregnant was in Zandvoort, Max’s home race. You weren’t traveling as much trying to give your body rest and hopefully encourage it to take but this was a special track for Max so you tagged along.

Similar symptoms were arising so you waited to arrive at Zandvoort to take the test with Max. You were once again in the bathroom, sitting on the counter. He was between your legs, his head on your chest, waiting for the four minutes to be over.

“If it’s negative?” You asked, your fingers in his hair, scratching at his scalp to relax him.

“Then we try again and again and again,” he says cheekily, grabbing onto your thighs and kissing you.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you,” you giggle, pulling at his roots to make him groan.

“Perhaps but I’m not the one yelling out my name,” he smirks, recalling the other night when he had you with your legs up on his shoulders as he entered you slow and deep. If he closes his eyes he can hear your whiny moans begging for him to tip you over the edge.

“Poor Checo had to call the front desk and fill in a complaint,” you giggle, hiding your face from Max with your hands.

“It’s not my fault I didn’t see his text,” Max shrugs, not having a care in the world.

He was in his suite with his wife, having fun and trying to conceive. It’s not his fault he was making you feel so good you felt the need to scream his name and it’s not his fault Checo’s bedroom was right next to yours. Blame the Red Bull team for reserving two suites right next to each other.

The triggering alarm sounds, making your heart race. This time you grab the test, deciphering what the faint lines mean. You ran out of the good pregnancy tests and you were too lazy to go out and get new ones.

“It’s positive!” You squeal, showing the home test to Max.

Max’s eyes widen, “We did it!”

“I'm so happy,” you tear up from joy, hugging Max’s shoulders. Nothing is stopping him tomorrow on the track. He’s going to ride this high as long as possible.

Max grabs your thighs, forcing you to wrap your legs around him. He carries you over to the bed, kissing your lips, your neck, your chest.

Max was going to make you scream out his name again.

There was little celebration. You and Max kept the news to yourselves for a while longer. You took every precaution on the book. You stopped traveling with Max afraid it was one of the causes of your first miscarriage. You took care of your diet, you did minimal exercise, took every prenatal vitamin you could find but much like the first time, it happened again.

This time you felt so defeated, like something was wrong with you. Like maybe you weren’t meant to bring a child into the world or become a mother.

Max found you on the balcony one night after it happened. It was freezing outside so he got a blanket and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“‘I'm sorry,” you sniffle, not meeting his eyes. Your tears were cold against your cheeks.

“For what?” Max asks, watching you carefully. Your eyes red rimmed and nose runny.

“There’s something wrong with me and I can’t give us a baby,” you cry softly, wiping away at your tears.

You feel so ashamed and embarrassed. Having a baby shouldn’t be this fucking hard. You’ve done so much in life and this simple thing you can’t do. Something your body was designed to do.

“Hey, no. You know what the doctor said. There’s nothing wrong with you and there’s so many other ways we can have children together,” Max chides you, pulling his chair closer and grabbing your shoulders so you look at him.

“If there’s nothing wrong with me why does it keep happening?” You ask as your eyes well with more tears. They haven’t stopped in a good ten minutes.

“It’s not our time yet.” It’s the only thing Max can say. He doesn’t have all the answers in the world but there is one thing he’s sure of. “I love you no matter what.”

“I don’t want to go through this again.” Your bottom lip wobbles as you speak. The words getting caught on your throat.

It’s not like you don’t want children because you desperately do but you can’t go through another disappointment. More pain and more blood. More false hope.

“You don’t have to,” Max tells you, comforting you the best way he can. He picks you up, settling you on his lap as he wraps his arms around you. He kisses your head, coming up with words to make you feel better.

He doesn’t want a child if the process is going to cause you so much suffering. It’s hard seeing you like this when he’s used to seeing you be this independent strong woman, who broke barriers in a field of men.

He’s discovering a new side to you deep into your relationship. He loves you but it’s shocking to see you be this vulnerable when a lot of times you love to handle things on your own. In a way, he’s happy he’s able to be here with you and help you.

Monza | November 2023

In Formula One rumors spread like wildfire. Within the teams and its members and riders the reason for your break didn’t remain a secret for long.

It didn’t stop certain teams from reaching out and persuading you into joining them. As far as they know you’re not pregnant yet and you did promise to return one day.

As the only woman in the grid you pull in lots of sponsors and the media and fans love you. Having you on a team is a win all around, considering you also bring in trophies.

Ferrari is a big team showing their interest in you. They’ve sent your manager multiple invitations for you to come and visit Ferrari Headquarters. No strings attached just a simple tour and meeting.

It’s tempting. Driving for Ferrari is every F1 racers dream and to be invited to test out their car and talk business is an honor.

You went quietly to the meeting, undecided if it’s the choice you want to make. Mercedes awaits your return whenever you’re ready, having led them to victory many times alongside Lewis.

Oh, Toto Wolff has you in his sight constantly. If he knew you were at Monza he’d probably fly down and get you out. You’re one of his biggest assets yet.

“There's our princess,” Charles greets you, running up to you and giving you a big hug.

He missed having you around. The fans never let him forget of all the good times, constantly tagging him on instagram and twitter.

“Hey Charles,” you laugh as he sways you from side to side.

“I missed you,” he says as he guides you over to the garage.

“Missed me kicking your ass?” You quip, playfully pushing him.

“Please, competing against Max on my own is exhausting. Too much responsibility,” Charles admits.

“He’s having the time of his life.” Max has the most fun when there are challenges and Charles has proven to be a worthy one. Insults and all. He loves getting a rise out of him.

The Ferrari team sets you up with a bright red race suit, giving you a visual of what your future has in store.

The feel of the baclavla is familiar around your head and the weight of the helmet comforting. It’s been a year since you last wore the uniform and it feels like home.

You step into the car, slidding in the steering wheel. The crew gives you the signal to pull out and you do with a push on the gas.

The rumble of the engine is exhilarating as is the blend of colors around you. It comes back so naturally, knowing when to push the car when to break. Learning this car is easy, like it’s made for you.

It has the potential to be a winner, to help you achieve the goal of becoming world champion.

“Ready to join Scuderia Ferrari?” Frederic Vasseif asks you once you get out of the car. There’s a smugness to him. He knows you enjoyed it and you’re itching for more.

“I don’t know. Carlos seems to be doing really well,” you try to play it cool, taking off your helmet and baclavla to shake off your hair.

“He’s good but you’re the greatest,” Fred says, giving you a knowing look.

“If I accept it’s because I want to win the Championship,” you negotiate. Charles is the first driver and it makes sense he stays there since he’s been with the team longer but you will not sacrifice yourself for him.

“We wouldn’t have it any other way,” Fred agrees, extending his hand to shake yours.

“The predestined and the princess?” Charles smiles, wrapping an arm around you.

You smile and bite your lip, “It’s time to take down Max Verstappen.”

No wonder the fans think there’s a long standing rivalry between you and Max. You talk a lot about taking him down and winning the championship. With the trust you two have he bites back with words of his own. It makes for quite a show. They’re going to lose it once it’s revealed you’re joining Ferrari.

Your joy returning home is palpable. Max notices it the moment you walk into your shared home in Monaco. The cats notice it too as they weave between your legs asking to be pet.

"Hi, love," Max greets you, placing his hands on your hips and kissing you. You wrap your arms your his neck loosely, smiling into the kiss.

He doesn't let you go when the kiss breaks, his thumbs caressing your back. You smile at him, a hand on his face, as your fingers brush over his stubble. He leans into it. “How did it go?”

“It's top secret," you say cheekily.

"Really?" Max follows along amusedly, "You can't even tell your dear husband Max Emilian?"

It's been an inside joke since you started dating that the person you're dating is Max Emilian and not Max Verstappen. Helps keep things separated to a certain degree but mostly it's funny.

"Well, if it's Max Emilian asking I can tell him that I've just signed with Ferrari and that Max Verstappen will have some serious competition next year," you tell him as your smile widens.

“Congratulations!" Max exclaims, hugging you tightly. You laugh is music in his ears. From the moment you stepped in he knew something changed. You were laughing and smiling like a weight was lifted off your shoulders.

“I’m a Ferrari girl now and I’m going to take that title from you,” she boasts, playfully pushing him.

“That’s a big statement,” he says, playfully caging her in his arms. Max adores that her competitive streak is back, it's one of the things he fell in love with when you began dating.

Being married means being there in the bad and the good, in sickness and in health. He'll be by your side through it all but he'd rather have you be happy and competitive than depressed and anxious.

“What you think I can’t do it?” You laugh when he tries tickling you. Your this close to elbowing him if he doesn't stop.

Finally letting up, he cups your face and looks into your eyes as he says, “If there’s someone who is going to do it, it’s you. You're my girl after all.”

f1 posted on instagram: The Princess is back and in red. Everyone bow down. 📸: Reader wearing a Ferrari race suit posing in front of the new Ferrari SF-23. Comments: user8: holy shit she’s back

user95: this was not on my bingo card, but it was in my dreams every night since she left -> user57: like a wise woman once said in rome; this is what dreams are made of

user72: guess she had enough of that married life and is back to wreck these boys

user14: i might actually fucking cry. our queen is back and in ferrari red -> user98: red is definitely her color. -> user67: you know who's color it is too? charles... ->user53: you know who likes charles? max... ->user17: i can't with you 💀

user67: i want to see max squirm with both charles and her against him -> user55: please if anything it’ll turn him on -> user45: hell even i'm turned on

user88: wait does this mean she can’t curse at charles anymore? -> user68: don't worry, the second charles gets in her way it's coming. don't you remember that one time she almost crashed with lewis and she let him have it? -> user 90: i've never seen lewis be that fast outside of a car

user12: i’ve got my editing program ready, i’ll get all the edits. max x princess, predestined x princess, max x charles, i got them all -> user56: i'm not picky, i'll help -> user02: you should do one where she's walking in like in those wwe fights with the dramatic music

Monaco | Nov 2024

The conversation about the pregnancy is kept on pause. You and Max wait till you're back home in Monaco to continue it. It's fresh in your minds though as you try and make sense of he timing of it all.

There's only two more races to the season, you are so close to the end. You wish you hadn't found out till much later, they do say ignorance is bliss.

You're filled with fear and uncertainty. What if this pregnancy ends up like the rest? What if you give up the championship for something that might not even happen? But what if you chose the championship and give up a viable pregnancy?

The morning after arriving at Monaco you're in the kitchen with your laptop in front of you as you schedule an appointment with your doctor. The cup of coffee you made earlier is now cold as you could barely drink it with so many thoughts in your head.

You cover your face with your hands, groaning at the headache forming so early in the day.

Max finds you like that and he knows it's time to talk. He comes up behind you, pressing a kiss and resting his chin on your shoulder as he hugs you from behind.

"What's on your mind, schatje?"

You take a deep breath, focusing on him to try and gather your thoughts, "I don't know what to do, Maxie. What do I do?"

"I can't tell you what to do. I can tell you that I want to have a baby with you but I don’t want you to go through all that pain again or feel pressured that you need to do this for me. I love you and I want you to be happy. If it's choosing your career I'm here for you. If it's starting a family I'm here as well," Max says as he hugs you tighter until you relax against him.

You shake your head, lacing your fingers with his as they lie on your midsection. "It's the fact that the first two didn't end well and it was such a horrible experience. If I knew for a fact I was going to give birth to this baby I would drop the championship in a heartbeat."

"I'm happy with whatever you choose. Even if you decide that carrying a baby isn't for you. Later on we can try surrogacy or adoption."

It's 2024 and there are tons of options out there in the case you want to become parents. It doesn't have to be one way or no way. Plus, they are young and have their lives ahead of them.

"Really? You couldn’t be like one of the awful men who insist women need to have a baby? You’re making this hard on me," you lightly joke, bringing his hand to your lips to kiss it.

Max laughs along with you. He knows you've made a decision even if you haven't realized. He's only there to guide you. “You already made a decision, schatje.”

Your eyes return to your laptop where the appointment with the specialty clinic is displayed. “I need to give this pregnancy a chance. I mean think about it. I've raced, I've drank alcohol and it's still here. It happened against all odds, Maxie. What if it’s a sign? That the timing is right,” you say, recalling the conversation you had with him a year ago. “I just hate I need to withdraw from the rest of the races.”

Max made a decision that same moment, “I’ll pull out from the races too.” It feels shitty that because you're a woman you have to pull out the races for your safety and the baby's while he continues on like nothing has happened.

“What? That’s insane Max,” you exclaim, staring at him bewildered.

“It’s only fair. You have to do it to have OUR baby, why do you have to be the only one who quits?”

You laugh and shake your head, placing your hands on his chest, “You’re not doing that, Max. This is F1 and it’s ruthless which is why you’re so good at it. Besides, with last Sunday's race you're already ahead of me and there's no chance the others are catching up with two races to go. The title is yours," you reassure him, kissing the corner of his mouth, “It’s not my time to be a world champion yet and maybe it never will. I have to accept that."

Max scoffs, poking his tongue on his cheek, “No, you will be. Once you have this baby you’re coming back even if I have to give away my seat in Red Bull.”

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you hum, looking into his eyes.

“You beat me on your rookie year,” he reminds you.

Back when you started in F1 and neither you or Max were on the top you had friendly battles in the midst of the races. It wasn't for podium but it kept the fans entertained and recruiters eyes on you both. Max beat you most times but there was one day you beat him on a wet race which is unheard of.

“Once!”

“Once was enough!” He insists. Max fell in love with your competitive side, it didn't matter if you beat him or not. That day when you approached him with that big smile and malicious intent in your eyes he was done for.

“How will we handle the media?” He steers the conversation a different place. He's not sure how much longer he can keep the relationship a secret with a baby on the way.

“Same as always. They can’t know about us yet, Maxie. They will throw your name on the ground and say horrible things.”

If the media finds out that you're pregnant with Max's baby they will say it's sabotage cause he felt threatened that you were going to take the title from him. They don't care for details.

“I don’t know how much longer we can keep this a secret,” he confesses, trying to reason with you.

“Not long okay? After the baby comes,” you promise him. After the baby comes you will tell the world everything.

F1_news tweeted: The Grid's Princess is withdrawing from the rest of the races this season due to her health. Not much is known yet. Carlos Sainz to take over her seat.

comments:

user56: not again please -> user97: i'm in tears -> user57: alexa play 'see you again' by charlie puth

user64: i hope she's doing okay and is able to return next year. she was so close on getting the championship

user76: i love the queen but i'm happy to get charlos back again! -> user34: it's very bitter sweet isn't it? -> user57: i wonder if she'll be back with ferrari next year? -> user45: well her contract is for two years so if she's okay when the next season starts i don't see why not -> user08: contracts mean nothing in F1 user04: get ready to witness a pouty max -> user 87: these next few races will be a piece of cake and he hates it -> user72: i love lando and charles but there's no way they are going to give him a hard time

user46: this is the end of the princess, who is going to want her back? -> user 43: get the fuck out of here you hater -> user345: who asked for your opinion?

F1_fanpage: The Grid's princess seen walking out of a clinic specialized in complicated pregnancies. 📸

user45: holy shit, it all makes fucking sense she’s pregnant -> user58: i didn't want to say anything but dizzy and nausea? it’s textbook pregnancy

user67: our queen is having a prince(ss) -> user176: who is the fucking dad? -> user404: he needs to be a part of F1 for her to still be around when she should be home resting

user47: she's glowing

user68: not her audibly rooting for carlos on the latest race -> user99: well it is only temporary and it's not like they kicked her out. she left because she had to -> user55: we love a supportive queen either way

user88: did ya'll see her interacting with max and charles after the race? they were so careful with her. it makes so much sense! -> user44: i'm hyperventilating we got a max hug! -> user 67: better yet we got a charles hug! -> user12: opening up my editing program as we speak

Part 2 Coming Soon

The world is aware you're now pregnant. You got a job working for the F1 social media and interview team during your pregnancy. Rumors keep spreading about who your husband and baby daddy is. Fans keep shipping you with Max and Charles. Max might just explode if he doesn’t tell everyone, but will he?