#russell’s blank stare

[slimecreaturezz]

not their massive souvenir collections making them late for their ride 😭

[paddockbunny]

So a girl I know through her boyfriend is going to Silverstone….she’s never watched a single race before, doesn’t know any driver other than Hamilton and QUOTE “not really that interested but I’m doing it for the gram”

WTF IS THIS?! WHY? She’s literally spending all that money to clout chase? Go on holiday. Buy a bag or something. Don’t go to an event where thousands of legitimate fans would kill for your Hamilton straight seats! The reason I know this is because her boyfriend sent me a text and asked if she could borrow some of my merch!

I’m picking my jaw off the floor at her audacity

[obsessedhoneycomb]

Unplanned

George Russell x fem!reader

Summary: High school sweethearts having the best time of their life, when everything seems so perfect. But sometimes, things don’t go as we plan them.

Warnings: angst, unwanted pregnancy, some curse words, a bit of sadness (but it gets better, I promise!)

A/N: I had a dream earlier this week, so it’s based on it. I don’t know how I feel about it (I read it nearly ten times, it’s fine, I guess.), personally I don’t think that George would act like he did in the beginning of this fic, so take it as a part of the plot. I have some ideas for possible part two, but who knows if I make it happen.

Please don’t use my writings without my permission! Pictures found on Pinterest.

———

Young and naive love, that’s all they’ve always said when they saw you and George intertwined with each other every time you walk through the paddock. Meeting at high school, you knew he was the one, and his thing about racing, it was something that attracted you even more.

You always loved to ruffle his hair before the driver’s parade, just to make him grumpy, because he spent so much time fixing his wave of golden brown locks. The way he could make you smile, his warm embrace giving you peace and comfort, the days you enjoyed in the countryside with your families because your parents simply knew each other.

It was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

George’s move to F1 was sure, his dreams coming true, he couldn’t be more happy and motivated to push himself to the limits more. On the other hand, you just found out the horrible thing.

Walking through the paddock in Brazil, you fought the nausea, as you held onto George’s hand. You tried to tell him, but you were interrupted by someone or something every time. He noticed your strange behaviour, your pale face.

“Are you well, love?” He suddenly stopped to get a better look at you, leaning down closer to you.

This was your only chance to say it. “George, I’m pregnant.”

Your whispered words nearly gave him a heart attack.

“You’re- what?”

“You heard me. I don’t want to yell it here.” Your hand went to his cheek, the warmth of his skin seeping into your palm, bringing you comfort for your nerves.

George just stood there, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief. He grabbed your hand only to push it from his face away.

“We’re gonna talk about this later. I need to focus on the race.”

Your heart broke in your chest. Yeah, you thought just for a moment that he would be happy. But it was far from ideal.

———

George was pacing around the hotel room, while you sat on the edge of the bed, fiddling with your fingers.

“How could it happen? We were so careful, you on the pill and we were using protection.. how?”

“That time in the summer, when I was sick and taking antibiotics, that night on the yacht, when we weren’t sober..”

“Holy shit…”

“George, look, I know it’s not easy, it’s not perfect timing right now, but we can do it.”

“Are you crazy? We’re twenty. You can’t be serious about this.”

“What? So you want to give it up? Get rid of it?”

George pinched the bridge of his nose, getting frustrated and hopeless.

“I can’t take care of the baby now. I’m gonna drive in F1 next season, it’s a big thing for me and I’m not ready to be a father. I don’t have an energy for the act of loving family.”

That was enough for you to bring you to the tears. Your hand went down at your stomach, sign of protective love for the small bundle growing inside you.

George hasn’t single clue what to do in that moment. He just stared into the wall, his mind blank, feeling like his world just shattered.

“I’m sorry I can’t fit into your image of fairytale life.”

And with that he walked out of the hotel room.

Also it was a very last moment he saw you for a very very long time…

———

“George and babies! What a cute sight!”

“He should be a dad! Baby suits him!”

“Make him a daddy already!”

“Oh, what a father figure!”

You did a great job for those past six years to be away from media and spotlight. After that day you saw George last, you never looked back. Maybe it was selfish. But his opinion on the situation was clear. He didn’t want a baby.

“Mom, I said that I have to pee. Are you listening to me?”

The voice of your son William interrupted your thoughts, while you were scrolling through your instagram for the first time in the past years. Brushing your annoyance by those comments aside, you looked at Will with soft smile.

“I’m sorry sweetheart. I’ll wait here for you, just go to the restrooms there.” You pointed to the direction and Will just rushed there.

When he was about four years old, he came across the idea of karting. You were strictly against it, but after his teacher in the kindergarten was done with his ultimate rant about formula and racing, you just took him to the first lesson and that was a start. Yeah, of course you were scared, not much about George possibly finding out, spotting you, but about Will’s safety. But you cannot expect someone with strong racing genes to be interested in being a scientist.

While you were waiting for your son to come back, you haven’t noticed the buzz around the circuit, signalling the famous person appearing around. You grabbed small helmet and looked at it with soft smile, brushing your thumb over it.

“Mom! You need to see this! Mom! C’mon!”

Will was calling you from the small group of kids, his voice full of excitement and joy. You raised your brows with amused smile, when he was excited about something, he just couldn’t brush it off.

As you took a few steps closer to him, you were curious about what was everybody so ecstatic about.

“That’s George Russell, mom!”

At that name your blood ran cold. Oh no.

“Will, how do you know him?”

“Jeez mom, everybody around knows him! He used to race here as a kid. He’s cool!”

Well, it was inevitable.

Her eyes carefully found George, seeing him interacting with the youngsters. He looked good, more mature and composed. Also his hairstyle was different, giving him a manly touch. Wrinkles around his eyes were still the same, but more apparent, when he smiled. And his eyes.. god, they were the same mesmerising blue colour.

Will left her standing there, getting through the small crowd of kids, to get his signature from him.

“Mr. Russell? George. Can you please sign this? You’re my inspiration.”

His small teeth appearing in grin as he gave George his cap. George’s eyes fell onto him, smiling cheerfully as he signed the cap.

“Just call me George, I’m not much formal person, when it comes to kids. I want to be friendly, because I know how exciting is to meet your idol.”

William’s eyes were glowing with happiness as he held the now signed cap.

“You’re amazing! Thank you.”

George smiled at the boy, watching him running to his mom. It was strange, because he looked familiar. His smile faded as he saw you, looking down at the boy with proud smile.

“Mom! I’m so happy, look!”

Will was excited, nearly jumping on the spot from it.

“I never saw you this happy. Guess it was worth it.” You smiled at him, ruffling his hair.

Without another look at George, you walked to prepare Will for karting session. You thought that he hasn’t noticed you.

George stood afar, watching the kids getting ready, but giving his main attention to you and your son. Will was already giving you hard time with his rolling eyes, sighs and “of course, mom”. While you wore your worried face, furrowing brows there and there, kissing him on his forehead and then fastening his small helmet securely.

When the session started, you moved to the sidelines, watching the circuit with heavy heart and tightness in chest.

“He’s a natural talent, I must say.”

The well known deep voice made you froze in place, your palms sweaty and your throat dry. Carefully, you turned to look at George.

“He is. I can’t keep him calm for a moment straight.”

Trying to hold your voice steady, you looked back at the track. George took a place beside her, doing the same.

“It’s been a long time.”

The ridiculous situation made you chuckle.

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“Yeah, me too.”

The silence between you was thick as hell. Both of you had your own reels of thoughts in your minds.

“I often thought about meeting you again one day. What would I say to you. And I’m saying I’m sorry.”

You lifted your gaze at him, feeling surprised but somehow deeply satisfied.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I was a total jerk back then. I should’ve acted more like an adult, I hurt you.”

The pain of the past years hit you like a train, while you just nodded.

“It’s strange seeing you happy now. You’re a caring mom, from what I saw. I guess the father must be proud too.”

That was the moment you snorted a little, making him confused.

“Look, George… I… I’m sorry too. We were young and it was a little selfish from me to want you to take responsibility.”

“We should’ve talk about it more that day. It’s one of the few things I regret in my life.”

“Well… I’m sorry that I disappeared. But I was so sad, hurt and scared, that I was sure that I need to do things alone. And I did a damn good job.”

George frowned a little, turning his head to look at you.

“William is six years old by the way.”

You said with sigh, locking your eyes with his. At first he didn’t understand. Then, it clicked in his brain. Pointing to track and gasping in shock, his eyes went wide. You just nodded.

Silence was deafening, while George collapsed at the nearby bench, sitting there speechless.

“William? You named him William?”

You took a seat beside him with soft hum.

“Holy fuck. I’m so shocked.”

“I’m sorry. You would find out sooner or later. And now I’ll be a fool. Fooling you, my parents, your parents, but mostly Will. I told him that his father and I broke up before his birth. He didn’t question it.”

George shook violently, running his hands through his hair.

“You kept this for yourself for many years. You kept the baby. Oh my god.. I missed so much. Six years.”

“I loved you and it hurt, I hadn’t had the heart to get an abortion. And I don’t regret that decision.”

He took your hand in his, the distant warmth of his touch seeping into your skin, making you smile.

“I want to be present in his life. I want to get to know him, to give him everything I could. I want to be a father I should’ve been.”

Your smile grew wide, tears glistening in your eyes.

“Sure, but it’ll take time. I need to reveal it to him carefully. I might be on the black list for a while, but he’d be over the moon, that George Russell is his dad.”

George let out a soft laugh, his voice shaky.

“I’ll take any time in the world. I’ll make it worth it. I won’t disappoint him. I won’t disappoint you.”

[iamcautiouslyoptimistic]

🦅Russell Adler Headcanons

{Author's Note} Since I'm literally obsessed with this man, I thought I'd post my headcanons for him. All of these are based off of his canon backstory and character with bits of my own speculation thrown in so nothing should be too out of left field here. I may end up posting more of my thoughts on him soon so we shall see. Hope y'all like it and I'd love to hear what you think, as well as any headcanons you guys might have! Tagging @littlemissclandestine for this since she's an Adler fan. Let me know if I did this man justice lol🤭

‼️Content Warning: swearing, suggestive themes‼️

~ ~ ~

-Badass asshole

-Takes awhile for him to soften enough to really love someone

-Flirtatious jerk when he has a crush

-Shows he cares through small actions that can be hard to notice, as well as vague, rather backhanded compliments

-Shamelessly stares from behind those glasses of his

-Thinks it’s really cute when you wear his shades but would never admit it

-Stylish with heavy 70s influence

-Probably modeled for a male fashion magazine at some point LMAO

-Definitely knows how to dance

-Seems like the type to meme a bit on British people (specifically Park lol)

-Very sarcastic, sometimes to the point that you don’t realize he’s actually joking because he's always so monotone

-Secretly loves Belgian waffles (this is a reference to that one Bruce Thomas TikTok lol)

-Has a soft spot for the Beach Boys (I mean, look at that 🎶bushy, bushy blonde hairdo🎶 of his)

-Since so many people have asked and teased him about it (I see y'all in the fandom and I will not accept this slander lol) -> his hair isn’t fake, it’s actually pretty soft, very bouncy, he likes styling it

-Very particular about his appearance as it is one of the few things that he can truly control

-Prefers cats over dogs

-Can get obsessive about certain things and lose himself to them (i.e. his search for Perseus) -> Mason quote: “He spent so long searching for Perseus, he didn’t notice when he lost himself.”

-Still struggles with PTSD from his time in Vietnam, which, alongside his obsession with finding Perseus, is what led to his divorce

-Carries a lot of guilt and regret that he doesn’t like to acknowledge

-Started smoking to cope with the trauma of war, now has a nicotine addiction; when he’s really stressed, he chain smokes like a chimney

-Gets restless if he doesn’t have a cigarette

-Doesn’t sleep well and when he does, he usually wakes up every few hours

-Scars - Shrapnel? Abuse? Torture? Animal attack? No one knows and he’ll never tell

-Kiss or trace those scars and he WILL melt

-Difficult for him to let his guard down

-Has a tendency to isolate himself -> Mason quote: "You were never alone, Adler. Only in your own stubborn head."

-Always wearing those damn glasses cuz STYLE but also to hide his eyes to remain as a sort of blank, emotionless slate to other people

-Absent parents who never showed him real love or support as he grew up so he struggles to do the same for others -> they were the reason he joined the army as soon as he turned 18

-When it comes to cuddling, he loves holding you against his chest and running his fingers along your arm, cheek, or through your hair; small but intimate actions like that are his favorite

-Doesn’t like to show emotions at all, even during more intimate moments; he needs some coaxing to relax in that way, which takes time

NSFW Below👇🏻 (it's really not too bad tho)

-Sit on his lap👀

-Will pin your wrists during the sexy times🫣

-EDGING & OVERSTIMULATION

-After his divorce, he's tended to view sex as more of a transaction where both parties are fulfilling needs for each other so he'd be selfish at first but as your relationship progresses, he'd become far more generous

[landoom]

F1 FANFICS REC LIST - Vampires

make me taste alive (3694 words) by to_unexplain_the_unforgivable Rating: Mature Relationships: Alexander Albon/George Russell Summary: Alex smiles, fangs full and curved, almost cutting into his lower lip.

oOoOoOo

When the blood is dripping (8248 words) by Lovely_Lotus Rating: Explicit Relationships: Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri Summary: “Sorry?” Oscar stares at him with a blank look. His cheeks are a pretty shade of cherry-red, meaning he fed recently. “I said,” Lando tries again, “that I’ve decided you’re not allowed to come ‘til you bite me.” In which Lando wants to find a way to get his vampire boyfriend to bite him. His plan? Denying Oscar an orgasm until he caves, of course.

oOoOoOo

Sweet Tooth (8248 words) by Anonymous Rating: Explicit Relationships: Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri Summary: Lando is ready to fistfight a vampire. Softly. With his lips.

oOoOoOo

take me now in the dark (1345 words) by princessrosberg Rating: Explicit Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Carlos Sainz Jr Summary: Charles is in heat. His silly little vampire teammate is more than happy to help.

oOoOoOo

your blood is the sourest nectar (2157 words) by autismcoded Rating: Mature Relationships: Oscar Piastri/Carlos Sainz Jr Summary: The fire crackling in the fireplace has begun to feel scorching, warming the air to an uncomfortable point. He can tell that Carlos had left the fire burning for this long on purpose, to make Oscar squirm. He doesn’t like to be dramatic, but with his hands in Carlos’ lap, and the burn of shame in his throat from tearing away from his touch, he feels as if he’s dying.

oOoOoOo

a lifetime doesn't always mean forever (2468 words) by boxboxbaby Rating: Explicit Relationships: Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri Summary: Oscar is a vampire, Lando isn't. Lando wants Oscar to turn him into a vampire, but Oscar isn't sure if he can maintain his composure and is afraid he might kill Lando in the process.

oOoOoOo

vampire kisses (8873 words) by onboardsora Rating: Explicit Relationships: Lewis Hamilton/Daniel Ricciardo Summary: Lewis' new boyfriend Daniel is a vampire. That's it, that's the tweet.

oOoOoOo

Vampiresarereal.net (2692 words) by starhoneyy Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Alexander Albon/George Russell, Lewis Hamilton/George Russell Summary: Alex is convinced that George's new boyfriend is a vampire: The 3 times he's wrong plus the one time he semi-isn't.

oOoOoOo

starving faithful (2541 words) by insanedevotion Rating: Mature Relationships: Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri Summary: Lando, dizzyingly, licks his lower lip, then bites down on it. Oscar's terrible, starving brain thinks of other things he could bite down on. "You could—" Lando starts, stops, still hesitant, still sweet, "you could bite? Me?" Oscar stares at him, shock stilling his body until he's no longer shaking. "What," he says, incredulous, which Lando seems to take as encouragement for some reason.

oOoOoOo

Burning flame (3589 words) by Nearmike Rating: Explicit Relationships: George Russell/Max Verstappen Summary: The alpha hadn't answered, a request had stuck on the tip of his tongue, maybe George had expected that question but still didn't dare to ask it -Max- George had said seriously as he looked at him with those piercing eyes -Do you want me to bite you while we have sex?-

oOoOoOo

sink your teeth into me (4801 words) by nyoomfruits Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri, background Max Verstappen/Daniel Ricciardo Summary: “Yeah,” Oscar says, shrugs. “Would be better if it wasn’t so fucking orange, though.” “Oscar,” Lando tuts, heading for the door, back to his own driver’s room. “Where’s your team spirit.” “Dead,” Oscar says, small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, gesturing at the orange coffin as if to say ‘get it?’.

oOoOoOo

i've tasted blood (and i want more) (5624 words) by nyoomfruits Rating: Explicit Relationships: Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri Summary: Lando grabs a pillow and hits him with it, while Oscar laughs loudly. His fangs are on full display, white and sharp and pretty. “You know what I mean, you dickhead!” “Yeah, I know what you mean,” Oscar says, eyes twinkling. “You want me to use you as a human Capri Sun. You know, like a weirdo.” “God, you’re making this so much worse than it is,” Lando says, burying his face in his hands. It’s. Well, it’s embarrassing, but Oscar also hasn’t outright said no, so. You know what they say. In for a penny, in for a pound. “So, will you?” And then, just in case, he adds. “Suck my blood?”

MASTERPOST

[coff33andb00ks]

Recipe for the Perfect Christmas 10/12

One part small town girl coming home from the big city. One part handsome stranger. Five parts lifelong friends (don't forget to include their partners). One part stubborn father. A dash of Christmas spirit. Part: Ten of Twelve Pairing: Oscar Piastri x ofc (with appearances from Mark Webber. Lando Norris, Carlos Sainz, Esteban Ocon, Pato O'Ward, and George Russell) wc: 5,668 warnings: none? a little emotional soundtrack: spotify ⋆❆⋆ apple music nav: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve

Lift the bundle from the crock. Untie and remove cheesecloth. Brush with liquor and syrup mixture. Wrap in waxed paper. Place in box. Seal. Wrap and fasten with red ribbon. Affix tag. Add to stack.

Repeat.

The steady, repetitive task kept Natalie's mind blank. The kitchen reeked of fruitcake and the liquor and syrup. She had purposefully chosen non-Christmas music to play on her phone, though had somehow missed a couple carols on her playlist. Adding another cheesecloth to the pile, she picked up the brush and dipped it into the bowl, sweeping the syrup over the top of the cake then sliding it onto the waxed paper.

She couldn't hear anything above the music playing in her ears but knew the moment the back door opened. She wasn't sure if it was because of the cold air that slipped into the kitchen, or the shadow that moved in her peripheral vision. Pausing in her task, she held her breath, finally turning to see her father washing his hands in the sink. He didn't say a word, even after she removed her earbuds, and she felt the pain in the silence as he took another fruitcake from the large crock.

They worked without speaking. She remembered a long-ago night when they had worked in this fashion. When the air had been thick with the words she had already said and the silence had been painful. The only difference was that they were both a little older.

As he placed the last fruitcake on the counter, she felt a pang in her chest. The last fruitcake was always taken home. It was the only one he allowed himself, even though it was his favorite holiday treat and hers, too. He wrapped it meticulously in the waxed paper, as those for customers had been wrapped, then paused.

Natalie furrowed her brow when he unfolded the paper and reached for one of the knives on the magnetic strip. She wanted to ask what he was doing, but it was obvious he was going to slice into the fruitcake. Despite his self-imposed rule that it wait for Christmas Eve, when it would be enjoyed with his best brandy after getting back from the candlelight service at church. She watched the knife glide through the cake, watched the slices cascade, then watched him set the knife down.

"I don't have my brandy," he said.

"It's not Christmas Eve," she pointed out.

"Are you gonna be here then?" he asked.

Her breath caught, and she thought of her laptop, which she'd left on the kitchen table, email open on the job offer. "I will."

"Then we'll take another one home for then." He picked up a slice and looked at it.

"Two fruitcakes for yourself?"

"Why the hell not."

Natalie bit her lip, waiting for him to bite into the slice. When he didn't, she frowned.

"Did I ever tell you where I got this recipe?" he asked, still staring at it.

"I don't think so."

"It was in your mother's family. Started as a Christmas pudding with her great-great-grandmother in England, and when they came here they adapted it. Her mother perfected it. It was the one thing I'd never been able to do right, and when we got married, she and your Nana showed me how to do it properly." He sighed. "It was the third-best thing she ever gave me."

"What were first and second?"

"Second was her love and partnership over the twenty-two years we had together." He turned, holding the slice of fruitcake out to her.

She took it, knowing just by touch and smell that it had been prepared perfectly. "What was the first?"

"You."

"Oh, Dad," she whispered, vision blurring with tears. She wasn't a gift. She was a nightmare. She'd left him at the worst possible time, had distanced herself for years, and had only come back because she had no choice. And her knee-jerk reaction when she got upset had been to do the exact same thing. But it occurred to her that if she took the job in Atlanta and left, that she wouldn't be welcomed back so warmly. "I think you're wrong."

"I never thought I was."

"Even when I left?"

"Especially then."

"How?" she asked, setting the slice down. She didn't deserve a bite. "How could you still think I was great when I basically told you to take this place and shove it?"

"Because you're my child. And I'll always love you. I'll always be proud of you."

She shook her head. "I'm nothing to be proud of. I've had how many jobs? I either choose a place about to go bankrupt or a company I don't fit in with—"

"That's just bad luck, Natalie."

"How many punches on my bad luck card do I have to get before I get some good luck?" Natalie shook her head again and pushed away from the counter. "Ever since Mom died, I've spiraled like water in a toilet before it flushes down."

"You think you're the only one?" he asked, scowling. "You think you're the only person this world craps on? Grow up. People around the world have it worse in a day than you have in a year."

She gaped at him, not sure if she was insulted by or surprised by his outburst.

"There are folks out there who don't know where their next meal is coming from. Families that have to choose between keeping the lights on or putting food on the table for the week. People get kicked out of their supposedly loving homes because of who they're attracted to or what they do or don't believe in and have to fend for themselves. Kids that are sick and dying but can't get the help they need."

"I know," she said. "But—"

"You've never had to worry about any of that. Because of this place," he said, gesturing around them. "Because my grandparents chose this little spot to settle after they got married, and because they put years of blood and sweat and tears and love into this dump. And then your grandparents stepped in and kept it going. When prices had to go up and sales slacked off, we went without just to keep this place open. Then it was my turn, and when you came along I swore that I would do everything I could to make sure you never had to want for anything."

"Dad—"

"You're allowed to be selfish. I know when you're down how hard it is to see that it could be so much worse. But you don't have it so bad. There's a roof over your head and you didn't have to pay for your schooling." He inhaled then exhaled shakily. "I wanted you to take over for me when it was my turn to hang up my apron, because it's the family business. And yes, it hurt like hell when you told me you'd rather do anything else, but I knew I had to let you go."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. She didn't know what else to say.

"I'm sorry that you're upset because I'm selling the place. But I'm not sorry I'm doing it. You don't want it. Max does. And he'll be successful, because he loves this almost as much as I do."

"Does he?"

"He does. I told him I'd take down all the old stuff and he insisted it stay. He doesn't want to change it. He said…" Her father paused, closing his eyes briefly. "He said there are lifetimes of memories on the walls and he wouldn't dream of wiping them away."

"He's right." Anywhere she looked she could pull up a memory. The counter, currently stacked with fruitcakes, wiped clean and being dusted with flower so her mother could teach her how to knead. The row of knives on the magnetic strip, which she had taken down once a week so her father could sharpen them. It was a physical rolodex of memories, good and bad, and so was the shopfront, where she had spent the afternoons of her childhood. "I grew up in this building."

"I know you did."

"It was the last place I saw Mom." She stared in the direction of the back door, which her mother had pushed open and then paused, unruly snowflakes floating inside as she reminded Natalie to put the chicken on for dinner. Her own bored reply echoed in her mind and she again felt the flush of guilt and shame.

"Me, too." He finally stepped away from the counter, limping over to switch on the coffeepot near the oven. He stopped, placing one hand on the door of the oven. "She was mad at me."

"She was?" Natalie frowned. She didn't recall her mother being mad. Rushing, yes, and complaining about the weather she had to drive in, but not mad. "What about?"

"I was supposed to go shopping with her. But I had to put in an order, and was running late on getting the work for morning done. She didn't like driving in the snow. I told her to stop being a baby. She told me I was being an inconsiderate ass. It was my fault she was leaving late, and it's my fault she went alone."

"Dad, no," Natalie whispered. "It wasn't your fault."

"I know the accident wasn't. Not really. But… It was. If I'd left the work for morning go until we got back, or told her to wait until the next afternoon… Or if I'd delayed her longer so she was five minutes later. Or had told her to leave earlier…" Mark drew in a shaky breath. "She wouldn't have been in that spot when that driver hit the bit of ice."

"But it could have happened to her either way. Or it could have been so much worse." The fact that no one else had been injured or died in the accident had at first been a point of anger, but it had shifted into a comfort. Her mother would have been upset at more loss of life. "Or you could have been in the car and died, too."

"I know all that, sweetie. It doesn't make it easier."

"I know," she murmured. She hesitated, then finally closed the space between them.

"I didn't tell her I loved her."

"I didn't either."

He lowered his head and her heart broke for him. She slowly reached forward and placed her hand on his arm. He turned slightly and her breath hitched at the tears in his eyes. "It hurts every day I walk in here, because I always remember that my last words to her were 'hurry home' and not that I loved her."

"She knew you loved her. Dad, she knew."

"She knew you loved her, too." He wrapped his arm around her and exhaled slowly. "She would be so proud of you."

"Sometimes I think so." Natalie squeezed her eyes shut. "She'd hate that I'm single and childless, though."

"Yeah, she did want grandkids," he murmured with a quick chuckle. "But more importantly she wanted you happy."

"I thought I was. Then I wasn't. For a little bit when I first moved back I was. Now I'm not again." Sniffling, she pressed her face into his shirt.

"Have you talked to Oscar?"

She stiffened and pulled away, brushing her tears away while turning to put the boxed fruitcakes away. "There's nothing to talk to him about."

"He didn't do anything, sweetie."

"He lied to me."

"And you've never lied?"

"Not about something this important." Picking up two boxes, she carried them to the storage rack.

"I lied, too. Be mad at me."

"I love you too much to stay mad at you," she admitted.

"I was gonna say the same thing." He got his garish mug from its hook above the coffeepot and filled it. "You love him, too."

"No I don't."

"You're lying again."

"I don't!" She set the next two fruitcakes down with more force than necessary. "God, I don't even know him."

"Well." When she glanced over, her father was twirling the coffee in his cup. "You know him pretty well, I'd imagine."

"I'd rather not talk about that."

"You never said how his scrambled eggs were."

"They were sunny side up."

He chuckled. "You do love a runny yolk."

"It takes more than sex and a good cooked egg for love, Dad."

"You know what it took for your mother and me?" He waited until she threw up her hands in silent defeat and smiled. "A laugh."

"A laugh," she repeated, blinking in confusion. "Really?"

"She was visiting her cousin over the summer. They came in one morning for donuts and I shortchanged her." His smile widened and Natalie knew he was lost in the memory. "Wish I could say it was because she was so beautiful I forgot how to subtract, but it was because I was in a hurry so I could go out back and smoke. She came back in a few minutes later and then marched right out back to tell me to give her the three dollars I owed her. Then she took the cigarette from me and threw it on the ground. Hop to it, she said, snapping her fingers. I asked her who the hell she thought she was, and when she said either my dream customer or my worst nightmare, I laughed in her face."

Natalie smiled. She'd heard the tale before, but only that her mother had come in and had thought Mark was cute. She had only meant to stay in town two weeks to visit her cousin, then had extended her stay to last the entire summer. She'd come back over her Christmas break from college and had never left except to go get her things from her dorm.

"She told me the night I proposed that she fell in love with me right then."

"That's sweet, Dad. But it's more complicated for me and Oscar."

"Because you're making it complicated."

"He doesn't even know what he's going to do after Max and Eve move into the house."

"So?"

"And I might be leaving."

"And?"

"I don't think Oscar's the type to follow a woman to Atlanta." She sighed. "He doesn't like big cities."

"There's always a suburb. And the type of work he does he can do anywhere."

"Plus he lied to me."

"Because it wasn't any of his business. It was my job to tell you, and I royally screwed that up. He cares about you."

"How do you know that?"

"I'm not blind, sweetie." He sighed and took a sip of his coffee. "Don't push him away. You know he's a good man."

"He is," she agreed.

"And I guess he's okay looking."

"He is," she said again. He was more than okay looking.

"I'm not trying to push you into a relationship with him, I just want you to patch things up. It's up to you to do that."

"I guess so." She smiled faintly, remembering Oscar gently urging her to talk to her dad.

"But do it quick."

"Why?"

"I miss Penny."

Oscar slid the last cookie onto the platter and tossed the cooling rack into the sink. Baking wasn't his strength, but he had always heard that the scent of fresh-baked cookies made a house smell like home. He knew his friend would be slightly disgusted that he'd bought and baked pre-made dough, but it was the best he could do. Setting the platter on the island counter, he moved to rinse the racks and dried them off before pushing them into the drawer next to the stove. He wiped down the sink, slightly adjusted the platter of cookies, then did a quick look through the house to make sure everything was truly ready.

It was. He'd made up all the beds with the sheets Eve had brought one weekend. There was a new puzzle mat waiting for Lucas in his new room. For Grace was a set of toy horses, one of which resembled Bonny and her foal. On the dresser in the master bedroom was a vase filled with purple roses and a gift certificate to the town's salon for Eve. Next to it was the pair of sunglasses he'd purchased to replace the ones of Max's he'd broken accidentally. Eve's home office was ready to go except for her computer and whatever little things she wanted to place on the shelves. The bedroom he had been using was clean, his things mostly packed and ready to be loaded into his truck after Christmas when he left. He wasn't sure but he had an inkling it would soon be made into a nursery. Max's home office downstairs was ready to go, complete with the new computer Eve had ordered for him. The playroom was organized and neat, all the toys in their respective cubbies. The living room and den and dining room were ready, and he knew without looking that the basement was, too.

He ran his hand along the back of the couch, checking that the living room was perfect. His gaze moved to the plush rug in front of the fireplace and he tried his best to ignore the way his chest squeezed. Turning his attention to the Christmas decorations, he nodded to himself, glancing to the twinkling tree in front of the bow window. Underneath it were two wrapped gifts for Grace and Lucas to open that night. Moving into the front hall, he idly adjusted the lighted garland twining down the banister of the staircase.

From the utility room behind the kitchen came a small yip, and he watched Penny come trotting through to the front hall, skidding to a stop at the front door, where she sat, tail thumping excitedly.

"They here?" he asked, bending to scratch behind her ears while he opened the door. She waited, body starting to wriggle, then darted out as soon as Max's SUV was parked and the engine cut off. Oscar leaned in the doorway, smiling, as the dog rushed around in excited circles, then zoomed to greet first Eve and then Max.

"Hey!" Max laughed when Penny leaped through his open door.

"Penny," Oscar called, stepping out onto the porch. "C'mon, girl."

A few seconds later she jumped out of the passenger door, and took her time to join him on the porch. Her tail wagged incessantly as Eve let Grace out, and when they headed across she gave another yip of greeting.

"Hey," Oscar greeted, catching Grace when she threw herself at him in a hug. "Good drive?"

"Mommy peed three times," the girl announced.

"Yes thank you, Grace," Eve sighed. "I'm sure Oscar needs to know about my bladder function."

He knew why already, but he had to ask. Grinning, he caught her in a quick hug while Max carried Lucas from the car. "Did Max make you drink Red Bull again?"

"He knows better by now." Eve smiled. The same smile she'd given him twice before. "I've been drinking more water today."

"Why?" he asked, making a face.

"Damned if I know." She moved inside, then turned around and grabbed his arm. "You know, don't you?"

"Know what?" he grunted, stumbling when she yanked on his sleeve. "Eve!"

"He told you!" She glared at Max, who was just coming up the steps. "You told him!"

"I didn't tell him a damn thing!"

"Oooo!" Lucas's eyes widened. "Bad Daddy."

"Your mother drops the f-word three times a day and I get scolded for saying damn?" Max shook his head. "What's up with that?"

"Mommy." The boy shrugged as though that were enough explanation, then tipped his head back to look at the lights crisscrossing the ceiling of the porch. "Pretty lights."

"The decorating looks great, Oscar," Max said, nodding with approval. "Your best work."

"Thanks. I had thorough instructions."

"It does look great," Eve agreed, still holding onto his sleeve. "It looked so beautiful from the street. Did you leave—"

"Room on the main tree for the kids' ornaments, yes," Oscar finished for her, nodding. "Can I have my arm back now?"

"Did he tell you?" she asked.

"No, he didn't."

Her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. "You were supposed to ask me what he allegedly told you."

Oscar blinked, then slowly turned his head to look at his friend. "What'd she say?"

"You gave the wrong answer." Max looked at his wife. "I didn't tell him."

"But he knows."

"I gotta nose," Lucas announced, jamming his index finger in one nostril. "See?"

"Ew," Eve groaned. Letting go of Oscar's sleeve, she took the boy from Max and began rummaging in her purse for a tissue. "No boogers, please, Mommy can't handle it today. Do I smell cookies?"

Grace jumped up from where she'd been lying, loving on Penny. "Cookies? You baked, Oscar?"

"Uh, yeah, but—"

"Cookies!"

"They're the pre-made stuff," Oscar told Max before he could ask. "Don't judge me."

"I judge you every damn day, it's my right as your best friend." Max grinned and headed inside. "Wow, you've made a lot of progress. All the floors are finished?"

"Yeah." Oscar closed the front door while the kids ran towards the kitchen.

"Oh my god," Eve gasped, freezing in the archway to the living room. Her hands came up to cover her mouth, and she slowly spun to stare at him.

"Surprise," he said, smiling.

"Babe, the dining room – Whoa," Max said, joining his wife.

"You said it would be after Christmas," she said.

"I lied?" More than a little touched by their reaction, especially when he saw the glimmer of tears in Eve's eyes, he cleared his throat. "I didn't want you to have to cram the last of the moving into those few days after Christmas, and… I wanted to give y'all a good gift. Especially with, y'know."

"What?" Max asked, unzipping his coat.

"You know," Oscar said slowly.

"Oh for fuck's sake, we all know I'm pregnant again, stop tiptoeing around it." Eve flung her arms around Oscar and squeezed. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome," he murmured, hugging her back. "You guys deserve to spend Christmas in your new house."

"The upstairs is done, too?" she asked.

"Beds made, rugs vacuumed, everything already here is put away." He smiled when she headed up the stairs. "I even put a mint on the pillows."

"You're an asshole for not telling us it was finished, but I love you," she called over her shoulder.

"Love you too," he promised.

Max hung up his coat, then picked up Eve's from where she'd dropped it. "When did you finish?"

"Couple days ago. I spent yesterday and today doing the decorating and cleaning up." Oscar picked up Eve's purse and set it on the console table. "I figured I could rent a van and start bringing the rest of your stuff down next week."

"That'd be great. Did Natalie help?"

Oscar tried to not react to the mention of her name, but knew his frined had caught something when his eyebrows lifted. "No, she didn't."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"She found out about the bakery."

Max sucked in a breath between his teeth. "Mark said he was gonna tell her this weekend."

"She found something about it from a lawyer." Moving into the living room, Oscar crossed to the fireplace and adjusted the screen. "She was upset. At me."

"Because you didn't tell her?"

"Yeah."

Max nodded. "It wasn't fair to ask you not to say anything."

"If I'd told her, she still would have been upset," he sighed, staring at the fire. Not wanting to remember what had occurred in that spot the last time the fire had been going, he stepped away, pushing his hands into his pockets.

"Maybe not as bad."

Oscar sighed. "Doesn't matter. She's done with me."

"Done?"

"I asked her if we could talk about it and she said she had nothing more to say to me." He shrugged, trying his best to pretend he wasn't as affected by her cold dismissal as he truly was.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Max whispered. "It's all my fault."

"No it's not."

"I should have told her. I should have made Mark tell her. I should have told Susie. I should have—"

"Max, stop. It just wasn't meant to be."

"You're gonna give up?"

"It wasn't like it could go anywhere."

"Why the hell not? You like her. She likes you. There were hearts in your eyes and music playing whenever you looked at each other."

"It's better this way," he insisted. "I'm leaving after Christmas."

"You're what?"

Oscar jerked his head up at the sound of Eve's voice. Sighing, he nodded. "I'm leaving after Christmas."

"Why? Where are you going? What are you gonna do?" she asked, glancing towards the kitchen. She squatted down, catching Lucas when he toddled up to her and thrust a cookie in her face.

"Oscar cookies," the boy said proudly, bringing the cookie back so he could take a large bite.

"Where's your sister?" Eve unzipped her son's coat and struggled to get it off without making him let go of the cookie. "Grace!"

Oscar watched his niece appear, coat hanging from her arms. She shook it off then dragged it to the coat rack. And, when her mother told her to go look at her room, she took off upstairs.

"Well?" Eve demanded, straightening and looking at him.

"I'll figure something out between now and then," he said.

"I thought you were looking at the place on the edge of town."

Oscar swiveled his gaze to his friend.

Max shrugged. "I tell her everything."

"Take Lucas up to see his room," she said, eyes never leaving Oscar. "I've got to talk to Oscar."

"Good luck," Max whispered before scooping his son into his arms.

She wasn't usually one for exercise. But the day was so nice. It was damp due to the rain the night before, and the snow was still in thick drifts, but the sun was shining and it was warm enough she didn't need a thick coat. She had felt closed-up, something she wasn't used to feeling, and had finally thrown on a jacket and decided to go for a brisk walk to clear her head. At first she kept to the side streets, and after going around until she was nearly back home, she headed for Main Street and then followed it along until she reached the outskirts of town.

Stopping to unzip her jacket and consider how she wanted to go back through town, she felt a sudden prickle of awareness. She turned slightly, seeing first the 'For Sale' sign and then the little white clapboard split-level. Mr. Wright's house, she thought, recalling hearing that he had moved to the center of town to live with his sister. Her gaze moved to the truck in the driveway and her chest lurched.

Oscar.

As though her presence had conjured him up, the door opened and he stepped outside, laughing. Carlos was behind him, laughing as well, and the two men stood on the small porch, chatting.

Her heart squeezed almost painfully. He didn't see her. Or maybe he did and he didn't care enough to acknowledge? She wavered, unsure whether to call out a greeting or turn and go away before he could look in her direction. She hadn't yet made up her mind what she wanted to say to him, or if she wanted to say anything to him at all. She looked on as the men shook hands, and took a step forward just as Oscar started down the steps.

He stopped, so she did as well. Despite the distance she saw the hesitance in his expression, and bit her lip when he pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

Oh, damn it, she had to speak to him. She continued walking forward, sneakers slipping a little on the pile of snow at the end of the flagstone walk. With each step she tried to think of something to say, but then she saw that he was walking toward her. They met halfway and both stopped at the same time.

Natalie pulled her earbuds from her ears, hastily cramming them into the pocket of her jacket. What was she supposed to say? How could she begin to explain her outburst, her irrational anger towards him that had now faded? What could she possibly say to make it even a little bit better? There was an awkward tension between them and even though she couldn't look away from him she knew that Carlos had sensed it when she heard him mutter something and go back into the house.

Oscar's eyes looked a little sad and she wondered if that were her fault.

"I'm sorry," she blurted.

"I'm sorry," he said at the same time.

"I shouldn't have taken my anger out on you—"

"I should have told you when you asked—"

"It wasn't fair—"

"It was wrong to keep you in the dark—"

"I dragged you in the middle when you were just a bystander—"

"I just didn't want to upset you—"

"I blew it all out of proportion because I was hurt—"

"Especially when I realized I was falling for you so fast and—"

"I was thinking I might be falling in love even though we just met—"

They both stopped. At the same time.

Natalie blinked. So did he. She didn't know why, but she began to smile. And was relieved when he did, too. A laugh bubbled up when they both took a step forward. Slipping her hand into his when he held it out, she sighed.

"You wanna go for a walk?" he asked.

"I just did, but yes."

They strolled to the sidewalk, and his fingers slotted between hers. "Can we talk, too?"

"I think we should." She stopped, frowning. "You're just gonna leave your truck?"

"I can walk back and get it."

Resuming her steps, she squeezed his hand. "I'll walk back with you."

[pastryland]

galex completed fic recommendations

If any of the authors of the fics mentioned here or are tagged and don't want their fics to be here, please let me know and I'll remove it!

Will update this list periodically

❤️ = favorite

⭐️ = I love fics by this author in general

🔗 = part of a series (will usually only put fav from series on here)

❌ = triggering themes

🔥 = explicit

raw - 4k - ❤️

George is hungry and Alex is a volunteer in the food bank.

all i do is try, try, try - 13k

Alex is first in line to the throne, George is still a Formula 1 driver.

It's You I Fell Into - 23k - 🔥

When George signs up to marry someone he's never even met before in the name of a social experiment, he's not sure what to expect.OrThe Married At First Sight AU that noone asked for.

hands, knees, please - 4k

And Alex looks right back, tall and firm, one step further now and backlit by the sun kissing them both an orange goodbye. He meets the daring glint of George’s eye with a smile, an amused one, like his taunting is something he knows exactly how to dismantle, undeterred by what it means and almost excited to see it transpire. On the receiving end of that smirk, George is left only with the understanding that this isn’t friendly and a want so intense that he can barely sit together with.

i see you got that new mercedes, i might let you drive me crazy - 10k

“These black fireproofs look really good on you”, Alex comments. “It makes you look kind of hot.” Someone next to him coughs loudly and he’s surprised to see it isn’t George, but Lando. George just stares at him with a blank expression on his face. “Only kind of hot?” he teases when he finally has realised what Alex said. “Don’t you mean… George Russell, you look incredibly hot in those Mercedes fireproofs, you’ve never looked so good before… That’s what you meant, right?” Seeing George in those Mercedes fireproofs makes Alex think about his best friend in a way he never has before, but he himself is the last one to actually realise what that means. Except for George, of course.

ours to tell - 8k - ❤️

rubontruther Okay that's it I'm making a Rubon 2023 shenanigans masterpost. #And maybe some people will come to the realisation that maybe they are dating galextruther YES JAMIE DO IT WE WILL SHOW THEM THE TRUTH 13 notes rubontruther 17 Reasons Why We Think George Russell And Alex Albon Are A Couple We’re only six months into 2023 and Alex and George have been keeping us well-fed with their content, but if you look at everything together, it seems like they’re dating. Why? Well, see for yourself. *** After almost five years of dating, Alex and George are done with all the hiding and secrecy, so Lily, Carmen and Alicia suggest a soft launch. The internet has some thoughts on the matter.

you and me till the end of time - 28k

The one where George has a four-year-old daughter and Alex is her preschool teacher.

no precedent - 4k - ⭐️ 🔥

If he just wins, this will all end. If he just wins, Mercedes will build a fast car for next season. If he just wins, Alex will want him again.

spread before you like a picnic - 10k - ❤️ ⭐️ 🔥

Now, weeks later, he thinks that was probably the reason he’d said it, why when he came back to himself and noticed that Alex had manhandled him on his stomach and was in the process of peeling George’s jeans down, his first instinct was to say, panicky: “You can’t fuck me.”

and the stars shine upon us - 7k - ❌

In a world where soulmates are rare and their existance is a pain to many, George grows up noticing a lot around him. But it's the things he misses that tell his story. He is more than sceptical about the concept of a soulmate and is left scared when he realizes that it could tear Alex and him apart.

driver's license - 12k

"You said forever, now I drive alone past your street" Or Alex struggles to come to terms with how things changed once their paths diverged. (Yes, it's loosely based on the song)

Rescue You - 3k

‘What are you doing?’ George's panicked voice sounded from behind him. ‘Don’t fall, please.’ Alex jumped onto the floor of the other balcony and turned around with a wide grin. ‘I’m stealing my neighbour’s cat.’ George blinked at him a few times before his lips slowly curled up in an equal grin. ‘How scandalous of you, can I help?’ OR: Alex and George save a neglected cat and realize they have feelings for each other.

nothing but teeth - 25k - ❤️ ⭐️ 🔥

“Oh, come on.” Alex says, poking George in the thigh again with his foot. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done a little-” Alex makes a complicated hand-wavy gesture that has the contents of his glass nearly sloshing over the sides. “At your fancy boy schools, a little stiff upper-lipped make-out amongst the chaps? In between rounds of cricket and fox hunting?”

grafted laurel - 1.6k - ⭐️

It’s a breathtaking journey to the outpost at sea where George and Alex are supposed to deliver the handwritten letter of gratitude from the King -- through forests and moorlands, a five days’ ride if you hurry. They’re not hurrying.

the price you pay for loss of control - 2k - ⭐️ 🔥

The bedsheets are soft where George is gripping them. George tries to concentrate on the cotton between his fingers instead of the burning between his legs. The thread count has to be over 800 at least. It’s a wedding stationary colour. He tries to place the exact shade. Ecru, maybe. In the right light, if it had enough sheen, it could be ivory. His sister has been picking out wedding stationary lately. She’s getting married next year, mailing out save the dates for June 2027, and George is losing another championship.

soldier down (on that icy ground) - 21k - ❤️ ⭐️

When later asked, George will always quote 2021 as the tipping point in his career as a Formula 1 driver. He didn’t know that back then. Obviously. But in hindsight, everything that led to this could be traced back to the three events in 2021. OR: Friends drive for Mercedes. Everything that can goes wrong. Again.

ode to a conversation stuck in your throat - 40k - ❤️ 🔥

They’d agreed on friends when Alex had come to collect the last of his things from George’s flat. George had been adamant about it, all uncomplicated smiles, like they hadn’t just spent six months living in each other’s pockets and having some of the most bizarrely intimate sex of Alex’s life. And friends is a noble intention, but. Alex still only has one friend who’s sucked him off in their driver’s room.

From whom you are standing still - 1.6k - ❤️

George has practised the whole set-up, of course. His laptop links to his tv with a HDMI cable, and then he can use the remote to move between slides. He's not wearing a suit (too much) but he's got a nice jumper on, and jeans that sit well on his legs, show off his thighs a bit. He's got a glass of water on the side table in case his throat gets dry. He's got his hair gelled into place. Alex is sprawled across the sofa, looking bored. He says, "George. Mate. What is this. I thought we were going to play FIFA, but I'm getting more of a 'you trying to sell me a timeshare' vibe." "Timeshares aren't good value for money," George says automatically. He's just checking through his slides one last time before he broadcasts them to the television.

all hunger, all restraint and poised bones - 18k - ❤️ 🔥

A simple thought cuts through his mind, hard-edged and cold in its importance. The person taking action was not him. These last thoughts do not belong to George. That means that the fear and shock do not belong to him either. God, he's feeling Alex's fear and Alex's shock. He pushes Alex away before he can feel his disgust alongside it.

the trajectory of us - 2k

The Vegas Grand Prix had been doomed from the start. When George and Alex both crash out there's not a lot to be done. The race is only secondary to the fact that they're both okay. When Alex mentions finding other things to do in Vegas than watch a shit race together, George comes up with an idea that seems like the natural course of action.

all green lights - 22k - ❤️ 🔥

Sorry mate I think you've got the wrong number

we found wonderland (you and i got lost in it) - 34k - ❤️ ⭐️

He closes his eyes one more time and opens them again. The clock on his dashboard mercilessly creeps ever so closer to eight am, the agreed upon time. The time he is supposed to be in the factory to meet Alex, his new rookie teammate and the Williams team he will be working with for the next year. He hopes there will be some familiar faces around, that not all his mechanics and engineers left just yet. OR: Alex left racing after Red Bull, George is at the end of his career himself. They are about to meet again

capture every minute, the feeling in it - 2k - 🔥

George thinks it's probably a coincidence that Alex asks him to make a sex tape less than a week after George bought a ring for his girlfriend. Alex sucks on his tongue and kisses the tip of it once, chaste and silly, where no one else has kissed him before in his life, then leans back and says, "Let me film you like this."

the way back - 30k - ❤️ 🔥

"You've never really been normal about each other," Alex is told.

table in the back - 47k - ❤️ ⭐️ 🔥

“Okay, here’s the offer." Alex says. "I’m going to make you something and if you don’t like it, you don’t pay. How does that sound?” “So I get a good meal or a free meal?” George asks. “Sounds like a no-lose scenario.” “Keen eye, George,” Alex grins. “Figured out my terrible business sense on the first try. Alright, take it or leave it.”

The Honey of Humanity - 59k - ❌

It's a death that after eight long years brings them all back together. It's been almost a decade since the self-proclaimed 'Bellgate Eight' have all seen one another. It just happens that the funeral of their shared past Literature teacher, George's life role model, is what brings them back together, for the better or the worse. Alternatively; an exploration of justice and injustice, love and hate, fire and water, and perhaps most fittingly the novel they studied together in their senior year at the prestigious Bellgate Academy; crime and punishment.

masterpost for all completed fic rec lists

[toonbly]

hiiii im making a self indulgent ass post w/ all the fun little details i packed into tip the ferrymen pages up til today (excluding all the stuff thats foreshadowing for later spoilers) im gonna put it all under the cut though!!!

so hi. funny little bg details in ferrymen that i think is fun:

pg2 - Russel's grave! his last name, Marek, is named after an NPC in a really old dnd campaign my buddy jay ran for us back in high school

pg8 - there's a lot here so im just showing all of it LMAO. ambrosia bar back alley in the bg, one of eddie's murals is on the wall, eileen's missing poster is on the left, and as a lil spoiler: one of the ghosts in the background is gonna be a major character in arc 2!

pg20 - one of joey's drawings is of a younger nathan and the other is a blue cowboy, if you know what thats a nod to you know lol

pg20 - Eddie's gifts for the fortunes include a cat angel statue, white lillies (often used in funerals), and a blue candle. most of this is just supposed to be a nod towards who's leaving these gifts

pg33 - this is kinda hard to see due to the coloring (which i plan on going back and fixing at a later date) but the title of this book is "the wonderful world of elevators" which is a taz reference

pg37 - this is more a production fun fact but i made the eyes on the shadow creature in esther's portrait by just heavily editing a photo of my eye lol

pg37 - as eddie sneaks away from the vargas's, he glitches out which is meant to show that he's using his shapeshifting powers. foreshadowing!

pg45 - foreground detail so everyone noticed it but eddies just kinda chilling here when the vargas's enter andy's library

pg46 and pg81 - bim bim the bear's tears match esther's death injuries, he also copies joeys expressions throughout the first arc!

pg52 - the author of this book is mai's dad, arthur!

pg54 - eddie's "tell" when she's shapeshifted as someone else is that the scar over her eye stays no matter what. this isn't the only instance of this, but emily's disguise makes it the most obvious!

while we're at it-- eddie can mimic the blank eyes of ghosts because he knows they have blank eyes from watching paranathan, but he doesn't know what their death injuries like so they can't mimic them.

pg60 - the environments in sarah's station are made of cardboard cut outs, mimicing the kinda toy-like feeling of a giant train model

pg68- anime sparkles

pg71 - my favorite example of bimbim mimicking joey's expressions

pg74 - this is obvious i just really wanna point out nathan blushing when he sees how fucking tall eddie is

pg76 - when stumbling across the recreation of the murder scene, joey and eddie stare at the replica of the murder weapon in horror while nathan looks ahead at the portrait on the wall. nathan has seen this scene before back when it actually happened, it wouldn't be shocking to him but the museum of grief lizzie's made for herself would. eddie and joey, who have never seen the scene before, focus on the replica weapon.

pg83 - joey and esther bein BUDS

theres a few for page 84 so here we go:

one of eddie's murals is on a wall next to an ad for spectech, the mural is mocking eli

glenn and henry from a certain dnd podcast

more missing posters but theyre mega small so lol

pg86 - this is not a small detail i just really, really wanna point out nathan's cut off expression when eddie says this and how joey reacts to it being able to see what the audience cant. makes me insane

pg93 - ghost boxers. this isn't obvious but its 10x funnier if you know that its paranathan merch

pg100 - the newspaper changes to read "He's dead you're still here" when nathan starts to dissasociate

pg104 - this was a self indulgent lil thing for me but my players characters in our interstitial campaign are hidden back here!

pg114 - one of the background ghosts from pg8 is right here highlighted in red

pg117 has two things!

one of the background characters is holding a paranathan phone case

steve and alex of mc fame. this reference wasnt intentional at first but a friend pointed it out while i was coloring and i thought it was funny as hell and just ran with it

pg118 due to A Shenanagin in the tip the ferrymen discord server, corporate art style babe ruth is now a thing in this comic

pg127 - eddie seeing eli in the same room as them and just immediately deciding to leave

theres a bunch more but those are all foreshadowing for BIG spoilers later and this is mostly lil easter eggs/goofs/etc HFJSDHFKDS

[arwenlalaith]

You're Not an Angel/I'm Not Heaven-Sent

Ship: George Russell/Bertha Russell, George Russell/Reader, Bertha Russell/Reader

Summary: Bertha Russell has always been excellent at chess.

Word Count: 2,272

Author's Note: For @littletayyswriting. I guess this is the Vampire AU no one asked for... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

“I’ve decided,” Bertha said, calmly, with no violence. She sat at her vanity, braiding her hair away from her face, and she watched in the mirror the way George stalled for a barely noticeable moment.

“Oh?” he said with manufactured calmness.

“Yes,” she said, still calm.

“Do I get to know who it’s going to be?”

She paused, thought a moment. “No,” she said eventually, “I don’t think you do.”

After the truth came out about Turner soliciting George’s affections (which had actually taken the form of George simply telling her, as he’d never been any good at keeping secrets from Bertha), he’d given her what amounted to a blank cheque for mayhem.

He shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d chosen to sit and wait and calculate, biding her time in anticipation of the opportune moment arriving to enact said punishment.

___________

Your hand trembled slightly as you set your coffee cup on the saucer, the clatter of china on china audible in the vast space of the drawing room. You couldn’t help it. You were nervous, to say the least...

Dinner had been a nice enough affair, though it had given you no clarity as to the purpose for which you’d been called to the Russell home. You knew them to be patrons of the New York City Ballet where you danced, but had yet to divine their motives in inviting you for dinner this evening.

“I suppose you’re wondering why it is that we’ve invited you this evening...” Bertha said, as if reading your mind.

You marshalled your expression into polite intrigue and nothing more. “The thought has crossed my mind,” you said. You once again reached for your coffee cup, though you’d only just set it down, more for something to do with your hands than any actual desire to drink the quickly cooling beverage.

Bertha locked eyes with George and gave an almost indistinguishable nod, so much so that you might have missed it if you hadn’t been specifically watching their body language for some clue as to how to proceed.

“Miss Y/N,” George said formally, “Consider this a formal proposition.”

Your jaw hung open a moment or two as the words struggled to register within your brain. You glanced from George to Bertha and back, waiting for some sign that this was all a joke. No such sign seemed forthcoming, though. “A-a-a proposition?” you repeated, silently cursing the way your voice trembled slightly, giving away your timidness on the matter.

He nodded, opened his mouth to say something further, but faltered, closed his mouth again.

Bertha seemed to sense that George’s courage was wavering and, with a pointed sigh, commandeered control of the situation. She snapped her fingers, pointed to the floor in front of her. “Kneel,” she ordered.

You didn’t hesitate even a moment in complying, dropping to your knees at her feet so that you could stare up at her with big doleful eyes. You parted your lips slightly and she forced her thumb past them to rest her thumb on your tongue.

“Here’s what is going to happen,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument, “George and yourself shall make a stitch while I watch.” You felt your eyes widen unbidden and you once again cursed your sudden inability to marshal your self-control. Bertha, of course, missed nothing and smirked to herself at your surprise. “Come now, Princess, don’t seem quite so surprised...”

You let out a little whine at the term of endearment falling past her lips.

“Now, now, Princess,” she chided, “Don’t be greedy – you’re going to have to earn any sort of pleasure you hope to receive.” You opened your mouth as if to reply, but she didn’t give you that chance. “Hush, Princess, you shall get what you want...assuming you behave yourself.”

Nodding eagerly, you attempted to convey just how desperately you wanted to comply with her wishes and obey her commands. It was all you wanted.

Bertha laughed. “Eager little thing...” She dragged her thumb past your lips, bringing with it a trail of your saliva, which she proceeded to smear along your bottom lip. “Why don’t you show us how grateful you are for the opportunity?” she suggested, though it was – in fact – an order.

If you’d had any doubts as to what she’d meant by that, you didn’t need to voice it, as it was made all too clear when George – after a single laden glance from Bertha – proceeded to unfasten his slacks and pull his cock from inside.

Immediately, you felt your cheeks pink with shyness. It was safe to say that you’d never expected the evening to take this rather marked turn...

That wasn’t to say, however, that you were necessarily disappointed by it either.

So, you decided to play the role you’d been cast in... You crawled to George (choosing to ignore the little voice in the back of your mind that told you the state of your dress would surely give away everything that happened here tonight) and settled between his knees.

Opening your mouth and lolling your tongue past your lips, you brought your mouth down on his cock.

Above you, he groaned, grabbing a fistful of your hair, but kept his eyes locked with Bertha’s. “Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked her. “You don’t want her first?”

She shook her head, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Do not get me wrong, George,” she said, “You’re only allowed to enjoy her so long as you do not finish.”

“Is that fair?”

“Perhaps not,” she said, “But I’m offering you a gift and it would be unkind to refuse it.”

George didn’t need to be told twice. (Partly because he’d never been able to deny Bertha anything...) You cast your gaze upward, looking to make eye contact with him, looking for some sign that you were doing an adequate job...but he only had eyes for Bertha.

Nevertheless, you continued bobbing your head, taking him in until he hit the back of your throat, gagging slightly. The sound seemed to draw him from the trance in which he’d found himself and he reached down, using his thumb to wipe away the spittle that had collected at the corners of your lips.

In the next moment, Bertha seemed to decide he’d had his fun and sharply demanded, “Stop.”

You were quick of back off, eager not to disappoint Bertha, in any sense of the word.

Your obedience seemed to please her, judging by the way she grinned like the proverbial cat that got the cream. “I want you on your knees for me, this time,” she said, leaving no room for argument, though her tone remained almost conversational. “I want your face in my cunt until I beg you to stop. Or you suffocate. Whichever comes first.” She didn’t mean in literally, of course, but the words were enough to make you soaked.

Crawling to her now and – you were sure it didn’t escape her notice – much more eagerly, you took your place between her legs and leaned in to press a soft kiss to her inner thigh, unable to resist at least a little tenderness.

Then, hooking an arm around each of her thighs to keep them apart, you brushed your nose against her clit, inhaling deeply of her scent.

“I’m waiting, Pet,” she said.

Sufficiently chastized, you licked a slow stripe up her slit, then began working her clit with intensity. You weren’t the luckiest person in the world, that much you knew, but having the privilege of getting to taste Bertha Russell was the only luck you needed or wanted and you’d gladly spend the rest of your life on her knees if you could continue to have the privilege.

You worked your tongue through her cunt like she was your last meal and you were starving. You could feel her thighs starting to twitch in your grasp and you lightly dug in your nails, producing a little gasp from Bertha’s lips. You loved the sounds she made while you were tongue deep in her and they only egged you on further, eager to coax more of the delicious noises from her throat.

“You’re such a good girl,” Bertha praised as you worked your tongue inside her. She wove her fingers in your hair, forcing you deeper into her cunt, smearing your face with her juices.

Those words alone were enough to send wetness dripping from your pussy, made you lap at her clit more fervently. You loved hearing her praise you, knowing that no only did you get to see her like this, but that she got pleasure from it as well.

“So good, Pet, you’re doing so well...” she praised and you could hear her breathing getting ragged, knew you were bringing her closer to the brink of an orgasm. It was nearly enough to have you on the brink of cumming.

“I...” you started to speak, only to immediately silence yourself when she yanked sharply on your hair in warning.

“If you insist upon speaking, you shall address me as Your Majesty,” she demanded.

You let out a pathetic little whine. “Please, Your Majesty,” you begged, though it was unclear what it exactly it was you were pleading for...

“Poor Princess,” she simpered, gripping your chin sharply and forcing you to meet her gaze. “If you want something, all you have to do is ask.”

“May I, please, Your Majesty... I need... Please, may I touch myself?”

She grinned, almost wickedly. “It pleases you, to please me, doesn’t it?” she purred. You nodded eagerly. “Why don’t you teach poor George a lesson about what people who please me get to have...”

You didn’t need to be told twice, diving back in to finish the task at hand.

“Just remember,” she added, “I finish first.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you slipped two fingers into yourself, making sure not to give yourself too much stimulation as you began moving them. You knew that Bertha wouldn’t hesitate to take away permission should the task at hand prove too distracting, so you were careful to make sure your attention remained squarely focused on the goddess in front of you.

You knew you were having the desired effect by the way her thighs were trembling and tensing, the way her fists clutched at the carved wood of the arms of her throne. In that moment, you felt like the most powerful being in the world – she was completely at your mercy and breathtakingly gorgeous in the throes of passion. If there was such a thing as God’s perfect creation, it was Bertha Russell with her legs spread for you.

Panting slightly with the effort of keeping yourself riding the edge of control, you bucked your hips against your hand. Above you, you heard her gasp sharply as one hand found her breast, pinching at her pebbled nipple.

You couldn’t help but whine, oh so desperate... “Please, Your Majesty...” You were torn between wanting to watch her come undone, but also wanting to memorize every detail of this moment knowing that you might never get another opportunity to experience this.

Her hand still gripping at your hair tugged slightly and you whimpered slightly from the combined sensations of your own touch and the nails raking along your scalp.

An absolutely wicked urge took over you then and before you could stop yourself, you turned your hand and sank your teeth into Bertha’s thigh, leaving behind a perfect ring of teethmarks. If nothing else, she’d be hard pressed to forget this night...

You had a feeling she didn’t complain because the marks would only serve to reinforce her lesson should George see them the next time they lay together. In fact, you were rather certain that the twinge of pain was what sent her over the edge when she finally came, hand clapped over her mouth to keep the cry from behind heard beyond the door. Wetness flooded her cunt and you made sure to lap it up as it spilled down her thighs, not wanting to waste a drop in the hope that you’d get her permission to finish yourself off.

As you sat back to catch your breath, her juices still dripping down your chin, you watched the delicious sight of Bertha riding out her high before you.

“Are you close, Pet?” she asked as her breathing returned to normal, her heart rate slowing. She yanked on your hair, so you were once again forced to meet her gaze and watched as you squirmed in a desperate attempt to maintain control.

You nodded, keened.

Rather than grant you permission, though, she clicked her tongue once and you knew immediately it was a command to stop. “In my lap, Princess,” she said and once again you were quick to obey.

She trailed her tongue along the ridge of your shoulder blade, then the curve of your neck, and finally along your carotid. She inhaled deeply the scent of the freshly oxygenated bloody flowing beneath the surface.

“Eyes on me, George,” she said imperiously.

Then, when she had his undivided attention, she slipped two fingers into you, working you slowly at first, then faster, less controlled and more sloppy. She waited until she had you on the verge of cumming, then just as you were about to fall over the edge, she sank her teeth into your neck and drank from you.

Her gaze as she did so never left George’s, giving him no choice but to watch as she turned you.

[russellian-j]

Bertrand Russell Quotes 366 with images, n2725 ( April 17, 2024)

I was trying hard to solve the contradictions mentioned above. Every morning I would sit down before a blank sheet of paper. Throughout the day, with a brief interval for lunch, I would stare at the blank sheet. Often when evening came it was still empty. … the two summers of 1903 and 1904 remain in my mind as a period of complete intellectual deadlock. It was clear to me that I could not get on without solving the contradictions, and I was determined that no difficulty should turn me aside from the completion of Principia Mathematica, but it seemed quite likely that the whole of the rest of my life might be consumed in looking at that blank sheet of paper. . Source: Bertrand Russell: The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell, v.１, chap. 6: Principia Mathematica, 1967 More info.:https://russell-j.com/beginner/AB16-130.HTM

a brief comment Hegel lovers need not bother with this kind of thing. According to Hegel's dialectic (Hegelian logic), even if a 'positive' (proposition) and an 'anti' (proposition) seem 'outwardly' contradictory, by 'lifting up' (Aufheben), the 'contradiction' is resolved. There is no need to be concerned about the 'contradiction', because we can 'lifting up' it permanently. 　But Russell is talking about 'logical' contradictions. If you accept even one 'logical' contradiction, no matter how wrong it is, you can prove it 'right'. 　When Russell also entered Cambridge University, he was steeped in Hegel's philosophy and became a Hegelian, but he abandoned Hegel after a few years. For one thing, he was influenced by the discovery that Hegel did not understand mathematics at all and said very silly things. 　Logic is important because it is the basis of all disciplines, but it is a very humble discipline (a discipline that is often struggled with but rarely acknowledged). For this reason, Russell also recalled in later years that he wished he had been a scientist. Russell's scientific abilities were also excellent, and he would have been a successful scientist had he aspired to become one. However, scientists increase enormously in number with the times, so unless you are at least as good as Einstein, you are likely doomed to be forgotten. For example, most Japanese people know Hideki Yukawa, but most foreigners do not.

[winderlylandchime]

Anon’s brother just reminded me of an episode of his podcast where they talked about tv shows and what kind of shows they want or something like that. Or was it an interview of his? Either way, it got me wondering, I wonder what he and like Gale and the rest of the cast thought about the reboot of QAF. I mean personally I was against it especially once I heard it was kind of inspired by Pulse. But i wonder if they had any thoughts. But this then made me think of the reboot QAF and the UK version and I wonder what anon’s brother would say about that. If he doesn’t know about it yet but from the looks of it QAF US is the only version in his world.

Hello dear sweet anon! That’s a good question. I didn’t watch the reboot and, from what my fandom friends have told me, it was an okay show, just not… queer as folk. Like maybe it would have been better to call it something else and do an “inspired by.” I would love to hear what Randy and Jordan thought of the reboot. And in some magical universe where Gale comes on the podcast as a guest or something, hear his thoughts.

I don’t know if our beloved anon told her brother about the history of Queer As Folk at all. It seems like, to keep the experiment pure, she hasn’t told him anything about the show and will wait until after 513 to tell him anything (although she gave him the gift of Randy’s podcast after S4). But we absolutely must honor the original Queer As Folk and the incredible mind of Russell T Davies for creating the concept.

Funny story. My friends and I decided to start watching Doctor Who and, in the US, HBO Max (err Max) starts with Ninth Doctor and then Ten. So I’m watching and I’m watching and each episode credits Russell T Davies and eventually I start to wonder “why does this feel so familiar?” So I naturally google him and OF COURSE he created QAF and OF COURSE the reason his name looks so familiar is that he is credited on every episode of QAF US. This thrills me to no end. And of course I had to scream at my friends who just gave me blank stares because this means nothing to them. The same blank stares I got when I started babbling about my favorite drag queen being on the 60th anniversary doctor who. Sometimes being multifandom is a gift. ;)

[the-royal-blue-network]

How Did We Get There?

How Did We Get There?-Russell Mark and Shauntell Williams were so in love just months ago. They were so warm and full of laughter, and love. So how the hell did they here.

The bed might as well have been a block of ice. With her back to Russell, Shauntell stared straight ahead at the blank wall.   She didn’t say anything and honestly, she didn’t need to; her position in the bed, back to Russell, knees curled into her chest, did all the talking for her. The little space between Russell and Shauntell might as well have been the Pacific Ocean for all Russell was…

[the-haunted-office]

As Russell lists off a bunch of options for the drink that's to be prepared for her, Doom does this kind of blank stare at him for a couple of seconds. A lot was thrown out at her just then and her brain hasn't quite caught up with it all yet, especially since her mind is focused elsewhere. Eventually she just responds with, "Yes, that'll do," and moves right along, as if that was a helpful response.

And then she's right back on helping with the boxes and glancing out the window every now and then, and keeping up her Grinchy act. It's a lot of work, and she's got an image she has to carefully maintain here, even if she is making it look easy. She's also gotta have fun here and make sure no one gets hurt in the mix, otherwise the fun goes out the window.

When all is said and done, the Grinch takes her coffee and sips at it, smacking her lips obnoxiously and giving a thumbs up while waving away the suggestion that she go hide. "Not a chance, not a chance. The Grinch doesn't hide on Christmas. He takes his wares, and bolts, ehehehe. You ready for that magic trick, Rrrrussell?" she grins, rolling the R of his name, which she got from reading his nametag (assuming he's wearing one - if not, then she hasn't said his name).

She sets her coffee down on the nearest surface first. Then, taking the boxes, she stacks them up into two towers of six each, and then she steps back and does something very curious with her hands - she braces them against the air, and pulls at it as though there were a pair of curtains hidden there. When she pulls, suddenly there are a pair of curtains there, the air itself, which opens to reveal another world beyond... A place which strangely enough just looks like your everyday office, although this place is no ordinary office, it is an Office.

Giggling, Doomsday picks up both stacks of boxes - from the bottom, one with each hand - as though they weighed nothing (which they pretty much don't, given her massive amounts of strength) and simply... tosses them through the portal she just opened and into the Office on the other side, neatly as you please, so that neither of the stacks falls over.

The Grinch brushes her hands together, then she wriggles her fingers at Russell. "OooooOOoooOoooOoo, ehehehehehe. Now! Time to get that bucket and then amscray, ehehehehe. Merry Christmas, you filthy animals! Perhaps we shall meet again, ehehehe."

And with that, Doom jumps into the portal. It immediately closes behind her - although one could, in theory, follow her into it if they were fast enough! Seconds later, outside right next to the Salvation Army donation bucket, another, smaller portal opens up, and a very green, very Grinchy arm reaches through it and snatches it away, leaving the support structure to fall apart and collapse to the ground as the portal closes with a thhhzzztt!

Both the police and the Salvation Army Santa look like they just saw a UFO land right in front of them.

"No problem. I think given, given the, the uh, the festive season, a large salt-salted caramel latte might be just the, just the thing."

Russell started to text that over to Paul, his colleague who was currently manning the cafe for the most part. After the cash was counted, accepted, and placed in a small safe for the time being, he got to work.

"You, you okay with, with regular milk or, or do you want a dairy-free alternative? We, we got oat, coconut, soy, and, and almond. And, and would you like any syrups?" Russell asked, making sure to text the added preferences over to Paul as well when answered.

Russell made some pretty quick work of getting everything together in twelve boxes total (two for each month; one for the games and the other for merch). Most of it wasn't breakable, but he made sure to wrap up the more fragile items in bubble wrap. The child seemed delighted about getting some candy from the costumed stranger too.

"There, there we go. Maybe I, I can call my, my friend up. He, he could probably trans-transport all these," Russell said, before he then frowned on seeing that a couple of policemen had indeed come to investigate, "C-crap. M-might wanna go, go hide some-somewhere..."

[4mulaone]

just watched charles experience intense flashbacks from the ferrari challenge videos in the form of george russell gleefully quizzing him on cockney slang

[charnelhouse]

baby, it's violence

(gif by @nightofthecreeps)

Pairing: Steven Grant x F!Reader, Marc Spector x F!Reader Wordcount: 7.2K Warnings: Explicit AF. Rough smut. Serious GORE. Oral. Anal. Pain Kink. Semi-public sex. naughty vibes in cathedrals. Mental health strugs. Face-sitting. Choking. Summary: It’s not alright. You will never be alright again and how are you supposed to tell him that? That you had died and were then reborn and it had marked you in a way that felt permanent. Marc understood. Marc remembered and that’s why Marc is who he is for you. Your shared trauma circulates between you like a throbbing vein that redirects to a single heart. Steven is outside of it. A/N: I don't know any spoilers for future episodes so all of this is just my imagination. Title from Grimes’s Violence.

There’s a darkness in you.

So. Fucking. What.

You’re on the wrong side of the law most days. You’re stealing, looting, killing the people you’re told to - forced to (even if they deserve it, which they do). It's not on you. It's on them.

Bastet is your companion. She is your Goddess. She also shares Khonshu’s sense of Old Testament justice and that kind of violence can make anyone crack eventually.

A person who starts a fatal fire gets burned alive. A man who blinds a woman with acid because she refused him receives a nice eye-gouging. You can still feel it on your fingers even if you’ve washed your hands thirty times.

Then there is Marc. Then there is Steven. Then there is all the ancient magic twining each of you together like some fucked up family entity.

Tune in at 9 for How I Met My Avatar.

It’s possibly wrong to be fucking both of them, but there is no one else who understands. There is no one else and you’re so lonely. You feel like you’re drowning on dry land. It’s like having constant heartburn and acid reflux and you were grateful that it wasn’t just you who became an avatar for a pissed-off God. You are grateful that Marc had been there with you. Both of you dying and bleeding out in that barren chamber at the center of the tomb. He had looked at you as it happened, his fingers curling weakly around your wrist and you had wondered if you both were headed for the same place - if there was a place at all or if you’d have your hearts weighed or if -

Your memory blanks out at that point. There had been an explosion of white-hot light and then you felt everything at once.

***

It’s Steven’s gentle concern that unnerves you. His soft hands that should be rough with callouses. There are hideous feelings inside your chest, which you can’t just bury. The desire for blood as you adapt into a weapon to be yielded. The weight of Bast’s previous avatars and thousands upon thousands of years since the creation of the Gods themselves.

Steven brings you to Russell Square park to get you out of your head, which is terribly ironic. The trees are effulgent. They are dusted golden as the sun streams through the dense leaves. You watch the shrubs and the hedges dotted with white blooms, expecting something to burst out of them. Steven has you sit in front of a fountain, the milky froth from the water spraying upward as it hits the stone ground with a continuous thwap.

“Isn’t this lovely?” He asks with his hand wrapped firmly around yours. His stare weighs heavy on your profile. His anxiousness burns the side of your nose.

“It’s nice,” you offer, which he seems to take as a victory.

“We could go grab a drink? That sounds good, yeah? One of those really fancy cocktails you like…you know with the smoke?”

You chuckle. Genuinely. “You want to get me drunk so I’ll be easy, huh?”

His expression immediately dissolves into something frantic - offended. “Never.” Except it comes out like neva-a and the whole thing just makes him that much more endearing to you.

The issue is that he cares too much. He holds your hair back when Bast doesn’t like the food you eat. None of those greasy burgers, girl. They taste like oil and they clog the flow of our blood.

You don’t point out that she seems fond of hot Cheetos because there is no arguing with an entity as old as time.

You cradle the toilet bowl as you empty your guts. The bile curdles sour in your throat and rubs it raw. Steve simply strokes your shoulders and the curve of your spine. He makes these soft, mouth sounds to ease your discomfort.

“You’re alright,” he tells you. “You’re alright, darling.”

It’s not alright. You will never be alright again and how are you supposed to tell him that? That you had died and were then reborn and it had marked you in a way that felt permanent. This is a husk. This is not my body. This is not my head. Marc understood. Marc remembered and that’s why Marc is who he is for you. Your shared trauma circulates between you like a throbbing vein that redirects to a single heart.

Steven is outside of it. Steven knows only sensation and occasional memory from that time in the tomb. He thought them nightmares- not real and thus not able to harm him.

But - Steven is kind. Perhaps you needed that in order to recall exactly why you’d wanted to stay in this world to begin with. Why you had been so ready to let Bast possess you and had run headfirst towards that white light instead of retreating.

You do occasionally regret it. It’s usually when you are spitting out teeth because a fight has gone south. It’s the resentment and exhaustion that spoil your mood. They shake your foundation until the feelings inevitably fade on their own.

The teeth always grow back. You live.

It’s not like you can die.

***

Once it’s all out in the open it’s a bit easier to manage. You don’t have to keep Steven in the dark because he’s finally put it all together. You don’t have to constantly assure him that he is, in fact, not insane. You do feel a bit bad when you’re stuck in the middle of a fight and Marc’s expression transitions from blood-thirsty to terrified and his posture goes all pinched because Steven has somehow taken over once again. It is you who has to be the one to scream at him to release control and let Marc handle it.

You make it up to him though.

“You know I’m just trying to protect you,” you croon as you straddle Steven’s lap. You grasp the hinges of his jaw and lick into his mouth. His fingers are digging into the flesh of your ass. He is giving you more each day. Can I touch here? Can I lick you here? Can I put it there?

“It’s protecting us, yeah?” His lids are so heavy, his eyes lead-dark and you shove yourself down, grinding against the ridge of his cock until his brows knit together and he gasps oh fuck. He is so easy. The easiest thing you have ever done because he’s utterly desperate for affection. He nudges into your palm like a puppy.

“Yeah,” you smile into his kiss. You feel him circle the base of his cock, his knuckles dragging through the wet-hot opening of your pussy.

“Up, please,” he murmurs. You rise on your knees. You listen to him just like you listen to Marc in the bedroom. It is only the flavor that is different because he is soft padding while Marc is gravel. Marc has you crawl while Steve requests you rise or fall with urgent pleading.

You thread your fingers through his mass of rich curls. You tug them lazily, which makes his throat arch. You can feel it as he traces the head of his cock through the seam of your folds - nudging against your entrance as he holds it and waits - the very air electric with impatience. You stare down at him, mirthful and mischievous. His expression devolves into something closer to Marc’s when he’s had enough of your teasing. Agitated. Wild.

“Please,” His teeth are clenched. His brows knitted together in frustration.

“Please what?” He’s trembling now. Bursting at the seams. It’s like he doesn’t know what he wants or doesn’t know how to ask and you’re just being cruel. His eyes fall on the mirror behind your shoulder for a second or two. It must be Marc heckling him or voicing his very unwanted opinion because suddenly a sharp, ugly noise rumbles from the back of Steven’s throat and he squeezes your waist fiercely.

“Sit on it,” he growls with real grit. There’s the edge of barely trapped restraint behind his teeth. “Would you?” he adds quickly because he is still not ready to take and that’s the beauty of your entire relationship with Steven. The question. The caution. The will you…won’t you…is this alright?

You want to taunt him. You want to slap his shoulder, feigning outrage. Steven. So bossy.

You don't get the chance to.

He grabs your hips and forces you down hard. It splits you in two. The size of him is always a shock as his cock kisses the furthest depth inside your core.

“Fuck,” he marvels. “Fucking hell.”

He plants his feet and hammers upward, punching a squeak from you that pleases him. He sits up so he can latch his generous mouth to the peaks of your tits, he fills his hands with them - testing the weight, kneading the flesh as he circles your nipples with his tongue. His teeth scrape the sensitive skin and your nails dig into his skull. There is Bast vibrating through the dense tissue of your scattered thoughts:

You could pop his head like a grape. It would be beautiful.

You’re not so sure. First of all, you don’t want to. Second of all, you doubt Khonshu would allow it.

“That feel good, yeah?” Steven mumbles against your nipple, his question punctuated by a very solid thrust that nearly makes you collapse forward.

“Yes, Steven,” you reply because it does. Warmth is pulsing between your legs. It’s making your lower muscles bear down, crashing into every lift of his hips.

Steven draws back enough to watch you take it, his big somber eyes glued to the place where his soaked length continuously disappears up inside the clutch of your sex. He has grown more handsome since everything was laid out on the table. His color is high - rosy sweeps painting his cheekbones. He pierces you with every drive upward. His lower lip is pulled white between his teeth as he concentrates.

I want to make it good. I want to make it so good for you, love.

He thinks he’s in charge until he’s not. You flatten your palms across his chest and force him onto his back. His pillows fall somewhere to the side. His sheets are coming off. “Hold onto the headboard,” you implore and he does immediately, fingers curling around the iron frame. You quicken your pace, circling your pelvis and rocking down on the stiff unyielding length of his cock. You build a pace that shocks him, the mattress squeaking to the point it might tear on its metal springs. You grasp his hand and shove it against your clit which is swollen and needy. He uses his thumb just as you’ve taught him, pushing down and around until you’re the one moaning like a cat in heat. Your orgasm breaks like a wave to shore, crashing and spreading like seafoam throughout the bowl of your hips. Heat. Heat. You tighten and release - tighten and release - and Steven follows - a guttural, low noise ripping from his lungs. He’s shaking, his curls wet with sweat and smeared across his broad forehead.

Afterward, when he has long since reached equilibrium and his body has relaxed, he cradles your cheeks between his hands.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he confesses and it scares you. He is so unafraid to be utterly stripped in your presence. He gives his admiration - his desire with earnestness. It is like a live flame searing his features. His raw feelings are blunt and loud.

You are nervous for him - for his mind that is already on vulnerable ground. You are worried for yourself and then Bast bubbles and swells in your head. She’s in a better mood after the sex. Goddess of pleasure and all.

I still think you should remove his head.

***

Another fight takes them outside London and into Durham. Another cult of wrongdoers who are each met with the crescent blade jammed up through their chins. It’s not an easy fight and it takes everything in Marc not to make a scene when you’re cleaved through the front. Your entire waist is nearly split in a red-spitting arc. It’s a horrific injury and one that would have anyone instantly dead.

Instead, you grunt and clamp your palms over the wound to keep everything inside. He wants to run to you. He wants to scream. But he can’t. Khonshu holds him back to finish the job on the last weeping piece of shit bishop who did things he'd rather not think about.

Bast will help her. Bast will pull her flesh together as I do yours.

A muscle in Marc’s jaw pops. It threatens to snap. His fear becomes rage as he twists the bishop’s neck with a sound that echoes through the entirety of Durham Cathedral. He turns back around to find you stumbling down the nave, past the pews, and toward him. There is red staining your grey, gauzy suit, though you are no longer bent completely over. Gradually, you begin to stand up straighter. Your expression untwists as the sting lessens. Your stride becomes less stilted and more controlled.

Marc breathes a sigh of relief. His chest expands and he removes the mask portion of his suit so he can look at you and not through the veil of Khonshu’s magic.

He blinks away the haze, his eyes exploring the vastness of Durham. He ignores the crumpled corpses on the floor. He likes the place’s hardiness. The Norman Architecture that makes it so robust. The fat columns carved with chevrons and zigzags. Astral chapels with groined vaults. There’s the natural beauty of the River Wear and its steep banks that had once been utilized as a method of defense against Viking raids. There is history here - images and scents he can conjure. Still - it is not nearly as old as Khonshu or the relics he has pulled from Egypt. Not even close to those tombs.

The temples he knows are ancient. They are beyond even his concept of time.

He glances up at the peak of the altar. The stained glass of the rose window is dimmed and muddled as evening swallows the last of the sun. These places of worship have become jeweled boxes to him. Prized golden eggs. His synagogue had its own loveliness, but not the glitz or fuss of so many other churches and cathedrals. They’re works of art - monoliths of another time and yet Khonshu’s thoughts tear through his own: These are modern temples. These smell new.

Yes, Marc agrees even though it’s nearly a thousand years old. They’re just structures. What is religion when a God is buried between his ribs?

The jumble in his head is interrupted when you reach the altar. He can feel how prickly you are even when you aren’t touching him.

“I’m fine,” you hiss. The blood has slowed its drip like a screwed tight spigot.

“I didn’t ask.”

“I can feel it, Marc. You’re staring at me like I’m going to keel over.”

She is right. You are too soft.

He narrows his eyes at you. “Why are you being difficult?”

You ignore him, averting your glare to the stained glass above his head. There’s tension in the way you’re holding yourself. It’s not pain though. He steps toward you, filling up the space between them. His face is beaded in sweat, his hair damp and messy. What do you need? Is it to feel something that isn’t bruised kidneys or a stab wound?

This is how it goes after a fight. Their bodies are humming with adrenaline and magic and they need somewhere to funnel it. He regards you quietly as you stare anywhere but at his face. Your beauty is even more apparent under the shadows and the strike of the moon through stained glass.

There is also the fact that, as avatars, sensations can be dulled. It feels like nothing can penetrate your surface. You need something stronger.

“We should go,” you finally suggest, as you draw away from him. You make it four - five steps before he tells you to stop. You shoot him a puzzled look.

He stalks forward, crowding you against one of those giant carved pillars. You lift your chin, defiant even though he’s got the full weight of his body pinning you to the curved stone. “I like it better when you’re helpless,” He drags his knuckles over the hump of your cheek. It’s kind of a lie. He likes you in any form. “Fuck - it gets me so damn hard when you act sweet for me - when you’re docile as a kitten and not so - angry.”

“Really? How boring,” Your voice hitches. They’re playing this game tonight. He’ll make you submit and you’ll do it without protest because it’s a relief to give him control.

“Yes,” he hums, leaning forward to press his mouth to your jaw and then the length of your throat. “I want you to be good for me.” He cups you between your legs, thumb rubbing over the crotch of your suit. “How many fingers of mine will you take tonight?”

Your pupils dilate. You clutch at his arms, seemingly struck dumb. He digs his thumb deeper. “How many?”

Your lips part around a whimper. “As many as you want to give me.”

He shivers at that - his entire body shrieking with affection and desire for you and the molten, wet comfort of your cunt. He kicks your foot out to spread your legs wide. His glove disappears so that he can slide his warm, real flesh underneath the band of your pants. “Open up, then,” he urges.

***

Steven tries his best to protect you. You have to admit that his strange pseudo-tuxedo outfit is a lot sexier than it should be. He doesn’t have the same technique as Marc, but he’s getting better. Kind of.

He is strong and can throw a punch…so there’s that.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs with the most hangdog expression.

“For?”

He’s sitting on the edge of his bathtub. His features are weary and his skin is grey and pallid. There are huge circles under his eyes. Purple as a bruise.

You hover over him, searching his body for any injuries even though you know the damn drill. There will be nothing. There will only be clean, healed skin. Still - you fret. You fret because he frets over you and it only seems fair.

“I messed that up.”

He did. He is an annoying little insect that needs to be squashed.

“It’s okay,” you assure him even though you will have to track down the amulet that got snatched and lost down a sewer.

He stops you, putting his hand on your wrist. You meet his gaze, startled. It is in these moments that you want to ask him if he loves you. It’s etched in the way he stares. The worship. The genuine wonder that he isn’t too proud to hide. His hands are slick with someone else’s blood as he reaches up and cradles your face. He shakes you gently. Bring me back to myself. Please. Tell me something. Tell me how it happened. How it all started.

But you don’t want to talk about that story. You don’t want to yet again go into detail about how Marc and you lay dying and became willing vessels to Bastet and Khonshu. The bargain. The deal.

Instead, you go to your knees and undo his pants. His eyes widen - the demands he had seemingly forgotten. He is always shocked that you’re willing to do this - that you actually enjoy giving him, of all people, pleasure.

It doesn’t take long. His lashes flutter and his nostrils flare as he watches you take him to the back of your throat. You swallow his come, cheeks hollowing as you drink each lash and spurt of seed. You are greedy for it.

***

Marc grunts when you maneuver your fingertips against the wound to keep it open. He delivers a silent request to Khonshu. Can you not heal me for an hour?

I do not understand you, mortals.

I need this. I need exactly this. The throbbing pressure of the injury - the flavor of mortality. Both of them have felt death and as a result, the feeling has come to haunt them. They need everything in surround sound. They need hard sex. They need agony.

“Fuck,” Marc rasps. “Sit on my face”

You flash him a grin and it is white and smooth as one of his crescent blades. You turn around, straddling his face so you're staring at his feet. You lick your thumb and scrape it over the broken skin in the muscle of his calve. His cracked ribs shift between your thighs and his lap bucks.

“Give me your cunt,” he growls, slapping your leg. It is just out of reach, the sweet musk of your sex hovering above his mouth. You drop your hips to meet it and he hums in appreciation. He'd call you a good girl if his mouth wasn't busy.

He eats you messily. His tongue wriggling inside you as his nose prods into thin tissue above it. “That’s my girl,” he hums in between lapping. He suckles and nips as you circle the cradle of your pelvis above his face. You strike your nails over his skin until it burns. His cock is standing straight - full of blood and in need of attention, but you restrain yourself. You prod a stab wound beneath his belly button that makes a feral, broken noise slip from him.

He is frantic. He is out of control. He shoves you forward a little so he can sink two of his fingers inside your pussy. You're on the very brink of a climax - walls flexing around his knuckles. The continuous push of more liquid that paints his chin. His stubble is burning the silky inner skin of your thighs and he hopes it leaves a mark for once.

His hips keep lifting - his impatience reaching a breaking point.

"Aw," you croon. "Do you need attention?"

You're such a bitch sometimes. He loves it.

You relent, wrapping your hand around his cock and giving him one firm harsh stroke that makes him choke on his own spit. It's just your dry palm, which makes the gesture hurts in a way he dies for - in a way that forces pre-spend to dribble from him.

"Fuck, baby," He hears you say. You continue to rock down on his face - on his fingers that he's thrusting inside you with a crude, constant squelch. "Let me use my mouth."

You drop your head, placing the wet tip of your tongue to the head of his cock and circling it. It's embarrassing how effective it is.

His body goes rigid and the blooming pressure in his abdomen releases. He comes and comes as he continues to devour you. It is as if he could swallow every organ by licking your cunt.

Everything inside you is mine. The thought shines bright inside his head. Let me collect your parts and pieces. Hide each in a Canopic jar for safekeeping. He hopes you feel the same.

He smirks as you moan with delight, licking his spend from your fingertips.

***

Moon Knight’s suit smells like papyrus and plume thistle and chamomile. But there is also the stench of stale air from a pyramid tomb.

“You smell like time,” you had told him once while you were drunk and sad and still not used to the screaming cyst of a goddess inside your skull.

“Time?” Marc frowned, his dark curls drooping over his forehead.

“In the suit - smells old - smells like mummies.”

“Have you ever smelled a mummy?”

“No, but I bet that’s what one smells like.”

Now - they were long past that period. There weren't many moments of idle drunkenness and playful banter. Marc was harder on you just as you were with him because it’s what they needed. Steven is different. You treat Steven like something precious, which Marc only finds annoying when it gets in his way.

You killed his fucking fish!

It was an accident.

Get a new one! He’s already fragile enough!

***

It is the best of both worlds really. You have that soft-sweet sex with Steven and then the feral fucking with Marc.

You obey Marc, especially in that suit. You get on your knees and crawl toward him.

“That mouth of yours needs fucking,” Marc hisses through that blank, sightless mask and you lift your chin and tell him: make me.

It's grueling and a bit violent and you still thank him afterward because it feels so good.

“You let him hurt you?” Steven asks as he traces the open sea of your skin where all the marks have disappeared as soon as they’d come. You don’t know how to explain it to him. How could you? There is a living goddess filling up your bones - rippling through your tissue and veins. It is not enough to be coddled and held and stroked. By him - yes. By Marc - you need the rest of it.

He wasn’t hurting you. Not really.

“It’s the whole avatar thing,” you try. “Sometimes you require more...stimulation. It - it can feel like you’re wrapped in plastic.”

Steven nods.

“I can feel it,” he reveals. “A bit. Just a bit. His thoughts - how Khonshu teases in my head. It’s like screaming through a downpour.”

“Yes,” you agree. “It is like that.”

The line between Steven and Marc is getting slimmer by the day. You’re not sure if Steven has the disposition to withstand Khonshu and his celestial bluntness.

It’s a sad thought.

Steven spreads his arms and you fall into him. You physically maneuver his hands to your hips and then the plump of your ass because he continues to be uncertain with you. “Do you want me to ride you, Steven?” You ask into his ill-fitting sweater. The wool scratches your cheek.

He inhales sharply. “Yes.”

They could make you come…holy fuck they could make you come and often. It was your connection. The weird fact that you shared each other's space. Khonshu and Bast tolerated the other’s existence while Steven, Marc, and you were straddling this mystical world where magic existed and souls were weighed.

Maybe - you weren’t that alone, after all. Maybe it didn’t matter.

***

Moon Knight descends upon the crowd surrounding you like a pale ghost. He is silent before he makes contact and then you can hear his weight. His solid form and preternatural strength as he tears through these criminals like meat.

Bast’s power staff sings in your hands - wanting more more more blood, but you are enthralled by Marc as Moon Knight. There are decapitated heads, broken bones, hearts tugged from chests. Blood spurting up and outward like that fountain in Russel Square.

You were overwhelmed by the group. You put yourself at risk because you didn’t listen to him and you left his side and went your own way.

When the screaming fades out, he whirls around to face you.

You can’t gauge his reaction. There is only the tense set of his shoulders and the eerie phosphorescent glow from the eye holes in his mask. The silence sings between you both. It fattens and swells and you should be dead, but you are not. You can’t die, but Marc is the last person to test it.

He stalks toward you.

His pace is always deliberate - steady and intimidating. You don’t retreat, you let him brush up right against you. He is vibrating with power. The blades at the center of his armor are wet with blood. He looms like a wall of muscle. The surface of him has the same quality as a statue - marbled and stiff. You want to throw yourself at him. He’s obviously waiting for something.

Your place your palms on his chest and leave apple-red handprints. So much blood. Their whole relationship is blood. He lifts his arms slowly and grasps the sides of your face. He tilts it underneath the moonlight. The wind shakes through the bouquets of foliage and trimmed hedges. There is the sweet scent of planted jasmine. The trees creak. The London traffic is far away - a rumbling buzz of nightlife.

“Are you going to beg me for it?” His tone is cold - burning cold though you know that underneath that suit is warmth - is a fever - is viscera and his pumping heart. His golden skin is always like sunbaked sand. You could rest your cheek upon it like a lizard.

You blink up at him, playing dumb. Your hands still jerk and twitch from the earlier fight - ready to wrap around the throat of another bony jackal should it burst between you.

Not your hands. Not your body. Not anymore.

Marc moves even closer until you are crushed as one. When you look up, you cannot see past his hood and mask. His yellow-white eyes illuminate your upturned face. He has blotted out the stars - the blue velvet galaxy. He takes the shape of the moon as his thumb rasps across your cheek. Beg. He demands without speaking. Beg me. Prostrate yourself.

You want it, but Bast doesn’t want to bend to him this time around.

He’ll give in eventually, little one…he will be unable to control himself. The weakness of his sex.

If only it were so easy. You are one screaming, raw nerve. You need him to shatter you into a thousand pieces. You are so torn up already - a cracked mirror that needs a final kick. Let me disappear into tiny diamond bits.

He drops his head lower, his mask rubbing across your jaw before he pulls back to regard you coolly. “Do you want it like before?”

See. I am never wrong.

You nod, already curling your fingers into his suit. You’re not pleading. You are just moving your head. The smell of iron wafts from those gleaming moon-shaped blades.

Those weapons are a bit on the nose don’t you think?

You’d better keep that to yourself before Khonshu decides to punish you.

Is that a promise?

“You like it when I hurt you with my cock.” he states, his tone uncharacteristically tender. His wrapped knuckles graze your lower lip and then your chin where he pinches the flesh to keep your head still. Your stomach twists up all the same. You feel empty without him. Yes. Yes. Yes. Just like back in Egypt and that first time - that room and tiled floor as you bent me over in front of the mirror -

“I do,” It’s the only thing that works. The fucking. It makes the voice go away for a bit. It makes you feel something when everything else is like squirming through smoke. You need it so rough it causes your teeth to click in your mouth. You need it everywhere. Every orifice. You need the pain of it and so does he.

That longing leads you to Moon Knight fucking you against the alleyway wall. There is trash. There is the promise of rain. The Gods are quiet for you both as Marc shears through your body - impaling you on a length that feels too big. He fills you to the brim. He uses you. His hoarse, vicious grunts in your ear.

His weight pins you to the brick as the head of his cock batters against your womb without respite. Take it take it take it. I know you can. I know. I know.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

Your cunt flutters in response, tightening up before relaxing. Your heart is in your mouth. It is far from over, leading you through two more orgasms before he finishes. When he does, a sound closer to a howl is ripped from his throat - muffled and low. You milk him dry - palms cupping the hood of his cape, holding tight to a form that feels more mystical than mortal. Your back continues to scrape against the cement and the brick as each slowing thrust juts you upward. Your knees are hitched over his waist. His suit rasps the inner skin of your knees.

You tighten your embrace around him. Gentler and sweeter. His grip on you loosens. He pets your shoulders and arms and bare waist, his touch full of fondness.

***

Marc is trying to plug his fingers into too many holes at once. His brain is like swiss cheese. He hates it - trying to cover the gaps in this entire other life that is Steven and everything else. His identity is sliced thin and copious as lunch meat.

He is grateful for you in that regard. You calm Steven’s nerves - literally dragging him back from the edge of a panic attack or breakdown every time he’s conscious.

Marc thanks you with fucking, which is what they seem to be the best at next to killing things.

He remembers the first time with you. The hellscape they’d found themselves in. It had been right after the first fight as Avatars. Both of them were so high off the adrenaline that he’d fucked you into the rough tile floor of a rented room in the middle of Egypt. The heat was near unbearable as he slid between your thighs and shoved his cock into you. No condom. No thoughts beyond your tight pussy and swollen mouth. The sweat from his curls dripped onto your face and you licked them away. Eyes wide and too bright and bleeding out your own God.

What happened? What are we now?

Each harsh thrust of his cock made your tits bounce. Your nails carved red streaks down the muscles of his back.

“Harder,” you begged him, hitching your knees higher over his waist. He slammed into you just as you asked. He angled downward until his dick was pounding against the furthest part of your body. Your cunt squelched with each stroke. Your nipples grazed his chest and he still wanted to be closer. He grabbed the back of your head, forcing it up in order to crash their mouths together.

“Not enough,” you sobbed into his kiss. His breath was your breath. His heart was hammering in his throat. He felt drunk. High. He was vibrating with so much energy that he could barely speak. He sat back on his heels and threw your ankles over his shoulder so he could fuck you that way - he was punishing - unrelenting -

Still - you were unsatisfied.

“I want you everywhere,” you demanded. “Every part of me.”

“You sure?” He was able to form that question - able to pause despite the curtain of lust that was crowding out anything that wasn't your pussy.

“Yes,” you hissed. “Please, Marc.”

He relented. He flipped you over onto your hands and knees, his touch stroking down the line of your spine and curve of your waist. Your eyes found his in the decorative mirror of their now destroyed room. He wanted to see your face as he fucked you.

He glanced down, spreading your ass, spitting what saliva he had left into the puckered hole that blinked and flexed above your gaping cunt. It had been wrong. He’d never have done it that way with anyone else. It’s not something you can just do without any preparation, but your body was no longer your body entirely. It was suddenly very capable - easily stretched and maneuvered and molded.

He tried to be careful as he entered you. The head of his cock was red and shiny from your pussy. His shaft throbbed, unbearably hard. He pushed inside inch by inch and you blossomed to take it. “Fuck,” you gasped as he burrowed deeper, as he filled you. Your fist came down, cracking the floor. “Don’t stop.”

He watched with rapt attention as that tight ring of muscle swallowed him.

He sunk to the hilt until his groin met your thighs, your body arching with the weight of him stretching you open. You were a mess of mewling girlish whimpers. He eased out just enough so that the tip caught on the rim of your hole before driving forward with a wet sound.

You choked - the channel of your ass clenching with the force of it. “So good,” you stammered as you dropped onto your forearms.

“You like it when I fuck your ass?” He cracked his hand across the cheek and then kneaded the flesh until it had to have ached. You didn’t even wince. Instead, you shoved yourself back against him - meeting him stroke for stroke. Your fingers made divots in the tile floor.

Marc glanced up at the mirror and, for a moment, swore that his face was not his face, but something new - screwed up in confusion and shock and maybe awe. Khonshu was silent. He seemed to blend into a grey mass at the back of his brain, which worked for him. That moment felt like the only time his head wasn’t breaking up into so many voices it became white noise.

Marc wrapped his arm around your tits and hauled you back against his chest. His hips snapped up against your ass - the backs of your thighs. The wet flesh smacked into a crescendo of thwap thwap thwap.

“Like that?” he grunted into your ear, his hand grasping your throat to hold it stiff and at attention. He could see tears sliding down the corner of your eyes, your lips parted around a choked-off scream. Every spear of his cock had left you mute, punching deep and splitting you in half. “C’mon, pretty baby. Tell me this is what you wanted? Opening your ass up on my cock?”

You nodded - a wet noise behind your teeth.

When he slipped his fingers over your clit, you came like a fountain. The tiny nub was swollen and rubbed raw from how long they’d been going at it. He teased you further, dragging his thumb down the cleft of your soaked cunt. Your body wound taut and knotted with tension as he pounded you. There were bits of sand stinging his knees. Your breathing became clipped and panicked and Marc Marc Marc please -

He felt you go rigid with your second climax. Your ass practically strangling his cock when you clenched up. It was enough for him, too because his own orgasm slammed into him with a blunt violence. It expanded in his groin until it unfurled completely, filling your ass with lash after lash of seed. You crumpled forward and he followed - his face crashing into your shoulder blade. He couldn’t catch his breath - he couldn’t feel his body. He felt very far away and so he wrapped himself protectively around the curve of your shaking form. Their skin was slippery with sweat. Sticky with come.

Gradually the world came crawling back to him. The billow of gauzy curtains in the window. The scent of the open-air market outside: coriander, bay leaves, cinnamon, dill, and mint. Roasted salty nuts. Orange-blossom syrup.

He touched your cheek, gently forcing you to look at him. Out of the haze, he was suddenly worried that he’d been too rough - that he’d been possessed by a power greater than himself. He had wanted to burn alive - twist up in pain and feel real heat and the wet clutch of your sex and he had been unable to tame it. What the fuck was wrong with him?

You are a small mortal with a living God inside you. It is natural to crave too much.

He ignored the voice, his fingers trembling as they touched you. “Are you okay?”

Your lips quirked and you stretched out against him. The image of a cat in the sun. “Harder next time.”

***

It isn’t always rough with Marc.

He has his quieter moments - his softer moments though you believe that even when he’s being stern it’s still all for your benefit. Your protection.

After the first time, he’d fucked you in that room in Egypt, he’d brought you ful medames with fried eggs. Kofta. He hand-fed you basbousa and licked the tang of honey and lemon from the cup of your mouth.

***

At some point, the barriers between Steven and Marc overlap further. The lines warp. It is not strict gentleness with Steven anymore. He could feel it, the genuine warmth in his chest and groin when you killed something or someone in front of him. The way blood dripped from your fingers made him tremble with a hunger that scared him. He no longer felt disgusted at the gore of their nightly rituals.

He was seeing more of Marc’s sex with you. More images. More moments of intrusion where he’d become a third-party guest. Sometimes he’d even manage to take over while Marc was fucking you.

He’d be mid-thrust or with his tongue between your legs and he’d draw back and say:

Just - um - by the way it’s Steven now.

I know it’s you, Steven. I know the difference.

You’d stare at him with that smooth amusement. Your indulgence reserved only for him. It was Marc who got your reality. He got your vulnerability. You treated Marc like he was something you could toss against a wall again and again and it wouldn’t crack. It would withstand your ugliness and pain. Steven sometimes wanted you to give that to him.

“I want all of you. I want everything,” Steven demanded, pressing adoration into your skin with his mouth, his teeth scraping down the curve of your tit. “You’d give it to me, yeah? I can handle it.”

“You want me to be mean to you?”

“You’re mean to Marc,” he pointed out. “You fall apart with Marc.”

With Marc. With Marc.

The sex with Marc is unhinged. He knows that. It straddles the line between dangerous and demented. Steven catches glimpses of Marc shoving his cock in you as he jams his fingers in your mouth, muttering: fucking Christ - you like being stuffed everywhere don’t you? You want it in your ass again?

You had decidedly not done that sort of thing with Steven.

You tap his nose, a single perfectly shaped brow lifted. “It's just what we do, Grant.”

Yes - her relationship with Marc had begun on violent terms. He could remember in the tiniest of flashes - in memories he couldn’t quite make out. You had hammered out the rest for him as they slept around each other in the warm dark of his loft. You and Marc had been in Egypt, both trembling and crusty with dried blood. Both newly reborn and still in the yolks of Khonshu and Bastet's afterbirth. They’d served them unconditionally, their bodies led like puppets to kill and protect.

“The first time we fucked,” you recalled. “It - well it was more of a fight to be honest.”

He didn’t entirely want you to be honest. Steven still felt that surge of jealousy that what you did with Marc was not what you did with him.

If Steven really tried, he could pull a shard of that memory to the surface. You with tears in your eyes and Marc behind you, holding you up as he fucked you and you could barely get the words out - yes harder harder harder -

Marc felt little pity for Steven in that regard. He’d be that second voice, the distorted blur of his figure in a mirror as he told him:

You get her love don’t you? You get her care and her gentle fucking hands. You get that. She needs something else from me.

It is fury with them, too. It is blood-hot. Bullets. Explosions. Marc and you volley one crude thing back to the other.

You like it when I leave your cunt aching, baby?

You want me to keep your come inside me, Spector?

You know what will happen if you don’t.

Choke me.

You’re so big, Marc. I can’t stop feeling you. You split me in half.

Steve still goes red when he is privy to these moments. He stammers through them, eyes trying to find any other point in the room that isn't your pretty face.

***

He comes to with you on your knees for him. They’re in Marc’s storage room.

The light is pale and softer than before. It seems artificial, but there is no source. It trails like moonlight. It spins cornsilk as it drips like wax over your bare back. You crawl across the floor - naked. Your ass lifted as an offering to him. The shiny image of your cunt peeking between your spread thighs and he swallows because he can see it parted and drooling. It is leaking pleasure and he wonders if Marc has already had you tonight. There’s that high glow emanating from your skin when you’ve been made to come. He knows it like he knows everything about you: every vein and ticklish spot. every scar. every sensitive patch of flesh.

“I could make you happy.”

“Could you? How?”

“If you share with me what makes you sad. If you tell me what you tell Marc.”

"And that's what will make me happy?"

"No, darling. It's so that we can avoid everything that upsets you, yeah?"

He glances down at himself. He is in the suit that Marc hates, but it fits him like a glove. You toss your head, making eye contact with him over your shoulder.

“Hi baby.” Your voice is full of warmth and the expression is so lovely that it makes his chest balloon outward. It mystifies him. The endearments. The intimacy of kind words shared between the two of them.

“Hello you,” he replies, completely glossing over the fact that you're as naked as the day you were born. This happens a lot though. He comes to in a lot of these special situations. He shifts on his feet. His eyes trail over the clutter that surrounds them.

Marc’s room is packed with loot. There is the glimmer of dust-sprinkled uncut gems in opened boxes. Cash. Guns. Golden trinkets. Everything glints in the shadowed corners of the room.

“What - what are we doing here?” He’s got the mask on. His mouth muffled against the fabric. His forearms are white as chalk.

“This was her idea,” Marc declares, his form clear in the reflection across from Steven. Same suit, but Marc carries himself differently. There is an arrogance in his shoulders. His tone harsh just like everything about him. Steven can almost make out the shape of a smirk beneath the cloth.

“You’re going to fuck me, Steven,” you say plainly as you lean forward on your elbows. Your ass spread for him. Your pussy. He swallows as his cock twitches. “Marc gets to watch.”

“Oh,” He doesn’t really know what else to say. He doesn’t really know what this is. He can feel Marc’s scrutiny on him. It’s heavy and crushing.

“You want to feel what Marc feels, don’t you? He’ll tell you - show you.” Your voice is so throaty, drawing him in. He moves forward before it even registers and then he is there behind you. He is reaching for your face and you allow it, turning and rising up on your knees.

“Yes,” he replies as he rucks his mask above his nose. He bends at the waist, grasping your chin in order to kiss you. The pressure he shoves behind it is fierce. It is teeth and tongue. He understands that they’re about to cross a line. This is what he's asked for. This is what you are willing to give him. Marc seemingly agrees, though the man's expression in the reflective glass is dubious. Steven will prove that he's capable. He'll prove his worth, which is a battle he's been fighting since he can't even remember.

Desperate to be seen. Desperate to be felt. Desperate to matter.

I'm here. I'm here. I'm right here.

"Steven," you breathe against his lips - your hands pulling at the back of his jacket. "Steven - let us show you."

He can hear Marc's rugged timbre coaxing him. A tickle at the base of his brain.

He knows how it will have to be and so he yields, allowing Marc's words to drift in and hit their target. Steven listens intently and his touch reflects every directive. They cobweb together - meld and morph into a whole. They take you apart - carve you open and let you break.

[fullmxtal-elrich]

"I should've known." Ed crossed his arms over his chest and gave Russell a blank stare. It seemed the man had nothing better to do at the moment than to torment him, but that didn't mean that the blond would make it an easy task.

"Seriously...? Saran wrap was the best thing you could come up with? I've seen way better." He said, not giving any mind to the fact that Russell had said he was easy to trick. The shorter man gave a low sigh and rolled his eyes.

"Whatever, you're as troublesome and boring as ever."

Continued from here @fullmxtal-elrich

Ed hadn't been paying attention, he knew these hallways well...Until he walked face-first into the carefully placed saran wrap in the hallway. Stopping dead and taking a couple steps back, he looked around to try and figure out what the hell just happened or who put it there. "What the hell? Who put saran wrap across the hallway?"

Russell rounded the corner on the other side of the barrier he'd created with a smug smirk, crossing his arms while he admired his handiwork. The result was even better than he'd expected. He wasn't sure if Ed would have noticed it or not before he walked into it, but the plan had worked perfectly. Fletcher had tried to talk him out of it, but the plan would be too much fun not to follow through with it.

"It looks like it worked after all." He took a few steps forward and reached out to press his hand against the tightly secured saran wrap. "Looks like I finished setting it up just in time. You came through earlier than I expected. Who would have thought you'd be so easy to trick," he taunted.