#do we still use all the ship names?
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there is not enough femslash in batcest circles. the girls deserve to be just as weird about each other as the boys are. if BruDick gets to be weird father/son/brothers/lovers/friends/rivals/soulmates then it is only fair that Babs/Cass get to be mother/daughter/sisters/lovers too. Something about that deep intrinsic but undefinable love that is born out of trauma, especially if you consider Cass not knowing what healthy love looks like in the first place. i think it's fun and deserves just as much fandom content.
besides that, you can get even more niche with rarepairs like Helena/Steph. Huntress/Spoiler: Blunt Trauma is already a fantastic comic and even though it's their only real canon interaction it has so much potential. very comparable to TimJay in how Helena tries to get Steph to understand her morals and the corruption you could play with it.
batman: huntress/spoiler: blunt trauma (1998)
that comic also highlights on how both Steph and Helena are outcasts of the Batfamily and don't have the approval of Bruce to be doing what they do in "his city". I think there's so much Potential in Helena taking Steph under her wing because Bruce won't let her in and it becomes a weird codependent toxic sapphic mess. I think the protectiveness Helena feels over Steph from the get-go is so clear and the way she wants to look out for Steph, wants to make sure Steph understands the real world? I love them. Helena should be allowed to steal Steph, actually. I think it'd be fun.
there are a lot of other possibilities too like Babs/Steph or even getting weird with Helena Bertinelli/Helena Wayne and the existential question of "is it selfcest or not." But these two specifically live in my head rent-free, especially Helena/Steph and one day I'll convince everyone else to ship it too.
#batcest#necrotic festerings#how do i tag ships that are almost non-existent#helena bertinelli x stephanie brown#cassandra cain x barbara gordon#as resident huntress fan my answer to the is helena w/helena b selfcest depends entirely on which version of helena wayne you're using.#pre-crisis!helena wayne/pre-flashpoint!helena bertinelli? yes i agrue is selfcest adjacent at least#because helena bertinelli was meant to be an adaptation of helena wayne#if it's jsa (2022)!helena wayne then it's *not* selfcest because they co-exist in the same universe#and according to current lore helena wayne was named after bertinelli and took the name huntress in her honor#which is a *choice* for sure but that's a different post#i still think shipping them is super fun in a “don't meet your heroes” sort of way with helena wayne time travelling#and then potentially running into bertinelli and realizing she's not what wayne thought she was and it being weird toxic shit#as for new-52 helena wayne. i do not acknowledge her and will not comment.#*god* I hate new-52 huntress.#(imo it would be selfcest tho bc they tried to make helena wayne a bertinelli clone. so. there's that.)#i'm going to write a helena/steph fic some day and none of you bitches can stop me#yeah yeah we have stephcass but y'all have sanitized the fuck out of that to convince yourselves it's not batcest and that made it boring.#and helena/babs is neat and all but i prefer helena/zinda when it comes to BoP ships#i should've included panels for cass/babs but it's been a while since i read batgirl (2000) so none immediately came to mind#i have a *lot* more helena/steph thoughts but no braincell to word them. know i will talk about them again.#they got one whole comic and now i won't let them go#also cass/helena is fun for combating morals and the complicated batgirl mantle#cass wears the batgirl suit *helena* made y'all think i can't make that romantic bc i can and will#if we have robin pile then give me batgirl pile#babs/helena/steph/cass hell throw in bette too.
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I think the real question now is do we still make trump x Biden ship edits now he’s stood down or do we wait for the new candidate or what
#us politics#joe biden#triden#i think that’s the ship name#biden x trump#and yes we do still use Chappell Roan for all the music#it’s joever#or is it
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my birthday is also my genshin anniversary, so i doodled myself with some favs 💕 happy four years, my beloveds
also looking at the cake lineup in my inventory makes me so happy ehehehe (also the xiao lanterns)
#2024#self insert#self ship#genshin impact#sucrose and ajax baked the cake together and sucrose was not informed that the candles would be yoimiya's sparklers lol#kaeya alberich#xinyan#naganohara yoimiya#sucrose#venti#dvalin#childe#tartaglia#childe tartagalia#they need to tell us ajax's surname so we could just use his name instead of titles like that's ridiculous#ignore the anatomy this was a quick scribble for the seratonin boost#it didnt have to be good. it just had to make me feel happy looking at it! and it did! :D#i wish i could've fit more characters :( i'm still stuck with tiny pieces of scrap paper and it sucks#i neglected to add a sumeru character because so many of them are in a do-not-separate situation with AT LEAST one other character#like i would've liked to add faruzan but then it's like oh then i should add layla and kaveh! followed by oh i need to add al haitham then!#which would be followed by added cyno and nilou. which would be followed by adding dunyarzad dehya candace tighnari and collei#which of course means i would next go all the way and add nahida kuni and sethos#do you see what i mean? sumeru's cast is too intertwined! if you want one you need them all!#absolutely no room for that lol#man... i need to rebuild sucrose i miss playing as her she's so fun#anyway anyway i hope you're all having a lovely day/night
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#i’m putting this down here because i don’t actually really want to talk about it or answer asks about it but i’m like a little annoyed lmao#first of all obviously people should have boundaries and not be annoying/invasive/etc. duh.#i have been around the rpf block many a time and rule 1 is don’t be a weirdo. don't let it out of fandom spaces :)#but yeah idk. oliver stark to me feels like someone who is actually very familiar with the mechanics of fandom warfare#and therefore does not know how to log off when it starts to get personal#like to be clear i definitely do not think he engages directly with This fandom other than to lurk and spy on people for fun/haterism#but in MY opinion he has the energy of a person who spends a nonzero amount of time engaged in petty anonymous beef#over a character or a ship or a sport or a new brand of tofu. idk i don’t really care what he’s into#but it does sort of seem like he forgets that when he’s doing it on his real socials with his real face and real name attached#people are going to know that it’s him and respond accordingly and he should just like. block them and move on.#and maybe even go back to his burner and vague about it or something if he truly cannot just walk away.#which he does seem to be sort of getting slightly better at but it's still just like. yeah man! i don't know what to tell you.#people are weird sometimes. we all get weird anons and dm’s and people cyberbullying us. it sucks and it shouldn't happen but it does.#and you do literally just have to find ways to make it easier to ignore them. i know that you know this#because you are a human who grew up on the same exact internet as the rest of us.#i say; as i feel compelled to post about a tiny situation from like 12 hours ago that has literally nothing to do with me#anyway!!!!!!!#i went into the settings to turn off reblogs and thought how funny would it be if i blazed this post lmao
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can you IMAGINE if marshal john turns out to be the traitor? i think id be more heart broken than if it was caspian
#my post#really just bcus ig im used to caspian traitor by now#its been like 5 months it was the conclusion we all immediately jumped to im numb to it now#but marshal john?? BIG J?????#the fact that he still goes by marshal. the fact that when asked he said he has no first name. hm.#but like can you IMAGINE. you are a spy for the navy and are awaiting the right moment to 'defect' and join a dangerous pirates crew#a crew of young inexperienced pirates shows up and attacks your base but one of them repeatedly and publicly declares that he knows you can#be more than this. now or never you guess.#so you 'defect'. and after a few weeks you run into those same pirates again- and they excitedly welcome you onto their ship with open arms#you sail with them a while. they consider you a friend. you remember your mission.#you leave them when you find your captain and dont expect to see them again. you are immediately captured by the navy- that you still work#for- and are unceremoniously dumped in the torture maze prison.#what do you think as youre freezing to death in the blizzard wastes? that you failed your mission? that you died believed to be a traitor?#that you pity the pirates if this was the punishment waiting for them?#you close your eyes.#you wake up.#its the three pirates again. they came for you. they came *here* for *you*.#they bring you on their ship- again- and they bring you to your captain- again.#you remember what the one pirate said about you being more. you remember what he says about destiny.#you remember your mission
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Gear 5 luffy's laugh is so contagious I just hear the drums and go insane how does this work. What did he do to me
#i still cant believe how much this new opening theme goes off.... DREAM SAVE ALL OF US 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH 💥💥💥💥💥💥#wait a second. the robot attacked 200 years ago. the void century was 800 years ago no????? what#oh see it was made 900 years ago.... but why did it attack 200 years ago then.... what happened#it is still so funny how they made evegapunk einstein but with some cunty long legs#200 years ago they gave rights to the gyojin!!! i see i see ✍️✍️also i still wonder why law and kuma have similar hat and pants designs#like there is NO WAY that much similarity isnt done on purpose. NO FUCKING WAY!!! I NEED ANSWERS!!!#are they annihliating cp ships akdhakskd yeah vegapunk letsgo#also the opening song is about dreams and the end one is about luffy reaching shanks...... havent got a clue why but there it is#talking tag#watching one piece#episode 1098#also is lucci named lucci bc it kinda sounds like luffy. SERAPHIM KUMA HAS HIS DEVIL FRUIT???? vegapunk could only make zoan fruits????#also wdym when cp0 acts it means its some historic event. lucci is like 25. where are the experienced people here#sentomaru works for vegapunk??? maybe i forgor about this tbh also do theu have a doffy seraphim??? the fact they have animal names....#stussy letting kaku get hurt akdhsjsn oh atlas has lamb ears..... and lucci said she is is prey... no..... the foresahdowing :(#lucci you fucked up she just gave luffy food... that a death sentence look what happened to kaido#episode 1099#<- oh my god btw. god. jesus.#why is akainu telling the cp0 what to do or thinks he can do that... thats the world gov... also thinkng about how garp should fight him#and not luffy.... because of ace you know... i still wonder how did sengoku know who ace's father was... there is only one man who knew....#everyone trying to stop them from fighting ajdhsksjks two rabid dogs fr#LUFFY TAKING OFF HIS JACKET WHEN LUCCI ASKS FOR HIS WANTED SIGN!!!! GO OFF KING!!!! SLAY!!! THE CREW SAW HIM!!! FINALLY!!!#i have been smiling since he started the transformation this is so sick...... i have got a case of the luffy brain#zoan fruits steal the personality of the user when they awaken ✍️✍️ luffy???? nami being the only one who saw gear 5 <3 twins manifesto#robin being so shook about luffy being a god ajdbjansk wdym devil fruits exist because people wish for them. fairy magic real????#WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY ARE FROM ALTERNATE REALITIES WHERE SOMEONE DREAMT ABOUT THEM??? DOES HE TRAVEL THRU REALITIES FOR THEM???#jinbe has been making this face 😧 every episode three times it is amazing ajdhaksnsk poor man... now he sees a kid angel version of himself#after seeing hia captain turn into a god... he is gonna get a stroke OMG SENTOMARU WE JUST GOT YOU BACK#episode 1100#<- CRAZY. INSANE. OH GOD. ONLY 12 LEFT. THATS A WEEKEND!!! I CANT DO THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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talked w/ a friend about this and wanted to post something similar yesterday after a convo i saw also
about people criticizing ttcc / ttcc fans for just... being cog fans? being cog centric? usually coming from people who only like the toons.
and everyone likes what they like! it's okay! but saying that people who like the cogs are horrible and support the bad things they do, is just blatantly wrong. i thought we knew that enjoying villainous and morally Bad / grey characters is... okay? it doesn't mean you support what they do. it's interesting to explore these topics.
i've seen many people just... paint anyone who likes the cogs as horrible because they're "apologists of x and y" and... i dunno. rubs me the wrong way! you do have a point and recognize the cogs do bad things, but liking them as characters means nothing about who you are as a person.
and this is not to say that people who are in toontown for the toons are bad. hell! they are right this IS toontown. i may be on the cog liker side but i like the toons! maybe ocs more than the npcs - mostly because i like my friends and the sheer creativity the toons can bring out!!
SO what i wanna say... i dunno. let's not point fingers...? let's have fun in a goofy cartoon game together??? also complaining about people liking VILLAIN ROBOTS on TUMBLR is kind of funny to me. do you realize where you are. but then again a lot of this i see on discord and in-game as well since i avoid things on tumblr... i am a sensitive little fella i avoid misty fight bc of One Really mean "Critic" guy i saw there and i have been shivering in my bootsies since. so you get me
but like yes ttcc is more cog centric but... that's okay? things could be written better and i still wanna speak on it, and i do thing the toons deserve attention and better writing... but the fact it focuses on the cogs isn't... bad? if you don't like how con centric it is you can go play ttr...? god forbid people have fun and explore the villain's side of things...? i'm not saying either toontown server is better or worse than the other... and everyone can like their own things!!
but like... people will just like the cogs and that's okay and it doesn't make you bad. let's all be friends okay? both sides may be going at each other's necks in-game and the cogs in fact do horrible things - but it's what makes them fun, and it gives the toons things to do in the game!! but we don't gotta !!!!!!!! i may be really sarcastic and sometimes mean in private but like that's me just privately sassing, deep down i think people should just... y'know..? enjoy things.
so yea that's the guzma / cathal thought of today. toon people cog people both people are all awesome as fuck and you keep doing what you're doing i love you toontown isn't toontown without you
#anyways omg god forbid ppl are cog kissers on the robot kissing website /silly#but like!! tt/r may not be for everyone and tt/cc may not be for everyone and THATS OK!! ur not gonna like everything!!#like i accepted tt/r isnt for me but its mostly bc they dont show cog health specifically and i struggle with these things but !! i#heard they are updating that so i might be able to play without getting bored / frustrated again ^^ i havent played properly in yeaaaars#i will still prefer clash bc fixation and?? i LIKE ROBOBTS....!#but tewtow is tewtow its all swag. the least toony thing u can do is bully someone for Liking Robobt. be niceys#like ya i admit im not perfect i also dont like people andhave so much one sided beef and i am sensitive to so many things and i complain#in private but at the end of the day its to make myself feel better and i KNOW to not engage and look away and work on feeling better#bc this stuff does Heehoo upset me bc Mental Health Probulem. but i know everyone should and can do their own thing and have fun#i may complain about (redacted ship) all the time and i dont get it at all but...? bro... just have fun... be free. im not here to stop you#im just not gonna interact as i should. good for both of us! joyous world! happy that ur happy!!!!#why complain abt ppl just Enjoying Cogs like that though................................................ do you not like fun#this is not at anyone specific#my friend did show me tags of a post anonymously#and i vague a person whos name i dont know ingame like A YEAR AGO#and a convo what happened in a server a while back. but its not anyone specific i just wanted to like. speak my thoughts#lets be frense... and if not thats okay lets not argue either then we all stay in our lanes
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huntingbird + 'don't die out there'
BONUS:
#bobbi morse#lance hunter#huntingbird#do we still use that ship name around these parts?#if we don't idk why it's cute asf#aos#aos gifs#mattie edits#i'm on 309 and dreading their departure#marvel i will never forgive u for dropping their tv show :(#also i think i'm getting closer to figuring out my frame rate issue!#u know what i did not figure out and did not realize until after i hit post#my text is stretched to all hell#it's got my vogue font stretch settings from my last video edit#stretched 118% looks great on the vogue font#not so much on helvetica#o well#better look next time!#gotta work on that attention to detail
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Crazy for you, oh boy | Shane x Harvey
Quick tags not in tags: suicidal thoughts mentioned, getting together, mostly fluff, bit of dark humor, they were friends before that, ooc sewers
Shane stood by the Saloon's bar in his usual spot. Also as usual, he was holding a pint of beer in his arm. And in his usual manner, Shane took a sip of his drink. Usually, his mind would be plauged by the visions (getting to work at jojamarkt next day).
Yoba, how he hated that place. He wouldn't work there anymore if he had any say in it. Sadly, he needed that money. Plus, he can't just leave poor Sam alone within the land of Tartarus under the lead of Krotos (Morris).
What was unusuall tonight, was the lack of thoughts regarding his little hell. Tonight his mind was stuck in the purgatory of longing after a feeling. A feeling that he wished for harder with each gramm of the alcohol in his blood.
Shane wasn't prone to those soul minglings before being brought back from the dead at The Clinic. The sight of his momentary guardian asleep on the fucking plastic stool, leaned agains the wall, legs curled to his chest and prepped against Shane's bed frame, made the ex-alcocholic stirr something deep inside of his chest and reset in his brain. He didn't think he could go back to looking at the man the same way he did before. In seconds, Harvey got promoted from being this mystical doctor seen by Shane once when he was running late to his job, to a real person that Shane wanted to get closer to.
Shane wouldn't have known what to call his current feeling if it wasn't for the new farmer, Laura. For someone so disorganised as him, Laura could muster up some good advice when coherent enough.
"The desire to be desired. And the desire to desire that thing the same way." Laura told Shane. He stopped in his track after hearing that. And then he burst out laughing. "What? If I didn't desire to pass down my legacy and Guiliermo didn't desire to be owned by me specifically, we wouldn't have each other!" She picked up her cat up to Shane's face. The orange cat looked at him right in the eye, as if challenging him. To what, Shane had no idea. But the devil's youngling must have sensed his lack of defense and meowed loudly in victory. Shane just turned around and went back to Marnie after loosing the one sided battle. He heard the farmer's laughter goes quiet as he walked.
Closing his eyes, Shane could almost see Harvey's face staring at him fondly. His mind tried to imagine his expression change to more passionate one. Shane tried not to let his mind take control. The more thoughts of this calliber, the most likely he was to send his addictions to the bottom of the cliffs alongside with him.
He looked down at his glass, half full with a beer. It was supposed to be his first and only one tonight. But with how things were going, Shane was tempted to throw the glass across the whole local and preach the words of his soul. How he felt because of the booze. How the will feel because of the booze. How it could ruin their life as hard as it ruined his. How one drink led to another to another to another to another to another to another to anot-
Warm chocolate eyes blinked at him right before his face. Shane relaxed his grip on the glass. He pushed it towards Gus, dropped some coins on the counter and left. He ignored the looks given by the townfolks and let himself fall into the fresh breeze outside. He stood in front of the darkness that loomed over the town at the edge of the forest. Without any more thought, he let himself be swallowed by it. It wasn't long before his eyes got used to the lack of the warm radiation of laps lit up around the town. The sky was truely one of the main reasons why Shane didn't get with his plans. Constelations of unwandered paths streched right above his small and meaningless life. Glittering and saying that maybe it was worth being there even if just to marvel at their beauty for a fleeting moment.
Shane wandered around the forest, his gaze lost in the stars, mind still by the fond eyes it couldn't bare to leave behind. He didn't know how long he was out there untill he saw the edge of the cliffs. Instead of heading acrossthe grass, Shane followed the overgrown path. It led to a narrow stairs that led to the large pipe that finished (or started?) the maze of sewer canals spread under the town. Drunk Shane liked to joked that it was an underground mirror reflecting the spiralls and labirynths made by stars. As if an artist scribbled down the unseen paths between stars and the pages landed on the desk of a rough engineer who tried and failed to recreate their grace.
As Shane marveled upon the genius of the cosmic blueprint, a quiet song was to be heard. He looked around, trying to find its source. After seeing nobody at the forest's clearing and no soul on the beach below, Shane was sure that it was coming from inside the pipe. His body tensed up, ready to initiate a fight or flight revalation at whatever might come from the sewer. The thing is, Shane would be nothing wothout his brain. And his brain, soothed by the strange melody, didn't want to response accordingly. So he sat at the top of the stairs, entranced by how sweet the sounds were. He was almost lulled to sleep by it when he started to sway to the rythm lightly. He got startled when he heart someone sing along the tune. What shocked him more was the fact that the voice was coming from his mouth. The words to the song came to him with a blink of an eye. Shane let himself be taken by the melody's current. And with a small smile on his lips, he sang.
"Harvey, nobody knows what I see."
#shane x harvey#harvey x shane#not gonna tag under names/sdv because ik how annoying it gets to see not liked ships under general tags#but they are from sdv do not be fooled#i might have inserted myself into shane a little bit but he's just too relatable#anyways#perchance.#I'm sleep deprived#not sure how correctly it is written bc english is my second language#so it might be polish gramma with english words#big letters/small letters are all intentional. it's The Clinic and jojamarkt bc fuck you#we disrespect jojamarkt here#i didn't proofread it before posting#i will read it in the morning and continue#I'm already saying that I played sdv just for a little bit and still don't have some places unlocked#i have no idea what is in the sewers but i'm using them here
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Gotta love the Young Avengers posts that are like:
"❤The Young Avengers❤
Kamala - Riri
Kate - Yelena
Billy - Tommy
Kid Loki - Peter"
Yelena? Peter? Riri? Are just all new people part of the Young Avengers now? I swear every time I look they're adding someone else! Who's next Skaar?
#young avengers#kate bishop#yelena belova#billy kaplan#tommy shepherd#kid loki#kamala khan#riri williams#peter parker#comics#and yk their only adding Yelena so they can ship her with Kate even though Yelena is aroace coded in comics#but who cares about a smidge of aspec rep right? i swear if i hear `aroace people can still date` sure ik IM AROACE but i dont trust yall#and i dont trust Disney.#(and i said coded because the words are never used outside an interview but are we hated so much that we can't even have a crumb of rep?#this is Jughead Jones all over again. does queer rep only matter when its the main LGBT? once its past that its suddenly not a big deal?)#i desist#have they even called them the young avengers yet? they could make a new team or they could go by a new name.#and i swear to all the gods above if they make Skaar stand in for teddy or erase teddy all together im gonna bang my head against something#and if they do that and erase billy and teddy 🔪🔪🔪 i dont particularly care for them (i like speed) but id fight marvel for that#young avengers comics#and this isnt hate for kamala or kamala and kate teaming up but why not like new avengers? or something why YA
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My ship now (Patreon)
#Doodles#Pajama Sam#Florette#Luke Wigglebig#Flukette#I decided that since I'm the only one on the whole internet shipping these two that I could make up my own ship name lol#What do you /mean/ no one is shipping these characters from a children's game from two decades ago who barely speak to each other???#Lol#I know what I'm about#These were mostly getting-used-to-again doodles since I haven't drawn them in like a year ahhh I've missed them! More than I realized#Still using Luke's classic design rather than my constrast-maker on his jacket haha#It's fun and looks good but it can be a pain to draw sometimes lol - simple is the way to go!#They've both got that in spades ♪ Cute to-the-point designs :D I always wish for more Luke in the game tho...You don't even rescue him....#Anyway lol mostly silliness! The first inspired the second can you tell lol#What if Florette was tall but not actually lol#To be fair she probably could've been tall - broccoli isn't naturally short! That's the supermarket precut version!#She could be leggy for all we know lol - I do like her height difference with Luke tho#All the better to pick her up and give her a smooch!#Or in the case of her having arms - the jacket returns! Although I think I only posted the original to my alt :0 - then to drag him down >:3#Get him on your level!#Why is she threatening to kill him? Banter (lol)#She's a real threat now that she has access to limbs#And a slightly more friendly drag him down ♪ I love reaching towards each others ahhh <3#He can rest a hand on the ground and still be upright to kiss her lol#To be fair it's probably a pain to stand from sitting or laying when your ''leg'' is just a continuation of your torso#And then a last couple chibis <3 I'd like to make some Humongous Entertainment style pixel art based on them ♪#Also ft. their design swaps! Which were also posted to my alt lol#She's just so cute with those big cartoony eyes gazing up at him ♥
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an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader
your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.
type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k)
cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)
Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.
Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.
He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.
He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.
Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.
All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.
You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?
He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.
To my wife,
The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.
I have you to think about now. So I burned them.
Simon
A poet, your beloved.
He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.
Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.
Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.
You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.
The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.
Perhaps it’s both.
You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.
You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.
Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.
“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.
“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”
You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”
He grins wide, licking over his teeth.
“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”
You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.
It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.
To you.
“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”
Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.
“I…” You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…” You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”
You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.
“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”
Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.
He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.
It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.
So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.
When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.
“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”
“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”
You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.
A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.
Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.
He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.
He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.
Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.
He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.
You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.
“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.
“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”
“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.
“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”
“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.
“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”
Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.
“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.
“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.
“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”
You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.
“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.
You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.
You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.
You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.
He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.
He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”
You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”
He chuckles, “I know. I know.”
But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.
He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.
“I want to go.“
“No.”
“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”
You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.
He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.
“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”
Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.
“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”
A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.
“That is my duty.”
“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”
You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.
There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.
Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived?
Would he?
He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.
It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.
Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.
Her. Her. Her.
He is bitter, yes, until he is not.
It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.
So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.
I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.
I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.
Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.
When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.
So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.
The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.
His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.
He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?
Simon agreed.
But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.
When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.
You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.
You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.
You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”
You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?
You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.
The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?
You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.
Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.
Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.
You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.
“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.
“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”
You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.
“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”
Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.
“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”
You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.
“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”
You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.
“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.
“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”
“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.
What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.
What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?
No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.
Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.
“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.
When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.
You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.
“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”
You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.
What you have become and what you no longer are.
“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”
John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.
“So you know.”
“Know what, Your Majesty?”
“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”
You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”
You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”
John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?
“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”
John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.
“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.
“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”
“Now who’s being daft?”
You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.
“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.
“What?”
“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”
John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.
“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”
“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”
“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”
You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.
“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”
John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”
“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”
John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?
John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”
You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?
You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.
“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.
“Kings do not owe their subjects.”
“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”
“Everything you do is as my subject.”
“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”
You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.
John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.
“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”
You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.
“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”
Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.
Simon answers your call. Always.
At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.
“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”
“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.
“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”
He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.
“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”
You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.
“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.
“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”
“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.
Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.
You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).
It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.
John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.
You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.
Manipulation.
Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.
It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.
He’s mine.
It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?
Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.
A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.
“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.
“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.
“But not for John.”
He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.
“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”
It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.
“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”
This time, at least. Just this time.
Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.
“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”
“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”
“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”
“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”
“Simon–”
He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.
Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.
It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.
Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.
Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.
Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.
With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.
Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.
Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.
Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.
With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.
“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.
“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.
“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.
When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.
You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays.
John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.
In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.
It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.
Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.
In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.
“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”
“Wot’s so funny?”
You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.
“I…”
“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”
“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”
Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.
“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”
He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.
You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.
You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.
“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”
Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.
What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.
When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.
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Soresu Negotiations
“Get help,” Palpatine said. “You’re no match for him. He’s a Sith Lord.”
Obi-Wan turned to look at the Chancellor. “...yes?” he said. “But he’s also something else – something I’m surprised you’ve forgotten.”
“What?” Palpatine asked.
“A politician,” Obi-Wan replied, turning back to Dooku.
Anakin groaned, then sat down.
“Here we go,” he said.
Palpatine blinked, looking from Anakin to Obi-Wan.
“...what do you mean, Anakin?” he asked.
“This happens sometimes,” Anakin replied. “How do you think he got his nickname?”
“Count,” Obi-Wan said, at about the same time. “It’s occurred to me that I never actually found out what the Confederacy wants.”
“Isn’t it a little late for this?” Dooku asked. “We have been at war for several years.”
“True,” Obi-Wan conceded, readily. “The war having started on Geonosis, because of tracing back your clone army which we… appear to have appropriated, mostly because you did it in our name. But that’s how the war started – not your objectives.”
Dooku was silent for a moment.
“I assume some semblance of a point will be emerging,” he said, eventually. “If you could be so kind as to provide it?”
“Wars begin for all sorts of reasons,” Obi-Wan replied. “But how they end… they end because a mutual settlement has been reached. And it’s occurred to me that I don’t know what you’d want out of a victory.”
He spread his hand, the one not holding the – unlit – saber. “It’s not the conquest of the Republic, I can tell that much. If the CIS annexed the Republic, what you’d have would still be the Republic, just under a different name… it’s not the Republic without the corruption that’s been causing it problems, because most of the corruption in the Republic was – was – the big industrial concerns like the Techno Union, Commerce Guild, Trade Federation. But you seem to have taken all of those off our hands, and they provide essentially your entire military so I don’t think anyone else could honestly believe that either.”
“I wouldn’t expect a Jedi to understand,” Dooku replied. “The Confederacy’s member systems have concerns relating to over-centralization.”
Obi-Wan stared at him for a long moment.
“...no they don’t,” he said.
“I hardly think you can have earned your reputation as a negotiator, Kenobi, if you are so willing to be insulting,” Dooku said, archly.
“That’s not what I mean,” Obi-Wan replied. “I mean… yes, now the Republic has an army, though really it’s actually the Jedi’s army and we’re simply letting them borrow it, but four years ago the Galactic Republic was proverbially incapable of doing anything. It took emergency powers for the Chancellor to get the Republic to authorize having any kind of military whatsoever – and the only one available was the one you ordered. That’s not over-centralization.”
He drummed his fingers on his ‘saber. “And I note that I overheard Nute Gunray insisting on the head of Senator Amidala – literally, in those words – as his price for signing a treaty. But I still haven’t heard an actual answer. What does the Galaxy look like if the Confederacy wins?”
Dooku frowned, and after about three seconds Obi-Wan glanced at the Chancellor.
“Didn’t you discuss this at any point, your excellency?” he asked. “Count Dooku doesn’t seem to have thought about this.”
Palpatine blinked.
“...he’s a Sith Lord,” he repeated. “Shouldn’t you be fighting him?”
“It’s called diplomacy, Chancellor,” Obi-Wan replied, before returning his attention to Dooku. “Grandmaster, are you seriously telling me that you never thought about what you would do if you won?”
Anakin checked his comlink, for the time, then the ship trembled slightly.
“Artoo?” he asked. “Can you tell those ships outside to stop shooting at us and give us a wide berth? This could take hours and I don’t want to find out if my name’s literal.”
“Hours?” Palpatine repeated.
“He’s rolling,” Anakin replied, rolling his eyes. “Like I say, I’m used to this.”
He rummaged in a pocket of his robes, taking out a miniature toolkit, and began disassembling his lightsaber. “I’m pretty sure I can retune these crystals to give two stable configurations which it’ll snap between, that should give me a length toggle instead of a single adjustable length…”
“Are you taking your lightsaber apart?” Palpatine hissed. “What if you need to fight?”
“It’s okay, Chancellor, I’ll get about five minutes’ warning if the negotiations are going downhill,” Anakin replied. “That should be time to put it back together again…”
Palpatine looked up to Obi-Wan, who – sure enough – was still going.
“...of course, a separate but related issue is what it’s going to be like afterwards,” Obi-Wan said. “In principle the Republic and the Jedi Order could probably accept the existence of Sith so long as we actually knew who they were and they weren’t trying to destroy us. It’s the fact that the first Sith we met in a thousand years tried to run Anakin over and cut Qui-Gon’s head off as an opening move that’s soured us towards them a bit… but are you really going to be content as someone whose whole job is to die for Sidious?”
Dooku stared at Obi-Wan, baffled, then glanced at Palpatine and Anakin.
“What do you mean?” he asked, forcing his gaze back to Obi-Wan.
“Sidious is your Master, we know that much,” Obi-Wan replied. “Partly because you told me yourself. But has he ever put himself in danger? Or has it all been you dealing with Jedi like myself and my apprentice? Putting yourself out there, in danger, while you do exactly what he says?”
He smiled slightly. “A Jedi would accept that, but you’re a Sith – you’ve said so yourself. Sith are self-interested. What do you think your new master is getting out of the situation? Because if you don’t know, it’s got to be something and it’s probably something he doesn’t want to tell you.”
“My master is quite willing to put himself in danger,” Dooku said, then clamped his lips shut at a frantic mouthed shut up from Palpatine.
“Real or feigned?” Obi-Wan asked. “Do you think he wouldn’t manipulate you? He’s been doing it to everyone else – you’ve said it.”
Dooku’s brow furrowed.
“But we’re getting off topic,” Obi-Wan said, turning to look at Palpatine. “Chancellor, what about this as a starting point? Your emergency powers were granted to resolve the crisis, and I’m sure you want to abandon them as soon as possible… so why not take away the whole reason why the individual systems in the Confederacy had problems with the Republic to begin with? Freely allow the departure of any system which wishes to do so, under the emergency powers legislation; enact a progressive tax, one which hits the Core worlds harder owing to their greater ability to pay, to sustain a carrier based navy able to hunt pirates more effectively than conduct occupations or orbital bombardment, and have the navy established on a sector-federal two-level model?”
Palpatine stared at Obi-Wan for at least ten seconds.
“...he’s a Sith Lord,” he said, yet again.
“Oh, shut up,” Dooku replied. “You’re a Sith Lord and I don’t see you doing anything constructive.”
Obi-Wan glanced at Palpatine.
“...you know,” he began. “I’m quite sure you’d need to note that on your financial disclosure forms, your Excellency.”
He turned sideways, so he could see both Dooku and Palpatine at the same time. “What was the point of this whole abduction, anyway?”
“As it happens, I was supposed to kill you,” Dooku said. “It’s the only way to turn Anakin to the Dark Side, if you’re out of the way.”
“Huh?” Anakin asked. “Is something up? I’ve almost got the crystals realigned.”
“This plan looked a lot better this morning,” Palpatine muttered.
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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
you create because you're greedy.
#every time someones like ''AI will replace u" im like. u will have to fucking KILL ME#there is no replacement here bc i am not filling a position. i am just writing#and the writing is what i need to be doing#writeblr#this probably doesn't make sense bc its sooo frustrating i rarely speak it the way i want to#edited for the typo wrote it and then was late to a meeting lol#i love u people who mention my typos genuinely bc i don't always catch them!!!! :) it is doing me a genuine favor!!!#my friend says i should tell you ''thank you beta editors'' but i don't know what that means#i made her promise it isn't a wolf fanfiction thing. so if it IS a wolf thing she is DEAD to me (just kidding i love her)#hey PS PS PS ??? if ur reading this thinking what it's saying is ''i am financially capable of losing this'' ur reading it wrong#i write for free. i always have. i have worked 5-7 jobs at once to make ends meet.#i did not grow up with access or money. i did not grow up with connections or like some kind of excuse#i grew up and worked my fucking ASS OFF. and i STILL!!! wrote!!! on the side!!! because i didn't know how not to!!!#i do not write for money!!!! i write because i fuckken NEED TO#i could be in the fucking desert i could be in the fuckken tundra i could be in total darkness#and i would still be writing pretentious angsty poetry about it#im not in any way saying it's a good thing. i'm not in any way implying that they're NOT tryna kill us#i'm saying. you could take away our jobs and we could go hungry and we could suffer#and from that suffering (if i know us) we'd still fuckin make art.#i would LOVE to be able to make money doing this! i never have been able to. but i don't NEED to. i will find a way to make my life work#even if it means being miserable#but i will not give up this thing. for the whole world.
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Redemption— Rafe Cameron x Pogue!Reader
summary— you’re taken by Groff’s accomplices and you’re ex Rafe Cameron appears to save you unexpectedly. your past is full of pain but he’s determined to make things right.
warnings— ex to lovers, kidnapping, arguing, slight manipulation and coercion, oral(m&f receiving), fingering, choking, ass slapping, degradation, praise kink, daddy kink, unprotected sex, creampie.
︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿
Rafe hadn’t planned on being part of the treasure hunt again, but when he heard about the Groff connection and Sarah dragging you into it, he couldn’t stay away. It wasn’t about the money this time—though he wouldn’t say no to a cut or possibly stealing it for himself—it was about you. Despite everything, he still cared deeply, even if he didn’t show it the way you deserved.
Your relationship had ended months ago, crumbling under the weight of his issues and the way he treated your friends. You’d made it clear you didn’t want to see him again even during the trip. But when he found out you’d been kidnapped by Groff’s men, something inside him snapped. He couldn’t think straight until he had you back.
When he first showed up to give his help, your cold glare hit harder than any insult. “You shouldn’t be here, Rafe,” you’d said flatly, refusing to meet his eyes.
He tried to explain himself, but you cut him off. “I don’t trust you, not after everything. You treated my friends like garbage, and you don’t get to come in now and play the hero.”
“I’m not here to play the hero,” he’d said, voice low, almost pleading. “I’m here for you.”
But there was no time to dwell on old wounds. Chaos erupted, and by the time the dust settled, he’d saved you from Groff’s accomplices and now you were both hiding out in a grimy motel room.
“You didn’t have to come after me, Rafe,” you snapped, pacing the cramped space. “I don’t need a knight in shining armor. Especially not from someone who ditched us when we needed him.”
His jaw clenched as he leaned against the door. “You’re seriously saying that to me? You all left me to almost get arrested! Like I was nothing.”
“You were nothing when you couldn’t pick a side!” you fired back, glaring at him.
“I did pick a side,” he shot back, stepping closer, his voice dropping. “I picked you. That’s why I’m here.”
His words hung in the air, the weight of them undeniable. You scoffed, looking away, but your resolve wavered as he moved closer.
“You think I don’t care?” His tone softened, a crack in his armor. “You think I didn’t lose my mind when I heard they took you? I couldn’t—I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
Your breath hitched, but you shook your head. “You have a funny way of showing it.”
Rafe’s hand caught your wrist gently, turning you to face him. His gaze burned, the anger and pain in his eyes mirrored in your own. “I’m here now,” he murmured. “Let me prove it.”
You didn’t have time to argue before his lips crashed into yours. The kiss was desperate, heated, and filled with all the unspoken emotions you’d both buried. Your fingers curled into his shirt as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer. The frustration and anger melted into something you couldn’t name, something that felt like it could destroy you both if you let it.
Rafe’s hands were everywhere, his lips trailing from your mouth to your neck with a desperation you hadn’t felt in months. You wanted to lose yourself in him, but the anger resurfaced, and you pushed him away, chest heaving.
“I can’t do this, Rafe. Not after how you’ve treated us—how you’ve treated me.”
His jaw clenched, but his voice was soft. “I got a ship for all of you. I stayed civil even after you tied me up. I’m here, trying to prove myself to you. I still want you. I can’t do this without you—I can’t be better without you.”
Your emotions threatened to spill over, but instead of crying or screaming, you grabbed his shirt and pulled him back. The kiss was fiery, tangled in resentment and longing, as his hands roamed your body again. His lips found your neck, and a moan escaped before you could stop it.
“You’re such a piece of shit,” you muttered, your voice shaky.
“Yeah?” His hand slid lower, brushing under the fabric of your outfit and finding your pussy. “Well, you’re wet for this piece of shit.” His voice was low, teasing, as his fingers found their way inside.
You gasped, torn between shame and pleasure. “You’re disgusting, Rafe. I can’t stand you.”
“And yet here you are, you’re a slut for liking this,” he whispered against your neck. “Hear how wet you are.”
The heat built unbearably, and you couldn’t stop yourself. As your body betrayed you, the orgasm was laced with mortification. You turned away, unable to meet his gaze, but he just smirked softly. “You can hate me all you want,” he said, his voice a murmur. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
He slipped his fingers coated in your arousal in your mouth and your tongue swirled over them.
“Good girl,” he chuckled.
“You never know when to shut up, do you?” you snapped, rolling your eyes as Rafe smirked. His hands rested confidently on your waist, pulling you closer.
“I could say the same about you,” he quipped, his voice low and teasing. Before you could retort, he dropped to his knees, silencing you with his actions.
“Don’t,” you started, but the heat of his touch made your words falter.
“Stop pretending you don’t like it,” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours, as he licked your pussy. Despite yourself, a soft moan escaped you.
“That’s what I thought,” he said smugly, and you could only glare as he gave a satisfied grin.
Rafe’s grip on your hips was firm, his strength keeping you in place despite your squirming. Your fingers tangled in his buzzed hair, tugging as whimpers slipped from your lips. His focus didn’t waver, and you felt yourself trembling under his relentless attention.
“Rafe,” you whispered, your voice breaking with a mix of defiance and surrender. But he didn’t stop until your entire body tensed, a soft moan escaping as you reached your peak. He looked up at you afterward, his expression smug and victorious.
Rafe leaned back, a smug grin on his face as he palmed his cock through his pants, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you. “Look how hard you got me, baby,” he said, his voice low and confident. His hand moved slowly, emphasizing his words. “You used to always help me out with this, come on, suck daddy’s cock.”
The nickname made you wince, memories stirring. He saw the hesitation but leaned in closer, voice softer but insistent. “You know you want to,” he murmured, his gaze challenging, daring you to resist.
Rafe pulled his hard cock out, his size drawing a breathless reaction from you, it looked like he’d gotten bigger, if that was even possible. He chuckled, the sound dripping with arrogance. “Come on, baby. Help daddy out,” he coaxed, his tone a mix of command and temptation. Despite your resolve, you felt yourself falter, unable to resist the magnetic pull he always had on you.
Arching your back, your ass high in the air, you leaned down, taking him into your mouth. His groan was instant, his hand finding your waist before he smacked your ass. “That’s my good girl,” he muttered. You rolled your eyes and took him into your warm mouth, bobbing your head at the right pace to have him moaning. You used your hand to stroke what couldn’t fit in your mouth as his balls tightened and his breathing grew ragged. Just as he was about to release, you pulled away.
His laugh was one of disbelief. “You’re such a brat,” he muttered, shaking his head, though the amusement never left his eyes.
Rafe’s warm hands moved to your bare thighs, rubbing it slowly as he looked up at you with those blue eyes. He knew it was your weakness. You were already soaked but having him caress you like that practically turned you into a fountain. He had you right where he wanted you.
“My cock really misses that tight, wet pussy,” he whispered, his voice low and husky.
“Yeah? Well if you want to fuck me, you’re gonna have to beg,” you retorted.
Rafe let out a mocking chuckle, as if he couldn’t believe those words left your lips. His little baby wasn’t such a baby anymore.
“Seems like we’ve been apart for so long that you’ve forgotten, Rafe Cameron doesn’t fucking beg.”
He snaked his hand around your neck, pulling you into a heated, rough kiss. Your tongues slipped into each other’s mouth, the feeling one that made you melt. He pushed you onto the bed by your neck and took his position above you.
“You’ve also forgotten that this is my pussy and I saved you, I’ve fucking earned it,” he said, with that cocky smirk plastered on his face.
Everyone had their weakness, for Sarah it was John B, for Pope it was Cleo and for you— well, it was Rafe Cameron.
You spread your legs and he smirked, resisting to make a snarky comment as he dragged the head of his cock up and down your wet folds. He placed it on your clit, teasing you as you squirmed underneath him.
“Please,” you whimpered, wanting nothing more than to have him plunge his cock inside you,
“Look who’s begging now,” he said, darkly.
He lifted your legs around his waist and you locked them as he sank into your pussy. His hips bucked and his pace faltered as he had to slowly push in and wait for you to adjust to his size.
“So tight f’me, glad no one’s been inside this pussy since we broke up.”
You gave him a slight push on the chest but your attack was halted as he thrusted into you all the way. Your jaw fell slack as you gasped for air feeling him fill you to the brim.
“S’okay baby, just breathe, daddy’s here,” he cooed, leaning down to kiss your lips.
He began rutting steadily inside you, whispering little praises that made your stomach flip. You wouldn’t admit it but a part of you missed having him above you like this. By now he had taken off his shirt, revealing the muscle underneath and the sweat glistening on his body. You ground against him, your clit getting the stimulation you desperately craved and sending pleasure through you.
“Oh God, daddy,” you moaned, meeting his thrusts faster.
“You gonna cum baby? That’s it, cum for me,” he murmured.
Rafe’s pace sped up, hitting the sweet spot inside you as your release hit you like a truck. He continued fucking you through your orgasm, your legs shaking as he did, the pleasure almost too much.
“Good girl, there she is,” he cooed, “I knew you wanted this too.”
“M-more,” you managed to croak out.
“Oh my baby wants more? You want daddy to fuck you even more? What a dirty little slut.”
He complied with your request, flipping you swiftly onto your stomach and pulling your hips up to him. You arched your back the way you knew he liked it and he kissed your ass before rubbing his cock along your folds.
“God baby, did I mention how much I missed this wet pussy?”
He slammed into you from behind, gripping your waist as he brought you back onto his cock, hard. Your ass clapped against him and he watched mesmerized as his cock disappeared inside you and came out covered in your cream and juices.
“Daddy,” you moaned, shamelessly as he rolled his hips into you. You couldn’t hold back anymore. You couldn’t see his face but you knew he had on that smug look and you gasped as he pressed your face into the pillow, pounding into you at a deeper angle.
“You really like that huh, fuck, your pussy is just gripping my cock so well baby, cum for daddy, cream all over my cock.”
He slapped your ass, basically giving you the go ahead as you shuddered under his touch, his name leaving your lips continuously as you creamed all over his cock. Unable to stop himself, he stilled inside you, his load spurting as he moaned your name and you felt his dick throb against your walls.
He rolled over, pulling out of you but not before spreading your ass to watch his cum drip out.
You stared up at the ceiling, wondering what you were doing with your life. You were in a random motel in Morocco and you hooked up with your ex after he saved you from kidnappers, meanwhile your friends were probably out looking for you, worried sick.
“Uh, we should go, they’re probably looking for me,” you sighed, getting up. He took a piece of cloth and wiped between your legs. Silence fell between you but oddly, it was a comfortable silence. You looked into his eyes and saw nothing but care and sincerity. He really did come for you and was actually trying to change and do right by you all.
#rafe cameron#rafe cameron x pogue!reader#rafe cameron x black reader#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron outer banks#rafe cameron imagine#rafe cameron smut#rafe cameron fic#rafe cameron x fem!reader#rafe cameron x female reader#rafe cameron x black!reader#rafe cameron angst#rafe cameron x you#rafe cameron x y/n#rafe cameron fluff#rafe cameron one shot#outerbanks smut#outerbanks fanfiction#outerbanks season 4#outer banks#outerbanks rafe#rafe outer banks#rafe smut#rafe obx#rafe fanfiction#rafe x reader#rafe x you#rafe imagine#rafe fic
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knives out | lewis hamilton social media au
pairing: lewis hamilton x rosberg!reader
2016 saw the murder of brocedes right before our very eyes, but who got y/n in the will?
MASTERLIST | TIP JAR
- part of the brother's best friend series -
yourusername
liked by lewishamilton, maxverstappen1 and 751,209 others
tagged: nicorosberg
yourusername: back in barcelona! nothing has ever happened here, right? RIGHT?
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user1: when i'm in a victim of brocedes contest and y/n rosberg turns up
user2: nico was like "oh, lewis has had a good qualifying... here comes the curse"
user3: he's the hater we should all aspire to be
nicorosberg: barcelona is a beautiful place but you should pick your company well!
yourusername: great advice nico, i should've left you at home
nicorosberg: snore! i'm great company you just can't keep up with my great personality and wit
yourusername: what ever you need to tell yourself old man
nicorosberg: i'm two years older than you?
yourusername: how was the industrial revolution?
user4: i hope they never grow up and always argue in public
user5: omg the argument on sky about lewis v seb in canada... and jenson just stood there with the biggest shit-eating grin ever
lewishamilton: my trauma is not your joke
yourusername: it was my trauma too i was the one who had to listen to him complain for the next TWO WEEKS
lewishamilton: trying to find where i care...
yourusername: you complained first ??
lewishamilton: rightly so!
yourusername: do not tussle with me about this, by now i thought you'd know that us rosbergs don't play about complaining
lewishamilton: believe me my therapist knows that
user6: i know nico sat on his hands forcing himself not to comment back
user7: alternatively, celebrating that he still lives in lewis' head
lewishamilton
liked by georgerussell63, charles_leclerc and 2,305,899 others
tagged: yourusername
lewishamilton: @yourusername i may love you but if that man ever takes a picture of my car i'm putting a hit on his head
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user11: we got a relationship reveal and a death threat all in one post
user12: lewis saw yall ready to make a brocedes edit using this race and made sure you knew that he doesn't care about a his old haunts
user13: he was like yall shipping me with the wrong rosberg
yourusername: let's refrain from threats for now
lewishamilton: we're gonna have to get rid of that last name, no more curses
nicorosberg: RIGHT THAT IS IT IF YOU DARE GET MARRIED DOUBLE-BARRELLED OR ELSE, ROSBERGS ARE ELITE AND YOU WISH YOU HAD THIS NAME
yourusername: he does have a point
lewishamilton: i'm for real going to lose my mind that we haven't spoken in years and this is where he drew the line
nicorosberg: you told the world you're dating my sister at the same time as me
lewishamilton: stop cursing me then 🤨
nicorosberg: i don't curse you my devilish good looks just sent your engine into cardiac arrest
user14: i know toto wolff just fell to his knees in the mercedes garage seeing them bicker in instagram comments after making merc a literal warzone for years
user15: and yet this is the most brocedes way to go about it
georgerussell63: even if you're dating his sister, i'm still your favourite teammate right?
yourusername: valterri exists buddy soz
georgerussell63: *clutches my pearls*
lewishamilton: and that is exactly why valterri is my favourite teammate
georgerussell63: whatever 💁🏻♀️
charles_leclerc: not for long xx
yourusername: whoever can bring me the best coffee can get the crown?
lewishamilton: stop exploiting my teammate and future teammate
yourusername: that's what they're there for?
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yourusername: anything happen this week?
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user19: y/n ruining her brother's week - anything happen this week?
user20: more like year
nicorosberg: more like life
yourusername: drama queen
nicorosberg: as i should be !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
yourusername: got enough exclamation marks in there buddy
nicorosberg: no open the door i need to scream directly in your ears
yourusername: if it's any consolation, the relationship started after 2016
nicorosberg: so he got me out of the way so he could go for my little sister 🤨
lewishamilton: yep!
nicorosberg: no i'm serious let me in i need to yell
nicorosberg: I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE I CAN HEAR ROSCOE
nicorosberg: fine i'll just abseil from my apartment give me a sec
user21: y/n please let him in he's so serious about that i can feel it
user22: anyone from monaco here and want to keep us updated?
danielricciardo: Y/N LET HIM IN HE NEARLY KICKED MY POTTED PLANT OFF THE BALCONY
yourusername: lol
danielricciardo: THIS IS NOT A LAUGHING MATTER PLEASE
lewishamilton: fine, you people are such bores
nicorosberg: i nearly lost a birkenstock
yourusername: and my inheritance nearly doubled
lewishamilton: *our
user23: i think lewis is having way too much fun with this
nicorosberg
liked by lewishamilton, jensonbutton and 692,889 others
tagged: yourusername
nicorosberg: we're back at the track and i've got a sneaking feeling that the red bull might be fast around here
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user24: nico said babe won't catch me posting lewis on my instagram
maxverstappen1: sure thing buddy he's dating your sister, but there's NO NEED TO TAKE IT OUT ON ME
nicorosberg: i said you're going to win?
maxverstappen1: i DON'T NEED YOUR BAD JUJU GIVE IT TO LEWIS HE'S THE ONE YOU'RE ANGRY AT NOT ME
nicorosberg: i'm not angry at lewis
lewishamilton: really?
nicorosberg: OF COURSE NOT
yourusername: he'll get over it soon lewis don't worry
lewishamilton: really? he's still holding a grudge from 2016 - that was EIGHT YEARS AGO
yourusername: yeah sorry that's a rosberg trait ❤️
user25: not the grid becoming victims of the brocedes fall out eight years later
yourusername: you're so shady why did you crop lewis out?
nicorosberg: outfit wasn't on par with the rosbergs
yourusername: oh no
lewishamilton: HOW DARE YOU
yourusername: you queens can take this out on each other i'm not getting involved in this one
lewishamilton: i know this birkenstock wearing primadonna is not dissing my custom mcqueen
nicorosberg: it's custom because no one would want something so ugly 🫶🏻
user26: someone take nico off the parc ferme interviews lewis might just run him over
user27: he should just let roscoe at his ankles
nicorosberg: that vegan dog can't do shit to me
yourusername: leave the kids out of it nico
nicorosberg: you birthed that? my condolences to your reproductive system
lewishamilton: DO NOT FAT SHAME MY SON
roscoelovescoco: kill yourself @nicorosberg
user28: WTF IS GOING ON
lewishamilton
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lewishamilton: he may have won the battle, but i won the war
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user29: bro you're going to be subjected to boho chic Christmases for the rest of your life
user30: guy is going to get poisoned via christmas nut roast by nico 😭
yourusername: this is corny but i love you
lewishamilton: i love you too i'm going to pretend you didn't just call my super thought out caption corny
yourusername: it was corny and that's what i love about you
nicorosberg: you need better standards
yourusername: for someone who had so much homoerotic tension with the man that you retired you're being very rude about the subject of such tension
nicorosberg: that's not how that went
yourusername: sure, jan
nicorosberg: stop trying to rewrite history
yourusername: i saw it with my own two eyes... are you jealous that i ended up with lewis instead of you?
nicorosberg: nO
user31: i feel like this is definitely not the argument i thought i would see on the internet today
user32: lewis hamilton got passed around the rosberg house ... this your goat?
user33: both rosbergs are hawt as hell so yes!
charles_leclerc: oh great, keep stoking the flames lewis! if you invoke his wrath upon ferrari next season i will personally sacrifice you to the gods
lewishamilton: excuse me?
charles_leclerc: i don't know if you know this but i kinda don't have a world championship yet ... I DO NOT WANT THE ROSBERG CURSE ATTACHED TO ME
lewishamilton: do not minimise my trauma charles
charles_leclerc: you haven't joined ferrari yet, you don't know trauma. be nice to him, i can't finish my career with max having more championships than me
maxverstappen1: skill issue
user34: do these people ever stop arguing?
yourusername: no! and i can assure you it's worse in person
user35: worst brocedes tussle since nico found out?
yourusername: i was making a list of people to invite to my birthday dinner and nico was angry that i wrote lewis' name before his
yourusername
liked by charles_leclerc, lewishamilton and 1,304,277 others
tagged: lewishamilton, nicorosberg
yourusername: still a victim of the brocedes nuclear fallout all these years later
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user37: bro nearly lost her bf to her brother
user38: lewis couldn't have nico and went for his sister instead
user39: insert larry stylinson theory here that y/n is just the beard and toto wolff is simon cowell
yourusername: i'm blocking all of you
nicorosberg: still yapping about this ... and i'm the dramatic one
yourusername: babe we can all see all of your comments on previous posts where you're the literal definition of crashing out
nicorosberg: BARCELONA WAS LEWIS' FAULT WE ALL KNOW THIS
yourusername: when did i bring up barcelona... you just proved my point IDIOT
nicorosberg: make me sound insane all you want ... TOTO IS THE REAL VILLAIN HERE
yourusername: ???
nicorosberg: he notebooked us
yourusername: riiiiiiiiiiight
nicorosberg: i wrote lewis a letter when i retired and toto never gave it to him
yourusername: you're telling me i had to hide my relationship for so long because you trusted that austrian big foot fraud to be your messenger pigeon ?
user40: did we just get insane brocedes lore on a random tuesday?
user41: you're telling me it was toto's fault the whole time?
lewishamilton: well yes it would've been helpful to have gotten the letter, you have to admit the sneeking around was hot
yourusername: you're right 🤭🤭🤭
lewishamilton: hiding in your bathroom while nico came over to bitch about me was a personal highlight
nicorosberg: excuse me?
lewishamilton: i know we're trying to be better, so here's a compliment: you're very creative when being mean about me
nicorosberg: why thank you 😝
yourusername: nuh uh we ain't doing this shit
lewishamilton: don't worry y/n you'll always be my favourite
nicorosberg: but you'll never have our trip to greece :P
yourusername: i will strangle you britney
user42: y/n got brocedes to talk again, but at what cost?
lewishamilton
liked by nicorosberg, charles_leclerc and 4,677,309 others
tagged: yourusername
lewishamilton: got y/n's hand in marriage in the will (after i murdered her brother's career)
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user43: y/n can't escape brocedes even on her engagement post
user44: she (and them) will never get rid of it
yourusername: i love you baby, here's to the rest of our life (even if that includes you arguing with my brother for the rest of time)
lewishamilton: i love you even more, i'd go through all of that psychological warfare again and again if it means i still end up with you
yourusername: we've always had an invisible string
lewishamilton: and there's no one else i'd want to be cosmically tied to <3
user45: i might cry they're so cute
user46: that comment thread called me single in about 100 different languages
charles_leclerc: congratulations you two! also congratulations to me - no more rosberg curse!
yourusername: really? on this POST?
charles_leclerc: hold on girlypop, it was mr hamilton-rosberg that brought up your brother first not me
lewishamilton: you better get all this attitude out now charles
charles_leclerc: what? you gonna marry my brother?
yourusername: lol i'm not threatened by them
arthurleclerc: why am i being shaded?
user47: 2025 HURRY THE FUCK UP
nicorosberg: i guess you're finally getting the rosberg name you've always wanted ...
lewishamilton: yes... i have always had a crush on your sister
nicorosberg: GASP! PERVERT 🫵🏻 i have known you since we were 12 you GROSS MAN
lewishamilton: WELL YES I WAS ALSO 12 I'VE NOT ALWAYS BEEN 36 MORON
yourusername: well doesn't this just get me excited for christmas
user48: i know a monopoly board hate to see these three coming
yourusername: @nicorosberg can i have an actual congratulations???
nicorosberg: i'm happy for you, i'm glad you're happy (also he's loaded so slay)
yourusername: i'll take it!
lewishamilton: sure whatever thanks nico !
fin.
note: lol finally finished this one! i have been very in and out on here, i have a lot going on x
#f1 imagine#f1 x reader#f1 instagram au#f1 x you#f1#f1 social media au#lewis hamilton x reader#lewis hamilton imagine#lewis hamilton#lewis hamilton fanfic#lewis hamilton x you#lewis hamilton instagram au
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