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kpop---scenarios · 11 hours ago

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Whispers Of The Night (4)

Pairing: Stray Kids x Reader

Genre: Vampire! Au, College! Au

Warning: Not much, next chapter will be smut. This is an 18+ ONLY story; MDNI

Summary: You just want to live a happy life, but currently, that wasn't happening. It's not until you meet 8 strangers who turn your life upside down and you discover what they are.

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: as always, thank you @skzdust for putting up with me sending you paragraphs all the time and giving input. I'd be lost without you!

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@nightmarenyxx @0325tiny

“I was…there…then…Jeongin…” you mumble to yourself, pacing around your room. “And then I was here. Ugh!” You groan, throwing your hands up in the air. You distinctly remembered standing on the front porch with Jeongin, staring into his eyes, but why were you staring into his eyes? What happened after? How can you not remember the rest of the night? Did you black out? Can weed even make you blackout? No, you were sure that wasn't even a possible thing.

There was only one thing you could possibly do. Confront Jeongin. You skipped getting dressed, leaving your room in your sleep shorts and tank top, practically stomping down the stairs.

“Jeongin!” You yell, stopping in the kitchen. You look around, seeing him standing in the living room, alone, like a deer in headlights. “You!” You yell, stomping towards him.

“Yes?” He asks, smiling sweetly.

“What did you do to me last night?” You asked.

“What are you talking about?” He chuckles.

“We were standing on the porch, I remember staring into your eyes… then I woke up in my bed this morning.” You say, crossing your arms.

“Yeah? You were talking to me, absolute gibberish by the way, and then you just, like, passed out.” He explains. “So I took you upstairs and put you to bed.” He says, shrugging his shoulders.

“I don't remember that.” You say.

“You were pretty high.” He laughs.

You never lost your memory from smoking weed, but to be fair it had been quite a while since you'd smoked so maybe it was because your body wasn't used to it anymore.

“Huh.” You murmur. You weren't sure if he believed him, but you'd accept it, for now. “Okay. Thanks.” You finish, turning around to walk away.

You headed back upstairs to get dressed for the day, needing to get to the library to study for your upcoming test. You needed the quiet. You had tried to study at the house the other day, but watching those 8 men walk around the house, sometimes shirtless, was extremely distracting.

Thankfully, there weren't many people in the library. You picked a table out of the way, setting up your laptop. You pulled out your headphones, your phone and your textbook, ready to get to work. You were going to fail this exam, you just knew it. You desperately needed to study. And you tried. But your brain could not stop racing about the men who you lived with. There was something off about them, their pale skin, piercing eyes, extreme strength. Not to mention they're much more rowdy at night time, and the fact that you had never seen them eat a single thing. Your mind immediately goes to vampires, but that couldn't be right. There's no way that vampires could be a thing right now and no one was talking about it.

With your brain spinning, you closed the empty Google docs tab, and instead opened up Google. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard as you heavily debated on whether or not you should actually type the word into the search engine. You felt stupid thinking that they could be vampires, but that was the only plausible explanation for the weirdness that was in that house. Taking a deep breath, you typed it in, and more information that you expected popped up within seconds. You clicked the first link, scanning the page, but it didn't give you much. You scrolled through a few other pages but there was nothing that hadn't been talked about before, until, you were just about to exit the page you were on when a single word caught your eye.

Compulsion.

Just as you were about to read more, a familiar voice calls out to you. “Y/N. Why are you reading about vampires?” He says. You quickly close your laptop, turning around to see Mark standing there.

“What do you want?” You ask, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Why are you googling vampires?” He asks, pulling a chair out from the table to sit with you.

“Why are you sitting at my table? And why do you care?” You sigh.

“Because I love you. And I want to get you back. So I figured I'd take interest in your interests.” He grins.

“It's a little too late for that, Mark. I'm going to tell you right now, I won't ever be getting back together with you.” You laugh. “That's so far off the table, it's burning in hell. Now go away.”

“Y/N, come on.” He sighs. “There has to be something I can do to make you trust me again.”

“There's nothing you can do. I don't want you anymore. I'm not sure why you can't get that through your thick fucking skull.” You half yell. You can hear people turning in their chairs to look at you. You let out a breath, trying to calm yourself down. “Look, Mark. We tried, and it didn't work out. You're not ready for a relationship because you can't be faithful. So stop it and leave me alone.” You finish, starting to pack up your belongings.

Mark mutters swear words under his breath. “Y/N..” He starts. You ignore him, continuing to finish packing your things. “Y/N, stop.” He says. “Fuck, I asked you to stop.” He shouts, grabbing your arm. You stare at him, your eyes darting between his hand on your arm and him.

Before you can tell him to release you, you feel someone standing beside you. You look up, seeing Hyunjin standing there, clenching his jaw. “If you want to keep that arm, you better fucking let go of her.” He snaps.

“Oh yeah? She's my girlfriend, I can do whatever the fuck I want.” Mark says, standing up, his hand still on your arm.

Hyunjin laughs. “She's not your girlfriend. You fucked that up, so like I said. Let go of her, before you're down a girlfriend and a fucking arm.”

“Am I supposed to be scared of you, pretty boy?” Mark laughs, looking between you and Hyunjin.

“If I were you..” Hyunjin begins in a whisper. “I'd be fucking petrified.”

“Such bullshit.” Mark grunts, letting go of your arm. “I'll be back!” He yells, pointing to you before walking off.

“Thanks.” You say to Hyunjin, grabbing your bag.

“Can I take you home?” He asks.

You wanted to say yes, but you didn't want to accidentally blurt out what you were thinking or what you had been researching. Not until you read everything you could possibly find, and not until you felt sure of your findings. You can't accuse people of being vampires and not have the information to back up your claims. What if they laughed at you because it wasn't true? So embarrassing.

You contemplated the world you lived in on your way home. Could you really live in a world where vampires exist and no one knows about them? That's one part that was mind boggling to you. Did other supernatural creatures also exist? Werewolves? Mermaids? Your mind was racing with all sorts of thoughts, you hadn't realized that you already had made it home. You stood outside the door, part of you felt a little scared to go inside

but the other part of you didn't care. They were kind to you, they housed you, fed you. They took care of you and protected you. None of them had ever given you a reason not to trust them but you were just so curious about what they were hiding. It had to be that.

You walked into the quiet house, they must all be out. You walk through the living room, stopping in front of a door you've passed countless times but never had been through. You were always curious about what was in the room. You were all alone, so why not? You place your hand on the knob, slowly turning it to open. You pull the door, when suddenly there's a hand on the door, slamming it shut. You jump back, looking at Minho, who stands there, looking angry.

“No.” He deadpans.

“Oh. Is that…” you trail off.

“It's just off limits.” he says.

“I didn't know.” You murmur.

“Now you do.” He smiles, moving his hand and walking away.

You swore no one was here. He came out of nowhere. You take your things, going back upstairs to your room. Settling down on your bed, you pull out your laptop, the page loading to the one you were on before Mark so rudely interrupted you.

“Compulsion” you read. “the ability of vampires to control the minds of others, often through eye contact. Compelled beings typically follow the vampire's instructions, which can include erasing memories, developing new skills, or creating new personalities.”

You sit back. Staring at the wall. Breathing. “Erasing memories.” You whisper to yourself. Was that what Jeongin did to you? Did he erase your memory of that night? Did something happen that could have outed him? You turned your computer around, laying down on your stomach, determined to do more research on the subject as a whole. Hours pass as you click link, after link, after link. Finally you ended up on a blog page called “Just Vampire Things.” The entire thing was clearly not a legit page, it was cutesy, colorful and honestly not very vampirey. You were giggling at the photos as you scrolled down, now more so just enjoying the obvious photoshopped pictures, until you got to the writing.

“How to kill a vampire.” You whisper. “What the…” you pause, reading a little more. “This page is for vampire hunters, learning how to kill vampires. First you need a sharp oak steak.” You rolled your eyes and as you were about to close the page, your bedroom door burst open, with Changbin skipping into your room.

“How to kill a…” he trails off. He looks at you, worriedly before cracking a big smile. “Are you reading Just Vampire Things?” He laughs. You close your laptop.

“What do you need, world's worst barista?” You ask.

He puts his hand over his heart. “Ouch.” He hisses. “You hurt me. Right there, y/n.” He says, patting his chest. “A few of us have to go out, but there's stuff in the fridge for dinner. Help yourself to whatever.” He says, walking out of your room. You crawl off your bed, heading down into the kitchen quietly. You had thought they all left, but it wasn't until you heard whispers in the living room did you realize that you weren't alone.

“I don't know, Chan.” You hear Jeongin sigh. “I feel like shit. I lied to her, and I don't like it. I don't want her to be mad at me. She saw the blood around my mouth… I panicked.” He says.

“Listen, it will all come out in time. But she just got here. We can't bombard her with all this information right off the bat. She'll run so fucking fast. And that's the last thing any of us want, right?” Chan says.

“No.” Jeongin sighs. “None of us want her to leave.”

“We'll tell her everything. Okay? Just be patient. I gotta go meet the others, just stick to the plan for now.” Chan finishes. You hear the front door closed, and Jeongin letting out a sigh of relief. You don't hear anything else. You walk to the living room quietly, looking around. Jeongin isn't there. Your eyes land on the door again. Them telling you it's off limits only makes you want to go down there even more. You look around one more time, double checking to make sure that he wasn't around. Once you felt like it was safe you quickly and quietly wrapped your hand around the door knob, slowly turning it, pulling it open. You see a set of stairs, leading down into the dark. A strong metallic smell hits your nose, making you nauseous. Your stomach twists as you lift your leg, preparing to take the first step down into the dark. Before you can, you're pushed out of the way, and the door is slammed shut. Jeongin grabs your shoulders, pushing you against the door.

“I thought you were told his room was off limits?” He breathes.

“I didn't think anyone was home.” You whisper.

“You're never here alone, y/n.” He says. “When we tell you something, it's because we're protecting you.”

“Were you protecting me when you compelled me?” You blurt out. Jeongin's eyes go wide.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” He says.

“Don’t lie to me.” You hiss, avoiding eye contact. “I heard you talking to Chan. All of you are hiding something from me and I know what it is.” You say.

“Y/N, you need to stop. You don't know what you're talking about.” Jeongin says. “Look at me.”

“No.” You say, looking away.

“Y/N, look at me.” He says again.

This time you don't answer. But you also don't look at him.

“You're going to do it again.” You finally whisper.

Jeongin grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him. “I'm sorry.” He whispers. “There's things we need to talk about of course. And that's one of them. But I swear to you, it won't happen again.” He says.

You look him in the eyes, seeing the sincerity in them. Your eyes scan his face, your body heats up. Fuck. You want him. You know you shouldn't but how could you not? Your mouth parts slightly as you stare into his eyes.

He takes a deep breath. Smirking slightly before he leans forward. He looks to you for approval, you nod your head and he crashes his lips to yours. You've wanted this, from any of them since the day you met them. He slips his tongue into your mouth, while effortlessly lifting you to wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you up the stairs, to what you can only assume is his room, that's never used, never once breaking the kiss. He stands at the foot of his bed, gently tossing you down. You look up at him, biting your lip, while he stares down at you.

“You sure you want this baby girl?” He asks.

You grin as you nod your head.

“Fuck, yes.”

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slaymitchabernathy · 3 days ago

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The Night Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, lots of creatures were stirring, aside from a mouse.

Coriolanus peeks his head out of his study when he hears little feet running by and catches a glimpse of one of his children rounding the corner. He shakes his head, he's told them countless times not to run in the house, they have neighbors below them who he'd like to remain on good terms with.

"Ceraphina darling, let's fix your hair," Soarynn calls from down the hall.

Coriolanus readies himself this time, standing in the doorway when his oldest daughter runs by him and he reaches out, grabbing her and scooping her up. "Daddy!" She shrieks, kicking her feet in the air, "Daddy, put me down!"

Coriolanus chuckles, pressing a kiss to the side of her head, "What have I told you about running hmm? We don't want to upset the Dolittles sweetheart." Ceraphina at least has the decency to look guilty at being caught red-handed and rests a hand on his shoulder, "I won't ever do it again," she promises even though they both know she will.

He hums, gently setting her back down on the floor, "I'll hold you to that, now go find your mother so you can get ready for the show."

Coriolanus bought tickets to the ballet for tonight, the night before Christmas, and as expected, the children are very excited. The girls are the most excited since this is a chance to see the pretty ballerines in their costumes. For Caspian, it simply means getting to stay up past his bedtime which is a treat in itself.

Ceraphina makes a big show of slowly walking down the hallway to find her mother and Coriolanus goes back into his study, he ought to start getting ready himself. He puts his work away, neatly stacking his papers and putting away his pens when he hears a meow. He looks down at the floor and finds Petunia looking up at him.

Petunia is...well she's...Petunia is Soarynn's cat. There, that's the perfect way to explain his relationship with Petunia, she belongs to his wife which has led to them having to form something of a relationship. Most days they ignore each other but it's moments like this when everyone is busy that she seeks him out to bother him.

Coriolanus is not impressed when she rolls onto her back, paws in the air and a tilt to her head, "Go away," he tells the feline, closing the drawer to his desk, "or go find Soarynn." Petunia swipes at his shoes but he dodges her attack, after living with her for a good six years, he knows how she operates.

"Daddy look!"

He turns back to the doorway and sees that his youngest daughter is ready for tonight. Her hair has been pulled away from her face into a ponytail and he can see the big red bow Soarynn tied around it. Celeste is wearing a cute green dress with white tights and shiny black shoes with a little strap going across them. She looks adorable.

"Well, don't you look pretty? Do a twirl for me princess," he says, smiling when Celeste holds out her arms and spins around, almost falling over in the process but he reaches out and steadies her. "Was I just like the ballerinas Daddy?"

Coriolanus warily eyes Petunia who has now rolled back onto her feet and is slowly approaching him and Celeste. She's so sweet with the children which means that she purposely goes out of her way to be rude to him and only him.

"Yes you were darling," he answers, taking a step back, "why don't you and Petunia go find your mother hmm?"

"But I just saw Mommy, she said I was ready."

Petunia is getting ready to lunge and Coriolanus is getting ready to run, "Well, go see her again, and take Petunia with you please."

Celeste gives him a curious look but the four-year-old asks no questions and picks Petunia up, groaning at the small weight she has to carry, "C'mon Petunia, let's go find Mommy."

Petunia glares at Coriolanus before she's carried away and he smirks, she'll be subjected to cuddles and pets, what a terrible life to live. She probably thought that she had him cornered with Celeste in the room but he's quicker than that.

And Snow always lands on top.

꧁ ꧂

Thirty minutes later, Coriolanus is ready for dinner and a show.

He looks rather dashing in his red suit with a heavy red coat to match. They get cold winters in the Capitol with the mountains so close by and he knows better than to underestimate the weather.

He's putting on his gloves when Ceraphina and Celeste come into his closet, both wearing their sweetest smiles, "Come look at how pretty Mommy looks," Celeste says, tugging on his coat. Coriolanus slips his wallet into his pocket before complying with their wishes and following them out into the bedroom.

Soarynn had gotten all three children dressed and ready for the ballet in the time it took him to get one child ready, once again solidifying that he truly married the perfect woman. And he almost loses his breath when he sees how stunning she looks tonight.

While all three of their children are dressed in green, it seems that she tore a page out of his book and wore red. Her dress clings to her figure, showing off her curves in all the right places. It's long-sleeved and the sleeves have intricate beaded patterns sewn into them, truly making this dress a piece of art. The neckline goes straight across her neck, showing off her collarbones while still remaining tasteful.

He's at a loss for words.

"Doesn't Mommy look pretty?"

Coriolanus manages to nod and pick his jaw off the floor, "She looks very pretty," he agrees, deciding that tonight will end with that dress on the floor.

Soarynn smiles so sweetly at his compliment and comes over to him, fussing with his tie and the lapels of his suit, "Well you look very handsome Coryo," she purrs, doing nothing to help his growing desire for her. He rests his hands on her waist, almost wishing the children weren't present but he still leans in and pecks her lips.

The girls sigh like they always do whenever witnessing something they consider romantic. They'll love the ballet since there's bound to be some romance. "Momma, bring Lenny please," Caspian says, tugging on her dress and breaking their kiss. Soarynn gives him a sad smile and shakes her head, "Lenny can't come, darling," she explains, crouching down to be at their son's level, "he has to stay home."

Caspian pouts and Coriolanus can see that his son is already on the verge of tears which they cannot afford if they plan on making it out the door on time. "You know, Cecil will be there tonight Cas," he reminds his son, "so you'll have lots of company."

The Snows will be joining the Creeds at the ballet tonight and Festus phoned him just this morning to tell him that their son Cecil would be in attendance. Caspian and Cecil are two months apart in age and love to toddle around together whenever the families get together.

Sure enough, Caspian lights up at the idea of seeing his friend at the ballet, and the tears are kept at bay. Soarynn whispers a few more encouraging words to their youngest child before kissing his cheek. While the girls have Coriolanus wrapped around their fingers, Caspian has Soarynn in the palm of his hand.

Soarynn always denies such claims, arguing that boys should be raised with a very involved mother so they grow up into proper gentlemen but Coriolanus knows that she's only telling half the truth. The other half is that she simply adores Caspian, her only son and last child. He's a spitting image of Coriolanus with his bright blue eyes and golden curls and Soarynn can't help but dote on him.

Caspian allows her to pick him up and Coriolanus turns back to the girls, "Are we ready to go then?" They both nod, bouncing on their toes, "Yes!"

Soarynn dressed both the girls in the same outfit and they look nearly identical. Ceraphina looks more like Soarynn with her wavy hair and blue-gray eyes and Celeste seems to be a mix of her parents with her blond curls and blue eyes. They're so close in age that people often have trouble telling them apart.

"Alright," he says, "I expect you girls to be on your best behavior," he warns, "no fighting, no fussing, no arguing. Or Santa won't come and bring you any presents."

Their eyes widen at the threat and Soarynn nudges him with her elbow, "Really?" She whispers, not looking too pleased with the threat, "I've just secured us perfect behavior for tonight darling," he insists, resting his hand on her back, "now let's go enjoy the ballet."

꧁ ꧂

They arrive at the theater with ten minutes to spare.

While they made it out of the door on time, Coriolanus hadn't anticipated the traffic that Christmas Eve would bring. But they made it and that's all that matters. The Snow family follows an usher down the lavishly decorated hallway to their private box and the girls are teeming with excitement.

"Here you are Mr. Snow, please don't hesitate to ask for assistance should you need any," the young man says to Coriolanus, bowing at the waist. Coriolanus grunts and Soarynn gives the man a kind smile, "Thank you," she says, "and Merry Christmas."

Coriolanus opens the door to their box and the Creeds are already seated. "Look who finally showed up," Festus jokes, rising from his seat. Coriolanus rolls his eyes, stepping to the side so the rest of his family can come inside. The girls walk in first, amazed at all the ornate details and light fixtures.

"Hello Mr. Creed," Ceraphina says once she tears her focus away from the opulence that comes with being a Snow. Coriolanus is more than pleased with how polite his children are at such a young age and watches them shake his good friend's hand before making their way over to his wife, Persephone.

"Oh, Festus, you look so handsome," Soarynn says, the last to enter the small room, "we're so glad you all could join us tonight." Festus smiles and greets Soarynn with the expected kiss on the cheek and gives Caspian a wink, "It took some convincing to get Persephone out of the house but we made it," he says with a sigh.

Coriolanus knows exactly why it's been so hard to get Persephone out of the house the past month, it's because she's pregnant and is at the stage where everything is uncomfortable and too loud. But she seems to be in good spirits when he looks over at her talking to the girls.

"Well, I'm sure she's ready for your second baby boy to be here," Soarynn replies, a fond look in her eyes while holding Caspian. "Cecil," is all Caspian says, looking around for his own friend.

"Cecil is right over there," Festus points at his wife, "he keeps trying to sit in his mother's lap but his little brother takes up quite a bit of room." Soarynn sighs and Coriolanus can see her remembering what it was like being pregnant. Unlike some women, Soarynn loved being pregnant, she would've carried Persephone's baby if she could've.

She gives Coriolanus a hopeful look and he's quick to shake his head, "Absolutely not," he tells her before she can start planning for a fourth child, "we are three and done."

Festus chuckles and pats Coriolanus on the back, "That's what I told Persephone, one and done and now look at us."

Soarynn goes over to her good friend and Coriolanus doesn't feel any better when he sees Soarynn rest a hand on her protruding baby bump, "We don't need any more children," Coriolanus says, more to himself than to Festus. They really don't. Soarynn has given him three perfect children, why have another and ruin their odds?

He's always had a healthy fear of pregnancy, more so the birth since his own mother tragically died giving birth to his little sister who also died. Watching Soarynn push all three of their children out was terrifying even though she did it tremendously well.

He can't risk losing her.

"I suppose it's up to fate really, now why don't we order a drink and sit down," Festus suggests. Coriolanus nods in agreement, a drink is just what he needs right now. The two men place an order for two glasses of bourbon before going to their seats where Coriolanus properly greets Persephone and Cecil who is in fact, trying to sit in her lap.

"He's soaking in his last days as an only child," Persephone explains, rubbing her stomach, "and his days are numbered."

Ceraphina rests her hands on the edge of the balcony, peering down at the stage and the other people who will be watching the show, "Was I an only child Daddy?"

Coriolanus rests a hand on Soarynn's knee, leaning back into his seat, "You were sweetheart," he answers, "but only for a little while." Ceraphina and Celeste are barely a year apart due to how quickly Soarynn got pregnant after giving birth to Ceraphina. She was far too young to understand what was going on around her before her little sister arrived.

"Ceraphina darling, come sit down," Soarynn says, patting the empty seat next to her. Ceraphina does as she's told and sits down next to Soarynn with Celeste to her left. Coriolanus looks to his right where Festus is sitting and then Persephone and a struggling Cecil who's determined to sit in his mother's lap.

Festus shake his head at the sight, "He's a bit of a slow learner."

Coriolanus is glad that Caspian is a quiet toddler who doesn't ever put up much of a fuss. He looks very content in Soarynn's lap, his head resting on her chest. Soarynn dressed him in a little green suit and even slicked back his curls the same way Coriolanus does to his own curls.

The lights finally dim and a hush falls over the room. The girls whisper to each other, on the edge of their seats for the show to start. "Here are your drinks," an attendant says quietly from behind them. Coriolanus turns and gladly takes both glasses of bourbon and hands on to Festus who grins, "To a happy holiday," Festus whispers. Coriolanus taps his glass against his, "And to many more," he whispers back.

He looks at Soarynn who seems so content with this life they've created, Caspian in her lap while she holds Ceraphina's hand.

Yes, he decides, bringing the glass to his lips, to many more moments like this.

꧁ ꧂

The girls chatter about the ballet the whole time during dinner as if everyone wasn't just there to witness it.

But Coriolanus doesn't mind, he's simply pleased with their good behavior and proper manners. Caspian has behaved exceptionally well tonight too, not putting up any fuss despite staying up past his bedtime. Both little boys are sitting in their parent's laps, keeping themselves occupied by playing with the napkins.

"I honestly can't wait for him to start going to school," Festus admits, running a hand over Cecil's curls. With Persephone carrying a child already, Cecil landed in his father's lap and it's quite amusing to see Festus Creed with a child in his lap, especially after seeing him make a fool of himself when they were younger.

Coriolanus thinks back to his own days at the Academy, he was a stellar student and that's where he met Soarynn. She was in his art class and he was tragically doomed when it came to being creative. Soarynn had so sweetly offered to help and Coriolanus was also tragically doomed to fall in love with her. He asked her out on a date and the rest was history.

He wishes he could go back in time and tell his younger self that everything worked out in the end, they married the girl, had three children, and were more successful than ever.

"I like school," Ceraphina chimes in, finally talking about something else rather than the ballet. Soarynn nods and smiles, "Yes you do darling, and next year Celeste will join you."

Celeste perks up at the mention of her attending the Academy next year. The Academy is the most prestigious school in the Capitol. If you want your children to have a successful future then you'll pay the whopping tuition and send them there for the next twelve years or so.

The Snows will obviously be sending all three of their children there but Coriolanus knows how much Soarynn will miss her days filled with arts and crafts and reading stories. No wonder she wants another baby.

"Tuition has gone up hasn't it?" Persephone asks and Coriolanus grunts, reaching for his glass of wine if he's going to have to talk about money, "It certainly has," he confirms, "it goes up every year."

Soarynn places her hand on top of his, giving it a squeeze, "But we're paying for a proper education for all three of our children," she sweetly reminds him. She has a point but it doesn't change the fact that Coriolanus will at some point be paying for three tuitions, not to mention sports, extracurricular activities, uniforms, and who knows what else. And they always make donations on top of that.

Soarynn has always insisted on donating to the school, as if they don't already run him dry but he supposes that it sounds like a great idea when she's not the one working every day.

"I can get a job to help," Ceraphina quickly offers, "I'm good at counting." All the adults chuckle at her naive way of thinking, so innocent and sweet, "That won't be necessary darling," Coriolanus assures her, "we can afford all the tuitions in the world."

Persephone changes the topic to a possible trip to District Four but Coriolanus keeps his focus on Soarynn who's holding a now-sleeping Caspian in her lap. He might make jokes about being the sole breadwinner in their family but after all she's given him, he wouldn't have it any other way.

Soarynn has given him something that money could never buy. She gave him a family, a legacy, a purpose.

If she were a gift then she'd be priceless.

꧁ ꧂

"Let's put the cookies over here girls."

Coriolanus watches Soarynn and the girls carry a plate of cookies into the living room where their Christmas tree is, getting ready for Santa to visit their penthouse.

"Will Santa be able to get in our apartment?" Celeste asks, sticking her head into their fireplace that Coriolanus hasn't used in about ten years. Soarynn decorated it with stockings and garlands but Celeste looks skeptical about how Santa will be getting into their penthouse tonight.

"Of course, he will," Coriolanus answers, "Santa finds a way to get into everyone's house."

There are many things that one can never prepare for when becoming a parent but Coriolanus was never prepared for Santa. It started when Ceraphina was two and actually was able to grasp the concept of Christmas and Santa and they've kept it up ever since.

"Now we leave these here for Santa to eat when he comes later tonight," Soarynn explains to the children, "then in the morning, we can wake up and open our presents." Caspian bounces on his toes, gripping the coffee table for support, "Santa comes now!"

Soarynn grins and pushes the plate in the middle of the table, "He only comes once you're sleeping Cas," she reminds their son, "so we all have to go to sleep now."

Coriolanus knows that the girls won't be able to sleep a wink tonight but Caspian can sleep through anything, a trait he inherited from his mother. The Capitol could be bombed and Soarynn would still sleep through it.

Coriolanus on the other hand wakes up at the slightest noise. Soarynn teases him about it all the time, claiming that he's paranoid but he sees it as being protective. He would never forgive himself if something were to happen to any of his children while he was asleep.

"Yes, let's go to bed," Coriolanus says, holding a hand out to Celeste who gingerly takes it, glancing back at their twinkling Christmas tree. The children love getting to decorate it and Soarynn always does such a good job at decorating their entire apartment.

They all make their way to the children's respective bedrooms and the girls manage to swindle Coriolanus into letting them sleep together. "It's so we can sleep better," Ceraphina explains, climbing into her canopy bed. Celeste nods and grunts, having to use a little more effort to climb onto the bed, "Yep, we've gotta sleep together 'cause we'll fall asleep quicker Daddy."

Coriolanus gives her a boost and a knowing look, "Really? Well, Santa will know if you're not asleep," he reminds them, "and he won't come unless everyone is sleeping."

The girls get under the covers and look up at him with wide eyes, hanging onto his every word, "We'll go to sleep," Celeste promises, "and then we'll come wake you and Mommy up in the morning!"

Coriolanus does his best to look excited about the early wakeup call he'll be getting at the crack of dawn from his children. The girls normally sleep until either he or Soarynn wakes them up but Christmas calls for a special occasion.

"We'll be looking forward to that. Now close your eyes and go to sleep hmm?"

Coriolanus leans down, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads the way he does every night, "Goodnight Daddy."

Coriolanus smiles, smoothing down Ceraphina's hair, "Goodnight my princesses, I'll see you in the morning."

After making sure that they're all tucked in, Coriolanus quietly pads to the doors and turns off the light, looking back to make sure that they're actually asleep and not pretending. He fell for that before and he's never going to fall for it again.

Soarynn appears in the doorway just as he's about to leave and she peeks into their room, a fond look in her eyes, "Goodnight girls," she whispers, blowing them a kiss, "we'll see you in the morning."

Coriolanus wraps an arm around her waist and leads them out into the hallway, closing the doors behind them, "Caspian is asleep?" He asks while nuzzling her cheek with his nose, making her giggle, "Yes," she says, wrapping her arms around his neck, "not a creature is stirring except for us."

Coriolanus slides his other hand down her dress, stopping when he reaches the small of her waist, "You know, we could be really naughty tonight," he whispers, kissing her cheek. Soarynn leans into his touch, fully trusting him to hold her, "But we've been so good this year," she counters, teasing him while scratching the back of his neck.

Coriolanus groans, she's always known his weak spots and is so pesky when she takes advantage of them

"Santa won't mind," he promises, moving his lips to her soft ones, kissing her deeply. Soarynn instantly responds to his touch and moans when his hand slides a little further down, squeezing her ass, "Our bedroom," she whispers urgently and Coriolanus is happy to take her to their sacred space.

Most nights that end like this are considered perfect in his mind. But this night is more special than most.

It's the night before Christmas.

| tumblr oneshot/drabble |

| taglist: @strawberriicakes @wonderlandbound111 @kickmybark @villiansarehottest @thevoicesinmyprettylittlehead @melodyoflovee @erensrealgf |

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whoops-all-jennas · 1 day ago

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Sweater Weather

Wednesday x fem!reader (Fantasy AU)

"Cause it's too cold for you here and now."

"So let me hold, both your hands in the holes of my sweater."

Summary: You go missing while foraging before a snow storm hits, Wednesday goes to search for you.

Warnings: Descriptions of death

The light trots of my horse Nero fill the air, muted by the wind of the angry blizzard. We must move slowly, only able to see so far in front of us. The lantern barely providing any assistance in the boundless sea of snow carried in the wind.

"Y/n!" I try to yell, met with the wind's deafening pressure. Hardly even hearing myself.

I'm wearing many layers. The tip of my nose red and my fingertips turning purple.

The blood restricts in my body, my heart focusing on keeping my core warm.

I don't care about what I may lose. There would be no greater loss than the loss of you.

"Y/n!" I desperately cry into the wind your name once more, met with nothing but my fear.

How far could you have gotten?

We continue to trec through the boundless snow. Nero's movement becoming slower, stiff. Nero's joints probably feel as stiff as mine in this harsh environment.

One of Nero's legs give in, causing us both to plummet to the soft snow.

"Nero!" I pull myself off the ground and move to the front of him as fast as my frigid joints will let me, blocking the snow in my face with my arm. The sharp chill leaving a blue tint to my already pale skin.

"It's okay Nero! we'll stop and make a fire to warm you up." I grab their face with my frigid hands, barely able to bend my stiff fingers.

I grab the lead and pull with the little energy I have. Nero is barely responsive, their eyes nearly lifeless.

I look around with haste, through the blinding storm I manage to notice a small cave.

"Nero stand, we will find shelter in that cave." I pull again on the unresponsive lead. Nero's eyes now lack all life, their eyes barely open.

I stare at Nero's lifeless body for a moment before going to close their eyes, so they may rest.

"I apologize for what I've done to you, my faithful horse." I pet the bridge of their nose with my cold hands.

"I will return, with Y/n. We will give you a proper burial." I slowly stand, fighting the resistance of my cold ligaments. I find my way into the small dank cave, guided by the muted light of my lantern.

I rest by the warmth of the small fire I manage to bring to life, finding my eyes drifting closed. I resist the temptation of slumber. The weak, but warm fire needs to be maintained.

I treat the fire, feeding it more sticks to fuel the flames. I start to regain feelings in my fingers, the blue hint fading to reveal the color of life coursing through my thawed veins.

I now find the temptation irresistible. I lay for a moment, soon drifting into a peaceful rest.

The warmth of the sun meets my face through the window of our cottage. I sit up to meet the warm summer air meeting my skin through our opened windowed.

I look through the window, my eyes adjusting to the light. I'm soon met with your figure treating the garden.

Your smile meets my face, I wish I could find the words to express what you meant to me.

I stand, changing from my pajamas to my day clothes, soon meeting you out in the lush and lively garden.

"I was thinking.. " You're watering the plants full of life while you speak.

"We should go down to the lake today, just enjoy the beautiful day for a bit." I find your smile meeting my stoic face. I sometimes wish I could be as expressive as you. For my smile to meet yours, as it fills you with the same warmth your smile fills me.

"We can do that." Before I find time to complete my statement, I find you have already taken hold of my hand. Interlacing our fingers.

You take Nero by the lead, hopping in the front section of the saddle. I soon follow and hop onto the back section of the saddle.

You lead Nero to the lake, the sound of their hooves trotting on the dirt path filling the woods. Squirrels and other critters fleeing from the noises.

We're soon met with the lake, the water perfectly reflecting the sky and trees.

The air that was once warm, nips at your skin with a sudden chill.

Suddenly you vanish, leaving just Nero and I. The sky getting dark and cloudy, intimidation catching onto the faint rays of light from the blocked sun.

Snow starts to rapidly stick to my skin, the sudden cold feeling like needles on my skin.

I block my face with my hand from the cold snow and fierce wind.

"Y/n!" I shout, unable to hear my voice

The lake starts to crystalize over, a fog looming over the frigid ice.

I find myself falling suddenly to the cold, soft floor. Nero was now gone.

I quickly stand, watching the scene around me. I wrap my frigid arms around my chest, feeling the cold burry itself into my bones.

"Y/n!"

"Nero!"

I awaken to the smell of smoke, faint embers take place over what once was a lively fire.

I stand already cold, the fire must've been out for a while. Grabbing my lantern before going to continue my search for you.

It is now night time, the storm still spinning wildly with sharp snow and wind. Its more unbearable than before.

My ligaments soon start feeling stiff, but I mustn't give in.

Without your presence life meaning nothing to me. I will find you or die trying.

As I persist through the treacherous storm, my fingers meet the same fate as before. Blue finding a hint of color over my pale skin.

I shiver viciously, my steps slowing. Resisting the urge to give in.

I find myself in what seems to be a field, covered in the freezing snow.

I take a moment to dig through the snow to be met with thick ice from a lake.

I trec onward. The already muted light from my lantern dimming.

"No, no!" I start the shack the lantern as it's light now breathing it's last breath.

I throw the lantern with as much strength as I can muster in front of me, unable to hear the sound of it land through the vicious storm.

I am now completely blind to the storm, no sense of what direction I came from or where to go.

Is my death inevitable?

I still resist, my steps slow. Finding it exceedingly difficult to bend my knees.

My knees finally buckle as I fall into the snow. My face meeting the cold snow, unable to recognize the temperature of it.

I try to force myself to stand. Only holding my self up with my arms, my purple fingers digging into the white field beneath me.

My legs are now unable to move, any attempt met with defeat.

Was my journey useless?

Was my attempt futile?

I'm so cold

So cold.

A blue light beams through the snow from the lake below as the storm starts to soften. A gap in the clouds revealing a full moon, lighting the field with its soft white glow.

The light moves forward from below me, revealing a silhouette.

Your glowing silhouette.

Your skin looks warm and colored, you eyes soft and inviting. You approach, the only sound is the crunching of the snow compressing underneath your foot steps.

"It's going to be okay Wednesday, I am here now."

She holds my face, a gentle tear streaming down my face at her touch.

You almost appear as ethereal, angelic.

"You have found me."

Your warm lips meeting my purple cold ones, the heat coursing through my veins. It feels as if the color returns to my skin for a moment, holding onto your loving embrace.

My body is illuminated by the pale glow of the moon. My skin a pale blue, a tear frozen onto my cheek as I rest my head in the soft snow.

A gentle smile frozen onto my purple lips.

My lifeless body will soon be buried above this lake, and will join the water with the life of spring.

But for now, I will rest in the snow. My body cold, but my heart warm with my final memories of you.

a/n: hope you guys enjoy this quick little story, I decided to try something new a make it take place in an alternate universe. lmk if you want more fantasy au fics :) I'm not too sure how I feel about this but I decided to post it because why not

#wednesday x y/n #wednesday x fem!reader #wednesday addams x female reader #wednesday addams x you #wednesday addams x reader #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x you

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wakacreations · 3 days ago

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Infernal Happy Holidays

I wish everyone a happy holidays! Santa Waka made it in time for Christmas lol. Anyways I hope you all enjoy and take care! I'm going to go pass out in the sleigh. If anyone's curious about the song lyrics it's Merry Sinsmas by Samuel Haft & Yoav Landau.

Zevlor:

There is a fleeting wonder when looking upon these flurries with renewed but still tired eyes. I hold few memories of this time of year. One recollection bleed into another sparsely did I have any to covet so dearly. When was the last time I partook in these winter festivities, would come to cross my mind. I used to have a family once long ago before the city was plagued by undead. Maybe it comes with time that I have forgotten their names but not their faces. A crackling fire from the hearth I used to nestle in close under mounting furs. Getting scolded by loved ones for leaving a trail of crumbs from sneaking about to consume some baked treats in my youth.

I have since then spent most of my life away in the midst of redden snow drifts. Another skirmish for I to be sent to the wilds or to simply stand guard outside the city’s borders. Though I had become a quiet observer of these holidays. I did commit to one tradition; to share a reluctant pint with the other Hellriders when the city was safe once again. Though does it still count in celebration of the season if the act was only so brief? Well depends upon your interpretation truly I suppose. Maybe I am a sentimental fool. The Hell’s were never the most idyllic welcoming environment for holiday cheer. Though we had to be very particular about caroling down below, you know. Too uncivilized for the local residence of the Hells for any Faerunian holiday to take root there but we made do. Now this time of year has come again once more. No longer am I greeted by the clash of metal, the uneasiness of reaching nights nor the endless days. I am slowly coming to peace with the tiredness that I can never be rid of. A life long lived and filled with rich emotions littering my skin. There is a pounding in my chest that won’t cease. Honestly this is a recent development. A feeling that I wasn’t sure I was capable of. With each of my steps there was trepidation not of tragedy but of possibilities as your steps aligned with mine. The cold touch of winter leaves their impression upon our cheeks and nose as we chase its delicate beauty. The winds used to howl long lost voices replaced with familiar hearty laughter rings in my ears. I can’t help but stare in awe. There are moments left to witness. Our battered hands falling in hands. Moments left to remember. Stained boots lead a gentle steady pace. Moments to cherish. With a bashful smile that meets the eyes, “happy holidays my love.” Moments to yearn for. A heartbeat goes in sync. Moments left to live for.

Rolan:

I always had complicated feelings about the holidays. There are many who enjoy this time of year and those who can't be bothered. My first experience celebrating was in the orphanage. The first time I snuck out I saw the twinkling lights of Baldur’s Gate and later in Elturel, walking alone in winter night markets. I was young then. My hands have since healed but there are still faint scars from my time being a lowly tiefling beggar. I was lucky enough to have met my mother as she was freely giving out pastries on one of those frigid nights. This is one of the holidays I spare no expense to celebrate and partake in. I used to dream as a child that I would not be alone during this time of year. Don't dwell on that too much. I have never been alone since I had Cal, Lia and my mother for a time. Time I still look back on fondly except for the teasing from those troglodytes. Now I have Cal, Lia and… Now you. It is an odd feeling to start over again once more. I watched you as you helped set up the decorations. Cal and Lia are busy fighting over where to place the tree. Those two haven't changed from even back then. I feared we would never have a home to celebrate in but look to where I have found myself. I don't know where I would be without you. “Cal! Lia! We will sort that out later! Tav has finished decorating the fireplace,” I called behind from my latest project. “You have the scrying eye ready to capture, Rolan? Are you sure it will work?” My little brother poked his head out from behind the mass of leaves. “Don’t worry I have tested it well Cal.” I ushered for them to come sit down before the fire. “Tav let's hurry before those idiots steal all the pillows,” Lia tossed you a couple. You two raced to sit down. Children, all of you. After much arguing and equal distribution of pillows as much as Lia protested. Everyone is finally settled in well… almost. “Move your big head Lia, I can't see!” If you two don't stop roughhousing… “Well stop slouching and maybe then you can see!” You two are grown tieflings! “Quiet! The both of you!” I snapped. Cal and Lia sat straight up in attention. Your hand found my own with a reassuring squeeze, I took a deep breath in. Gods! They're such a headache. “You alright,” you looked up from where you laid on my shoulder. “Better now,” I smiled back. But I wouldn't have it any other way. “Three… Two… One… Happy holidays!” “Did the eye go off?” You idiots. Happy holidays, Tav.

Raphael:

I was always one for grandeur celebrations. I have hosted my own fair share with immaculate planning and the finest quality materials the realms have to offer. There is a certain charm to the city, seeing through the thin veil placed upon their wide toothy grins of these mortals. Desperation hangs heavily through the chill in the fresh air like the first savoring breath in after wrung lungs. Always a familiar comfortable formality, a reminder of the impending frost. There is a wide variety of handcrafted decorations I have come to appreciate. The brilliance of these gemstones adorned by the lost souls wandering through the congested cobblestone paths, ever looking for a humble refuge from the seeping claws of winter's hand. With utmost care I would enjoy plucking the twin stones to examine the craftsmanship but I will save the activity for another time. Under their breaths, the notes of old traditional hymns wishing the downfall of passersby. If only there were new original compositions this year. My what a delight would that be to my ears. The prime season of contracts and to reap one's dues had arrived. There is a long waiting list but should I start with my favorite clients? Where to begin I wonder. Whom would be my first claim?

You kiss me on the cheek and look me in the eye. The wisp of words grabbed my attention. A love ballad, how often are those to be strummed by foolish bards. You tell a lie that you will soon return to me. The soft patter of keys and the familiar soothing resonance carries above the chaotic chatter of the city. Well this is quite a surprise as I stepped away from the busy square. Where have I heard this voice before? I loved you then, Where was the source coming from? I looked around at the nearby taverns. I love you still I followed the tune through the snaking alleyways. Whomever they are, a siren indeed. And now, it won’t be long until you’re here at last. I was greeted by a crumbling home. The sound bled from the battered door before me. And then I ask, “If your heart still burns for me?” I peered through from a side window. There was a figure hunched over surrounded by clutter. Barely any light illuminated the dwelling. I would travel every ring of Hell By the flicker of candle light I caught a glimpse. Just to see if you’ll be mine. Mouse? Know that you are on my mind. You chuckled, the last of the chord settled atop the keys.

“I suppose that is how far my creative genius will take me today.” You yawned, arching your back into a full body stretch. Ah, so it is you, little mouse. Looking over your shoulder our eyes briefly met. Snap. “Raphael?” It has been awhile since I heard my name on your lips. “I must have been mistaken,” rubbing your palms against your lids. There was no one there. You turned back towards the piano. The lid of the instrument began to close shut. “Alone for the holidays?” You went deathly still, the hairs on the back of your neck stood. “Don’t stop. Keep playing. I wonder how the piece will end.” I could hear the thumping of that heart of yours like the fast ticking of a metronome. No that tempo won’t do. “Why are you here, devil?” You stared up at the wall in front of you. “I thought I heard a little mouse squeaking from the square. Only to discover a sweet lonely songbird in their place,” I purred into your ear. You were the one to invite a devil into your home. Who else would you be singing to? “Get out,” you held firm. “Don’t you miss me?” You shivered when I leaned in close. My fingers splayed onto the keys. “Indulge me and I will make it worth your while. Why spoil the holiday cheer in the air?” I began to play my own composition. “Since when did devil's care about mortal holidays?” Your ears perked up at the chord progression. “Mortal holidays hold a special place in the Hells. It marks the time where we are most productive.” Ah, it seems you remember these notes quite well as beads of sweat start to form on your temple. Though I do prefer an organ to play my final act. “Fuck off!” You ceased my wrists for my fingers to still at once. “The longer you hold my attention, mouse. One less soul inked onto my parchment. I am a very busy devil. Now shall we?” I missed this banter of ours. Reluctantly you let go. I placed my hands to where your fingers danced on the keys. You shut your eyes and cursed under your breath. Vaguely I could make out the words, you should have casted silence. Even if you had, I would still find my ways to listen.

“Let's start from the beginning then.” Your hands shoved my own out of the way. Eager, are we? “No, let's start further along in the passage at the line. What was it again, mouse? Your confession?” “You pack a bag, you say goodbye,” pressing down onto the keys. “You never said that phrase,” arching a brow. “I did at the very beginning. Which confession are you referring to in the piece, Raphael?” Don’t play dumb mouse. "The part where you say I lo…" “I am waiting, devil.” You spoke as if you had other plans for the evening. “Let's move on to the next couple of lines.” “You kiss me on the cheek and look me in the eyes. You tell a lie that you would return to me.” It was no lie, little mouse. Your hand froze atop the keys. Afraid to say it once more? “Sing the next phrase, mouse.” Come now you spoke it effortlessly before. “I already did and now it's your turn,” your playing resumed. “I will finish the song if you sing along in harmony. I will not entertain you otherwise.” Hmm? There are many souls waiting for me, mouse. What is stopping I from leaving out the door to go off and collect? “You will never know the ending of the piece.” Who are you to be in a position for negotiations? “Do you honestly believe that I-” You moved to slam the lid. “Alright! Insufferable pipsqueak.” I should have you hanged like an ornament. I cleared my throat, the piano accompaniment came in.

I loved you then, I loved you still. And now, it won’t be long until you’re here at last. And then I ask, "if your heart still burns for me?” I would travel every ring of Hell Just to see if you’ll be mine. “I thought you were a bard that was above singing a love ballad,” I could hear that grin of yours. “I thought you were above serenading for a devil but here we are. You have impressed me. To think you would compose such a ballad and expect the devil not to appear.” You squirmed in your seat and rightfully so for having me sing along. “... Happy holidays, devil.” Well that is a surprise. Maybe we can make this a time honored tradition. I will have you singing my own original work. With a better… as I looked around at the clutter rat's nest you've accumulated.. scenery would be putting it generously. “Likewise, mouse.” You glanced up at me awaiting for there to be more words to utter. My you are already pouting, remember that for next year when you will celebrate in my home. “Happy holidays, little mouse.”

Haarlep:

Sometimes I miss the ice and snow of Cania. “Haarlep, you ass!” But the more that I pondered the thought. “Well that's on you mousey! You never knew how to dodge my projectiles,” I ducked as you threw another ball of ice. The more that I came to the same conclusion I missed being able to wander. “Such a naughty little mouse. You said we were to merely play in the snow, not the ice.” You rolled your eyes at me. My have I seen you do such an act one too many- “You are too cruel!’ I wiped away the snow from my face. There you stood laughing as I was made to stare up at you where I lay in the snow. The mortal realm is missing the otherworldly luxuries I have grown fond of. You squealed as I ran towards you. But I suppose it is a worthy exchange… “I caught you little thief.” For I too never grow hungry. The endless blanket of white was beneath us. Well you were always eager to satiate my appetite. “What is to be my reward?” You have always piqued my curiosity. Seeing you panting before me, hair all tussled from exertion, a flush across your cheeks. Such a tasty mortal you were. “Whatever you desire Haarlep.” You chuckled, reaching out to cup my face. There was always fun to be had with you. “Whatever I desire. You won't like that. Are you sure about that, my sweet pet?” My face came down to yours. You nodded your head like it was the easiest decision to make. I will enjoy every last moment with you. “Happy holidays, Haarlep.” Your voice hitched as I laid my hands atop your wrists. You were always fun to toy with. I will never grow tired of you. “Happy holidays,” I pulled back. With a flick of my tail you were covered in snow. “Haarlep!!!” You screeched at me when I took off into the air. I told you already, but you never do listen. “I thought you would have better aim by now,” I weaved through your barrage of snowballs. My heart's desire will always be to use you for my amusement. “Haarlep, where are you going?” You paused your movements as you watched me flew further away. That heart of yours is quite delectable. “I will be waiting for you at our home.” It should always be pounding in your chest. “Haarlep, no!” You dropped the snowballs in hand. “Come back!” You quickly ran to chase after me. So, you do enjoy my company. Always think of me whenever you feel that beat of your heart. “You were the one who brought us here!” You attempted to wave me down but I happily waved back with a smile. You are mine for the rest of your lifetime. Enjoy it while you last and I will enjoy you. “Happy Holidays, my precious mousey. See you very soon.”

#bg3 #bg3 zevlor #zevlor #zevlor nation #bg3 rolan #rolan #holy rolan empire #bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael the cambion #bg3 haarlep #haarlep #haarlep the incubus

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loving-family-poll · 3 days ago

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2nd Ultimate Incest Tournament - Round 1

Propaganda under the cut:

Buck/Maddie:

The first time we see Maddie, Buck is inadvertently trying to get into the shower with her, which in my opinion really sets the tone. They're siblings who grew up with emotionally neglectful parents, extremely entwined and dependent on each other until Maddie leaves home for an abusive marriage. Unaware of the abuse but knowing they're both miserable in their current lives, Buck asks Maddie to run away with him. She agrees to go with him, until her husband finds out and assaults her. Still unaware and feeling betrayed by her change of heart, Buck nevertheless writes to her after he leaves on his own. He keeps up the correspondence for three years even though she never writes back. And when Maddie finally makes the decision to leave, explicitly because her brother never gave up on her, the first thing she does is show up on his doorstep. (Or, to be more specific, in his shower). Some have described their relationship as "wholesome" and "heart warming" but personally I think the sweeping romance of this backstory gives them a pass to get a little freaky with each other.

Maddie and Buck grow up close, thier parents completely closed off from them but especially from Buck. Buck finds out later in life that they had a brother Daniel who he was made to be a savior child for. It didn't work and Daniel died and the Buckley parents pretended he didn't exist, forcing Maddie to do the same. Maddie and Buck mention several times that it was them vs the world and that the Buckley parents weren't bad people just bad parents. Maddie especially is parentified and spent most of thier childhood raising Buck. Buck is the only Buckley who goes to Maddie wedding to her eventual husband who is abusive. When we meet Maddie in the series she's on the run from Doug. Doug does actually end up kidnapping Maddie and its Buck who goes after her and rescues her.

Maddie stayed with her abusive husband to save Buck from his wrath, and even though Buck didn't know that, he sent her postcards documenting his journey. And when Maddie ran out on her partner and child, Buck kept her secret.

3 separate flirty moments (shower introduction, cockring innuendo and bisexual coming out), clutching at each other covered in blood, secret pinky promises, and over 7 seasons they show over and over that they know one another best out of everyone.

Jonas/Martha:

what if we were relatives thanks to a time paradox, and also loved each other so much we tried to destroy the timeline. and also died for/because of each other

They are So Much in every way. They love each other so much but they are so tragic. Jonas was willing to erase himself from existence if it meant Martha could be happy again (he did not succeed, but still). They’re able to recognize older versions of each other who have time-traveled back. Jonas literally BREAKS TIME AND SPACE to get back to Martha’s time and save her life. Meanwhile, in another timeline, a Martha who never knew Jonas still sleeps with him within a week of their meeting. The baby they have is called The Origin (real name on the birth certificate), and he’s literally described as the most important baby in the universe. Martha CAUSES THE APOCALYPSE so she and Jonas can have this baby. They have an in-world cult dedicated to the two of them being together. They kill each other in one timeline. And at the end of it all, when they’ve become mortal enemies and lived through their own separate time loops, they just hold hands so they can die old and grey together.

I would like everyone to know that they LITERALLY call themselves Adam and Eve and they have a giant cathedral dedicated to them with Adam and Eve paintings on the walls. and their descendants AND ancestors literally come to worship them there bc they believe they will bring paradise on earth. Beginning and end, alpha and omega, two sides of the infinity sign come together. and for the incest Martha is Jonas’ aunt

“You and I are perfect together. Never forget that.” Jonas would never guess that his teenage crush would turn out to be his aunt. Or that their love and inability to let go of one another would cause them both to lose everyone they’ve ever loved, trap them in a time loop unable to change any of the tragedy that befalls them and their child, and trigger the literal apocalypse. But, hey, life is unpredictable.

#tournament polls #tumblr polls #incest poll #buck/maddie #buckleycest #jonas/martha #round 1

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daenerys-targaryen · 2 months ago

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firing through all the stages of grief like a ping pong ball

#leah rambles #on one hand we’re soooo fucked so many people are going to straight up die from this #on the other hand life goes on and all we can do is live in spite #fucking hell

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akascow · 15 days ago

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im the front desk lead so i get to boss front desk people around (i hate it im so bad at being authoritative) but it also means i have to make slightly passive aggressive messages in the work chat like once a month about things ive already asked them multiple times to stay on top of but its so annoying the more i tell them and the more they just Dont do it SKJSLKAD im trying so hard to make this message look like im not mad and that im not trying to be the bitchy manager type and i dont want it to sound like im talking down to them but also like its part of ur job i shouldnt be one of the only ones doing this PLUS I SHOULDNT HAVE TO KEEP REMINDING U TO DO THIS DFJLKSLDKS

#n i still do everything i preach btw im not one of those bossy shift leads that make everyone work while i just sit on my ass the whole time #(i mean i dont think itd get done if i didnt do it anyway but thats not the point HAHAHA)#i think like one other person actually listens to me JKDJSLAS i love her tho shes great #on 1 hand i dont want them to be annoyed at me (for asking them to do their job) but on the other hand IM annoyed that i have to even ask😭#because believe it or not almost everyone here gets mad when a team lead asks them to do smth instead of letting them sit on their phone lo #walking into my opening shift seeing everything look hella messy STRESSES ME OUTTTT like damn bitch u live like this HAHA #like i'll come back after 3 days of not working and its just a mess JDJFLS other ppl are like omg kat it was a disaster everythings so bad #like ?? am i like the only person actually doing shit here????? am i the glue holding this position together JSJDLSAJDSL bROOOO #ik this sounds so much like the closing shift vs opening shift 'a single dust spec? erm who closed last night🤨☝️' tiktokts but alsooooo #as someone who closes AND opens i'm allowed to say what i want HAHAA ive been on both arguments here LMFAO #like closing is supposed to make it look nice for when we open becauseeeee opening shifts START like 15-30min before we open doors #its not like opening shift can get that all done in time on top of actually getting things read to open...#whatever i'll be gone for 2 weeks lets see if it all goes up in flames HAHAHA #trials and tribulations of kats work life

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yaoianimeremade · 9 months ago

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Soon im rly gonna do it

#🕸️#sui mention #< in the tags tho cuz it feels nicer to talk abt this in tags than in the post itself cuz to me posts are like talking normally but tags are #like whispering? talking you can tune out if you want but whispering is rather more voluntary to say it doesnt matter however #every single year passes and i wish i didnt live in each and every one of them i feel disconnected dissatisfied empty disappointed every day #it can be a small part of a day or a bigger but its still there clenching onto me like and never letting go im tired of it theres always a #wall between me and otyer ppl im unsure if i put it there or was it put there by other ppl but its there and even if anyone tries to reach #into it do i understand how even if close are we really far away it makes me understand just how much of an abnormality i am and how much i #cant ever be like them no matter how much i try and climb and crawl until i bleed its exhausting its maddening #almost everything i do is shaped by spite i wear one bracelet for years out of spite i dont smoke out of spite i dont shave my hands not #only because im normal abt body hair but also out of spite the more i know ppl the spiteful i get only way for me to truly like someone is #to keep them at a lenght outside that wall if they get in then theres only two choices for them to dislike me or even hate my entire being #or me to shove them back out without ever letting them get in #coworkers say im a nice kind person but im not its all just a facade to make my life easier and to suit myself im hateful but i dont believe #its entirely my fault after all they will to my face make fun of. laugh at. and hate everything of me they would see in other ppl that dont #hide it deep within like i do and then it rly hits me how different abnormal foul disgusting and unnatural i am #im hit with his every talk that goes on too long every word that keeps going every touch every expression every comment made on my behalf #its exhausting to live this way i fear im near my limit i havent reached it but who knows when i will #i sometimes dream of doing it and leaving behind a note wishing nothing but painful suffering to everyone i ever knew irl but i dont want to #do that to my best friends and my dog but who knows how long its left before the thread breaks #thats all like comment and subscribe if you personally would do me a favor by taking me out back and shooting me

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therealbeachfox · 11 months ago

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Twenty years ago, February 15th, 2004, I got married for the first time.

It was twenty years earlier than I ever expected to.

To celebrate/comemorate the date, I'm sitting down to write out everything I remember as I remember it. No checking all the pictures I took or all the times I've written about this before. I'm not going to turn to my husband (of twenty years, how the f'ing hell) to remember a detail for me.

This is not a 100% accurate recounting of that first wild weekend in San Francisco. But it -is- a 100% accurate recounting of how I remember it today, twenty years after the fact.

Join me below, if you would.

2004 was an election year, and much like conservatives are whipping up anti-trans hysteria and anti-trans bills and propositions to drive out the vote today, in 2004 it was all anti-gay stuff. Specifically, preventing the evil scourge of same-sex marriage from destroying everything good and decent in the world.

Enter Gavin Newstrom. At the time, he was the newly elected mayor of San Francisco. Despite living next door to the city all my life, I hadn’t even heard of the man until Valentines Day 2004 when he announced that gay marriage was legal in San Francisco and started marrying people at city hall.

It was a political stunt. It was very obviously a political stunt. That shit was illegal, after all. But it was a very sweet political stunt. I still remember the front page photo of two ancient women hugging each other forehead to forehead and crying happy tears.

But it was only going to last for as long as it took for the California legal system to come in and make them knock it off.

The next day, we’re on the phone with an acquaintance, and she casually mentions that she’s surprised the two of us aren’t up at San Francisco getting married with everyone else.

“Everyone else?” Goes I, “I thought they would’ve shut that down already?”

“Oh no!” goes she, “The courts aren’t open until Tuesday. Presidents Day on Monday and all. They’re doing them all weekend long!”

We didn’t know because social media wasn’t a thing yet. I only knew as much about it as I’d read on CNN, and most of the blogs I was following were more focused on what bullshit President George W Bush was up to that day.

"Well shit", me and my man go, "do you wanna?" I mean, it’s a political stunt, it wont really mean anything, but we’re not going to get another chance like this for at least 20 years. Why not?

The next day, Sunday, we get up early. We drive north to the southern-most BART station. We load onto Bay Area Rapid Transit, and rattle back and forth all the way to the San Francisco City Hall stop.

We had slightly miscalculated.

Apparently, demand for marriages was far outstripping the staff they had on hand to process them. Who knew. Everyone who’d gotten turned away Saturday had been given tickets with times to show up Sunday to get their marriages done. My babe and I, we could either wait to see if there was a space that opened up, or come back the next day, Monday.

“Isn’t City Hall closed on Monday?” I asked. “It’s a holiday”

“Oh sure,” they reply, “but people are allowed to volunteer their time to come in and work on stuff anyways. And we have a lot of people who want to volunteer their time to have the marriage licensing offices open tomorrow.”

“Oh cool,” we go, “Backup.”

“Make sure you’re here if you do,” they say, “because the California Supreme Court is back in session Tuesday, and will be reviewing the motion that got filed to shut us down.”

And all this shit is super not-legal, so they’ll totally be shutting us down goes unsaid.

00000

We don’t get in Saturday. We wind up hanging out most of the day, though.

It’s… incredible. I can say, without hyperbole, that I have never experienced so much concentrated joy and happiness and celebration of others’ joy and happiness in all my life before or since. My face literally ached from grinning. Every other minute, a new couple was coming out of City Hall, waving their paperwork to the crowd and cheering and leaping and skipping. Two glorious Latina women in full Mariachi band outfits came out, one in the arms of another. A pair of Jewish boys with their families and Rabbi. One couple managed to get a Just Married convertible arranged complete with tin-cans tied to the bumper to drive off in. More than once I was giving some rice to throw at whoever was coming out next.

At some point in the mid-afternoon, there was a sudden wave of extra cheering from the several hundred of us gathered at the steps, even though no one was coming out. There was a group going up the steps to head inside, with some generic black-haired shiny guy at the front. My not-yet-husband nudged me, “That’s Newsom.” He said, because he knew I was hopeless about matching names and people.

Ooooooh, I go. That explains it. Then I joined in the cheers. He waved and ducked inside.

So dusk is starting to fall. It’s February, so it’s only six or so, but it’s getting dark.

“Should we just try getting in line for tomorrow -now-?” we ask.

“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.” One of the volunteers tells us. “We’re not allowed to have people hang out overnight like this unless there are facilities for them and security. We’d need Porta-Poties for a thousand people and police patrols and the whole lot, and no one had time to get all that organized. Your best bet is to get home, sleep, and then catch the first BART train up at 5am and keep your fingers crossed.

Monday is the last day to do this, after all.

00000

So we go home. We crash out early. We wake up at 4:00. We drive an hour to hit the BART station. We get the first train up. We arrive at City Hall at 6:30AM.

The line stretches around the entirety of San Francisco City Hall. You could toss a can of Coke from the end of the line to the people who’re up to be first through the doors and not have to worry about cracking it open after.

“Uh.” We go. “What the fuck is -this-?”

So.

Remember why they weren’t going to be able to have people hang out overnight?

Turns out, enough SF cops were willing to volunteer unpaid time to do patrols to cover security. And some anonymous person delivered over a dozen Porta-Poties that’d gotten dropped off around 8 the night before.

It’s 6:30 am, there are almost a thousand people in front of us in line to get this literal once in a lifetime marriage, the last chance we expect to have for at least 15 more years (it was 2004, gay rights were getting shoved back on every front. It was not looking good. We were just happy we lived in California were we at least weren’t likely to loose job protections any time soon.).

Then it starts to rain.

We had not dressed for rain.

00000

Here is how the next six hours go.

We’re in line. Once the doors open at 7am, it will creep forward at a slow crawl. It’s around 7 when someone shows up with garbage bags for everyone. Cut holes for the head and arms and you’ve got a makeshift raincoat! So you’ve got hundreds of gays and lesbians decked out in the nicest shit they could get on short notice wearing trashbags over it.

Everyone is so happy.

Everyone is so nervous/scared/frantic that we wont be able to get through the doors before they close for the day.

People online start making delivery orders.

Coffee and bagels are ordered in bulk and delivered to City Hall for whoever needs it. We get pizza. We get roses. Random people come by who just want to give hugs to people in line because they’re just so happy for us. The tour busses make detours to go past the lines. Chinese tourists lean out with their cameras and shout GOOD LUCK while car horns honk.

A single sad man holding a Bible tries to talk people out of doing this, tells us all we’re sinning and to please don’t. He gives up after an hour. A nun replaces him with a small sign about how this is against God’s will. She leaves after it disintegrates in the rain.

The day before, when it was sunny, there had been a lot of protestors. Including a large Muslim group with their signs about how “Not even DOGS do such things!” Which… Yes they do.

A lot of snide words are said (by me) about how the fact that we’re willing to come out in the rain to do this while they’re not willing to come out in the rain to protest it proves who actually gives an actual shit about the topic.

Time passes. I measure it based on which side of City Hall we’re on. The doors face East. We start on Northside. Coffee and trashbags are delivered when we’re on the North Side. Pizza first starts showing up when we’re on Westside, which is also where I see Bible Man and Nun. Roses are delivered on Southside. And so forth.

00000

We have Line Neighbors.

Ahead of us are a gay couple a decade or two older than us. They’ve been together for eight years. The older one is a school teacher. He has his coat collar up and turns away from any news cameras that come near while we reposition ourselves between the lenses and him. He’s worried about the parents of one of his students seeing him on the news and getting him fired. The younger one will step away to get interviewed on his own later on. They drove down for the weekend once they heard what was going on. They’d started around the same time we did, coming from the Northeast, and are parked in a nearby garage.

The most perky energetic joyful woman I’ve ever met shows up right after we turned the corner to Southside to tackle the younger of the two into a hug. She’s their local friend who’d just gotten their message about what they’re doing and she will NOT be missing this. She is -so- happy for them. Her friends cry on her shoulders at her unconditional joy.

Behind us are a lesbian couple who’d been up in San Francisco to celebrate their 12th anniversary together. “We met here Valentines Day weekend! We live down in San Diego, now, but we like to come up for the weekend because it’s our first love city.”

“Then they announced -this-,” the other one says, “and we can’t leave until we get married. I called work Sunday and told them I calling in sick until Wednesday.”

“I told them why,” her partner says, “I don’t care if they want to give me trouble for it. This is worth it. Fuck them.”

My husband-to-be and I look at each other. We’ve been together for not even two years at this point. Less than two years. Is it right for us to be here? We’re potentially taking a spot from another couple that’d been together longer, who needed it more, who deserved it more.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Says the 40-something gay couple in front of us.

“This is as much for you as it is for us!” says the lesbian couple who’ve been together for over a decade behind us.

“You kids are too cute together,” says the gay couple’s friend. “you -have- to. Someday -you’re- going to be the old gay couple that’s been together for years and years, and you deserve to have been married by then.”

We stay in line.

It’s while we’re on the Southside of City Hall, just about to turn the corner to Eastside at long last that we pick up our own companions. A white woman who reminds me an awful lot of my aunt with a four year old black boy riding on her shoulders. “Can we say we’re with you? His uncles are already inside and they’re not letting anyone in who isn’t with a couple right there.” “Of course!” we say.

The kid is so very confused about what all the big deal is, but there’s free pizza and the busses keep driving by and honking, so he’s having a great time.

We pass by a statue of Lincoln with ‘Marriage for All!’ and "Gay Rights are Human Rights!" flags tucked in the crooks of his arms and hanging off his hat.

It’s about noon, noon-thirty when we finally make it through the doors and out of the rain.

They’ve promised that anyone who’s inside when the doors shut will get married. We made it. We’re safe.

We still have a -long- way to go.

00000

They’re trying to fit as many people into City Hall as possible. Partially to get people out of the rain, mostly to get as many people indoors as possible. The line now stretches down into the basement and up side stairs and through hallways I’m not entirely sure the public should ever be given access to. We crawl along slowly but surely.

It’s after we’ve gone through the low-ceiling basement hallways past offices and storage and back up another set of staircases and are going through a back hallway of low-ranked functionary offices that someone comes along handing out the paperwork. “It’s an hour or so until you hit the office, but take the time to fill these out so you don’t have to do it there!”

We spend our time filling out the paperwork against walls, against backs, on stone floors, on books.

We enter one of the public areas, filled with displays and photos of City Hall Demonstrations of years past.

I take pictures of the big black and white photo of the Abraham Lincoln statue holding banners and signs against segregation and for civil rights.

The four year old boy we helped get inside runs past us around this time, chased by a blond haired girl about his own age, both perused by an exhausted looking teenager helplessly begging them to stop running.

Everyone is wet and exhausted and vibrating with anticipation and the building-wide aura of happiness that infuses everything.

The line goes into the marriage office. A dozen people are at the desk, shoulder to shoulder, far more than it was built to have working it at once.

A Sister of Perpetual Indulgence is directing people to city officials the moment they open up. She’s done up in her nun getup with all her makeup on and her beard is fluffed and be-glittered and on point. “Oh, I was here yesterday getting married myself, but today I’m acting as your guide. Number 4 sweeties, and -Congradulatiooooons!-“

The guy behind the counter has been there since six. It’s now 1:30. He’s still giddy with joy. He counts our money. He takes our paperwork, reviews it, stamps it, sends off the parts he needs to, and hands the rest back to us. “Alright, go to the Rotunda, they’ll direct you to someone who’ll do the ceremony. Then, if you want the certificate, they’ll direct you to -that- line.” “Can’t you just mail it to us?” “Normally, yeah, but the moment the courts shut us down, we’re not going to be allowed to.”

We take our paperwork and join the line to the Rotunda.

If you’ve seen James Bond: A View to a Kill, you’ve seen the San Francisco City Hall Rotunda. There are literally a dozen spots set up along the balconies that overlook the open area where marriage officials and witnesses are gathered and are just processing people through as fast as they can.

That’s for the people who didn’t bring their own wedding officials.

There’s a Catholic-adjacent couple there who seem to have brought their entire families -and- the priest on the main steps. They’re doing the whole damn thing. There’s at least one more Rabbi at work, I can’t remember what else. Just that there was a -lot-.

We get directed to the second story, northside. The San Francisco City Treasurer is one of our two witnesses. Our marriage officient is some other elected official I cannot remember for the life of me (and I'm only writing down what I can actively remember, so I can't turn to my husband next to me and ask, but he'll have remembered because that's what he does.)

I have a wilting lily flower tucked into my shirt pocket. My pants have water stains up to the knees. My hair is still wet from the rain, I am blubbering, and I can’t get the ring on my husband’s finger. The picture is a treat, I tell you.

There really isn’t a word for the mix of emotions I had at that time. Complete disbelief that this was reality and was happening. Relief that we’d made it. Awe at how many dozens of people had personally cheered for us along the way and the hundreds to thousands who’d cheered for us generally.

Then we're married.

Then we get in line to get our license.

It’s another hour. This time, the line goes through the higher stories. Then snakes around and goes past the doorway to the mayor’s office.

Mayor Newsom is not in today. And will be having trouble getting into his office on Tuesday because of the absolute barricade of letters and flowers and folded up notes and stuffed animals and City Hall maps with black marked “THANK YOU!”s that have been piled up against it.

We make it to the marriage records office.

I take a picture of my now husband standing in front of a case of the marriage records for 1902-1912. Numerous kids are curled up in corners sleeping. My own memory is spotty. I just know we got the papers, and then we’re done with lines. We get out, we head to the front entrance, and we walk out onto the City Hall steps.

It's almost 3PM.

00000

There are cheers, there’s rice thrown at us, there are hundreds of people celebrating us with unconditional love and joy and I had never before felt the goodness that exists in humanity to such an extent. It’s no longer raining, just a light sprinkle, but there are still no protestors. There’s barely even any news vans.

We make our way through the gauntlet, we get hands shaked, people with signs reading ”Congratulations!” jump up and down for us. We hit the sidewalks, and we begin to limp our way back to the BART station.

I’m at the BART station, we’re waiting for our train back south, and I’m sitting on the ground leaning against a pillar and in danger of falling asleep when a nondescript young man stops in front of me and shuffles his feet nervously. “Hey. I just- I saw you guys, down at City Hall, and I just… I’m so happy for you. I’m so proud of what you could do. I’m- I’m just really glad, glad you could get to do this.”

He shakes my hand, clasps it with both of his and shakes it. I thank him and he smiles and then hurries away as fast as he can without running.

Our train arrives and the trip south passes in a semilucid blur.

We get back to our car and climb in.

It’s 4:30 and we are starving.

There’s a Carls Jr near the station that we stop off at and have our first official meal as a married couple. We sit by the window and watch people walking past and pick out others who are returning from San Francisco. We're all easy to pick out, what with the combination of giddiness and water damage.

We get home about 6-7. We take the dog out for a good long walk after being left alone for two days in a row. We shower. We bundle ourselves up. We bury ourselves in blankets and curl up and just sort of sit adrift in the surrealness of what we’d just done.

We wake up the next day, Tuesday, to read that the California State Supreme Court has rejected the petition to shut down the San Francisco weddings because the paperwork had a misplaced comma that made the meaning of one phrase unclear.

The State Supreme Court would proceed to play similar bureaucratic tricks to drag the process out for nearly a full month before they have nothing left and finally shut down Mayor Newsom’s marriages.

My parents had been out of state at the time at a convention. They were flying into SFO about the same moment we were walking out of City Hall. I apologized to them later for not waiting and my mom all but shook me by the shoulders. “No! No one knew that they’d go on for so long! You did what you needed to do! I’ll just be there for the next one!”

00000

It was just a piece of paper. Legally, it didn’t even hold any weight thirty days later. My philosophy at the time was “marriage really isn’t that important, aside from the legal benefits. It’s just confirming what you already have.”

But maybe it’s just societal weight, or ingrained culture, or something, but it was different after. The way I described it at the time, and I’ve never really come up with a better metaphor is, “It’s like we were both holding onto each other in the middle of the ocean in the middle of a storm. We were keeping each other above water, we were each other’s support. But then we got this piece of paper. And it was like the ground rose up to meet our feet. We were still in an ocean, still in the middle of a storm, but there was a solid foundation beneath our feet. We still supported each other, but there was this other thing that was also keeping our heads above the water.

It was different. It was better. It made things more solid and real.

I am forever grateful for all the forces and all the people who came together to make it possible. It’s been twenty years and we’re still together and still married.

We did a domestic partnership a year later to get the legal paperwork. We’d done a private ceremony with proper rings (not just ones grabbed out of the husband’s collection hours before) before then. And in 2008, we did a legal marriage again.

Rushed. In a hurry. Because there was Proposition 13 to be voted on which would make them all illegal again if it passed.

It did, but we were already married at that point, and they couldn’t negate it that time.

Another few years after that, the Supreme Court finally threw up their hands and said "Fine! It's been legal in places and nothing's caught on fire or been devoured by locusts. It's legal everywhere. Shut up about it!"

And that was that.

00000

When I was in highschool, in the late 90s, I didn’t expect to see legal gay marriage until I was in my 50s. I just couldn’t see how the American public as it was would ever be okay with it.

I never expected to be getting married within five years. I never expected it to be legal nationwide before I’d barely started by 30s. I never thought I’d be in my 40s and it’d be such a non-issue that the conservative rabble rousers would’ve had to move onto other wedge issues altogether.

I never thought that I could introduce another man as my husband and absolutely no one involved would so much as blink.

I never thought I’d live in this world.

And it’s twenty years later today. I wonder how our line buddies are doing. Those babies who were running around the wide open rooms playing tag will have graduated college by now. The kids whose parents the one line-buddy was worried would see him are probably married too now. Some of them to others of the same gender.

I don’t have some greater message to make with all this. Other then, culture can shift suddenly in ways you can’t predict. For good or ill. Mainly this is just me remembering the craziest fucking 36 hours of my life twenty years after the fact and sharing them with all of you.

The future we’re resigned to doesn’t have to be the one we live in. Society can shift faster than you think. The unimaginable of twenty years ago is the baseline reality of today.

And always remember that the people who want to get married will show up by the thousands in rain that none of those who’re against it will brave.

#gay marriage #gay rights #gay history #gay

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bi-writes · 1 month ago

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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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