#those god awful shorts are a blessing

[frnkiebby]

frank in one of his natural habitats~🎃

[bunnys-kisses]

can I pretty please get nanaimo bars,english muffin with the side of milkshake, frozen latte with Charles Leclerc 🥹🫶

bakery menu

the bakery is open and accepting orders! we're cooking up smiles every day! submit your own order! reblogs & comments are appreciated! thank you lovely anon for submitting this, it was something very different to write that i loved. size kink with charles is super interesting given how many people see him. but sometimes i forget he is close to six feet tall and built like someone who does f1. he may look sweet as honey, but there's probably something more sinister (sexually) going on in that brain of his, haha.

nanaimo bars ("who's my pretty girl? c'mon say it.") + english muffins ("aw, is someone crying?") + milkshake (size kink) + frozen latte (dumbification) served by charles leclerc (formula one)!!

cw: smut/pwp, size difference/kink, dumbification, teasing/dirty talk, crying kink, cry baby!reader, oral sex (charles receives), deepthroating, facials & cock slapping, safe words/signals, hair pulling

"mon cœur"

"la douleur dans ma poitrine."

"mon amor..."

"ma salope."

charles liked to make you cry. he loved when his mean words would curl up into your brain and make that waterworks come out. he was the prince of ferrari and of his home country. it's pride and joy. he was seen as effortlessly cool and could entice anyone. that smile, those green eyes. but even with all he had been afforded, nothing turned him on more than seeing his precious girlfriend's bottom lip wobble her eyes grow cloudy with tears.

he was running on high after monza, it was like everything was barking in the back of his head. even out of his driving suit and away from the track for the night, he could still feel the adrenaline. and while many would go for a run or spend the night with a drink in hand. he yearned for something different.

and when he saw you in his lavish hotel room, in one of his shirts and what appeared nothing else underneath. he knew that he was in for a treat tonight. with his bag down and his shoes off, he entered further into the room. he ended up by you on the couch and took you by the chin.

he smiled, "most take off the make up before they get comfortable." his thumb trailed under your left eye.

you replied, "i took everything off earlier and put on the mascara that runs easily." it was from a cheap brand at the pharmacy. perfect for what charles liked.

he chuckled, "you are just full of surprises, my love. you're going to be good for me tonight, right?" it was moments like these that you realized just how much bigger charles was. most painted him as short and frail.

he was just under six foot but built in a way to withstand the strain of racing. with large hands and thighs that could kill. his hand could easily fit around your neck as easily as his cock did to the back of your throat. there was a flicker in the greens of his eyes, the noble prince had stripped away into a hungry animal that yearned for you.

you swallowed, "i always am. always for you."

he tapped your cheek six times and you tapped his wrist once in response. even if these sick games where you cried and grew stupid on his cock, there were limits everyone had. charles didn't want to break your little world apart because he took it too far. he got on the couch next to you and undid his belt. your delicate hands helped him and dropped the leather to the floor.

charles held you face to look at him. he remarked, "you really are pathetic, so eager. i'm surprised you didn't stalk the halls looking for something to fuck your throat while i was out."

you frowned a little bit, "i'd never, honey."

he pinched your cheek a little harder than normal and leaned in, "right, right. because you're a good girl, my pretty girl. who's my pretty girl? c'mon say it." his words were enticing and it made your stomach flip.

"i am."

"you are pretty, my love." he said, "god blessed you with good looks because he knew you'd be stupid. add a dash of being a cock hungry whore and sometimes i get worried. i've never wanted to kill a man, but if another sank his teeth into you." his words were low and they made you curl in your gut.

if you wanted out, as a last resort. tap once then six times in rapid succession. charles liked to make your bottom lip wobble, but he wasn't a monster. he pulled you in for another searing kiss, his hand in between your legs. he felt panties as he rubbed his hand up.

he knew it was going to be a long night tonight. but first, he had his eyes on your pretty throat. after all his marks had faded over the week. while there would be press photos soon, they didn't mean he couldn't mess up the inside of your throat. even if you couldn't talk for the week, he was more than happy to do all the talking for both of you.

"stupid thing." he said, "you know that? i feel sorry for whatever school gave you your diploma." he acted like he wasn't at your graduation, "i bet you paid them off. or worse, sucked them off. little whore on campus, too stupid to actually learn anything except be on her knees and breath through her nose." he made a small noise of disappointment.

and charles got excited at the sight of you. that bottom lip was going, he could see the shudder in your shoulders. that struck a nerve, post-secondary was hard for you. you felt like people called you dumb without actually saying it. and charles' toxic words only added the fuel to the fire of doubt.

"aw, is someone crying? don't cry." he said, faking sympathy, "if you start crying then you won't suck my cock properly." he rubbed the back of your head as he watched the tears come down your cheek. he sighed once more, "silly thing."

soon your head was between his legs. he could feel your hot tears against the base of his cock as they streamed down your face. they weren't a rush of tears, but a slow trickle as charles' words clouded your head.

you started to work his cock and he felt the excitement in his body. it took a good while but eventually you learned how to deep throat him. he hissed and held onto the back of your head. you were both still clothed (or at least partially for you).

charles had a habit of running his mouth when your mouth was on him. and he rocked the blunt end of his cock up against the back of your throat, occasionally making you choke, he started talking. "i should throw you to the rest of ferrari. let them ruin you. then maybe you'll stop being so greedy for cock when you've had enough for a lifetime. i see how they look at you, my logo across your pretty breasts as you look so cute down at the paddock. if i waved my hand and told them to have their way with you, you wouldn't be getting far." he tugged on your hair a little and forced you up and down his cock faster.

you choked a little bit and sputtered, trying to catch your breath through your nose. it all was a deep throb in your head as you tried to cram as much of his cock into your throat.

"i'd say they'd make your ass ferrari red. but i think it would be closer to mercedes black. you wouldn't be able to sit right for months. maybe i'd be generous and let the other drivers have a chance too. crying on their cocks."

you sniffled, tears welled up in your eyes some more. while most despised having 'raccoon eyes', charles found it endearing. the poor little thing can't help but cry because she knows that he's right. you knew in your gut that you were at least a little cock hungry at all times. he watched you squirm in your seat at times while you let your imagination run wild.

he continued to use you to his liking. you were perfect. trained you from the ground up to be perfect on his cock. he caught glimpses of your face and your red eyes. poor thing, crying to much making a big mess.

so dumb, so small, so stupid.

he took his cock out of your mouth and rubbed it up against your cheek roughly. spit and pre-cum caught across your right eyelashes. his cock pushed your top lip up and he groaned at the sight. your tongue licked a bit of pre-cum that was dangerously close to your face.

"so small, i'm surprised you could take all this. i remember when i couldn't put it in without prepping you. then you spent all season training your cunt for when i got home. now you take me in every way perfectly." he licked his lips, "you know where you belong."

his words excited you as you put your mouth back on his cock. you whimpered as you felt it hit the back of your throat once more. he was big in a way that it made you squirm.

you continued up and down his cock, putting all your brain power (what little you had left) into taking him well. you coughed and panted, air felt in short supply as you got him to the base. your nose in his groomed pubic hair.

a picture perfect beauty, all for charles to devour.

he knew he was close. he could feel it in his bones and in the tension of his muscles. he then tensed up further with his hand in your hair and pulled your mouth off his cock (as much as it pained him to do that). with his other hand he stroked himself off quickly to the sight of your quivering, overheated body. you panted heavily and he finished all over your face. he streaked your skin white with cum up to your forehead. it dripped down your face as you coughed a little.

the debauched sight made him get a few more ropes up cum on your face before he settled down. he pulled your head back to look at you, you could barely have your eyes open. he wished he could take a picture. the white of cum and the mascara mixed tears created a sight that made charles run hot.

"now you look like a slut." he said as he got his jeans off. he rubbed his cock up against your soft lips before he slapped his still hard cock against your face, only making the mess on your cheeks more intense.

"charles." your throat felt raw from it. you looked at him and panted heavily, your tongue stuck out a little bit. and charles knew the night was far over. he fucked you stupid without stimulating your poor pussy. he wanted to see how stupid he could make you.

"we're not done yet." he said.

you tilted your head to the side, almost innocently as if your face wasn't a mess. you asked, "what?" your brain not capturing all the words properly.

he held onto you for a moment and said, "ten seconds to clean up your face. then i want you naked on the bed, or i'll fuck you on the bathroom floor." then let go of you and watched you scramble to clean yourself up. those words stuck in your blissed out brain even though you almost tripped over yourself.

charles chuckled and leaned further back onto the couch, his cock at full attention. even though the mascara was going to be gone, it was okay. you still looked just as pretty with just those tears streaming down your face. <3

[gallusrostromegalus]

A Miracle In The Night

Sometimes, you get an idea for a lightly fucked up short story. TW: Death, mild gore, Plot Twist :)

---

She travels through the night And listens

Some might call her home dark and cold and akin to the lowest levels of hell, But their heaven burns her eyes and skin and her very breath To her, The Endless Night is Paradise

The whole world was like this once, in the very beginning The Divine Darkness which contains the potential for every tragedy and miracle and everything in between, and she is blessed  to travel through the gardens of creation.

The Night created everything, even God, who lives in the burning world and blesses the sinless beings of the night with the very force of life.

But not even Paradise is free of suffering.

It should be this way, of course- nothing would ever happen otherwise. Everything that happens is a miracle. It’s just a question of who the Miracle is for.

There will be a Miracle tonight. She can feel it- the tension is electric across her skin, gut tightening, every sense on edge.

Starvation leads to such peculiar sensitivity.

She’s on the verge of death-  It should be this way, otherwise nothing could be alive. But she’s closer to the edge than usual.

It’s been so long since she felt the Burning Love of God within her. The delicious taste of good fortune in the night Chasing ecstasy with a racing heart and feeling her body fly The heat in her belly, seeping out through her until it filled her with the Divine Warmth of God’s Love.

It’s been so, so long since she’s eaten.

It’s been uneasy- the breathing of the world has been unsteady of late- too early and too late, out of time like it has become ill and all things suffer for it. There is nothing to partake of in her usual hunting grounds, so she has traveled far, far from home, into a brighter and hotter part of the night.

Here, the protective wall between her and the burning world exists only in scattered fragments, and strange and monstrous things traverse the thin veil between their worlds.

Here, the eternal night has been invaded by noxious, screaming beasts from the burning world above.  They race with their bodies straddling the barrier between their worlds, far faster than anything has the right to fly, howling with a deafening voice that can be heard for hundreds of miles.

It’s a problem because she cannot hear the songs of her prey.

Everything sings, if one will listen. The high, chiming pings of the smallest stars flashing with bioluminescence around her. The long, low songs of the fire-breathers, who hunt here in the abyss for one of her oldest brothers, but return to the barrier and briefly cross it to breathe before they return. Even the earth sings- the moan and crack of her body as she shifts her weight, the almost invisible inhale and exhale of her seasons. She even builds great musical instruments of ash and smoke and an even hotter burning than the world above, singing the tale of the first days of creation in honor of the endless night.

But the behemoths do not sing.

They scream and scream and scream and their piss reeks of vile poison and overexertion. Almost like the way an injured animal can put on a miraculous turn of speed to escape pursuit. What might be pursuing such behemoths is an awful but intriguing consideration. Perhaps the behemoths are the little darting beings of the burning world, and the thing they flee the equivalent of herself. She’s seen it before, when the moon is high and she travels up to the barrier, and the little dancing bodies leap across the barrier to avoid her.

To that end, she can only wish her counterpart good hunting- both in the sympathy between one apex predator and another, and the hope that maybe it will get better at catching the behemoths before they come into her world.

Still, Where there is disturbance, There is also opportunity.

There are rumors from those that live closer to the barrier that the behemoths piss poison but shit out bounties- the wastes of these things are food direct from the burning world, where God lives, and that waste is full of The Divine Warmth of Life. The direct waste is devoured by the smallest and fastest things first, but when they are clustered at their feast, they are easier for the larger beings to partake in, and so too larger things than they until even her most beautiful borderland sister with the belly pale as the moon is now as round as it, fat with the blessing of pups.

So she has ventured as close as she dares to the world of her sisters in hopes of finding the rumored prey so full of the Burning Love of God.

She needs it. She can’t live without it.

A Miracle will happen tonight.

Whether for her or the crawling lives of the deepest night remains to be seen.

She follows the terrible screaming song of the behemoth in silence and prays for a miracle. She does not sing praise when she prays. She preys when she prays.

The highest reverence to The Divine Night is to Listen. To travel in silence, and take in all the songs of The Night.

So she makes herself silent and listens and listens and listens to the screaming song, hoping that somewhere in the noise, she can hear the soft voice of God.

This time God answers with a voice like thunder.

It really is like being too close to a lightning strike, the way the noise viscerally passes through her and lights up every nerve, teeth gritting and body thrashing as she feels the voice of God the same way she feels the body of a lover against her own.

The scream of the behemoth changes. It sputters, then pitches wildly, low visceral injury and high keening pain, like the fire-breathers when they try to hunt the largest of her brothers and become prey themselves.

Oh, what a beautiful song to something like her.

She aches, weak and tired, but hope and joy surge through her and she forces herself to move at speed, even for all the energy it takes, because perhaps the miracle is for her tonight- 

She flies as fast as she can towards the dying behemoth, as does every brother and sister and ancestor and descendant, all as desperate to feast upon God’s Love as she- all of them race forward but then up, and up and up up to where the Behemoth is sinking into their world- It has run upon a fragment of the protective barrier hard enough to tear it's side and break it's back. There is the terrible acrid scent of it’s noxious  piss and if she were not on the verge of starvation it might be enough to put her off the feast.  

But she flies on and up- even weak with hunger she is one of the largest and fastest of her family when she needs to be, so she is the first to smell other strange things from the behemoth- burning flavors that sting her nose and mouth, as well as sweet things that confuse intrigue, and-

Oh. Oh, GOD!

It’s blood but nothing like any blood she’s tasted before- it’s actually HOT in the night, burning with the warmth of the other world even this far from it’s origin, rich and fatty and metallic like the flesh of a fallen fire-breather but even more so.  She spreads her wings and sways her hips and spine to fly as fast as she can, the way a lover pursues her- full of nothing but adoration and a desire to make their bodies as one.

Then in a beam of moonlight, she sees the first of the bodies from the burning world.

The frenzy at the behemoth is a feast for the ages, from the exultant chorus above, and the fact that even with every member of her family for a hundred miles around at the feast, there are so many bodies to feast upon that a body is falling past the festivities to her, uneaten and whole.

What a strange and beautiful body it is.

She pauses, circling it even as her mouth and gut ache for it, studying the being from the burning world.

It’s hot, hotter than any body she’s ever felt before, even though it is very definitely dead, as unsuited to breathe the night as she is to breathe fire. Its wings are long and twist strangely, like the tentacles of her brothers that are hunted by the fire-breathers. It’s awkwardly shaped, like the crawling five-winged creatures of the mud, but not quite.  There is an almost unsettling familiarity to its symmetry.

The fire-breathers say they used to live in the burning world, but returned to the night, and that all the beasts of the burning world had too once come from the night. It had sounded absurd, but looking upon the form of this being now, she wondered.

Well. Only the one thing to do, really.

Gently, she approaches the being, opens her mouth to embrace it, and welcomes it home to the night.

There is no love like the love the predator feels for its prey.  It is reverence made flesh- O holy being, oh virtue to pursue and make one’s own.It is the flesh made reverent- Please, little being of the burning world, let her love you as she loves her own children, the weight of your body deep within her own. 

There is no gratitude like the gratitude a predator feels for its prey. She owes you her life tonight, little being of the burning world. She lives from the mercy of your body alone. It is already a kindness she can never repay to live by your generosity, but oh, you made it so sweet-  Your blood intoxicates her senses, your body thrillingly warm- as agonizing as the fire of the burning world is to breathe in, it’s just as wonderful to swallow.

You are so sweet, so sweet, she will remember this favor forever.

There is no miracle like the divine connection between predator and prey. Oh child of the burning world, you who brings the Warmth of God into The Endless Night, You burning being of God’s Love. She is blessed by you, messenger of God.  Through you she receives the miracle of life.

Welcome, little burning being Welcome home to the night from whence you came Welcome inside her deepest self, and receive her hospitality.

She swallows the little burning being up with adoration, feeling it settle within her. Relief, ecstasy and satisfaction swirl but are interrupted by the appearance of another body. And another And another And another

The Behemoth itself falls, it’s body still curiously dynamic even torn in half- one end dives for the bottom of the night with somewhat alarming speed, where the other glides along to the depths on an angled path, the distant motion still visible with the bioluminescence it stirs up along it’s path. It is massive beyond anything she's seen before, more like a piece of geography than a living organism.

And all along its wake, hundreds of bodies spill forth from inside.

What a strange miracle this is. But she’s not one to refuse God’s Love. And if the beings of the burning world travel in huge schools with their behemoth, the peculiar notion that the little being within her might be lonely occurs to her. …Wow, she’s REALLY drunk.

Still, she eats three more of the burning beings before her guts are almost bursting with fullness, a bizarre sensation she’d only heard about from those who had been fortunate enough to feast on the fallen body of a fire-breather and had to leave the excess to the crawling beings of the bottom. So too, does she watch more bodies descend deep into the night as she returns to her world of darkness and song, the behemoth’s terrible screams now silent with rest, and the choir of the night rejoicing in this miracle.

---

Two miles above the revelry of God’s Favorite Greenland Shark, the survivors of the Titanic prayed into the endless night for a miracle, unaware it had already been granted.

[charliemwrites]

Part 4 of Mafia!Price

No Content Warnings

There are many things to appreciate about your boss, but one of them is his respect for routine. You’ve gotten him on a schedule and now he seems happily beholden to it; appreciates your promptness with tea and pastries and morning “briefings” each day.

He’ll happily sit back in his big leather chair and listen to you chatter out his itinerary for the day. Meetings, reports, phone calls. Trips to the dock, now, bless him.

You try not to stare between glances at your tablet. For a rich bastard, he is unfairly handsome. Good taste in just about everything, classy and luxurious without being ostentatious. Old money vibes, for sure, though you know better than to do more than idly wonder. Helps that he’s also remarkably gentlemanly with you. You’re not one to buy into old stereotypes or gender roles, even the ones that benefit you — but you’ll take a chivalrous boss over your old one any day.

Besides, it’s not like he’s spouting off about what women should and shouldn’t be doing. Or trying to use you as an example of an “acceptable” working woman. So, yeah, you’ll indulge in the door-holding and offered arms.

“Alright, best for last — your reservation for Muse is tomorrow. The restaurant is twenty minutes from your penthouse, so Simon will be downstairs by 7:30.”

You check that off your to-do list as you continue speaking.

“Do you have a suit picked out yet, or should I order something? Green is in season and it would go nicely with your eyes.”

He hums; you glance up. Leaning back, one arm lax on the arm of his chair, black watch gleaming. The other is propped to press his index finger against his lips. Like he’s telling you to keep a secret. The corners of his mouth are tilted up.

Your tablet dings and thankfully distracts you from staring.

Oh, for the love of— the only person more inconsiderate than Philip Graves is his damn assistant.

“Is that the color you’re wearing, then?”

Will need to call later today — as if!

“Hm?” You ask, not having caught it.

He arches his eyebrows; ah, you must have been making a face again.

“Are you wearing green tomorrow?” He repeats.

You blink. Are you what?

“Tomorrow, sir?”

He nods, once. “To Muse, luv.”

When you continue to stare with pleasant obliviousness, his eyebrows furrow a bit.

“You do know one of those seats is for you, yeah?”

You press your lips together for a moment. Well… shit. You take it back. You take it all back. John Price is a terrible, horrible, awful man who is so rude.

“I do now.”

Across the office, you make wide eye contact with Gaz. He grimaces in sympathy and ducks his head, though it’s clearly just to hide his traitorous laughter.

“Of course you’re coming along.”

“Sir,” you say, pleasant and sweet, “remember when I first started here? And I told you that I’m not a mind reader?”

“Of course,” he answers. “You threatened to spit in my tea in the same breath.”

“Only if you told me to fetch it for you,” you correct, before continuing, “I feel you may need a reminder: I cannot read your mind. How was I supposed to know you wanted me to go with you?”

“‘S your job, isnit?” He replies. You give him a dark look; he puts his hands up with a chuckle. “My apologies love, I thought you’d be in my pocket next to my handkerchief. Like always.”

You set your hand on your hip, proper cross now.

“It’s outside usual working hours, sir. How could I have possible expected to be invited to your fancy man party?”

“‘Fancy man party’?”

“Well, there’s nothing for it, I’ll have to leave early tomorrow.”

You’re already tapping madly at your tablet, looking up a salon willing to do your hair and makeup. God knows what kind of meltdown you’ll have if you can’t get your eyeliner symmetrical.

“Do whatever you need to do, luv,” Price soothes, standing. “I really am sorry for the short notice.”

You wave him off, then pat his arm as he gently guides you towards the door. Absently, you comply, more focused on getting appointments set and rearranging your own schedule for tomorrow.

“I’ll make it work,” you promise, “I always do.”

You let him bring you all the way to your desk, lower yourself into your ergonomic rolling chair.

“I’ll let you know what color I’m wearing by… one o’clock. Yes?”

“Sounds great, luv.”

You glance at the clock. “Also you have a call with the KorTac Group in ten.”

He chuckles and taps your chin. “Cheers, luv.”

—

Simon is the one to pick you up Friday evening. You both pause in the lobby of your apartment complex, staring.

“You look lovely,” he says at the same time you ask, aghast, “what happened to your face?”

He’s got a dark bruises discoloring the skin around one eye. Clearly some ice has already been applied because the swelling is down, but it must be fresh because he didn’t have it yesterday.

He snorts. “My job happened.”

You tut. “I’ve got something for that but we need to get moving. Mr. Price said he needs some help with his suit.”

You grab his arm without hesitation, habit from any of your escorts or drivers always offering it to you. Usually you accept out of politeness, but tonight you could use the extra stability in your heels. Simon doesn’t seem to mind even though this is the first time you’ve done this.

He walks you to the car, holds the door for you. Sleek and spotless, a black Jaguar — your choice for the evening. You hum in delight at the warm interior as Simon slides into the front seat.

“Oh, thank you for the compliment, by the way,” you add as he pulls into traffic. “You look quite smart as well.”

He grunts, but you notice a bit of color to his ears in the passing streetlights. You smile to yourself and busy yourself with your tablet. Double checking the reservation confirmation, answering messages from Farah and Gaz, updating Price on your ETA.

The car stops at a luxury high rise just at 7. You hop out before Simon can get the door and receive a sharp look. He holds up a reprimanding finger; blink in surprise at the sternness of it.

“You pull that shite again and I’ll handcuff you to the door handle, miss.” He warns. “Making me look bad.”

You huff, amused, and take his arm again. “Don’t threaten me, Mr. Riley, I’m meaner.”

But you squeeze his thick bicep good-naturedly as he leads you into Price’s building. Your boss lives in the penthouse at the very top; Simon has to swipe a card for access. He’s also got a key to let you both in the door, holds it so you can enter first.

It’s all sleek and modern; not at all what you would expect of your boss’s more classical style. His office has a sort of 20s Hollywood vibe (gangster, you teased once) but clearly some interior designer was paid far too much for something out of a drab minimalist catalogue.

You don’t linger long, heels clicking on the polished floors.

“Sir?” you call.

“In here, luv.”

You grimace at the flight of stairs between you and the loft, but force yourself up them. The whole floor is the mater bedroom and it’s the size of your entire apartment. Walk-in closet, sectioned off lounge with a desk. His bathroom door is open, mirror fogged. It smells like soap.

“Bedroom to your right,” he calls.

You tip-tap in and your mouth instantly dries. Price is standing in the middle of the room, half dressed. Nothing unprofessional, no. He’s wearing slacks, a belt. But he’s also in socks, a white undershirt. No watch or rings or anything yet.

It feels oddly more intimate than it should. Your face warms despite yourself.

“E-evening, sir.”

He turns and you’re utterly unprepared for just how handsome he really is. Freshly groomed, hair trimmed and gelled, eyes bright.

“Well, aren’t you just a dream,” he rasps. “You’re stunning.”

You clear your throat, know that all the makeup in the world can’t hide how brightly you’re flushing. It’s pure politeness, he’s not looking at you with anything more than friendly appreciation. Mind out of the gutter, now.

“All the flattery in the world won’t save you if we’re late,” you manage, shaking yourself back into work mode. “So let’s see what we’ve got.”

You pick his shirt, a pocket hanky, his shoes. Tell him to get into those while calling Simon up the stairs. He’s there so fast you blink in surprise, then gesture him over. Sit him on an ottoman and extract the little bottle of makeup you’ve started keeping on hand for situations like this.

“Bullshite you had that in your purse,” he scoffs.

“You remember two weeks ago, when Soap came in with that bruise on his jaw?”

They told you it was a “disagreement” at the docks. You didn’t ask further, figuring it was some sort of bar brawl in that part of town. Rowdy boys.

“Ever since, I keep a couple minis on hand for you all.”

They’re so small that you just keep them in a pocket of your purse with the rest of your makeup and the tampons. Good for emergencies like this.

“You sure you’re not a mind reader?” Simon grumbles as you gently dab it over his face.

“How would being a mind reader even help in this situation,” you scoff, patting at it with your middle finger.

Price steps out of the closet with arms out. He’s picked a waistcoat as well that you hum in approval at.

“Which cufflinks are you wearing?” you ask, turning back to Simon. He’s sitting remarkably still and stoic — reminds you of a big dog trying to maintain some dignity while getting fawned over.

“The silver and diamond.”

You make a noise of disagreement. “The gold and onyx would go better.”

A pause. You sneak a glance and are relieved to see him smirking. “I’ll wear those then. Any opinion on a watch?”

You hum again, carding through your mental catalogue. “Oh! The Bulova you wore during that meeting with Kate Laswell. You remember?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He disappears into his closet again while you lightly blend in the last touches of Simon’s coverup.

“There we are, good as new!” You declare. “Oh, and here.”

You set a couple of ibuprofen in his palm as he stands. “For the inflammation. Take with water.”

“Yes, mum,” he mumbles.

You wince. “Sorry! I’m being overbearing, aren’t I?”

He blinks, then puts a hand up. “No, no. That wasnt — I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

You don’t entirely believe him. Know that you can be a bit much when you’re on a time crunch. Especially for something like this — an important business meeting over fancy dinner. You feel like everyone’s appearance is riding on you; this is your job after all. One thing out of place and everything will fall apart and it’ll be your fault.

“Simon, go take those,” Price orders from behind.

You turn as he approaches, a similar apology all set on your tongue. Instead, he gives you a sheepish smile and offers the cufflinks.

“Bloody useless with these,” he explains. “So unless you want to spend fifteen minutes losing respect for me…”

You laugh, amused by the idea of your hyper-capable boss struggling with a bit of jewelry that cost as much as a week of work. You step in close to thread them through his sleeves, fingers nimble and sure.

“You’re not wearing cologne?” You ask, surprised.

Don’t even realize how that might sound until he arches an eyebrow at you.

“Thought you might have an opinion on that too,” he replies. “And you haven’t steered me wrong, yet.”

He shows you his modest, but impressive collection of colognes. You pluck up one, sniff, and make a face, eyes watering a bit. It’s mostly full; clearly one he doesn’t wear often and you’re grateful for it.

“That bad, eh?”

“Sir, why?” You lament, putting it back.

“Gift from an ex,” he explains.

You store that tidbit of information away for further examination. The idea of your boss in a romance. Right now you’ve got a task to focus on.

“Did they hate you that entire time?” You wonder.

He snorts. “Maybe.”

You shake your head and pick a different one. Blink in surprise and sniff again. Feel your stomach flip.

“That one?” He asks when he notices you hesitate.

“No,” you say a little too quickly, setting it down. This is a business meeting, you can’t afford to be distracted by how he’ll smell with that on his skin.

You settle on one that doesn’t make your head dizzy and your panties shamefully damp. Still feel a bit like you’re shooting yourself in the foot, though. He’s going to smell sinfully good regardless.

You leave Price to his finishing touches and have Simon help you down the stairs. Check through the notes you hurriedly collected when you realized you’d be attending this dinner.

Price comes down too soon for your poor, stupid heart. Looks like something out of a magazine or a novel or a movie or… just too good to be real, really.

“Pass inspection?” He asks.

“Barely,” you tease.

His eyes do that thing where they smile more than his mouth; how you know it’s genuine. You try not to fluster, zero in on his tie, a little crooked and loose.

“Goodness, sir,” you murmur, stepping in close. Yeah, you were right. That cologne is going to be a personal challenge all night. “How did you get along before me?”

“With bad cologne and shitty ties, apparently,” he chuckles.

You grin despite yourself, getting it secure and centered, before smoothing his vest over it. Give him a once over. Feel your stomach flip again.

“If I may say, sir, you look handsome,” you offer quietly.

“Should hope so,” he replies, voice dipping in a way that’s detrimental to the state of your panties. “You dressed me.”

You hum, reach for your usual dry, sharp humor. “I have great taste.”

Instead of scoffing, he hums in agreement. Something flickers through his eyes that you don’t dare allow yourself to daydream on.

Simon, bless him, clears his throat and draws your attention. You check the clock above the stove.

“Ah, we need to get going. I can’t walk fast in these heels.”

You slip your arm automatically into Price’s and try not to obsess over how well you two fit together.

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Masterlist

[ohimsummer]

ANYTHING YOU CAN DO...

— minors dni, suguru x fem! reader (+ implied satoru x reader), virgin! reader, gojo and geto are fighting over you lol, suggestive/smut?, biting, hickeys, some dryhumping, reader is a sensitive little virgin and came in their panties, everyone is around 21-ish

the sequel: ���i can do better

Having the attention of the Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto is both a blessing and a curse.

It’s overwhelming sometimes the way they tag-team making you increasingly flustered; Suguru dropping blatant hints with that silky smooth voice of his, cascading through your ears like warm, melted caramel. And then Satoru, who can never keep his hands to himself and leaves frisky, fleeting touches on any unprotected part of your body. You’ve since realized it’s such a bad (albeit tantalizing) idea to wear those cute little camis that hug your figure so nice or, God forbid, those fuzzy, blue, cotton shorts just asking for him to pinch at the exposed skin of your thighs and ass hanging out the bottom.

The way they’d compete for your affections (even though you had more than enough to go around) was both humorous and also troublesome for your willpower. How many times would they trap you between their bodies, wandering hands creeping beneath your clothes to pinch and rub at anything they could reach because they were just so, so fucking obsessed with the way you squeal and whine when they do. And the way you can’t contain all your low, desperate moans but continue to pray that their continuous spat will drown it out. They both tug at you from either side, until sometimes Satoru will just yank you by the waist into his lap and now Suguru has to gently spread your legs and scoot closer, hooking one around his waist and caressing the other laid upon his lap. And now you’re stuttering an excuse to escape inside your room with extraordinarily soaked panties and an agonizing ache between your thighs. The two were idiots but they’re far from dumb, and you mentally curse both Geto and Gojo for playing games with your pussy the way they were.

So, yeah, though they’re both terribly awful in their own way, you think Suguru is worse than his best friend. Satoru would pin you to the wall with your wrists above your head, pull you into his embrace and kiss your temples, all because he was so blatantly obsessed with you, yes, but also just to spite Geto who would always be sitting nearby. But Suguru, Suguru was far worse. It was like he made a mission out of toying with Gojo through you. Geto gets to amuse himself with a pissed off Satoru, and he gets to privately indulge in you. Like right now.

“Sug–uru..!”, you cry into his hair, arching into his chest and pussy throbbing against the thigh tucked between your legs. It's embarrassing how just the slow drags of his tongue over your neck and collar is enough to get you riled up like this.

He hums in response but never halts his movements. Teeth graze along your skin as Geto searches for that perfect spot to leave his claim on you, all the while peppering soft kisses in his wake. One hand pulls you harder against his tense thigh, slowly massaging your sobbing cunt against his leg, while the other has a solid grip on the back of your neck. It’s taking everything in him not to fuck you right then and there, especially when you sigh so prettily and whimper Suguru’s name into his ear like it’s the only thing you know. So stunning and so needy when he gives you the slightest touch and your pussy leaves a growing stain on his dark sweats.

"Mmph, g-god-! Su- Suguru-, ah—!"

Your voice comes out a jumble of moans and whines as teeth finally sink into your skin, followed by a harsh suck along your neck. Your grip will be sure to leave those crescent marks in Geto’s shoulder blades, even through his shirt. Quivering legs squeeze around Suguru's thigh, and you feel like such a dumb dog humping his leg so hopelessly the way you are. You've only ever been touched like this in your dreams, and it feels a million times better when it's by someone like Suguru. His steady movements don’t reveal the way he’s almost falling apart at the seams. You can’t tell in your drunken haze, but if you paid the slightest bit more attention, you’d feel the solid outline of his weeping cock against your leg.

His motions remain soothing and calm, like Geto had this all planned out for ages and knows exactly what he's doing. He’d like to chalk it up to just being a pro, but really it’s because all these lewd gestures are so new to your body. You're obviously inexperienced and his touch is like a gradual, warm fire trailing over your skin; it leaves you so excited and craving for something, anything more from him.

Suguru pulls back to admire his handywork: a nice dark blemish on the sweet spot of your neck that would surely be a prominent display (unless you planned on rousing Gojo's suspicion further and wearing winter clothes in the blistering summer heat), the shivering of your limp limbs because no doubt you just came in your panties, and that adorable, blissful look on your face. He can see the faintest of perspiration forming on your skin. Eyes squeezed shut, nipples erect beneath your top, and panting like you’ve just been fucked senseless.

Suguru chuckles at the sight. Aren’t you cute? He can't wait to have his way with you, really give you something to lose your breath over.

[makethatelevenrings]

Royalty AU - Simon Riley x f!reader

A/N: 9,335 words (20 pages) all in one sitting. I'm unwell. My mother became increasingly concerned as I didn't move from one spot. This is unedited. I'm sorry but I'm not.

Warnings: period(?) typical misogyny, allusions to sexual assault/rape (reader thinks she will be forced to perform her marital duties), illness, fever, violence, light smut so 18+, Simon being emotionally constipated, pregnancy (at the end)

This is part of my 5k Follower Celebration! Check it out to see if any prompts are still open to claim!

The first time you met your husband was your wedding day.

Crowds of people lined the dirt roads as the carriage lurched across the hills and valleys. Their faces peered carefully into the windows in an attempt to see past the velveteen curtains that obscured you from view. Your dress was a heavy combination of silk and a golden brocade that clung to your skin. The veils of your unmarried status hung around your face, giving the appearance that your face was something precious to behold.

Beside you, mother sat silently. Father was in the carriage ahead of you so he could escort you out once the time came. This was supposed to be a happy day, a blessed day, but all you could feel was dread as the wheels crept closer to the looming castle at the center of the village. Hushed whispers permeated the air and you couldn’t tell if the townspeople were looking at you in pity, anger, or disgust. Who were you? Some princess who was now going to be their queen despite never having stepped foot on their land.

You shut your eyes against the shame that burned at your cheeks. You didn’t open them until the carriage stopped.

“Let’s go,” Father said gruffly. He stood at the door of the carriage with his hand extended. Your mother exited first and then you did, only to be greeted by more hushed whispers and judgmental stares. You sucked in a deep breath and straightened your shoulders, raising your head to focus solely on the doors before you. One step. Two steps. You let the mantra guide you through the hall, past the people seated on the sides of the aisle, and to the raised dais before everyone and the gods.

Your betrothed stood on the opposite side of you. King Riley was as big as a mountain, a maid whispered to you as they dressed you that morning. His cruelty knew no bounds, another said. He killed without mercy on the battlefield. He was violent and vicious. No one had ever seen his face. He was incapable of loving anything but blood. His people were the same. Violent and rude, unrefined and uncivilized. Children left feral in the streets. Men and women who wrought vengeance for the smallest infractions. A kingdom ruled by fear and bloodlust.

When the rider came to the gates of your town with a treaty and alliance written out with the stipulation that the princess would marry King Simon Riley, you knew that you would have to accept. Your people were starving from the famine in your lands. Your parents had raised you for this.

Stepping onto the dais, your hand left your fathers and instead slipped into the larger, gloved palm of the king. Your head raised and you could see through the veils that he truly did wear a mask, something awful with a skull painted across the front of it. He couldn’t have gone without it for his wedding? You averted your gaze and instead focused on the priest. The words reverberated through your ears, but you hardly paid attention to the vows. You knew when to say the right words and how to say it.

And then the priest was announcing your marriage finalized and those gloved hands released yours to lift the edge of your veils. The lower half of his mask was raised to reveal his lips and the kiss was short, perfunctory, and colder than ice. Perhaps your maids were right, you thought to yourself. Fear gripped your heart for the rest of the night. Through the reception, the dances, and the dinner, you waited for this hulking mass of a man to take you to his bedchambers and force you to do your duty.

But he never did.

King Riley, your husband, merely sat back in his chair and watched the dancing couples on the floor. He occasionally spoke to the men seated beside him, but he never once glanced your way. When a maid approached you to take you to your new room, you glanced back at him, but he didn’t spare you a glance. She undressed you without saying a word, so unlike your friend and compatriot Lucy who had accompanied you but was probably packing the carriage for the return home. You would be all alone in this foreign place with no friends, no allies.

The maid left you in your thin nightgown and you sat in the big, empty bed and waited for your husband to come so you could perform your marriage duties.

The door lay untouched. As did you.

When the fire began to dim in its hearth and you realized that he wasn’t coming, you pressed your face into the soft, goose down pillow below your head, and wept, both in relief and out of despair. This was your life now.

The next morning, you awoke to someone gently touching your shoulder. Turning, you expected to see the same stone-faced maid from last night but was surprised to find Lucy standing over you.

“The king asked your father last night if he could retain me on his staff,” she explained. Hope filled your heart at the realization that you weren’t truly alone. One of your closest friends and allies would be here. She dressed you quickly as you picked at the tray of breakfast she had brought. As the bells chimed the arrival of seven in the morning, a knock sounded on your door. You settled yourself primly in a chair by the fire as Lucy went to answer.

“Your Majesty,” a knight greeted you as he stepped inside the room. He was tall, but not as tall as your husband, and his kind smile betrayed the intimidating broadsword that was strapped to his back. His hair was cropped short aside from a mohawk that split down the middle. All in all, he didn’t look like any of the stuffy, dignified knights of your parents' court.

“Good morning,” you greeted stiffly. His smile dimmed slightly and he inclined his head to you and then Lucy.

“My name is Sir John MacTavish, Your Majesty. I was sent to provide you both with a tour of the castle and the grounds.”

“Am I in any danger?” you asked. It was unusual that a knight would be sent to do a simple tour, but this whole court seemed entirely different from the way you were raised.

“No, my lady. It’s His Majesty’s version of a punishment, I’m afraid. He didn’t take too kindly to Sir Garrick and I stealing his sword for a day.” His crooked grin grew. “But if my punishment is to escort two beautiful women, then I fear I will find myself in more trouble.”

You exhaled a huff of laughter as Lucy’s cheeks flushed. This MacTavish was trouble, but he was the kindest person you had met so far in this country. Lucy grabbed a cloak for you and you thanked her for grabbing one without all the ornamentation that your mother insisted was fit for a queen. How on earth were you supposed to get your hands dirty if you were weighed down by jewels?

Sir MacTavish opted to show you the grounds first. The village bustled with activity and no one seemed to pay you any mind, which you preferred. Vendors stood at booths and bartered with tradesmen. Knights patrolled the edges of the market to keep an eye out for anyone with an intent to steal or deceive. Mothers with babies swaddled to their backs and chests carried laundry baskets on their hips. Men headed for the great doors implanted in the walls. They were open now, enabling the farmers, shepherds, and tradesmen to come and go.

Oh, it was delightful.

You were rarely allowed to step out into the village of your home because your mother insisted it was a dirty, loud, disease-filled place. Sure, it was full of voices and raucous laughter, and dirt and dust swirled into your hair and skirts, but it was full of people.

“Now, your main export is wheat, correct?” you asked over the din of the crowd. Sir MacTavish’s large stature and imposing sword made the crowds part, giving you a chance to examine the houses and buildings on either side of you. Lucy slipped her hand in yours in an attempt to stay close and not get swept up in the crowds.

“Aye,” he replied in his thick brogue. “How’d you know that?”

“When I first learned of the proposed alliance, I made an effort to learn about the country,” you admitted. “The orchards are your second greatest export, but I was told that you have to import medicinal herbs from other countries. Is the ground not suitable for those kinds of plants?”

He looked at you with something akin to surprise and then shrugged. “Alex, our main healer, has been trying to grow herbs for a while but they never last. He’s tried damn near everything. We try to stock up before the winter months when the fevers typically arise, but we’ve lost quite a few people to sickness.”

You pursed your lips in thought. “Your land should have the nutrients for the plants to survive. Their must be something else stunting them. Could you set up a meeting with the healer, if that’s allowed?”

The knight scoffed at your question and you felt, for a brief moment, that you overstepped. But he quickly dissuaded that thought. “You’re the Queen, m’lady. Of course that’s allowed.”

Hours later, MacTavish watched you talk with Alex, head bent over a book and finger pressed against the lines of text. Lucy stood next to him, rocking back and forth on her heels. You gestured to something outside and Alex lit up, your talking increasing in speed and volume.

“Is she always like that?” he asked the maid. Pride effused from her veins and she grinned brightly at him.

“Oh yes, she’s always been focused on caring for her people. The King and Queen…” Lucy faltered. “They were not as conscientious.”

When Soap first heard about the impending marriage, he thought Simon was off his rocker, well and truly. Price said it would strengthen their trade and provide protection from the west, but his king was the exact opposite of a touchy-feely love kind of person. But Soap also forgot that they were no longer a bunch of soldiers playing hero on the battlefield, but knights turned politicians. Gaz had nearly laughed himself out of the council chambers when Simon announced his intent to marry, especially to a princess of a small country. All they knew about you was from your parents. Your mother was a known court gossip and cared more about the latest dress trends than the status of her citizens. Your father was known for his callous nature and manipulation of his court.

All in all, they hadn’t heard good things about you.

Simon intended for it to be a purely political marriage. At some point, an heir would need to be produced, but Soap realized pretty quickly that Simon was betting on you producing some sort of bastard heir. Well, he thought to himself, Ghost’ll be surprised to hear about this.

That night, long after Lucy left you to sleep, you found yourself unable to fall into that state of semi-unconsciousness. The bed was too large, too empty for you. Sighing, you got up and pulled on a dressing gown over your thin nightdress and grabbed one of the candlesticks from the mantle. You used the dying light of the fireplace to ignite the wick and used the light to guide your steps out of the room and down the hall to where Sir MacTavish had shown you the library. This was your house too, now. Right?

Carefully, you eased open the doors and slipped into the library to find that a decent fire warmed the seating area. A maid must have left it going on accident and you made a mental note to smother it before you left. 

Shelves full of books lined the room and you tentatively approached the closest one, lifting your candle higher to see the titles inscribed on the spines. It seemed like every book in the world filled this room. You wanted to know more about this country and its culture, economy, everything. Three shelves down, you hit a jackpot and started to acquire a small stack of books that you could carry back to your room.

Until something tugged at the edge of your gown.

A startled shriek escaped you and you looked down to find a little kitten playing with one of the tassels of your dressing gown. You laughed at your own foolishness and bent down to set the candlestick on the ground and offer your hand to the kitten. It chirped and butted its head against your palm.

“Well hello,” you cooed. “You’re just a baby, aren’t you? Where’s your mama?”

“They stay in the library to kill any rats that get in.”

This time, you nearly jumped out of your skin. You didn’t even hear another person approach and certainly not the huge man that stood before you. A gasp escaped you as you pulled your dressing gown closer around your body. You were fully aware of how improper this was. You were a married woman. You were the Queen. You could not be seen half-dressed in the library with a strange man.

His dark eyes tracked your movements and he turned to look at the books beside him. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, by all means, sneak up on a woman at night, all alone,” you huffed. You gave the kitten one more scritch under the chin and then gathered up the books and pressed them against your chest to hide yourself better. Your other hand scooped up the candlestick and you stood to face him. Well. As best as you could. He towered over you easily and you swallowed past the lump in your throat. He was beautiful, in a haunted sort of way. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken before, and a thick scar ran across his cheek and through his lips. Messy blond hair fell across his forehead and some strands into his dark brown eyes. You had never seen him before, but you assumed by his ease of movement in the library and the muscles that rippled under his shirt that he was a knight.

“If you will excuse me now,” you said tersely. He stepped back to give you space and you practically stormed past him and out of the library. No way in hell would you be accused of impropriety.

Simon watched you leave with an amused smile pulling at his lips. He bent down to offer the kitten a gentle pet and noticed that you had left a book behind. Scooping it up, he assumed it would be some frivolous thing but found himself surprised when he read the title. What the hell were you doing reading last years tax collections?

Two months passed and you were settling into your new life quite well. You rarely saw your husband and, when you did, the two of you barely exchanged more than a stilted greeting and farewell. You didn’t mind. Sure, the court and the villagers were starting to whisper about your lack of body changes, but you didn’t give a shit. King Simon hadn’t darkened the doorstep of your bedroom and you preferred it that way. 

Despite the fact that villagers turned their backs to you, for once in your life, you didn’t feel pressured to exist by the constraints of others' expectations. For once, you felt like you could truly just…be.

The winter was beginning to creep up on the land. You could feel it in the mornings when your joints were a bit stiffer and the bed a little more inviting than it typically was. A new fur pelt blanket appeared on the edge of your bed after the first cold front pushed through and you accepted it gratefully. Lucy denied having acquired it, but you figured she was just being demure. King Simon and Sir MacTavish were off hunting with a few men before the winter finally closed the city walls for the season. It allowed you a chance to breathe just a little easier without wondering what your so-called husband was up to.

Despite the cold, you were in the garden plots on the far side of the castle wall. After talking with Alex, you had realized the old garden plot was too close to the castle and absorbed extra heat off of the sun’s reflection from the windows. The new garden spot provided the perfect amount of shade and light in equal turn and the herbs were growing beautifully. Alex had been called to help with a scythe injury in the fields, so you volunteered to gather the last of the herbs before the first frost. Lucy sat nearby with a basket of darning next to her. Your ever faithful friend rarely left your side and you were eternally grateful. Even if you knew she made sure to change out her dress and apron if Sir MacTavish came by to chat.

“Your Majesty!” a shrill voice shrieked in the distance. You glanced up and saw a young boy rushing towards you with two knights hot on his tail. The child’s face was stained with tears and his breaths choked off with the occasional hiccuping sob, but he still outpaced the two knights. You stood and wiped the dirt on your hands onto your skirt and kneeled in time to catch the boy by the shoulders before he bowled you over. The knights drew their weapons, but you raised your hand to stall them.

“What is it?” you urged the boy to explain. “What’s wrong?”

“My mother. She’s ill. Healer Keller is in the fields and Lady Karim went to get him, but she’s getting worse a-and I don’t know what to do,” he sobbed.

“Put your weapons away,” you ordered the knights. The older one left, presumably to fetch help, and the younger one sheathed his sword.

“Your Majesty, it’s the fever,” the knight explained. His soft eyes cast a worried glance at your hands that held the boy, but you brushed aside that concern. He was a child and he needed comfort. He needed to feel as though his mother had a fighting chance.

“Lucy, I need feverfew, ginger, and echinacea. Sir…” You turned to face the knight and he tipped his head in a formal greeting.

“Garrick, Your Majesty.”

“Sir Garrick will lead you to the house. Come, show me to your mother.” The boy grabbed your hand and you used your other free hand to gather your skirts and run. His house was on the opposite end of the village and the braying of cattle and sheep filled the air along with the clanking of their bells. When you stepped into the house, the earthy richness of the soil was overwrought with the pervasive scent of sick. A woman on the bed curled in on herself and let out a violent cough into the rag loosely clutched in her hand. Next to the bed, a baby wailed in its cradle.

“What’s your name?” you asked the boy gently.

“Tommy, m’lady.” Tears lined his eyes once more and you smoothed his hair down, offering him a reassuring smile.

“Alright, Tommy. Can you do me a favor? If I move your sister outside, can you take care of her until Sir Garrick and Lucy arrive?” He nodded his head so quickly, you thought he might injure himself.

You scooped up the baby and placed her in her brother’s arms before you grabbed the cradle and carried it outside, the children following close behind. The cold winter air nipped at your nose and you quickly discarded your fur-lined cloak. You wrapped it around Tommy and the cradle and instructed him to stay outside.

Once back in the house, you rolled up the sleeves of your gown and washed your hands in a basin set up by the door. Approaching the woman, you pressed the back of your hand to her forehead and cursed under your breath.

“Tommy?” she whimpered. You brushed your hand over her brow and shushed her.

“Rest. It’s alright. I’m here to help.”

Lucy came only a few minutes later with the supplies you ordered and a few other things she thought you would need. She then took Tommy and his sister, Eleanor, to the castle to stay at for the time being. The mother, Fiona, wasn’t too far gone in your estimate. You had helped the healers back home during the fever, slipping out when your mother wasn’t looking. The study of herbs and medicine fascinated you, even if it wasn’t a ladylike pursuit. Despite Sir Garrick’s protest at it being too dangerous, you stayed with Fiona even when Alex returned from the fields with her husband in tow. Instead, you banished the two men to find somewhere else to stay to lower their risk of infection. It would be no use if the children lost both parents and the country lost its best healer.

“Inhale, you’re doing great,” you coaxed Fiona through a steam treatment. The echinacea helped relieve some of her cough and the feverfew was bringing her temperature down. You had been at it for hours now and even though your mind ached for rest, you needed to see this through. Sir Garrick posted himself outside of the door and refused to leave until you did, so you weren’t the only one with a sleepless night.

As dawn broke on the second day, so did her fever. You must have dozed off at some point in the early hours and you rose to stoke the fire to keep the small cabin warm. Fiona stirred on her bed and let out a slight cough that sounded much better compared to the first time you saw her. A little bit of color returned to her face and you knew that you were past the point of the illness being lethal.

“Your Majesty,” she breathed. The woman tried to rise from her bed, but you shook your head and motioned for her to stay seated. You poured her a cup of ginger tea and settled yourself on the edge of the bed, helping her drink it in long, slow sips.

“How do you feel?” you asked.

“Better, m’lady. So much better. How did you…?”

A quiet laugh escaped you. “An old healer in my home village taught me all she knew. She was accused of being a witch, but she was really just smart.”

“Tommy and Eleanor? Are they alright?”

“Being doted on by the castle chef’s, I believe,” you assured her. “And your husband is with them. They’re all well.”

Fiona inhaled deeply for the first time in days and then blinked back tears. Her hands grasped yours and she bowed her head. “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty. We thought you were some foolish girl. We’re so protective of the king that we just assumed… oh, my Queen, please forgive me for the contempt I felt towards you.”

A wave of both sorrow and adoration washed over you and you hugged the woman close. “You need not apologize. What’s done is done and let us move past it.”

On the third day, with her fever down and the risk of contagion passed, you granted the family to return to the cabin and accepted Sir Garrick’s offer of an escort back to the castle. You were sure you made a right sight, with your dress dirty with soot from mending the fire and spills of both tea and sick staining the fabric. You kept your chin up and shoulders back as you walked through the village. You didn’t want to look at the faces peering through their windows and open doors. You didn’t want to see their judgment at the sight of their Queen in such a disarray.

As you approached the castle, you asked Sir Garrick the question that had brewed in your mind since you left the cabin. “Has the king returned yet?”

“No, m’lady. We expect him back tomorrow.”

Good, you told yourself. He won’t see you looking like this. He won’t be present for what happens next.

Lucy heated bathwater for you and had it ready when you stepped through the doors of your suite. You refused to let her help you undress and bundled your dress into a bag before instructing her to burn it to ensure that contamination didn’t affect anyone else. The scent of rose petals lingered in your nose and you let your head loll back against the rim of the tub. 

“You should go,” you instructed your maid. “I will fall ill in a day, maybe earlier.”

“Is that an order?” You had never used rank on her. It was unheard of between the two of you and the thought of it made you cringe.

“Never.”

“Then I shall stay.”

Through the fog of sleep, you heard the doors shudder against the force of something. Sunlight was streaming through the windows and you could guess from the position of the rays on the bed, it was near noon, far past your usual wake time. You willed your body to rise from the bed, but all you were capable of doing was releasing a violent cough that rattled your lungs and made your bones ache.

The door rattled again and you concluded that it had to be a dream. Another cough escaped you and you looked at the fabric below your cheek to see a small splatter of blood on the fabric. Yes, a dream. You were still at home. You had fallen asleep in a bed of wildflowers in the garden, a book on your chest and a bird perched on your shoulder. The warmth that flowed over your body was simply the sun bathing you in its gentle light.

Footsteps pounded against your eardrums in the steady thudthudthud that matched your heart and you shut your eyes to ward off the ache that accompanied it. A wheezing breath passed through your lips just as two hands grabbed your cheeks.

“Your Majesty!” Lucy cried from somewhere to your left.

“How long has she been ill?” a voice growled above you. You tried to place it to a face, but all you could see was what appeared to be a skull. You couldn’t be that far along in the fever, right?

“This is the second day,” Lucy explained. “It’s only going to get worse tomorrow and, if we can stymie the fever, it will abate and she will make it.”

“Soap, alert Keller now. Bring me rags and a fresh pitcher of water.” You turned your head towards the voice and tried to see past your swimming vision. A delicate touch stilled you and you let out a slow, rattling exhale.

“My lord, if you stay, you risk the security of this nation,” Lucy said quietly. What? What on earth did she mean by that? A calloused thumb rubbed along your cheekbone and you let your eyes fall shut as exhaustion began to claim you once more. You nestled closer to the comforting touch and it stilled for just a moment before resuming.

“I had the fever as a child,” Simon explained to your maid. “And if my wife is brave enough to sit with the sick, then I must be too. Go rest. I will watch her for a bit.”

She meant to protest, but one look at her king made her change her mind. He wasn’t even looking at her, but rather his entire focus was on you. He had charged into the room looking like something fresh out of war when he saw your weakened from sprawled out on the bed. Lucy had been doing her best to provide symptom relief and to lower your fever, but she was exhausted too. Sir MacTavish took hold of the maid’s arm and gently led her to a spare room on the floor so she could rest, quarantine, and regain her strength.

When the fever broke three days later, you opened your eyes to find the hulking form of your husband crushed into the tiny chair he had drawn up next to your bed. One of his rough, calloused hands wrapped around your wrist and you realized with a start that he was checking your pulse. As your heart race increased, his eyes opened. He wore a different mask than usual, just a simple black fabric that bridged across his nose and hid the lower half of his face. It revealed a few scars that marred his temple and you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out and smoothing the tips of your fingers over the puffy skin. He caught your wrist and you quickly realized your place and started to pull away, but he shook his head and merely drew your hand up to touch the silky blond hair he usually kept hidden from you.

It should be laughable to you. The first time your husband saw you in your nightclothes, in your bed, unmade and unraveled, and it was because you fell ill. This was the first time he had been in your room and it wasn’t for the expected production of an heir.

One of his hands came up to cradle your cheek and the other wet a cloth before dabbing it against your brow. You found that there were no words to say anything. Instead, you merely shut your eyes and let him care for you.

Things changed after that. Gone were the days spent in the company of only Lucy. Now you couldn’t make your way through the castle or the village without someone accompanying you. The villagers greeted you warmly and offered you fresh baked bread or holiday treats. When the first snow fell, you and Lucy found yourself ganged up on by some of the village kids in what turned into an all-out snowball war. Laughter rang out in the courtyard as you dashed around the bend of one of the stables to avoid a well-aimed snowball. Lucy had been tackled by some of the smaller kids and succumbed to them piling on her with shrieks of laughter and giggles echoing off the stone. You could hear some of the older kids coming towards your hiding location and you quickly turned around the corner only to land against a firm, unyielding chest.

Before you could say anything, a hand came up to cover your mouth and your husband raised a finger to his lips. He stepped away from you and bent down to scoop up a handful of snow and pack it into a perfect sphere. By the time the kids emerged from their hiding places, the two of you had a nice pile of ammo growing.

“You dare threaten the Queen?” Simon boomed in an overly exaggerated voice. As you pelted the kids with snow, Simon lunged and scooped up one of the smaller children who erupted into shrieks and giggles. Your heart seized at the sight of one of the world’s strongest warriors gently carrying this child. In all of your time here, you had never seen one of the rumors of the Riley clan come true. They were not vicious or cruel. They were good, kind people. They were as good as their king.

The parents came to collect their children and haul them back inside to warm up. It sounded like a good idea to you as snow dripped down the back of your cloak and soaked your dress. Lucy was off talking to Sir MacTavish, or Soap as he asked to be called, so you started to head inside alone. As you stepped out from the stable, a shiver wracked through your body and then a heavy fabric draped over your shoulder and settled across your body. You looked up to find your husband in a staring contest with one of the horses and you looked down at his cloak that now graced your body. A shy smile bloomed across your lips and you slipped your hand out of the bundle of fabric to seek out his.

“Would you like to join me in the library for some hot tea after we get out of these wet clothes?” His eyes darkened at your words and, afraid you overstepped, you started to draw your hand back when his fingers entwined with yours.

“I’ll have the cooks make hot cocoa,” he said in that rough, rich voice of his.

After a quick change into something dry and comfortable, you made your way down the hall to the library. You hadn’t been in here for at least a week due to being inundated with preparation for the solstice celebrations. Holly hung from shelves and crevices. Warm fur and soft knitted blankets lined the seating area. A tray of sweets and cocoa sat on the low table between the two sofas. A crackling fire jumped and danced within the hearth and beside it, a momma cat with her (now) adolescent kittens slumbered lazily by the warmth.

And standing by the window, watching the snow fall down, was your husband. He turned when he heard the door open and offered you a small smile.

Oh.

A smile.

He wore no mask.

“You were the one that scared me half to death that night,” you blurted out. He ducked his head, almost bashful, and nodded.

“My apologies, once again.”

You stepped closer to him and took a solid look at him in the light of day. You reached up and touched the edge of his lip, right where that nasty scar bisected his smile. There were stories of the old king of this land, stories that you wished desperately weren’t true, but you were afraid of their veracity. This scar wasn’t obtained from battle, you figured. But rather his father.

“You’re so handsome,” you breathed, truth in your words. His eyes watched you carefully as you ran your fingers along every one of his features, as though you could commit the touch of him to memory. When you first learned you would be marrying the King of the Riley lands, you were scared. Was he some snarling beast of a man? Would he take and take and take until there was nothing left of you?

No, you whispered to your past self. He was nothing like the rumors and everything like the man you dreamed you would marry. He was kind and gentle. He cared deeply, so deeply that it etched into every fiber of his being. He read literature, he took care of cats, he loved seeing his people experience joy, and he-

He kissed you as though he was a drowning man taking his first breath in a long time. You raised your chin to beckon him closer and curled yourself into his large frame. There was no fear in your mind or body, not when Simon was here. His large palm settled low on your back and pulled you flush against him, eliciting a tiny moan from you. You could feel his desire grow against you and you pulled away with a gasp.

“I have been a terrible husband,” he murmured and pressed his forehead against yours. You breathed him in and slid your hands up and over his broad, strong chest, his biceps, his shoulders, and into his hair. You tugged the strands gently and he groaned, his lips leaving open mouthed kisses along your jaw.

“I misjudged you, dear wife.” His hands slid down to grasp your ass and you whimpered, your heated fleshing erupting with desire. “I had no idea how precious you would be to me, to my people.”

“I fear we were both wrong about each other,” you gasped out. He picked you up with ease and left the library, turning right instead of left towards your room. For the first time, you were entering his room.

“Let me make it up to you, my love. Let me atone for every day I have left you without knowing how truly worthy you are.”

The maids and ladies of the court had gossiped about how it hurts, but they didn’t speak of what pleasure it could bring. He practically drove you mad from the way he drew you apart and made you snap. He took you apart over and over again only to bring you back together with such a gentle touch that you couldn’t believe that he was yours.

Four months after your nuptials, your husband finally laid you to bed and claimed you as his. But he waited until you breathed your assent against his lips, until you begged him to take you, until you claimed him as yours too. And when you finally collapsed against his sweaty, heaving chest, you waited for him to get up and walk out as so many women told you that their husbands do. But he merely slid his arm around your waist and drew you into his chest, his hand settling over the soft skin of your stomach.

“I have always been scared at the prospect of being a father,” he admitted. His words were stilted and slow, as if he had to consider each one carefully before he said them. You stroked your fingers through his hair and drew his knuckles to your lips so you could pepper kisses along the calluses of war that remained there.

“I’m not,” you said.

“Not what?”

Your eyes met his and he curled his fingers around your jaw, guiding you to meet his lips in a sweet kiss. When you broke apart, merely a hairbreadth away, you spoke. “I’m not afraid. I can be brave for the both of us.”

You nestled your face against his bare chest and hummed softly. His hand stroked along your bare waist, not in desire, but solely as a means to touch you in pure devotion. Your words seemed to stun him, but he regained his wits and leaned down to kiss your temple.

“If you don’t bring me those cookies, dear husband, I’m afraid I will never speak to you again,” you said, cracking one eye open to look at him. A brilliant smile spread across his lips and he hopped up, throwing on some pants so he didn’t scar any guards walking down the hall. You sat up to watch his toned body disappear through the door and bit your lip as want pulsed through your veins.

That night, you didn’t return to your bedroom. You wouldn’t have been able to, you mused, not with the sheer weight and muscle of your husband wrapped around you. But you didn’t mind. Here, in his bed, you didn’t feel the same emptiness or cold that seeped into your bones when you were alone in yours.

Spring brought new life to the world. You sat out in the gardens and plucked some weeds that threatened to overtake your herbs. The kitten from the library, now a full grown cat but definitely still a kitten in your eyes, lounged lazily at your feet. Lucy worked on embroidering something that you pointedly didn’t ask if it was for her wedding night. Because she and Soap refused to announce that they were betrothed even though you all had bets on it. That is precisely why they wouldn’t say, you figured. Brats.

Soap and Simon and Sir Garrick (Gaz, you reminded yourself) were off with a few other knights on a hunting party and also a reconnaissance mission. Word had it that a faction from a neighboring country was looking to cause trouble. Shadows, they were called, due to their ability to just appear and disappear into the forests.

The captain of his guard, John Price, stayed behind to protect the castle. John was a nice man, older than both you and Simon, but he was a good leader and an even better fighter. The knights listened to him and there were times that Simon went to him for advice on matters of state. You trusted John.

So when he approached you that day in the garden with a troubled look on his face, you knew to listen.

“Your Majesty, I have reports of movement on the western quadrant. I’ve dispatched a rider to inform the King, but I am about to place us on lockdown. I need you to come with me.”

Lucy was up before you could even begin to stand and she quickly helped you to your feet and guided you towards the castle. You knew that you needed to keep a serene, calm expression on your face so as not to incite panic. You hated that you were going into hiding when your people would be caught in the crossfire.

“How far is Simon?”

“About two hours away.”

A lot could happen in two hours. A siege could last days or the walls could fall within minutes. You inhaled deeply as you followed him through the winding maze of the castle halls. Time and experience had made you quick to learn the routes through here and hopefully, it would confuse an intruder.

John led you to a small room hidden under the stairs in the servants quarters and offered a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing but a precaution, my lady. But do not leave this room unless the King or I come for you.”

He overestimated your ability to sit quietly and listen to your people die. These so-called Shadows felt no remorse in taking down innocent people. Lucy had to practically sit on you and cover your mouth as you trembled with rage. Hurried footsteps sounded all around you as servants rushed about and knights set up barriers and mounted defenses.

It wasn’t enough.

They attacked at the beginning of spring, when people were lax from the winter feasts and lack of physical work due to being kept inside by the cold and snow. They knew this was when you would be weakest and that’s why they exploited it. 

Fear lapped at your stomach and you shut your eyes as a pained cry ripped through the servants quarters. No, you couldn’t do this. The Shadows weren’t after them. They were after you.

You shoved Lucy back and forced open the door, coming face to face with a knight in black armor. He raised his blade but hesitated when he took in the sight of the circlet that adorned your head. With a chuckle, he raised his helmet and revealed his smarmy face.

“How do you do, Your Majesty? Name’s Graves.”

“Go to hell,” you spat.

The knight dragged you out of the castle with little protest on your end. Servants peered around the corner of walls and furniture as you strode past, but they were safe. Now that the Shadows had their hands on one of the monarchs, they no longer needed to target the people. More of the Shadows fell in behind the two of you and you were glad to pull them away from terrorizing your family. Your friends. Your citizens.

“Your Majesty,” an older man greeted. “I wish we met under better circumstances. Herschel Shepherd.”

“Fuck you,” was your simple reply. The man chuckled and then backhanded you hard enough to split your lip thanks to his thick signet ring. The Shadows spread out in a circle around the three of you, blocking anyone from rushing to your rescue.

“You know why we’re here then,” Shepherd said. Graves yanked you back into a standing position and forced your chin up so you had to look the man in the eye. You simply rolled your eyes and glared at him, your hands bunching in the fabric of your skirt.

“I know you’re a coward. And pathetic.” Another smack to the other side of the face had you tasting blood.

“I know the King probably likes your pretty mouth, but I’m getting tired of it. You know what I want.”

“I won’t do it.”

“Then I’ll slaughter your entire village.”

Your chest tightened because it wasn’t an empty threat and you knew it. You had heard the reports of other villages and countries. You had heard the stories of what they had done to women and children and men.

“Will you do it yourself? Or make your men do it so you can go to bed every night lying to yourself that your a good man?”

His eyes flashed with something dangerous but you didn’t flinch. Rather, you curled your lips into a sneer and spat directly into his face. He grabbed your jaw, hard enough to force your teeth together with a painful clack, and dragged you to face him. His grip shifted down and around your throat, cutting off your air.

“I should kill you. I should. But once I get you to submit and renounce the crown, I’ll keep you around. Looks like Riley hasn’t laid his seed yet so I’ll let Graves do it. I’ll make sure that no matter how hard you try, you’ll have the heir to the Shadows. You’ll be our whore. Our bitch.”

You struggled against his hold and kicked out, connecting with his shin. He released you but Graves grabbed your arms and pinned them back, securing them with rope, before he pressed on the back of your knees.

“Kneel,” Graves hissed.

“Make me,” you snarled. You just needed to buy some more time. You just needed to-

No. Lucy was thrown into the mud next to you, her hands bound behind her back. She was breathing deeply and you could see her wince with every movement. Broken rib, maybe two, you cataloged. Those bastards.

“Kneel and I won’t kill her,” Shepherd commanded. Your heart pounded painfully against your chest as you slowly, slowly knelt down in the mud. He grinned, an awful and predatory smile, and yanked the circlet out of your hair.

“Look at your queen!” Shepherd boomed. “Come out and see how she prostrates herself before her new ruler. It’s alright now. You all are saved.”

Villagers peeked out of their houses and saw the spectacle before them. The Shadows parted to reveal you to the crowds in a mud-stained dress, crown gone, and bruises already forming on your face. A noise rang out in the village, some kind of holler. Shepherd’s smile widened.

“Yes, yes. Gone are the days of eating scraps while your ruler lives in riches,” he called. “Come see for yourself. She’s merely human.”

You bowed your head to look at Lucy and check over her. That’s what you told yourself, at least. You didn’t want to see the truth. You waited for the derision, the sneers, for the anger they surely felt at your failure to keep them safe. You waited for the rage to rain down upon you.

It never came.

A roar, no, a battle cry swept through the village and then they were descending en masse. No amount of armor or training could save the Shadows from the pure, violent rage of your people. You raised your head to see Fiona jab a pitchfork through a knight’s neck and let out a breathless laugh.

Chaos reigned. You wrenched yourself over Lucy’s body and pressed your cheek against your dear friends, listening to her labored breathing below and the sounds of war above. What if a horse struck you? Or a blade stabbed you in the back? What if a Shadow grabbed you and made for the forest? What if, what if, what if?

Someone grabbed your bicep and you kicked back, but a familiar voice calmed you instantly. “It’s me, m’lady!” John shouted. He sliced through your bonds and did the same for Lucy. You turned and saw that he was in a dreadful fucking state. Blood practically caked every inch of his armor and exposed skin.

“We need to get you out of here,” he ordered.

“And go where?” you retorted. “Give me a knife, sir, and watch me cut out every tongue of the men who dare harm my people.”

“Where is my wife?” Simon’s roaring voice erupted over the din. The villagers stopped their rabid attacks as the King’s Guard swept into the walls of the city. You nearly wept in relief at the sight of the masked figure atop the pure black horse. He looked as thought he were the Grim Reaper himself, but death would not touch you today.

Rage filled his very veins when he saw you, battered and bleeding and standing in the middle of carnage. He jumped down from his steed and pushed through the crowd to you. Blood caked your hair and dripped down your forehead and for a moment, he was terrified it was yours.

“Are you hurt?” His armor was cold where it touched your cheek and you shook your head, reconsidered, and then nodded.

“But not as bad as Lucy or others. I need to get to the healers room. I need to help them,” you pleaded. Soap had dismounted and rushed to join you when he saw Lucy and he knelt next to her now, gentle hands probing against her broken ribs.

“Where is he?” Simon snarled. “Where is Shepherd?”

“Right here, sir,” Fiona announced. He turned to find the farmer’s wife with her foot planted on the man’s chest and her pitchfork digging into the exposed skin of his neck. “Lou’s got the slimy bastard too. No one hurts our queen. No one.”

Affection squeezed your heart so tightly you feared you would break down and weep right there. These people, this nation, had adopted you and loved you unlike any other. You were a mere princess married to their king for an alliance but to them, you were their queen by merit alone.

“Round up any of the Shadows that remain,” Ghost ordered. “Leave Shepherd to me.”

You knew he would kill him. In fact, you knew he would torture him. But that didn’t scare you. Simon’s hands didn’t leave you until you were finally pulled away to aid with healing. There were bodies to prepare for burial, items to repair, people to hold as they grieved.

A queen’s job was never done. You wouldn’t give it up for anything.

In the quiet of the night, when the injured were sleeping peacefully thanks to droughts and pain relief, you slipped out of the healer’s quarters and found Simon leaning against the wall. He raised his head when he heard you step out and his tired eyes shut in relief.

“You should be sleeping,” you chastised. He shook his head and removed his mask, baring himself to you.

“I close my eyes and I see your corpse,” he admitted. “John informed me as to what you did. Sacrifice yourself.”

“I did what I had to do to keep them safe.”

He tipped his head back against the wall, exposing the smooth column of his throat and the way his throat bobbed with every labored breath. “I know. Fuck, I know. But I am a selfish enough man to admit that I would have rather you remained untouched.”

“I can be replaced. Our people cannot.”

He screwed his eyes shut and covered his mouth with his hand. Simon inhaled deeply, as if calming himself, and shook his head. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever fucking say that.”

“Say what?”

“That you can be replaced. You are not some expendable object. You are not some figurehead I can stuff a new body into. You are…you are exquisite. You are magnificent. Our people would rather die than ever lose you, do you understand that?” His armor creaked and groaned in protest but this man, this king, kneeled before you and fisted the fabric of your dirty, blood-stained gown in his hands and pressed his face against your stomach.

“Never say that,” he begged. “Please, I cannot bear to hear you say that in my presence again.”

“Simon.” Was that tears you saw in his eyes? “Look at me.” Truly, it was tears that lined his honey brown eyes. You swept your thumb across his lashes and gathered the salty tear on your skin. Leaning down, you pressed your forehead to his and breathed him in.

“What can I do to make you understand?” His voice was hoarse and thick with emotion.

“Nothing. I understand.” Exhaustion sank into your bones and dragged you down into his arms. He cradled you against him and hauled you up with ease. The day’s events were catching up to you quickly and you wished for the sun to rise again, simply so you could move past the blood that was caked on your skin.

He carried you all the way to his -- your shared -- room and set you on the ground before a bath of steaming water. Simon undressed you carefully, peeling off each layer as if you would dissolve once he reached your chemise, and then settled you into the tub. He stripped off his armor, his underclothes, and settled in behind you. His fingers etched their devotion with every gentle pass of soap against your skin and he took your hand in his to scrub the blood out from under your nails.

“Lucy?” Your tired voice sounded foreign to you, like another person was speaking.

“Soap’s with her. She’ll make a full recovery, just in time for the wedding.” A soft smile curled at his lips and you tilted your head back to rest against his shoulder. His lips traced along the cuts that Shepherd’s hands left and he removed the pain with a simple kiss.

“I’m sorry,” you finally said. You could feel his frown against the skin of your neck and he took a deep breath before asking what you meant.

“I lied to you. I’m afraid.”

“Oh my love.” He kissed your shoulder. “I was afraid too.”

“No, Simon, I wasn’t afraid before. I knew you would come. I knew that, whatever happened to me, you would avenge me. That didn’t scare me. It’s what is to come.”

You drew one of his hands away from the side of the tub and rested it on your stomach, above the slight swell that Alex confirmed earlier was indeed the next heir to the Riley throne. Simon’s breath hitched against your neck and then he fell silent. You shut your eyes and waited for his condemnation at your foolish actions today. You could threaten your own life all you wanted, but the heir?

“Simon?” Fear laced your voice and he hated that he put it here. He pressed his cheek to your hair and stroked his thumb against your stomach.

“I was content to rip out one of his lungs,” Simon murmured in your ear. “But now I have two reasons to remove both entirely. He threatened the life of my queen, my love, and he threatened the life of my heir.”

You exhaled a shaky breath and felt a smile grow on your face. He tapped your hip and you stood, letting the water slough off of you and back into the water that was now a mix of mud and blood. Simon took his time drying you off, leaving lingering kisses on every part of your body. Your shoulders, breasts, stomach, hips, even your calves received an equal measure of love. As he knelt at your feet once more, you cupped his face in your hands and pulled his gaze up to meet yours. He settled his chin on your stomach and looked at you with so much adoration.

“Are you afraid?”

His smile grew. “No, for I know you will be brave enough for both of us. And you, my little wife, have the bravery of a lioness.”

[unhappy-last-resort]

Delusions (Yandere Simon x GN Reader)

Warnings: smut, worship of the readers body and reader in general, creampie, GN reader, short

A/N: Just a drabble because I was thinking of Simon as one does late night. I'm also waiting for server reset in PGR so I can decide if I wanna pull on the light trails banner or not.

Apologies for any grammar/spelling issues and what not, it's almost 2AM for me

Your soft pants filled his bedroom, your chest rising and falling with each breath, his arms holding your hips flush to his.

Nothing could compare to this moment. You were absolutely divine, a gift from the gods, a blessing to humanity bestowed by the stars, and you, despite being so far beyond him that he could only watch your star trail in awe, you chose him. You chose him over the numerous, beautiful and heroic constructs and humans who stood by your side.

It made him shudder, his eyes almost rolling at the thought. How could anyone not desire you? Who wouldn't lust after such an incredible hero? Just look at yourself. The way you move your body underneath him, the stretch marks along your thighs, your swollen lips parted in ecstasy, your glossy eyes, your mesmerizing voice as you moan so sweetly for him.

He couldn't help but kiss every inch of you he could, studying you like a piece of art. He kissed each scar he could see, admiring them. Perhaps others might find your scars to be blemishes that needed to be hidden, or fixed, but to him they were breathtaking. Not necessarily because he thought the scars were beautiful, but because they gave him insights into you and your story. You don't talk much about your past, not that there was reason to, but still, he longed to know you more intimately than you knew yourself. If only you'd open yourself to him, if only he could climb to your stardom and share the burden with you.

Perhaps if he lulled you to orgasm enough times you would be relaxed enough to let him know you more. He kissed your neck and whispered his admiration of you into your skin as he gently fucked you, holding you closely to him, becoming so engrossed your moans and cries that he nearly forgets his own pleasure.

He could stay like this forever, listening to you whisper his name as you grind against him. He holds your face gently, drinking in your expressions. Each cry you make resonating in his heart and rippling through his mind, overshadowing every other thought and sensation until only you existed.

He would never stop chasing after you, never stop longing for your attention and recognition, he would never stop desiring a level of intimacy that would only belong to you two. He needed your acknowledgement of his efforts and devotion, he needed to hear you say you loved him just as much as he loved you, maybe even more. He needed you to love him back, he needed your attention, he needed you to look at him as something more than a friend. His desires driving him to push in and out of you faster and faster until you writhed and trembled, until his hips stuttered and the tight cord drawn in his stomach snapped as he babbled your name like it was his salvation.

As his hips slow down, you wrap your arms around him and bestow him a kiss filled with so much love he feels himself melt into your body like it was made to hold him.

"Simon..." You whisper breathlessly and his breath is caught in his throat. Your hand cups his cheek and leans into it, kissing down along your wrist reverently.

You watch him lovingly, letting him worship you. Your eyes meet and his heart soars, you look so bewitching like this the sight burns itself into his brain. Slowly, your lips part and he desperately waits for what you're about to say, hoping that you'll tell him those three words he longs to hear. He watches every slight movement you make, enraptured as he watches you swallow, debating whether you should say what's on your mind or not and he gives your hand a slight squeeze of encouragement.

That seems to give you the push you need as you focus on him again and his heart pounds in his chest as he leans in closer to you, needing to hear every word you're about to say.

"Simon, I-"

.

.

.

.

He wakes up, his hair sticking to his skin and the sheets unbearably hot. Simon stares at the ceiling, seeing nothing but blurry shapes as he contemplates what just happened. Humiliation crushes his chest as the stickiness in his hand makes him realize that it was just an intense fantasy and nothing more. He feels like a teenager helplessly pining after a crush and it almost makes him cry.

It was foolish for him to ever think that you could be his, that you'd ever spare him more than a cursory glance and a few words. You may have never said it out loud, but he knows he's beneath you. Someone your caliber would never look his way, but he can't help but keep chasing after that hope, after that dream that one day, one day you might look at him with something more than friendly comradery.

...He should stop entertaining such ridiculous and inappropriate thoughts about you and wash his hands, probably change his sheets too. If you saw him like this, you would be appalled. Shocked that a fellow soldier could be so...so unprofessional. He's already embarrassed himself a few times in front of you, he needs to be better. He needs to improve.

You'll never give him the attention he desires, so he must do what he can to earn it and treat what little you give him with the utmost care and respect.

He needs you, he needs your love and acknowledgement and he'll do whatever it takes to get it. Even if that means sacrificing everything he has.

[angel-princess-anna]

Tributes to Maggie from the Downton Cast and Crew (Part 2):

Part 1

Hugh Bonneville (in addition to his previous comment):

Elizabeth McGovern:

Joanne Froggatt: "Today we lost a true legend. It’s hard to find the words to pay tribute to the iconic Dame Maggie Smith. I shared a screen with her on very few occasions but was fortunate enough to be in her company on many. She truly was a trailblazer, with the sharpest wit, the greatest talent, the naughtiest sense of humour, she was a force to be reckoned with. She had a charisma that you felt would live for ever (in many ways it will) and underneath all of that a huge heart. Thank you Maggie, for always being supportive and kind to me, for putting many a smile on my face with that sharp wit that no one could match, and for showing the rest of us just how it’s done.

Rest in peace Dame Maggie, my thoughts are with your beautiful family. 🖤"

Lily James:

Tom Cullen: "I remember a very specific part of the conversation Maggie and I were having when this photo was taken. Maggie had been doing a big and challenging scene where she is reunited with her old flame played by Rade Serbedzija. I was stood at the back, out of frame and able to observe these incredible actors at their work. But for whatever reason Maggie felt like she wasn’t getting the scene right. Maggie took the smallest moment, came back and next take, simply, effortlessly, delivered a masterclass. She was extraordinary. The director called “cut” and we moved on. I was spellbound. During our conversation at the window, I asked Maggie what she did in order for her to so swiftly and precisely produce such an elevated performance. I remember her looking me in the eye and saying “Oh darling! I was just holding in a fart!”. I remember us both bursting out laughing. I really wished that she had been just holding in a fart but of course that wasn’t the real truth, the real truth was that she worked tirelessly her entire career to make that scene look easy.

I only worked with her for a short while, but I feel so blessed to have had that experience. She was tough, demanded the best but making Maggie laugh felt like winning the lottery.

My heart goes out to her family, friends, her Downton family and all those she touched with her sharp, agile and acerbic brilliance.

We lost an absolute giant today 💔"

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Lesley Nicol: "It's a very close group of people so we're all devastated to think she's not around any more.' [...] "I'd never worked with someone of that calibre, and I thought, I don't know what I'll say to her, it will be really tricky, God she'll probably be really grand. She was not looking for anyone to be scared of her, or in awe of her, she just wanted to be in the gang [...] she was in with the crowd, and just very happy to be part of it all."

Jeremy Swift: "An honour to serve you Maggie."

Lady Carnarvon: "I never saw her on set with a little script, she knew it before she got here [to Highclere]. She worked so hard, to get up at silly o' clock... and to wear corsets for hours on end." [Highclere Castle's post]

Harriet Walter: "She was a true comedian, but also I've seen her playing some incredibly heartfelt, deep, sad roles, which is the huge range of an actress like her. If she was merely funny or merely tragic, she wouldn't quite have made that sort of impression."

Anna Mary Scott Robbins: "I C O N 🤍 Oh Maggie you will be missed 💔"

(special thanks to @lovelikewildness for helping to compile)

[stevie-petey]

I have an idea! Bug wearing Steve's old scoops ahoy shirt to tease him, instead of being embarrassed all Steve and think about is Bug wearing his shirt 🥴

I LOVE THIS

enjoy <3

"do you really have to return the uniform if the mall burned down?"

"mhm," steve tosses one of his scoops ahoy shirts onto his bed. "and thank god for that." he hated the uniform. it wont be missed. the shirt was too tight in all the wrong places and shorts too short. he looked like a goddamn idiot. "i might burn the hat myself, though."

you sigh forlornly. "i'll miss the hat, it was charming."

"it wasnt charming, it was awful."

"you and your hair," you shake your head at steve fondly, running your fingers through his hair as you walk over to his bed. picking up a scoops ahoy shirt, you lazily take off your tshirt and throw the uniform over your head. though youre wearing a tank top underneath, the exposed skin still causes you to shiver slightly as steves eyes skim across it. "i dont know, i think the shirt is kinda nice. cozy."

youre not exaggerating. the material is thin, lightweight to combat the heat. the shirt smells like steve, his expensive cologne recognizable only on him. burgundy and dark. "can i keep this one? im sure they wont notice one shirt missing."

you have a lot of fond memories at scoops ahoy. its where you spent long, sickly sweet hours basking in the summer heat with steve. the ac would kiss your skin and he would kiss your cheek and call you angel. peach ice cream would drip down your lips, love would slip down your chest and into your belly.

its a shame the store burned down with the mall.

you and steve had been so in love within those blue walls.

as youre reminiscing, staring down at the shirt with a soft smile, steve is trying to remember how to breathe.

youre wearing the scoops ahoy shirt. youre wearing steves shirt. his. the clothing drapes over your frame in a way that leaves his mouth dry. its too big for you, loose and languid, and steve has never been more in love.

youve been dating only a week, but hes been in love with you a lot longer than that. steve hasnt given you his clothes yet, figuring it was too soon in the relationship. but now youre standing in front of him looking so fucking adorable in steves shirt and hes afraid he'll have to clear out his entire closet just for you.

it doesnt matter. steve would give you the world if he had to.

"steve?" youve noticed his silence now. looking up, you find him staring at you with an intensity in his eyes that sends goosebumps down your arms. its then that you realize whats going on.

he likes you in his clothes. a lot.

interesting.

you walk over to steve with a smirk. he doesnt seem tor register that youre moving, lost in admiring the way your collarbone peeks out from the shirts collar. teasing, taunting.

"steve." you playfully sing his name, placing your hands on his waist.

he jumps at the touch, comes back to himself, and makes a soft surprised noise. he clears his throat, pretends that he hadnt been ogling you. "ahem. yeah. im here. whats... whats up?"

you laugh at him, the sound ringing in steves ears. "you alright there, honey?"

"im... managing."

"bless you," you stand on your tiptoes and kiss his cheek. "and i love you."

the shirt rides up a bit when you kiss him. steves fingers slip underneath the material and holds you tight, fingers digging tenderly into your skin. "i love you, too."

"youre going to give me a million of your shirts to bring home, arent you?"

"oh 100%."

[gliphyartfan]

Good morning, afternoon or evening! It's me again (⁠・⁠∀⁠・⁠)

With so many things happening in my day, my head got into gear, which led me to think, what if some things that we consider defects would be welcomed in Hyrule?

An example, hip dips, I don't have them but I know people who do and who sometimes feel insecure about them.

Imagine that in Hyrule they can't take their eyes off you because something that you think is a defect for Hylians is exotic, striking and attractive in their eyes.

We would be fucking goddesses/gods

Hello hello! Evening, afternoon, and good morning to you too!

Now you got me thinking.

Like Hylians could see hip dips as an intriguing shape??

Maybe they see it as exotic in comparison to their typically more sleek body types. (I could totally see the chain look at the natural dip as a irresistible design, a curve their hands can’t resist tracing on their darling.)

And of course scars would be considered heroic, regardless of how they came to be, and would often be symbols of courage or determination in Hyrule. They see these ‘marks’ as remnants of trials and personal history, making you all the more intriguing.

Which explains why Wild can charm a lot of people, those scars are like a Hylian magnet. You know that incident where researchers learned not to put brightly colored bands on birds cause it makes them a MAJOR chick magnet?

Scars would be like that.

Oooh maybe they could call freckles ‘star kisses,’ and each one is noticed and appreciated.

(Hyrule loves tracing constellations along Reader’s skin, and Wind thinks it’s a sign of being blessed by the sea and stars.)

Birthmarks could be said to be marks placed by the goddesses, leaving each person who sees entirely in awe of how ‘divinely touched’ Reader is.

Hmmmmmm…

now you got me thinking about body shapes!

Maybe to Hylian’s, soft bodies are a rare beauty, especially on humans. Hyrule feels it’s a sign of bountiful health (and given his era, it makes sense), Wild thinks it’s proof of a warrior who endures all hardships, and Four finds himself utterly mesmerized by the variety of silhouettes.

Maybe in the kingdom a broader frame feels like a sign of warmth, stability, and strength. They might even see Reader as someone especially suited to protect loved ones, a quality Hylians admire.

Oooh imagine dark circles are like signs of wisdom?

Like Hylians see that Reader stayed up pondering or studying the night away and it makes Reader incredibly intellectual in their eyes. They admire the contrast, often thinking it gives Reader’s gaze a certain mysterious depth.

Some of them find it endearing, wanting nothing more than to hold you close and convince you to get rest.

(Time would see it as a reason to feel extra protective, a sign that life has tested you but that you’re strong enough to carry on regardless.)

Curly and textured hair is nearly unheard of in Hyrule. They are utterly enchanted by the unique volume and coils. Warriors and Legend especially can’t keep their hands from Reader’s head, finding the textures delightful and something they’re not used to but eager to understand.

Maybe it’s seen as a natural representation of the wild, untamed side of the spirit. It would give Humans an aura of someone they can’t fully control, which would only intrigue them more.

If you’re tall, they view you as a fierce warrior, seeing strength and elegance. (No wonder the Gerudo can always find a husband.) If you’re short, they adore it in a different way, feeling an extra surge of protectiveness and the desire to keep you close.

Whether Reader is taller or shorter, they find a reason to think they’re ideal. The chain love hoisting them up for a hug if Reader is smaller or playfully leaning on them if Reader is tall.

[foryouwereinmysong]

I present to you another installment of Paul McCartney finds a way to mention John Lennon even though he wasn’t asked about him

Mogi on Facebook: How do you deal with writers' block?

Paul: I don't really get it. I'm quite lucky with that - touch wood! I hardly ever sit down and go, I'm going to write. It's nearly always when I've got some time and there's nothing else I particularly want or need to do. I can just sit down and noodle around with something because it's come from my own desire and not somebody else's, or of a requirement. It often comes reasonably easy.

Sometimes I might block out the words in order to get the tune and shape of the song and then think, 'God, they're bloody awful those words, I'll have to fix them!' Then I'll revisit them and get some great lyrics, and that's always a good feeling. So, I don't really have writer's block. I've been blessed with that.

I sometimes tell the story of John and I having written just short of three hundred songs, and every time we sat down to write we came up with a song. Which is incredible!

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

All Your Fault

Next

Author's note: I got the Bully Cato Sicarius Fleas. I've read the fics and they are good. I hope I got his character right.

Warnings: Bullying behavior, verbal bullying, Power Imbalance, Cato's Sparkling Personality. uh let me know if I need to add more.

Summary: You are just a Serf, and one day gain the attention of the Captain of the Second Company of Ultramarines. It's not a good thing. Just what did you do to upset him so?

Tagged: @sleepyfan-blog, @i-am-a-dragon34, @egrets-not-regrets, @gra93fruit-blog

You were born and raised near your family's farm on Calth. You had grown up hearing about the Glory and Wonder of the Imperium and how very Lucky you and the other citizens of Ultramar are to have the protection of the Mighty and Noble Ultramarines. 

You had heard stories of how some of the stronger boys in your farming community were blessed with the chance to become Ultramarines. But that had been a few generations ago when the farming community had a poor harvest and they had to give people as part of the tithe more than finished and raw farming goods. 

You bite your lower lip a little as you continue to pull weeds and tend to the section of the fields You had assigned to you to work on. There has been a bad drought that has made the usually high yield farm rather lacking. You have heard your parents and the local town leaders talking about it. 

With the Tithe Coming within a few short weeks, and a lack of agricultural goods. They had been arguing over who to send as tribute and part of the tithe. As a farming community it was heavily encouraged to have multiple children for a variety of reasons. 

The families with more children got tax breaks and help from the centralized government for Healthcare, child rearing and daycare. As well as cheap, decent quality education and help with feeding and funding Children born and continued growing. You were one of seven children and are among the middle of the pack. 

You are full grown, but due to circumstances still stuck at the family farm, working on it rather than having your own place to live. While volunteers are preferred a lottery was going to be set in place for the whole community to gather and those of a certain age range were going to be the most targeted for the Tithe-ing. 

You are in that age range, you aren't sure if you want to be one of those chosen to go. Whether it is into the Astra Militarum, Chapter Serf, or into a different part of governmental service. If it happens, you will do your duty and say your goodbyes to your loved ones. 

The sinking sensation that you felt proved true five weeks later when your name was called as part of the Tithe to the Imperium. You were just barely able to say goodbye to your siblings. Before you were whisked off to be assessed and put into quarantine with your fellow Calth-ites. After quarantine and skills tested, you were given the uniform of Serf. 

And to your greatest joy and honor. The colors of the Ultramarines, denoting which holy chapter you had been chosen for. You whisper in gratitude to the God Emperor for his mercy and wisdom. You swiftly change into the uniform And follow after those who were chosen and head to the proper disembarkation point. 

One of the higher ranking serfs explaining the rules and consequences for breaking them. As you walk by, you and the rest of the Serfs have to flatten yourselves against the walls when Astartes in Blue and Gold Armor go walking by, you keep your head lowered out of respect, even as you peek at them from the corner of your eye as awe and dread grips your heart. You had only ever heard of the Angels of the Imperium before. And now… you get to serve them, what an honor.

Even if it makes you anxious, one of the Ultramarines brushes past you, he has a stern expression on his stunningly handsome face. You swear you feel his eyes flicker over and stare at you ever so briefly before snapping back in front of him towards where some of his fellow Angels are. 

Once they leave the hallway you and your fellow new Serfs are hurried along to their destination as the Serfs who’ve been there longer and are in charge continue to go over the rules, regulations and consequences of disobedience.

Over the next several months you learn of the complex social and political hierarchy of the Serfs. Or at least, you do your best to do so as it seems a tricky, complicated and almost arcane nature. Far more complex that a simple farm hand turned chapter serf could comprehend at times. Although you did your best to do your duties swiftly, promptly, quietly, and with as little impact on your higher ups as possible.

You are carrying some clothing from one part of the ship to another when you sense movement out of the corner of your eye. You stop and shift out of the way when you spot blue and gold ceramite armor and an Ultramarine Space Marine comes walking over. You dutifully flatten yourself against the nearest wall to give the massive man more room.

The Ultramarine pauses and stares down at you. It was the same one that had briefly looked at you all those months ago when you’d first come aboard the ship as part of a tithe.

“Serf,” He barks at you.

“Yes, Lord?” You say trying not to jump. 

He scowls at you and your heart sinks and you feel like you want to cry. “What the fuck is that accent?”

“I-I am sorry my lord?” You try as you carefully try to enunciate Low Gothic properly. 

One of his eyes twitch and he scowls down at you, “Speak properly or stay silent. Serf.”

You nod, even though you feel hurt, welling up, and confusion. He was the one to start to speak to you. “Yes, Lord.”

“Hrm. Barely better,” Cato sneers down at the country bumpkin now blessed to become a Serf of the Ultramarines.

They have the same fucking accent that, Prissy bastard Captain Ventris gets when he’s talking with his uppity giant bastard of a Sargent Passinius. He’d had yet another disagreement with the Captain of the Fourth Company over tactics and Calgar had barked out orders that the pair of them needed to break it up and cool off before coming back to the meeting.

He had meant to go to the training salles to cool off as he seethed in his wrath when he spotted that one far too pretty looking Serf that had come aboard McCragge’s Honor a few months ago. Not that he had noticed them at all. Or that he’d been, for some reason, tracking them from time to time. Not that he’d sought them out while he was in a temper because of Throne-cursed Ventris.

Their large eyes staring up at him, with tears starting to gather at the corners of their eyes. Tch. Pathetic. Even as something else shifts in his hearts at seeing their emotional reaction to him. He’d hardly said much and they were already acting like he was being a Bastard. So he scowls down at them some more and snarls that they need to be tougher to survive as a Serf serving Astartes.

"Leave," He barks and you bow and scurry off and away from him as you continue to do your duties, trying to figure out what it was that you did to upset the Second Captain of the Ultramarines.

[libras-interactives]

I have two questions about the utdm gang, mostly just for fun. How would they dress in the modern age and what would their ideal day off look like?

Marius:

Dresses very well (when he can afford it...), clothes are always clean and hair always done even if his apartment is shit lol. In modern times he'd stand out bc he'd wear "old fashioned" 1920s dandy styles, or clothes "meant for women" like crop tops and cute shorts, and bright colors.

Ideal day off in both modern and 20's is going out to eat and dance with friends. You could convince him to stay in, but he'd still want to do something engaging and invite lots of people over. It's actually nice when he gets a boyfriend bc then hes out on dates all the time instead of bugging the far more introverted Jack and Eveline.

Jack:

Already has no sense of fashion lmao,,, doesnt change much in modern times. Jeans, work boots and a tanktop. Maybe a button down or flannel if he's gotta look nice. Denim overalls if he's gotta work, a baseball cap he got for free at a feed store to keep the sun outta his eyes. Owns more work clothes than "regular" clothes for sure, and knows how to mend them.

A day off where you actually got Jack to relax: walking in a nice nature reserve or forest with no people, or a friend or two. Maybe some fishin', and grilling said fish in the evening with some friends over a fire. Going to sleep actually at peace and content with himself. God bless.

Lottie:

Wears whatever's on trend at the time, albeit with her own spin. She can look good in basically anything, would def be one of those fashion insta girlies. An ideal day off would be a nice spa day followed by shopping or a night out with her best friends. They could be doing anything - restaurant, dancing, a horror movie marathon.

Eveline:

Likes thrifting (and antiqueing in general), and prefers to alter and sew her own clothes. She's very opinionated against fast fashion haha. She'd be the one buying handmade jewelry at festivals. An ideal day off would be some restful fucking sleep with no one interrupting her enjoying a quiet morning at a cafe, browsing an antique shop or little bookstore, and going home to cook something while listening to a podcast/radioshow. Marius can come over and bring his friends if they do the dishes afterward lol.

Little Lottie:

Buying clothing for LL is an Endeavor (tm) bc of her sensory sensitivities and the fact like, trying on clothes in Walmart or Old Navy would be an awful experience for her. Also, when she likes an outfit, she doesn't want to wear anything else. So when they find a favorite thing, Lottie buys like three or five of them in increasingly larger sizes so LL can still have that specific shirt or dress when she gets bigger. She'll wear her halloween costume for months if she loves it.

Little Lottie's ideal "day off" in modern is much the same as it would be in canon; she wants a warm, secure home with no sudden noises or women shouting or strange men coming and going. She'd want to have space to lay out her legos and books and stuffed animals, and not be bothered or interrupted, but not alone - she wants to look up and see Lottie or MC close by in case she needs them. And when she's done playing she wants to go to their side for a snack and juice and be read to.

(Playing outside would be fun too, but parks and zoos are overwhelming and have lots of people - so a big backyard with a sandbox would be like, perfect)

Slyvester:

Still dresses like he's in the 50's; he is not that old in the modern times, he's just stuffy and overly fastidious. At least he doesn't wear a hat and jacket all the time. Supposedly, there's photo evidence of him in a hawaiian shirt and sandals with socks in the myriads of family photo albums his wife keeps.

As for a day off - lord this man needs it - he has a list of places his wife Viviana wants to go, anywhere from museum exhibits to weird performative art installments to a tiny hole in the wall Greek place she heard about 4 years ago to the local Renfaire. In modern times it'd be much easier for her to get about with a wheelchair, so they can go out more. They're more restricted in the 1920s, but they try to make it work whenever Slyvester's off for a few days. Alas, big shocker, Flynn doesn't allow many of those.

Lightning bonus round Malwina is a normal happy teenager who likes going to ☆spooky☆ dead malls and doing tiktok dances with her friends and little sisters. Máire never left Ireland, is the reluctant mom-friend to her coworkers at the lesbian bar, and is v active in the Dublin punk & queer community. And is properly divorced LOL.

[justacynicalromantic]

The sun is rising behind the spoil tips.(2) The world is allowing those with strong beliefs to claim what is rightfully theirs. Babylon is burning, but we are already holding the line with swords in our hands. For fire cannot touch those who were forged in flames. (3)

Listen to the latest song from the authors of the now famous Ukrainain track "Wild Field"

We human beings have been blessed with a beautiful garden and a myriad of pathways to explore. Each atom is a work of art, a haven of emerald waters. But there are some who get a kick of launching drones into children's rooms. They are just God's mistake, a badly written machine code. Having received the most remarkable creation - human body - In the world of violins and scripts, they want to pull the Soviet oar, Half a world away from home. Cruel beasts from birth, They thirstily feed on blood. True evil, in short. Endowed with gifts to weave love and musical chords, I dive instead into this surreal reality, when I could be building life instead. Because if we do not, all of us will be killed by this horde. Our world is broken again. We have to be the engineers of new Existence.

The sun is rising behind the spoil tips. The world is allowing those with strong beliefs to claim what is rightfully theirs. Babylon is burning, but we are already holding the line with swords in our hands. For fire cannot touch those who were forged in flames.

The uranium of the nation is here, where the spirit of the people is stronger than the everlasting ores. In the cities, there are cobblestones and animal waste. If you are a pound of slag, no money will get you rich. We are the pillars that provide the world with a continuous and influential impetus. The courageous and resolute do not fear death. It would be awful if the two shores were to be torn apart once more, The actions of the heroes - erased, the children - colonized.(4) It's better to go into battle with a pack of wolves than a herd of deer. Destitute slaves dive into the Tisza River. But we emerge from lava, from soot, and fog. Demons are constantly climbing out of the underground mines. With the bodies of the best of us, we are sewing up the cracks of the Earth.

The sun is rising behind the spoil tips. The world is allowing those with strong beliefs to claim what is rightfully theirs. Babylon is burning, but we are already holding the line with swords in our hands. For fire cannot touch those who were forged in flames.

Behind the tericons Babylon is burning, and we are Under the crown of the sky We stand in legions

The video clip shows war-torn Donbas. Especially in the second half of the video, you can see what used to be asphalt roads lined with rubble that used to be houses - all that's left of the city of Mariinka. The landscape of Donbas - endless fields of wheat, sunflowers and wildflowers - burned and scarred with craters left by missiles. For reference, this is how Donbas looked before:

2. Spoil tips, or terricones as we call them, are waste from mines, the size of mountains - a very common sight in Donbas.

3. "For fire cannot burn those who were forged in flames" is a very famous quote from Taras Shevchenko's epic poem "Hamalia"

4. In these 2 lines the song is referencing Ukrainian history in the beginning of the 20th century. The Dnipro River divides all of Ukraine almost cleanly in half, and by this separation line Ukraine had been divided for many years - the Left Bank under the rule of Russian Empire, the Right Bank - under Poland's rule. But after WWI and after Russian Empire fell, Ukrainians were able to first establish two Ukrainian states (people of the Left Bank established Ukraine's People Rebublic and people of the Right Bank established West Ukrainian People Republic) and then, on January 22, 1919 - to unite again into one singular state. This date of signing the Treaty of Unity is a national holiday in modern Ukraine. Alas, soon the whole country was again occupied by Russia and forced into the Soviet Union.

PS: link to the Wild Field, for those who has not heard it yet

I also highly recommend Ragnarok

[tamelee]

Do ppl genuinely believe gaara has a crush on naruto? I thought it was a joke 😭 the jokes like gaara hating sasuke are funny but they're far from true considering in canon he cried for sasuke and tried to tell him to return. He told naruto later on that sasuke's not planning on coming back bc it was true, not bc he's jealous or some shit 💀 it was naruto who got upset at that and shoved his hand away, and also bc gaara made it clear that if in the war sasuke is on the enemy team then he won't hold back and will go for the kill. He's just another person who doesn't care about sasuke anymore which is why naruto got mad. To me only naruto and sasuke being romantically in love makes any sense, when ppl bring in not only gaara but even shikamaru, neji, Lee, sai it just seem like a joke bc wtf? Most of those ppl are pretty openly straight anyway. It seems like only sasunaru fans do this, they think every man around naruto wants him and is jealous of sasuke and sasuke's not a good bf but all of that is pure projection and stupidity and they act like incels when they treat naruto like some helpless girl with her Chad bf who should instead be with the nice guys. Anyway that went sorta off topic but yeah I don't think gaara's actually in love. Or if he is, he's not the jealous type bc I admit if he was a girl, even dudebros might see it with him. It's just that naruto has it part of his character that everyone worships him sooner or later. Whenever he changes someone they become his fan and act like he's God. Gaara, neji, shikamaru, pain, obito, tsunade. Sasuke's the only special one bc their relationship is actually different and special. But even for him sometimes some sns fans reduce him to a naruto worshipper in sns fics. Or they talk about the "i'm in naruto's world, I'm blessed to exist" quote that seems an awful lot like idol worship. I hate when they reduce sasuke and his relationship to naruto to that, that's hinata's job, to be naruto's personal slave, not sasuke. And if you remember this while analyzing gaara he just seems like yet another character that got reduced to a naruto dick sucker, that's all.

Gaara and Sai openly straight Nonee? xD I understand your points, but I do think you’re doing yourself a HUGE disservice if you think Gaara is just a... *checks* 👀... “Naruto dick sucker”... 

... kinda falls short, no? Their bond is distinct, and categorizing it as similar to Naruto's other connections, especially when most are comrades at best. Villagers conditionally acknowledge Naruto because they see him as useful until he proves otherwise, and that includes the majority of his... friends. Naruto said it himself, he doesn’t trust them (I HAVE A THEORY ABOUT THIS REGARDING 'HOPE' TBH I’LL FINISH THAT DRAFT SOON FINALLY LOL) This lack of trust is evident again during his fight with Kurama.

With Gaara, it is very uniquely a bond of their own regardless whether someone believes it is romantic or not and it doesn’t really have anything to do with Sasuke, so I’m not sure how to feel about a comparison? 

However, Naruto's connection with Gaara does share some similarities with his bond with Sasuke; hurting for Gaara’s pain because he understood it as fellow Jinchuuriki, or hurting for Sasuke’s pain and burdens but going on a journey because he wanted to understand (‘we could’ve been in each other’s shoes, Sasuke’). These bonds also relate to the system itself, which is closely interlinked. Hence, Sasuke shouting at Naruto for not understanding in VotE1. But it's not the same thing, and that's perhaps one of the most significant differences between Naruto's bonds with Sasuke and Gaara, don't you think? The contrasting pain (regarding that understanding) he felt played a crucial role in his learning process. "I felt less pain when I escaped loneliness, but Gaara was lonelier for longer and Sasuke has to live with this burden... which is unbearable, what can I do?" Collaboration only becomes possible when you can truly understand one another. The same was seen during the Shinobi War when they had to unite as a single alliance. Gaara references this several times.

That understanding transcends national borders, and it's an integral part of Naruto's Ninja Way. It's also a way to demonstrate that mutual understanding could potentially unite the Nations, but that's a different topic. What remains consistent is Naruto's anger towards the entire system when it becomes personal and disregarding what is seen as 'appropriate Shinobi behavior'. (Lmao not those anti-Naruto post claiming Naruto was fine with everything altogether 😭 ffs, delete.) 

Of course Naruto’s emotions played a huge part in him going feral. It was primarily triggered by Gaara's death, but even before that Kurama's Chakra was slipping through as he was learning about himself, Jinchuuriki and discovering new things that Konoha, and even Jiraiya, whom he trained with for years, had never shared with him. Our boy was seriously going through it, but this drive wasn’t just him showing Shonen Hero behavior to ‘stop the bad guys from gaining power’ or grieving a friends’ death at that moment even.

Naruto had every right to be furious. This is the same anger that says, 'If you Shinobi of the Leaf hadn't placed a monster in me,' and 'Did any of you even try to ask ME how I felt?!!' But, of course, Naruto repressed his anger and avoided empathizing with himself. However, this anger still simmers beneath the surface in the story. (Sakura's display of compassion for Naruto's situation after realizing he could die was a good moment tbh, I liked it even if Naruto shoved it aside. Kinda like he was saying they could never understand as Sasuke said to him, except Naruto sorta laughs it off and shows confidence instead. Anw, Sakura's best moments are in this arc, and it has nothing to do with the Sasori fight.)

But why doesn't Naruto express anger for himself?

Because, in this case, he carries a sense of guilt towards Gaara. He heard Gaara express how he desperately searched for a reason to live, feeling like a 'relic of the past that people wanted to get rid of'—unwanted and alone. This led Gaara to decide to care only for himself and kill everyone else. While Naruto could empathize with Gaara due to the shared pain stemming from similar situations, he also understood that their circumstances were entirely different at the time he met him. Naruto compared his own situation with Gaara's, stating that 'everyone' else had saved him from a dark and lonely hell, lumping the village together to contrast it with Gaara, who had no one still.

Naruto eventually said that Iruka and Sasuke were the ones who truly saved him after learning about different types of bonds and gaining a better understanding. However, the idea of being supported by so many people, (conditional or not) in contrast to Gaara, tore Naruto apart because he knows how unbearable it is to live that way. The Gaara he encountered during the exams represented Naruto's greatest fear for himself, and he began to feel guilty for having people around him, or even those who 'worship' him, as he felt it was unfair to Gaara. Despite his repressed emotions, Itachi's 'fear-inspiring Genjutsu' exposed Naruto's feelings and fears.

Naruto's efforts didn't just lead to a strong friendship; they also provided Gaara with hope. In this story, 'Hope' is perhaps the most important theme, a reason to live that is much more bearable. I wouldn't reduce all of this to Gaara merely 'worshipping' Naruto. Such analysis seems to miss the nuances of their complex bond regardless.

Naruto's sharing of joy also reflects his 'mysterious power.' He had mixed feelings about seeing Gaara advance so quickly as Kazekage but also genuinely felt happy for him. I genuinely believe that dismissing the Naruto-Gaara dynamic as mere 'worship' overlooks the significant impact Naruto had on Gaara and those around them. Which was extremely important to the story itself. I love the bond between Naruto and Gaara, but acknowledge it really isn't the same as the one with Sasuke. But considering their relationship, it's not surprising that Gaara might have a little crush on Naruto. However, it's not essential to insist on finding canonical evidence for this imo. While it's a plausible interpretation, I don't think that Gaara's feelings for Naruto are taken too seriously by most fans? Furthermore, Gaara's seeming 'pettiness' regarding Sasuke or Naruto's prioritization of him above others is not something anyone understood. The general consensus "for Naruto's sake" was that “Sasuke causes Naruto pain” (more like, Sasuke’s pain hurts Naruto because he loves him) so of course, Gaara's feelings were conflicted by his duty (getting rid of a 'criminal') and his friendship with Naruto (who will fight against such Shinobi duties because feelings are involved and they'll never be able to truly become emotionless tools-). Sasuke had attacked the summit after all, usually an immediate death sentence regardless of reason. Gaara is Naruto’s friend, it would be weird if he didn’t want to protect Naruto in return even against Sasuke, it's just that Naruto didn't see it the same way as everyone around him. THAT is frustrating!! Remember he told Naruto to really think about his friendship with Sasuke and what it meant? 👀 Like, "Naruto, you really want to do this? We are friends too, yeah? Doesn’t he cause you pain? Look at you... think about this carefully, kinda sus tbh. What’s this meaaann? I give my life for you, I will fight for you but what we do now huh?" Etc- 

In the end, Naruto is the protagonist of a Shonen story, serving as a measuring device to gauge the significance of events in the narrative. (This role is largely shared with Sasuke though). Naruto provides the reference point for understanding the story's relationships. The core message, typically related to positive change as defined by Naruto/the main character, is a fundamental aspect of these stories. What truly matters is why something is significant in the story and what it means to the characters. His bond with Gaara a huge part of it. And to a degree the others as well because that's kind of the point.... And it's not for nothing we haven't seen the same development with the villagers as a whole because it wasn't important to the story.... yet. (Should've been solved before he became Hokage though 😂 "Naruto-the-village-is-family-I-guess-cuz-former-hokage-said-so-Uzumaki." Bro.)

"only sasunaru fans do this, they think every man around naruto wants him and is jealous of sasuke and sasuke's not a good bf but all of that is pure projection and stupidity and they act like incels when they treat naruto like some helpless girl with her Chad bf who should instead be with the nice guys."

Ngl, I can't disagree with this one. Idk why the Naruto-bl-harem is so popular? And ok, have them all worship Naruto for all I care, but why is he always so....... dainty. Don't mind me some uwu-Naruto, he's cute alright, but.... no 😭 I don't even have words.

"Sasuke's the only special one bc their relationship is actually different and special. But even for him sometimes some sns fans reduce him to a naruto worshipper in sns fics."

I mean... to a certain degree. Define worshipping 👀 from what I can read about the true definition, their 'worshipping' is pretty mutual, but the difference lies in the foundation and the fact that it is unconditional. I know what you mean though, the Sasuke guilt tripping is real and a bit painful. Like? Isn't that Esaka's job?

"Or they talk about the "i'm in naruto's world, I'm blessed to exist" quote that seems an awful lot like idol worship."

UGH! 😓 This stupid non-canon quote. Did everyone forget who wrote this novel about Sasuke 'atoning for his sins'??? 😭 SPOILER: NOT KISHIMOTO. (Kinda want to read it though to fact-check some things.) There might be some truth in the words now that I have spent many months thinking about the blank period... but so does Naruto not want to live without Sasuke. As much as their world includes the other, they are still their own characters with their own goals in a Shinobi world with a system that would never allow them to truly live in each others' worlds fully anyway gerigjekrg3rhiqjkhmregqerigkjqrg;-; ok bye.

[sneezingfetishftw-fics]

Insufferable (7/7)

At long last, Vox's suffering is complete! (For this fic anyway lol, I'll probably torture him again later). Enjoy the final chapter.

Previous chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Wavs: 1 3

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“Are you sure you’re going to be alright, Amorcito?” Val asked, stroking Vox’s arm. 

Vox shook his head. “You can’t come along, Val. It would make negotiations even more tense, and that’s the last thing we need.”

“Do you want me to…” Velvette started. 

Vox shook his head, then winced from the pain of moving it. “Someone needs to keep running the company while I’m gone.” He sighed. “You’ve done well so far, just… heh’tzzzzch! Just keep it up. I’ll be fi… hi… hih… hih’TZZZZZSCHT! I’ll survive.”

“Alright, but if you’re not back by tomorrow I’m coming after you!” Velvette said, her expression intimidating despite her stature. 

Vox chuckled. “Deal,” he said, walking out the door. 

The walk to the hotel was every bit as awful as Vox had expected. To make matters worse, it seemed the trees had chosen today to release all their fucking pollen. There were several times Vox had to hypnotize someone who witnessed his disheveled state, and having Alastor go through his body to do the hypnotizing was a thoroughly unpleasant feeling, like someone crawling under his skin and pushing all his organs out. He may have wanted Alastor inside him, but not like this.

By the time he finally arrived at the hotel, Vox was an absolute mess. His suit was wrinkled from doubling over with the more intense sneezes, his screen was dull, his movements were slow and weak, and he was pretty sure his voice was shot too, if he still had his voice at all. 

Charlie did a double take at the door, closing it in shock for a moment before she finally left it open long enough for Vox to speak. 

“Greetings, your Highness. I… Hhhhh’tzzzzzmp!” Charlie raised an eyebrow as the sparks flew. Velvette had finally managed to teach Vox how to use a handkerchief, but that didn’t stop the old television in the lobby from shorting out. “Excuse me,” he said, trying desperately to find his usual charm and professionalism. 

“Bless you, Mr. Vox. What are you doing here?” Charlie asked, staring at him with pure confusion. 

“Please, call me Vox.”

“Yeah, what are you doing here?” Vaggie repeated, staring with more hostility than confusion. 

Vox sighed. There was no point tiptoeing around it, especially since he didn’t know how long his voice would last. But he was a businessman, he knew the importance of selling to his audience, so taking the right angle was important here. Vaggie would see through any bullshit—the main thing that mattered to her was honesty. And Charlie? The bleeding heart was so big on her sleeve it’s a wonder her arm hadn’t fallen off. He died a little inside as he realized what he had to do. Loathe as he was to appear weak, there was no doubt that groveling and being pathetic was the best way to tug on those heartstrings. 

“As you may have noticed, I’m not exactly in the best state at the moment,” he began, breaking into a coughing fit that he let drag on for longer than it would have naturally. 

“I can see that, but uh… why come here?”

“Well, uh, it’s kind of a long story, but I am looking specifically for your heh… heh…heh…heh…heh’TZZZZZZSH! For your help, Princess.” As he dragged out the buildup a little longer, he wondered whether this was the right move. Would Charlie be grossed out by his illness? But the sympathetic look on her face told her all he needed. After a moment, her face shifted to one of realization. 

“Oh! Alastor said to expect a visitor. Someone who wanted to try redemption? Was that you?”

God fucking dammit. Of course Alastor would have said something like that. Now he had to pretend to be caught up in Charlie’s hippie nonsense… on second thought, maybe not. The doubtful glare from Vaggie reminded him that even the smoothest of lies wouldn’t work. And it’s not like Alastor would step in to help him with hypnosis here. Vox was saved from his musings by a wracking cough, one so awful on its own that there was no need for exaggeration. 

“Oh my gosh I’m so sorry! Here you are standing in the doorway, when you must feel terrible! Please, come in! Can I get you some water?” Vox nodded weakly as he stumbled in. Technically he probably could have walked better than that, but there was no point spending the effort when appearing weak gave him an advantage. Vaggie gave him the side-eye. It was clear she wasn’t 100% convinced. He took a long gulp of the water, disappointed that it did nothing to soothe his throat. Maybe Charlie would get him some tea later. He wouldn’t be the one to ask, though. He was already about to ask for a lot. Charlie opened her mouth to speak, but paused as Vox had an absolutely horrendous sneezing fit. He had thought it was bad on earth getting illness and allergies at the same time, but there was no doubt that it was far worse in hell. To add to his frustration, Charlie had a ridiculous determination to bless every single sneeze. Vox wanted to claw off his entire face, resisting the urge only because he lacked the energy. 

After he was finally done sneezing, Vaggie broke the silence. “Alright, Vox. We know you didn’t come here just to look all gross and pathetic. What do you actually want?”

Vox frowned as he realized his voice was gone. Why now? Ugh. He deliberated for a moment, then smacked the side of his head, hoping to Satan it would work this time or he would look like even more of a fool. Thankfully, that seemed to have done the trick. “As you might have guessed, I’m sick.” Vaggie rolled her eyes at the obvious statement. “What you might not know is, Alastor did this.” He grimaced with the restraint it took to not curse his rival. “It was a targeted virus,” he said bitterly. “Not contagious,” he added as an afterthought upon seeing their concern. 

The pair stared at him for a while. Charlie spoke up first. “You want me to… talk to Alastor?”

“Not quite. I already talked to Alastor. He agreed to… hi’tzzzch! He agreed to remove the virus if I do a favor for you. You decide the favor.” Charlie’s eyes opened wide in surprise and excitement, then she got a look of intense concentration as she tried to consider how to handle this power. Vaggie’s eyes narrowed, and it was clear to Vox that she saw through the power play here. Still, that wasn’t enough reason to refuse what could be a very advantageous deal. The hum of fans echoed through the room as Vox awaited his fate. 

“It starts with sorry,” Charlie said. 

Vox raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“She said it starts with sorry, not that it ends with sorry, dumbass,” Vaggie corrected. 

“Be nice, Vaggie, we have to assume he’s trying. But yes, you make a good point. You can’t just say sorry, you also have to not do those things in the future.” Vox opened his mouth and Charlie quickly added, “Before you go claiming that that’s not one favor, keep in mind that… bless you! Bless you again! Oh dear, bless you!” She realized Vox hadn’t been opening his mouth to protest after all. After a few minutes of sneezing and blessing (seriously, did this girl never get tired?), Charlie resumed her speech. “Uh, as I was saying, this can be defined as the following single favor: repent.” Vox thought he caught a glimpse of Charlie’s horns peeking out on that last word and he gave a shudder which he managed to pass off as a shiver. Pissing off the princess of hell definitely seemed like a bad idea. 

“Right, um, uh, of course, Princess. Repent. Yeah, that makes sense.” He found himself stammering awkwardly as he grappled with the idea that Charlie could tear down everything he’d built. Could he refuse the deal and accept being sick forever? At Alastor’s mercy forever? No, that had to be worse than whatever Charlie would ask of him.

“What, afraid of a little redemption?” Vaggie asked, finally cracking a smile as she saw the fear he no longer had the energy to hide. “It was good enough for Sir Pentious, the demon you sent here to spy on us and then told to kill himself.”

Vox winced. That one really stung. But he knew it was deserved.

Angel walked into the living room and froze. “What the fuck is Vox doing here?” He glared at the TV demon. “Please tell me you didn’t bring Val.”

Vox shook his head, then cradled it in his hands as he felt the ensuing dizziness. Before he could speak, he found himself in another long sneezing fit. Angel’s expression gradually changed to one of amusement. It was rare to see the CEO so vulnerable. A nice change of pace. 

“Vox here is trying his hand at redemption!” Charlie answered, beaming. 

“Only because he wants to get out of being sick.” Vaggie amended, frowning. 

“Redemption is redemption, even if the motive is less than perfect,” Charlie insisted. 

Vox groaned, dreading this whole negotiation already. “Just tell me what you need me to do,” he said, the resignation in his voice even thicker than the congestion. 

Angel strutted over, seeming to have gained a little more confidence from the whole situation. “How about you start with removing those cameras you put in my dressing room?”

“He WHAT?” Charlie asked, revealing her horns fully this time. 

Vox tried to smooth down his suit as he thought this through. He’d never really cared for the cameras anyway - as much as he loved having eyes on everyone and exerting his control, he knew Angel Dust was Valentino’s plaything, and Vox would be lying if he said he wasn’t sometimes jealous of the attention. At the same time, he knew Val wouldn’t give up that power so easily. Vox thought back to the events earlier today. Wait, hadn’t Velvette seemed especially mad at Val? Maybe she knew something Vox could use as leverage against him. He sighed. “Consider it done.”

Angel rolled his eyes. “You really think I’m going to just take your word for it?” he asked, holding out his hand. 

Vox groaned (more from the effort of moving than anything else) and took Angel’s hand. “I will remove the cameras from your dressing room as the favor for Charlie.”

“Nice try, asshole,” Angel said, refusing to shake. Val may have gotten one over on him years ago, but he knew better now.  “Don’t forget the part where you also prevent cameras from being added back there later.”

Vox nodded wearily, too focused on wanting to go home to have the energy to argue. He updated the terms of the deal and shook Angel’s hand. 

“Wait!” Charlie’s voice rang out, but she was too late. A crackle of electricity arced across Angel’s arm, and the porn star jumped back in shock. 

“Sorry,” Vox said with a sniffle. “Forgot to warn you about that side effect of making a deal.” Wait, a sniffle? Was he still sick? Was Alastor a fucking liar?

Alastor entered the room, the ever-present smile on his face looking quite smug. “Now, this is an interesting bit of contract lawyering, isn’t it?” All eyes were on him. 

“What do you mean?” Angel asked, shaking out his hand in an attempt to get it back to feeling normal. 

“Quite a few deals going around here. I made a deal with Vox that relies on Vox making a deal with Charlie. Then Charlie discussed potential terms of that deal with Vox. Vox then made a deal with Angel that claimed to fulfill the deal with Charlie. But does that really count if Charlie didn’t give her explicit approval? And if not, then should that deal be discarded?”

Vox groaned. “This is giving me a headache. Stop being a show off and just give us the fucking answer already.”

“Now now,” Alastor said, smile burning brighter, “is that any way to treat the person who’s in charge of your fate?” Vox frowned. “As for the deals at hand,” Alastor continued, “let us return to Charlie. Charlie, do you accept this deal?”

Charlie shook her head. “The favor was to repent. I’m sure Vox has quite a bit more he’s guilty of so I’m not ready to close this deal just yet.” Alastor nodded approvingly. The girl was learning. Probably not enough to be wise to Alastor’s tricks, but she was learning nonetheless.

The room was uncomfortably still as Charlie contemplated her next move, the silence punctuated only by Vox’s sneezes and coughs. Finally, she had an answer. “Apology letters. To everyone in this hotel.” Vox scratched his chin and absentmindedly mimed typing. “Handwritten.” Handwritten? With these claws? That was torture in and of itself! “They get to respond with any grievances they have against you. And then,” Vox sunk further and further into the couch as he realized just how deep repentance goes, “you have to take sufficient action to address those grievances.”

Vox’s eyes went wide and he coughed into his fist. “Princess Morningstar, I appreciate the uh… thoroughness of that proposition, but, um… if I may, thah… ahh… ahh’TZZZZSH! That will take me some time. And I do have a business to run. Forgive me for asking, your Highness, but is there anything that can be done to make this a little more manageable?”

Alastor stepped forward, extending his microphone like an olive branch. “I think we can work something out to lessen your symptoms a bit. After all, you’ve survived allergy season just fine!” Vox suppressed a growl at that. “Oh and don’t forget, I’m a resident of the hotel, so I expect to see your best handwriting in that apology letter!” Alastor said, grinning so wide there was barely any room left on his face.

A grim line set across Vox’s face. He had no leverage here, and everyone knew it. “To repentance, then,” he said with a resigned sigh. “I will write apology letters to every member of the hotel and then, in response to each member’s one letter of grievances, I will take action as determined sufficient by Princess Charlie Morningstar. And doing all of this will fulfill the requested favor and thus free me from this damned virus. Now then,” he said, extending his hand, “do we have a deal?” He felt a sneeze building up as Charlie and Alastor took his hand, then swirls of green, red, and blue energy coursed through them and the sensation was gone. The sneeze was lost. God fucking dammit!