#his anchor is there in all its glory

[perksofbeingasunflowerblog]

lthq cropping out harry like larry uas crop out stunts is peak comedy

[justblades]

⌕ FLIMSY FEELINGS, 18+

⟢ CHARACTER : blade x afab! reader WC : 1.4k

⟢ WARNINGS : EXPLICIT, MDNI. dubcon, somno, voyeur! blade, oral (fem receiving), sadistic masochistic themes, mutual masturb#tion, cunnilingus

⟢ A/N : we don't have much info abt his character rn but i tried my best with the available provided info as of the moment !! enjoy <3

raven hair ripples from the bitter cold winds blowing, the glint of crisp solferino hues show a reflection of an unknown person - someone the stellaron hunters just happened to pick up as they tread upon weaving the threads of fate, just how the screen play director foretold.

it was just blade and you alone, encompassed by the archaic, gunmetal gray walls. blade watches your slumbering figure as he wears a solemn face, lips pressed into a thin line, not showing any kind of expression at all except for a stoic mask.

is it really a mask? no one could tell. blade just proceeds to stride towards your body, feeling an aching sensation he needed to tend to. it's a feeling he'd come to despise - but it's still a part of his bodily function. even though he abandoned his old way of living and is now in a pursuit of his path to vengeance, there are trivial things he must fulfill at once.

blade slowly descends to your position, vision still not anchoring away from your dozing shape. humans truly are fragile, he thought to himself— to see someone in their vulnerable state, it feels quite intimate. it was an epiphany blade had for a long time ago he forgot when, but all he knows right now is there's just one thing that must be done.

he feels his pants grow tighter by the minute, the flickering light bulb casts a darker shade of monochrome gray on the crotch part. the navy haired doesn't delay any further and proceeds to get it done. blade unbuckles his belt swiftly, letting the item crash against the concrete flooring; followed suit is an act of self pleasure, he gradually wraps his dominant around his throbbing girth, reveling the wamrth he had to offer to himself in dead silence.

the stellaron hunter may not show it but gratification already courses through his system. at a slow pace, he continues to lean more towards your figure, his cock now at its full glory. its head twitches, itching for a sensation for it to be enveloped in; something warm, something tight and something alive. three qualifications that his mere hands could not satisfy.

perhaps that was your sole purpose for you being brought here in the stellaron hunters' temporary hideout. he rips your clothes with one clean cut from the cracked sword he brandishes, one of the many ways he showcases his astonishing swordsmanship. steadily positioning himself from your slit, a hot, rock hard feeling rubs on your lower lips.

blade's heart begins to pulsate against his rib cage, each beat becoming louder and faster in such an irregular manner. the more he got to feel your slippery cunt, the more eager he only got. and with one powerful thrust, he successfully makes his entrance inside you, his cock lavishing the comfort of your velvet walls clamping around his length.

he huffs a deep breath and only realizes it late as he catches a quick whiff of your scent— for some reason, he was drawn on. the male inches forward your neck, his hands tightly clasped on yours to make sure there would be no attempt of escape. presently atop you while you laid on your stomach, you could feel some faint but added pressure on your limbs plus a somewhat familiar presence from above.

blade was only detached from what you were feeling and only carried on with his own intentions. he rams inside you with no forewarnings, his tip fills you all the way up to the very brim. a breathy, whiny moan erupts in the vicinity that undoubtedly came from you but he heeds no mind to it— continuing to pound into your walls, intruding with such an abrupt pace and not in gradual motions.

in anything that he does, he emanates of destruction. a polar opposite of care, tenderness and love; it shows in his rough, vertiginious thrusts, his firm tight touch, and lastly, in his facial expression. you were not one bit shocked, if anything, you just accepted what is happening as of the present. being used as a cocksleeve for a passing feeling, it rips at your heartstrings but you were powerless before him.

you continued to pretend as if you were still dozing off in spite the mewl that you tried so hard to bite back, stifling more noises threatening to slip out. it would be far more awkward if you're awake as you weren't one bit acquainted with blade. not even shared glances, all the information you have is an overheard conversation from the hunters, only knowing his sole name : blade.

the swordsman eventually begins to drop his guard down, becoming more lax at letting his guttural groans come undone from his mouth. his bandaged hand wanders on your naked, exposed skin, traveling to places where he finds the most appealing. aside from the sound of skin slapping, clothes shifting and his jagged breathing were accompanied by the chime of his dangling scarlet earring.

a sharp pang of pain follows from a loud smack sound. it was his slender hand coming into harsh contact against the plush of your ass, leaving darker imprints from your complexion - it was no doubt, his spanking's seal. you could no longer play pretend as you wince from the pain, your eyes shot open and you turn your head.

your vision was then graced by the indigo haired, he took notice that you were awoken but as usual, he's cold as a gelid ice. he did not care.

when suddenly, he withdraws his cock from your pussy and flips your body around— thus making you meet his face, catching you off guard from your current dazed state. you slowly look up to meet his sharp gaze to the point that you could see your own image from his vivid cerise eyes. your very first locked gaze with blade, and mayhaps the last. his hand clasps on yours once again but only to bring it down to your cunt, he proceeds to uncurl your balled up fist.

he guides your fingers to stroke and pleasure yourself, your own digits prodding through your wet entrance. your breathing quickens, a foreign sensation brewing in the pits of your abdomen; meanwhile blade doesn't do anything but to watch on your expressions. "continue." blade commands ; his raspy, deep voice resounds into your ears.

you were struck with both of shock and nervousness, his tone laced with authority and coldness to it yet again. as embarrassing as it is to do it in front of a man you've never met in your lifetime, you obey his order, continuing to pump your fingers in and out of your coiling walls before his predatory naked eyes.

the navy haired pleasures himself at present, along with you - matching your rhythm. your legs spread open in front of him to feast upon that no man has ever tasted, an unfamiliar sensation wells in his heart. he groans and picks up the pace of him stroking his own erection, a feeling of release immediately dawning upon him.

with blurry vision, for a moment, you could see a hint of sadness and regret behind the vermillion windows of his soul. although the actions he's committing currently are lascivious and of lust, you swear to yourself there was something more than what meets the eye.

as quickly time flashes, strings of muddy white spring out from his cock, the liquids spilling into your exposed tits and your panic stricken face. he catches his breath in the midst of it, heavy panting echoes inside the enclosed vicinity. "i didn't order you to stop."

his words pierces your perturbed mind, he pertains to your masturbation ending just as when he reached his climax. the male swiftly gathers all the cum littering your skin with one hand and one movement, cupping the liquids carefully only to insert all of it into your pussy.

a moan bubbles from your throat, feeling his long fingers curl inside your sticky walls. blade, even though a stoic man most of the time, he's also full of surprises. he flicks his tongue over your clit, the pointy tip rubbing viscules and in circular motions on the specific spot.

your back arches, waves of pleasure crashing upon your lethargic self. blade doesn't halt and carries on to suck your walls out, margins of his sticky lips perfectly fitting with your lower ones. his tongue once again skillfully glides over your sensitive parts— earning him your climax as it spills out from your hole, adorning his sharp, masculine features as if your ejaculation was an accessory.

it felt ecstatic, as if your body drifts into the seventh heaven from blade's cold touches. in spite of the overwhelming gratification pooling in your body, hundreds of questions start to flare up in your mind, mainly about blade's identity. naturally, it rolls from your lips, a question he didn't see coming.

"what are you really?"

among the many blank faces blade shows you this night, he finally unravels a different one upon encountering your question. "are you really that fervent to know?" he rhetorically asks as a sneering smile creeps on his lips.

my masterlist !

[tqmies]

ZB1 + Jealous Sex

ZB1 after one of you is jealous!

note: legal members only (not including gunwook or yujin!) & as always, minors dni!

JIWOONG's eyebrows just furrow because, really? Did you seriously think any of these run-of-the-mill men at this party could make him feel insecure? They don't but they do manage to piss him off. Why were you so close to them? You were just being friendly? You're a liar.

You babble incoherently as he held the vibrator to your abused cunt, having climaxed more times than you could count before having it ripped away by his hands. All he did was crudely laughs at your expense. "What's wrong baby? Earlier you had no problems acting like a slut. I'm just treating you like one."

You knew ZHANG HAO was cute, everyone knew it. Doesn't mean you appreciate everyone flirting with him though.. And his seemingly oblivious act to it all has you seeing red. God, you had to teach him a lesson.

"Babe, s-slow down." He lets out, cock already spent, your eagerness to get him to cum again has him tearing up. His face red as he bites his bottom lip, letting out low whimpers. You continue bouncing on him though, fingers digging into his shoulders as you use them as an anchor. You scoff, trying not to let any moans slip out. "Think any of those girls out there could have you like this baby?"

HANBIN knows that it's not your fault, but it doesn't stop him from getting a little jealous! His friends had crashed your beach date, catching your body in its full glory in the cute bikini you donned. He swears one of them even popped a boner from it!

"You're mine," He growled, your leg thrown over his shoulder. He hadn't even managed to slip your bikini off, only pushing it to the side enough to enter his fat tip into you. Could you blame him? You just looked so good in it! "Only I get to touch you like this, right?"

MATTHEW had been begging you to join him at the gym for months and you finally gave in. Things were fine until you managed to catch a group of girls giggling at your boyfriend in a compression shirt. Leading to an argument that he found himself determined to make up for.

His tongue licked the stripe up your clit, placing light kisses on your thighs to tease you afterwards, before tongue fucking you. "Don't act silly my love, you know you're the only one I want. Those girl's can look all they want, but you're the one that get's me this way."

TAERAE felt the familiar green monster rear its ugly head into his life the minute he spotted you being asked out at the coffee shop he was here to meet you at. You immediately declined the other, but he still couldn't help but feel a little insecure. It was up to you to show him he had no reason to worry.

"Hmm," You mumble, jerking him off as you prepare to deepthroat. He whines, holding your hair into a makeshift ponytail as you press kisses to the flushed tip. "Prettiest cock in the world attached to my pretty boy. No where else I'd rather be then here taking your load down my throat." He can't even manage to stutter a response before you're gagging on his shaft.

You can't blame anyone who hits on RICKY, people flock to him like bee's to honey. But two can play at that game, and you played it quite well, but Ricky doesn't like sharing.

"Gonna fill you with so much cum that it leaks out," He has you folded into a mating press, your walls sucking him in as you jolt from how rough he was fucking you. He was determined to drill into you until your pussy was molded for only him. "Lets see you talk to the guys with it dripping down your legs."

He doesn't get jealous, or at least that's what GYUVIN tells himself. He likes that you get along with his friends! No he doesn't mind one of his friends offering you a jacket. Or saving you a seat by them! It's all perfectly fine.

"Please, please don't leave me. I'd cry every day and- haah - I promise, none of them can treat you like I can." He begs, too busy caught up in his own ministrations that he can't even notice you're fucked too dumb to properly respond. Your back arched as his balls hit your ass with every stroke as you try to keep yourself propped up. "I'm promise I'm good enough, I'll be the best boyfriend- shit - you could ever ask for."

[rose-tea-and-strawberries]

"Don't You Know It's Bad Luck To See Your Bride Before The Wedding?"

Warning: I write reader as female 

Masterlist

One of the most interesting things about having a girlfriend from another world is learning about the culture and traditions that her world possesses. Normally, he would consider every part of the home of the love of his life nothing less than perfect, since it managed to create such an exceptional individual - the very same individual that he can proudly call his. This was, however, before you mentioned a certain tradition/superstition that you had where the soon-to-be husband and wife spend the night before their wedding apart and forbids said betrothed couple from seeing each other until they meet at the altar.

Here’s how our dear NRC boys would react when told this news:

Is cool with it. At least on the outside. They understand that it’s a silly little tradition from your home world so they let you spend the night with Adeuce (you bet that those two are your bridesmen/men of honour and the three of you and Grim are going to have the greatest bachelorette party of your life)/Papa Crewel 

But of all traditions, why this one? He seems perfectly calm when you say goodbye - you pretend you don’t notice how he holds you much longer and tighter than he usually does when he hugs you - and your text messages to each other are as normal as they can be, but no matter how hard he tries he just can’t shake off the cold feeling of loneliness your absence brings and how his body feels empty without yours to anchor it.

Once the festivities of his bachelor party are over, it takes five minutes of him trying and failing to keep himself occupied and distracted before his desire to at least hear your voice becomes unbearable and he grabs his phone to call you. He wordlessly slips off somewhere where none of his friends would find him and he gives you a ring. The two of you speak to each other until one of you falls asleep.

He would actually go through with it in its entirely and seeing you walking down the aisle in all your glory and beauty, emerging through the door like a celestial being, after hours of not seeing you had him completely awestruck, like a dying man seeing an oasis after spending hours crawling through the desert. It nearly almost made the wait worth it. 

Just never make him go through that again. Please.

Trey, Jamil, Silver, Jack, Sebek

Instantly shoots it down. 

Listen, Y/N, he loves you so much it hurts. He’ll move mountains for you, pluck the stars and moon out of the sky for you. He’d make the sun rise from the west if that’s what you desired. If there’s an option to carve out his heart and present it to you on a silver platter he would. Every breath he takes, every time his heart beats, and every hour of every day, he’s dedicated to making you the happiest person in the world - the ring on your finger is an attest to that.

But he won’t, absolutely will not nor ever, deprive himself of a single minute of your presence. He’s trying to make up for the years he’s spent without even knowing you and now that he has you in his life, do you think he goes a day without thanking every force in the multiverse that you found him and filled his life with light and colour and laughter. Do you truly believe that he would ever even attempt to get any amount of rest when you’re not in his arms? It’s absolutely unfathomable and he will stand for it. Now come over here and spend the next hour cuddling him for speaking such nonsense.

It does not matter how long your respective bachelor and bachelorette parties last, you two are spending the night together and that’s that. Full stop.

And don’t worry about the consequences. Whatever supposed ‘bad luck’ that befalls you as a result of his actions, he’ll shoulder it all. In sickness and in health until the end of time, after all.

Riddle, Vil, Jamil, Azul, Leona, Malleus, Idia

Haha, no ♡

Leona, Lilia, Jade, Floyd

WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO HIM???? 🥺😭

Ever since you brought it up, he’s been nothing but clingy. It’s hard to tell where you start and he ends from the way he’s hugging you so close it’s like he’s trying to fuse the two of you together. 

He wants to do it for you since you’re already sacrificing so much by being away from your home but-but that means that he has to spend a whole entire night without you! Don’t you know he can’t live without your goodnight kisses? And your good morning kisses? And your breakfast kisses and lunch kisses? And you’re just going to desert him like that? Abandon him and then deprive him of hours of kisses and cuddles that legally are his right to have? Starve him of his well-deserved affection and leave him when he needs you the most? Just tell him that you hate him, it would hurt less.

This boy is going to be facetiming you throughout his entire bachelor party - the rules of your world be damned. He’s going to be marrying you in less than 24 hours and he wants to spend every second of his excitement and pure elation with you. 

These boys are also the reason as to why you have to have people stationed outside your changing room like guards to make sure that the surprise of your wedding dress isn’t ruined because ‘they just had to see you’.

Needless to say, you are going to be spending the night together

But seriously he’s tried to follow you into the bathroom. Just tell him that it’s an old custom that no one abides by anymore before he breaks the door down.

Ace, Deuce, Cater (100% snapchats/live tweets his feelings of betrayal), Ruggie, Epel, Kalim, Azul, Floyd, Rook

You used your impeccable negotiation skills (puppy eyes) to reach a compromise. You’ll spend the night in Ortho’s room and the two of you will spend the entire night before your wedding playing video games using your matching couple headphones. Ortho will run interference until you leave the next day to get ready to make sure that you don’t end up seeing each other.

Or at least that was the plan until Idia woke up in the middle of the night to find his room devoid of the only lights in his life. Without even thinking, he leaves his bedroom and goes over to where you and his brother are and he gets into bed with you and cuddles you.

Listen normie, you’ve wormed your way into his heart so take some responsibility. If your world is right, then he’ll take the L. He’s used to doom and gloom so whatever bad luck happens can’t be worse than the life he had without you and it certainly isn’t worth even an hour without you by his side.

Idia

Are you kidding him, Herbivore?

First he has to go to some stupid bachelor party that his brother, Ruggie and Jack are throwing because no one would shut up about it when he could be sleeping with you and now you’re telling him that you want him to spend the night alone when he could be sleeping with you?

No. Absolutely not.

He doesn’t care if you think it’ll bring him bad luck or whatever. He’s not spending the night without you. In fact, he’s not even going to go to that blasted party. You and him can just spend the entire time napping in bed.

What? He has to go. Fine. They get one hour. Then, you're his. And if anything tries to get in the way of yours and his happiness, he’ll turn it to ash with his very claws.

Leona

Child of Man, he does not understand. You mean to tell him that in your world, a betrothed couple must spend the eve and morning of their nuptials apart lest a curse of bad luck shall befall them? He’s never heard of such a thing. Humans have such strange customs from where you’re from. You needn’t worry, however, as the future king and powerful mage, he is more than capable of handling whatever calamity that comes your way. A measly little curse is no match for a fae such as he. Therefore, there is no reason for you to deprive him of the warmth of your body for he shall always be there to soothe your fears. He has sworn to protect you and made an oath to you that no harm shall ever befall you.

For if anyone dares to prove him otherwise, he shall deal with them. 

Personally.

Malleus (it takes him a while to realise it’s not an actual curse since your world doesn’t even have magic to begin with but he still makes you wear enchanted jewellery on your person just in case - even though every piece of jewellery he had gifted you prior to that is chock full with protection charms and that’s not even counting the heaps of blessings he gave you) (It’s like that time you told him about the curse of ‘The Scottish Play’ all over again)

[hookhausenschips]

Break The Curse {CL16}

500 Follower Special!!!

Navigation

Summary: Charles finally broke the Monaco Curse.

Taglist

A/N: we won't talk about the accident with HAAS and Red Bull

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Y/N's POV

The Monaco Grand Prix is not just a race; it's a spectacle, a testament to the daring and skill of the drivers who navigate its treacherous turns. To win here is to etch one's name into the very fabric of Formula 1 history. For Charles Leclerc, it was more than that—it was a homecoming, a chance to claim victory on the streets where he'd grown up.

As Y/N, I stood by his side, not just as a partner but as his anchor, the one who knew the boy behind the racer's mask. Charles and I met years ago, long before his ascent to Formula 1 glory. Our relationship has always been built on mutual respect and a deep understanding of the sacrifices required by his career. The journey we've taken together, from the karting circuits of Europe to the grand stages of Formula 1, has been one of unwavering support and shared dreams.

The significance of the Monaco Grand Prix to Charles is immense. Born and raised in the heart of Monaco, Charles grew up with the roar of engines echoing through the narrow streets of Monte Carlo. As a child, he watched the likes of Ayrton Senna and Michael Schumacher conquer the same circuit, dreaming that one day he would join their ranks. The Principality's streets are more than just a track to him; they're a canvas of childhood memories, a symbol of his aspirations, and a testament to his journey from a young boy with a dream to a man on the brink of making history.

For me, standing by his side through the highs and lows of his career, the Monaco Grand Prix represents the culmination of years of hard work, sacrifice, and relentless determination. Every practice session, every race, every moment of doubt and triumph has led to this point. The atmosphere in Monaco during the Grand Prix is unlike anything else—a blend of glamour, history, and raw racing spirit. The city transforms into a vibrant celebration of speed, with fans from around the world converging to witness the spectacle.

Race day in Monaco is unlike any other. The city transforms into a buzzing hive of activity, with fans, celebrities, and teams all converging on the iconic circuit. The sun rose over the Mediterranean, casting a golden glow on the historic streets that would soon echo with the roar of engines. The atmosphere was electric, a blend of anticipation, excitement, and a touch of glamour that only Monaco could provide.

As Charles and I prepared for the day, there was a shared sense of nervous excitement. We had our breakfast in the calm of our apartment, overlooking the serene waters of the harbor. Charles was unusually quiet, his focus already on the race ahead. I could see the determination in his eyes, a steely resolve that belied the nerves I knew he must be feeling.

We walked through the paddock hand-in-hand, the familiar sights and sounds providing a sense of comfort amidst the chaos. The smell of burning rubber and fuel, the hum of the generators, and the sight of the vibrant team colors against the backdrop of Monaco’s elegance—all of it was a reminder of the world we lived in, one that we both loved and respected.

The team’s hospitality suite was a hive of activity, with engineers and mechanics making final preparations. The air was thick with the scent of coffee and the murmur of last-minute strategy discussions. Charles’ race engineer approached, a clipboard in hand, ready to go over the race plan one last time. I gave Charles a reassuring squeeze before he was whisked away into a briefing.

While Charles was busy with the team, I found solace in small routines. I checked my phone for messages from family and friends, all wishing Charles the best of luck. Their support meant the world to us, and knowing they were watching gave me strength. I took a moment to breathe, steadying my nerves, reminding myself that we had prepared for this day meticulously.

The grid walk was next, and it felt like stepping into a different world. The grandstands were already filling up, fans waving flags and holding banners with Charles’ name. The celebrities mingled with team members, photographers capturing every moment. As Charles and I made our way to the grid, we were stopped by well-wishers, each adding to the growing sense of anticipation.

In the final moments before the race, Charles and I shared a private moment. We stood by the car, the Ferrari glistening in the sunlight, a powerful machine ready to conquer the streets. I looked into his eyes, seeing a mixture of focus and emotion. “You’ve got this,” I whispered, my voice steady despite the butterflies in my stomach. He nodded, a small, determined smile playing on his lips.

We shared a tender embrace, drawing strength from each other. It was a ritual we had developed over the years—a moment of connection that grounded us amidst the chaos. “For us,” he murmured, his voice filled with resolve. I nodded, unable to find the words to express the depth of my feelings.

As Charles donned his helmet and prepared to get into the car, I took my place in the garage, surrounded by the team. The energy was palpable, a current that ran through the crowd, the teams, and the drivers. The team’s radios crackled with final instructions, and the engines roared to life, a sound that sent a thrill through my veins.

The cars were lined up on the grid, the lights above them a countdown to the start of the race. I held my breath, my heart pounding in my chest. The world seemed to hold its breath with me, the seconds stretching into eternity. Then, in a burst of speed and sound, the race was on, and my role was to watch, to hope, and to hold my breath with every lap.

The energy of Monaco was unlike anything else, a blend of history, glamour, and pure racing spirit. The fans, the yachts in the harbor, the iconic streets—all of it came together to create an atmosphere that was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. As the cars surged forward, I could feel the weight of every moment, the tension a living thing that gripped the pit lane, the garage, and the city itself.

From my vantage point in the garage, I could see the focus in every move Charles made, the determination that set his jaw and the slight furrow of concentration between his brows. The laps ticked by, a countdown to a dream that hung in the balance. Through every twist and turn of the Circuit de Monaco, Charles held the lead, his red Ferrari a streak of defiance against the asphalt. The tension was a living thing, gripping the pit lane, the garage where I stood, and the city that held its breath.

As the five red lights illuminated and then extinguished, the roar of the engines was almost drowned out by the collective gasp of the crowd. Charles had a strong start, maintaining his lead into the first corner at Sainte Devote. His Ferrari darted forward, sleek and powerful, threading the needle through the tight streets of Monte Carlo.

The first few laps were crucial. Charles settled into a rhythm, his driving smooth yet aggressive, a perfect blend of precision and daring. The narrow streets of Monaco left no room for error, and I watched every lap with my heart in my throat, each twist and turn a testament to his skill.

By lap 10, the field began to spread out, with Charles extending his lead over the chasing pack. Behind him, a battle was brewing for the second position, the Red Bull and Mercedes cars jostling for supremacy. Charles’ race engineer, through the team radio, provided constant updates, his voice a steady anchor amidst the high-octane drama.

Pit stops in Monaco are critical. On lap 28, the team called Charles in for his first and only scheduled pit stop. The crew had practiced this maneuver countless times, but the pressure of the moment was palpable. Charles darted into the pit lane, the car lifted, tires changed, and in what seemed like an eternity but was merely 2.5 seconds, he was back on track. The pit stop was flawless, and Charles rejoined the race still in the lead, but now with fresher tires and a renewed determination.

By lap 40, tire management became a focal point. The asphalt of Monaco is unforgiving, and maintaining the delicate balance between speed and tire preservation was crucial. Charles communicated seamlessly with his race engineer, adjusting his driving style to conserve the tires while keeping a vigilant eye on his pursuers.

A pivotal moment came on lap 51. A crash further down the grid brought out the Safety Car, bunching up the field and erasing Charles’ hard-earned lead. The tension in the garage was palpable, a silent prayer that everything would hold together during the restart. As the Safety Car peeled off, Charles executed the perfect getaway, his reflexes sharp and his resolve unwavering.

The final laps were a masterclass in defensive driving. The pressure from behind intensified, the Red Bull car of his closest rival looming large in his mirrors. Each sector was a battle, every corner a test of nerve. Charles’ concentration was absolute, his lines perfect, his speed controlled.

Lap 70, the final lap. The crowd was on their feet, the tension reaching a fever pitch. Charles navigated the twists and turns with the precision of a surgeon, his focus unbreakable. The familiar sights of the Principality blurred past, the car a red streak against the backdrop of cheering fans and historic buildings.

As Charles approached the final corner, the realization began to dawn. The chequered flag waved, a symbol of triumph and validation. Charles crossed the finish line, his car the first to breach the line, the crowd’s roar a physical wave of sound and emotion.

The pit lane erupted in celebration. Engineers, mechanics, and team members cheered, their faces lit with joy and relief. I watched as Charles brought the car to a stop, his hands shaking with the adrenaline of victory. He climbed out, his face breaking into a smile that was pure and unadulterated joy.

The victory was his—the first Monégasque to win in Monaco in decades. As he stood on his car, fists raised in triumph, the enormity of the moment hit me. This was more than a race; it was a dream realized, a testament to years of hard work, sacrifice, and unwavering determination.

Charles made his way back to the team, his eyes searching the crowd until they found mine. The world seemed to slow as we embraced, a moment of pure, shared elation. "We did it," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

The victory was not just his, but ours, a culmination of everything we had endured and achieved together. It was a moment that would be etched in our memories forever, a testament to the power of dreams, determination, and the unbreakable bond we shared.

As Charles crossed the finish line, the crowd erupted into a symphony of sound. The cheers, the applause, the deafening roar of the engines—all blended into a cacophony of celebration that echoed through the streets of Monaco. Every spectator, from the die-hard fans to the casual observers, seemed to rise to their feet in unison, their voices uniting in a chorus of triumph.

In the heart of the chaos, I stood rooted to the spot, my eyes fixed on the red Ferrari as it soared past the finish line. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a testament to the tension and anticipation that had gripped me throughout the race. And then, as Charles brought the car to a stop in the victory lane, a wave of relief washed over me, leaving behind an overwhelming sense of pride.

The stadium erupted into a deafening roar as Charles emerged from the cockpit, his helmet held aloft in one hand, his face a mask of exhaustion and exhilaration. I pushed through the crowd, my heart racing with each step, until finally, we stood face to face, our eyes locking in a moment of shared triumph.

We embraced fiercely, the weight of the moment enveloping us in a cocoon of pure, unadulterated happiness. I could feel Charles' heart racing against mine, his breath warm against my skin. "You did it," I whispered against his ear, my voice choked with emotion. Charles held me tightly, his body trembling with the sheer magnitude of what he had accomplished. "We did it," he replied, his voice a mixture of disbelief and pride.

In that moment, amidst the chaos and celebration, time seemed to stand still. We were two souls united by a dream, basking in the glow of a victory that transcended the boundaries of mere sport. The magnitude of Charles' achievement was palpable, a testament to his skill, determination, and unwavering belief in himself.

And then, as if on cue, our lips met in a tender kiss—a silent affirmation of the bond that had carried us through the highs and lows of racing life. It was a fleeting moment, but in that kiss, I felt a lifetime of love, support, and shared dreams. And as we pulled away, our eyes met once again, sparkling with unspoken promises of the future.

As we stood there, lost in each other's embrace, I knew that this was more than just a race victory. It was a triumph of the human spirit, a testament to the power of perseverance, resilience, and the unwavering belief in oneself. And as we looked out at the sea of cheering faces, I knew that this was just the beginning of a journey that would take us to even greater heights.

The podium ceremony was a crescendo of emotions, a culmination of months of preparation, strategy, and raw determination. As Charles ascended the steps to the podium, the crowd's roar intensified, a deafening symphony of cheers that echoed off the walls of Monaco's iconic buildings. Every step he took was imbued with significance, each stride bringing him closer to the pinnacle of success.

As he reached the top, the golden trophy gleaming in the sunlight, the atmosphere crackled with anticipation. The Monégasque flag fluttered proudly in the breeze, a symbol of Charles' heritage and the pride of his nation. The podium itself was a stage set for glory, bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun, a backdrop of azure skies and sparkling waters framing the momentous occasion.

The strains of the Monégasque national anthem filled the air, a melody that seemed to reverberate through the very soul of the principality. For Charles, standing atop the podium as the anthem played, it was a moment of profound significance—a validation of years of dedication, sacrifice, and unwavering belief in himself.

As the last notes of the anthem faded into the ether, the champagne bottles were uncorked, their effervescent contents spraying in wild arcs of froth and bubbles. Charles grinned as he joined in the jubilant ritual, the champagne cool against his skin, the taste of victory sweet on his lips.

From my vantage point below, I watched with a heart full of pride. The sight of Charles, standing tall and triumphant, was a testament to his resilience and tenacity. He had faced adversity with unwavering resolve, emerging stronger and more determined than ever before.

Amidst the flashing cameras and jubilant cheers, a single tear escaped my eye, catching the light as it traced a path down my cheek. It was a tear of overwhelming joy, a physical manifestation of the emotions swirling inside me. Despite the elation of the moment, there was a bittersweet quality to it—a recognition of the sacrifices and struggles that had led us to this point.

As Charles made his way down from the podium, the trophy held aloft in triumph, I hurried to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes sparkled with elation as he enveloped me in a tight embrace, the weight of the trophy a tangible reminder of his achievement.

In that moment, amidst the throng of well-wishers and flashing cameras, time seemed to stand still. We shared a silent exchange of smiles, our hearts overflowing with gratitude and joy. For Charles, this victory was more than just a race win—it was a testament to the power of perseverance, passion, and the unwavering support of those who believed in him. And as we stood together, basking in the glow of his triumph, I knew that this was a moment we would cherish for a lifetime.

The podium celebrations were a whirlwind of excitement and euphoria, but as the cheers began to fade and the adrenaline of victory ebbed away, a sense of calm descended over us. As Charles stepped down from the podium, the golden trophy cradled in his arms, I fell into step beside him, our fingers intertwined in a silent gesture of solidarity.

Away from the glare of the cameras and the cacophony of the crowd, we found a quiet corner of the paddock to steal a moment of respite. The air was filled with the scent of champagne and the hum of distant conversations, but here, in our own little oasis, there was a sense of tranquility—a moment of stillness amidst the chaos.

Charles set the trophy down on a nearby table, its gleaming surface reflecting the fading light of the setting sun. He turned to face me, his eyes alight with an intensity that took my breath away. "We did it," he said, his voice filled with emotion. "I couldn't have done it without you."

A tear glistened in the corner of his eye, and before I could stop myself, I reached out to wipe it away. "You did it, Charles," I whispered, my voice catching in my throat. "You made your dream a reality."

He pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly against his chest as he let the weight of his emotions wash over him. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mingling with the remnants of champagne and sweat. "I just wish my father and Jules could see me now," he murmured, his voice thick with sorrow. "I know they're watching from heaven, and I want to make them proud."

I pressed a gentle kiss to his tear-stained cheek, feeling the salt of his tears against my lips. "I'm sure they're looking down on you with so much pride, Charles," I said, my voice filled with conviction. "You've achieved something truly remarkable, and I know they're smiling down on you right now."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the paddock in a soft, golden light, Charles took my hand in his, his touch sending shivers down my spine. "This is just the beginning," he said, his voice tinged with determination. "There are more victories to come, more dreams to chase."

I nodded, feeling my heart swell with love and admiration for the man standing before me. "I'll be with you every step of the way," I promised, my voice filled with unwavering devotion.

And as we stood there, bathed in the glow of our success, I couldn't help but marvel at the depth of our connection. For Charles, this victory was just the start of a journey that would take him to even greater heights. And for me, it was a privilege to be by his side, sharing in his triumphs and supporting him through every challenge. In that moment, surrounded by the soft glow of the twilight and the warmth of Charles' love, I knew that there was nowhere else I'd rather be.

================================

CL16 Taglist: @esserenorris, @tallrock35, @yourbane, @lightdragonrayne, @really-fucking-tired, @evie-119, @asparklysoul, @dhanihamidi

F1 Taglist: @hiireadstuff, @donteventry-itdude, @spookystitchery

[nayziiz]

Disturbed | OP81

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x reader (she/her)

Author's note: I'm trying something a little bit different with shorter form fics, so please send through any requests or feedback. These one shots will likely not have a second part unless it really speaks to me to continue with it. Thank you!

Masterlist

In the high-stakes world of motorsports, where the roar of engines drowned out all other sounds and the smell of burning rubber hung heavy in the air, Oscar stood as a beacon of unwavering determination. His name was synonymous with calm and resilience, his reputation forged on the anvil of countless hard-fought battles on-track and defying odds by helping keep his team in the running for third in the Constructors Championship. From the moment he first strapped himself into the driver's seat, Oscar had possessed an indomitable spirit that seemed impervious to the twists and turns of the race track.

Race after race, he pushed himself and his car to the very limit in pursuit of glory. Whether navigating treacherous hairpin turns or duelling wheel-to-wheel with his rivals, Oscar never backed down from a challenge. His resolve was unyielding, a relentless force that propelled him forward, even in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

But for all his unwavering determination, there were moments when he faltered too. It was on one particularly gruelling race day that the cracks in his armour began to show. Everything seemed to conspire against him – mechanical issues, strategic missteps, and a relentless onslaught of bad luck. Each setback chipped away at his confidence, threatening to unravel the very fabric of his resolve.

As the race wore on and Oscar's fortunes continued to decline, a sense of despair settled over him like a suffocating blanket. Doubt crept into his mind, gnawing away at his confidence and sowing seeds of uncertainty. For the first time in his career, he found himself teetering on the brink of defeat, his once unshakable resolve shaken to its core.

Amidst the chaos of the pit lane and the cacophony of roaring engines, there was one constant that anchored Oscar's fraying sanity – her. She was the quiet strength in his corner, the steady presence that never wavered, no matter how tumultuous the storm. Her belief in him was unwavering, a beacon of light cutting through the darkness of doubt.

With each passing lap, she mumbled quiet prayers in the garage. She was his rock, his anchor in the storm, her unwavering support a lifeline in his darkest hour. And though he struggled to find solace in the midst of defeat, he knew that as long as she stood by his side, he would never truly be alone.

As the chequered flag finally fell and the race came to an end, Oscar found himself staring down the bitter taste of defeat. But in the arms of the one who had stood by him through it all, he discovered a glimmer of hope amidst the wreckage of his shattered dreams.

“Oscar, listen to me,” she said, her voice cutting through the chaos of the post-race pit lane like a beacon of clarity. “I know things didn’t go as planned, but you've got this. You've faced tougher challenges before, and you've always come out on top. This is just another step to reaching the top.”

He glanced over at her, his eyes searching for reassurance in the midst of his turmoil.

“But what if this time is different? What if I've finally met my match?” he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

She reached out and gently took his hand, her touch a comforting presence in the midst of his turmoil.

“You're Oscar Piastri,” she said, her voice unwavering. “You're one of the most talented drivers out there, and nothing – not even a bad race – can change that. You have the skill, the determination, and the heart to overcome anything that comes your way.”

In the aftermath of defeat, Oscar realised that his strength did not lie solely in his ability to conquer adversity, but in his capacity to accept defeat with grace and humility. And though the road ahead may be fraught with challenges, he knew that as long as she stood by his side, he would always find the courage to carry on. For in her unwavering support, he found the resilience to rise from the ashes of defeat and chase his dreams once more.

[actual-changeling]

i cannot resist a piece of good, painful angst, so have a little something inspired by this post by @quoththemaiden and the tags i left on it

-

Aziraphale returns to heaven in a haze of heartbreak and fear, his lips still tingling with Crowley's kiss, his fingers twitching with the urge to reach for him. The white sterility welcoming him only encourages his mind to drift further, allowing him to tune out the Metatron's words and focus on simply setting one foot in front of the other. If heaven has not changed in the last few thousand years, and he knows very well that it hasn't, there will be more than enough paperwork detailing anything and everything he is being told.

"Any questions, Aziraphale?"

They have stopped in the middle of a long, empty corridor, his eyes stinging with the bleach-dry air, and Aziraphale blinks, the smile on his face never wavering; it is a mask he knows he will not be able to drop for quite some time.

"Do I have an office?"

"You can make yourself one if you deem it necessary. I will leave you to it, then."

With a small flash of light, he is gone, and Aziraphale is alone. Right.

A few hours later, he has an office no miracle in the world could make cosy, enough paperwork to last him an eternity, and a persistent itch in his left hand. It is more irritating than bothersome, an anchor keeping him from floating away into the land of celestial regulations and legal frameworks, and he is trying (and failing) to keep himself from thinking about Crowley.

He needs him to deal with this, that much is clear without knowing anything at all about how exactly the second coming is going to transpire, but for the first time in six thousand years, Aziraphale finds himself wondering if Crowley will be waiting for him when he reaches out.

Absently, he scratches the back of his left hand, the itching seemingly working its way to the surface, and picks up the next folder.

'Re: The matter of opening a direct communication line between the Department of Miracle Accounting and the Department of Miracle Archiving.'

"You'd assume they'd done that ages ago," he murmurs, opening it with a sigh and squeezing his eyes shut when he sees the first document dates back to 3076 BC. A sudden wave of sympathy for Gabriel washes through him, which disappears rather quickly when he remembers he is probably having the time of his life on Alpha Centauri.

(Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo we can-- go off together.)

(Go off together?)

Aziraphale slams the folder shut and pushes it to the side, creating a new 'unimportant/for later' pile since the other one is already structurally unsound and he'd rather not have to reorganize it when it inevitably collapses under its own weight.

He scrubs a hand down his face (I could always rely on you) and forces himself to take a deep, steadying breath (You could always rely on me) before reaching for the next one, halting when a shimmer of gold draws his attention.

(And I would like to spend-)

On his left hand, in the exact spot where the itch is… was Aziraphale corrects himself, and in its place, curled around his ring finger and weaving its way towards his wrist, is a golden snake. No, not a snake, he slowly realizes, it's Crowley's snake in all its glory, uncurled and with wide open, unblinking eyes, staring up at him.

"Fuck," he breathes, his right hand rapidly furling and unfurling. After not spending more than an hour or two in heaven at a time for millennia, he had completely forgotten about his angelic markings, which had looked very different before Eden. The exact images are hazy, washed out by time and apparently a fundamental change in his essence, because the snake lazily sliding around his wrist and closing its eyes as if to nap is both new and strangely familiar.

(Listen. Do you hear that?)

Tremors run through his body, fine and yet strong enough to keep him from opening the file, from reading, thinking, planning, his mind filled with fire-red hair and golden eyes and the taste of love on his tongue.

(I don't hear anything.)

Aziraphale cradles his marked hand against his chest, pressing his knuckles to his lips and trying to recall the few seconds during which he had felt whole. Happy.

(That's the point. No nightingales.)

The snake hisses quietly, or maybe he is already starting to lose his sanity, and its glittering scales provide what little comfort he can access in heaven, missing the white noise of London, the dusty quiet of his bookshop, missing Crowley, Crowley, Crowley.

[blouisparadise]

Today we have the fifth part of our short fic rec list! All of the fics on this list are a nice quick read that is less than 10k. If you missed the other parts to this rec list, you can find part one here, part two here, part three here, and part four here. Happy reading!

1) Shut Your Mouth, Baby | Explicit | 3,028 words

While fooling around in a closet at a New Year’s Eve party, Louis can’t seem to keep quiet. All he needs to do is hold off until midnight, when Harry will finally uncover his mouth and let him come at full volume.

2) Heaven In These Sheets | Explicit | 3,557 words

Bunny Hybrid Louis has it out for his boyfriend’s phone.

3) Tide’s Deathless Death | Explicit | 4,350 words

The Red Serpent gleamed in all of her marvellous glory from where she was anchored a meagre few miles away from the land. Her flag waving proudly in the afternoon sun. The image was certainly memorable, of the flag, that is; a serpent coiled viciously around a human heart, fangs sunken into the organ and blood oozing from the very spot. If not for the ship herself, the flag had its own repute of conveying the message that the captain was not to be trifled with. There was no single man who had survived after taking up arms against the captain. Well, there was one man, but including him amongst the hoard of common faces would be a foolishness on the feared-by-all captain’s part. That man currently stood silently staring after the captain, palm curled around the handle of his blade, and teeth clenched in anger. He was certainly going to relieve all the navies of their plight by taking down the captain. At least then, in his relatively newfound life of piracy, he would have done one good deed.

4) Always Tell The Truth | Not Rated | 5,027 words

Harry is Louis’ dentist and getting a wisdom tooth removed shouldn’t be the end of the world.

5) I Knew It From The Start | Explicit | 5,233 words

Louis starts calling Harry ‘daddy’. Consequently, Harry discovers that he has a daddy kink.

6) Spaces Between Us, Hold All Our Secrets | Not Rated | 6,441 words

The thing about Harry is, is that he is the most wonderful guy you´ll ever meet. He is kind, compliments you on things you are usually insecure about, which shows he truly pays attention to who you are as a person. And he befriends everyone. Except Louis.

7) Outline Of My Sins | Explicit | 6,551 words

Prompt 453: AU where alpha Harry is an art student who is taking a figure drawing class and omega Louis is the nude model. In the many years that Harry has taken art classes, he has never been more hot and bothered than now, having to stare at a beautiful nude omega model for hours.

8) Shouldn’t Cry (But I Love It) | Explicit | 6,586 words

They're roommates. They're quarantined. There's a small problem coming up.

9) Your Name Is Tattooed To The Bottom Of My Heart | Explicit | 6,613 words

Prompt 114: a PWP where Louis gets an arse tattoo with Harry’s name for his birthday.

10) Leave Like The Summer Breeze | Explicit | 6,551 words

When Louis and Zayn are stranded in Alabama, a farmer offers them shelter. He just asks for one thing in return.

11) Smile for the Camera for It Knows Everything, Hollywood Star| Mature | 6,676 words

Prompt 132- The story of Nancy Reagan being called the blowjob queen of Hollywood but it’s Louis.

12) The Writing On the Wall | Explicit | 6,705 words

When BookToker Louis receives a gift basket filled with all his favorite sweets, wines, and stuffed animals alongside the new Harry Styles book, he’s shocked at the story he finds in the pages.

13) Muffins & Cigarettes| Mature | 7,591 words

Louis pouts. “You can’t pout your way into this, Louis”, Harry said as he was fixing his tie, watch and rings glinting against the soft sunlight filtering through the window. “Of course, I can. Watch me.”

14) The Knothead Neighbor| Mature | 8,058 words

Prompt 3: Neighbors AU, preferably ABO! Harry works evenings/nights (maybe like a surgeon something that requires him to be gone for long hours) and has a cat. The cat has a little kitty door at the back so that it can explore and such. Louis just moved next door and the cat seems to always end up at his door. Eventually, Louis lets the cat in, as he’s new and he’s feeling quite lonely. They become fast friends, so much so that the cat prefers to stay with Louis rather than go home. Harry gets concerned that the cat starts to stay out all day/night so he eventually leaves a note attached to the cat’s collar with its name and phone number. Louis texts him telling him he’s his neighbor and not to worry, the cat just likes to hang with him as it might be lonely. Harry gets pissed that this stranger is stealing his cat so he goes to confront Louis and tell him to stop stealing his cat. Of course, as soon as he sees Louis, he falls in love with him and the rest is history. (If ABO could be cute that both Harry and Louis like to cuddle with the cat because it holds the other’s scent)

15) Kiss It Better | Explicit | 8,080 words

Harry shakes his head with a light laugh and leans down to kiss him again which Louis happily accepts even if he is a little confused by the reaction. "Baby, not a night has gone by that I haven't thought about you in my bed, naked, and begging for my cock." Blinking up at him with wide eyes, Louis opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out. While they did flirt a lot over the last few weeks, Harry had never said anything like that. It shocks him as much as it turns him on. "News to me." "I won't lie and say I like random hookups or casual sex, but to me this isn't what that is." Louis swallows thickly, unsure of what to say to that but once again Harry gives him an out. "So, If you want we can stay up here and I can show you all the things I've thought about doing to you." Another kiss, quick and sweet. "Or, we can go back downstairs and we'll dance all night."

16) Could Start A Cult | Explicit | 8,750 words

He lowers down the top that Louis is wearing, successfully unclasping his nursing bra as well, letting Louis’ tits bounce at the sudden movement. Harry massages both breasts to stimulate the milk flow, and he can feel his cock hardening inside his pants.

17) Should Be, Meant To Be | Explicit | 9,174 words

Prompt #65: Louis signs up for a Sugar Daddy dating website on a drunken dare. He forgets for a while, until one night he gets a notification for a message request from none other than his really hot (really rich) boss, Harry Styles.

18) Into It | Explicit | 9,197 words

Louis meets Harry. They hit it off.

19) Something To Prove | Explicit | 9,425 words

Louis is the first and only omega to work at Red Valley Medical Center. Despite being more than qualified, he still faces prejudice for his career choice everyday. From patients refusing his treatment to condescending alpha doctors intervening with his work, practicing medicine in Boston is more challenging than Louis had ever thought it would be.

20) Sugar Water | Explicit | 9,454 words

When his most familiar begins to feel all too unfamiliar, Harry finds out what it means to love like real people do.

21) Hook You Up (Charm You Down) | Explicit | 9,600 words

Swiftly, Harry raises his right hand to his head. Bringing two ringed fingers up, he touches the brown hat sitting on his head, tipping it with a raise of eyebrows in the direction of Peter Pan. He punctuates the whole action with his signature smirk. The reaction is almost immediate. Like Harry hoped it’d be. Though he expected the grin he received, he can’t say he directly expected the man to come forward his way. But he surely isn’t going to complain. “Captain! Fancy seeing you there,” Peter Pan says when he reaches Harry’s space. And wow. Seeing it from up close, Niall was right. Face of an angel, totally Harry’s type and all that. 

22) Poppies In May | Mature | 9,603 words

And maybe he deserves it, Louis thinks bitterly. His hand curls around the fence tightly, and he feels like if he lets go he’ll slid onto the cold ground and never fucking get up again. Maybe standing here, staring at Harry’s hunched over, retreating back is what he deserves.

23) Wanna Do Nothing With You | Explicit | 9,606 words

The accident happens in the stupidest way possible. One minute Louis is demonstrating a skateboard trick he’d just learned for Lottie, the next he’s waking up in a hospital. He’s told that he wasn’t unconscious the entire ride, but he has absolutely no recollection of it. One second he’s fucking around in his own garden and the next he’s being assaulted with the strong sterile scent of a hospital. So. There’s that.

24) Hello, My Name is Louis | Explicit | 9,686 words

Louis hurried to hang up the phone and take off his headset, throwing it away as if it was burning hot. He hugged himself by the shoulders and hid his face in his knees, sitting in his desk chair like a swimmer ready to dip into a pool, a pool of embarrassment. Not many people got past "Hello, my name is… " and even fewer engaged in a full conversation with him. And if they did, it usually went better than this.

25) Got It Right Such A Long Time Ago | Explicit | 9,699 words

Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

There are a lot of people Harry might expect to find on his doorstep at three o’clock in the afternoon these days. It could be the delivery man, come to drop off the pair of boots Harry impulsively ordered online last week. It could be one of his neighbors, dropping by to complain about how a party he’d thrown weeks ago had clogged up the street. It could also be any number of his friends in L.A., who stop by unannounced most days to mooch off Harry’s food or whisk him away to try some new yogurt shop.    As a rule, it definitely cannot be Louis Tomlinson, although Harry’s blinked at least three times now, and it’s still Louis standing there, a backpack slung over his shoulder and a duffel bag at his feet.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

[reasonandempathy]

It is truly absolutely insane seeing exactly how much Zionism continues to be a prevalent and major, supported ideology, especially in and around Israel's current behavior of the ethnic cleansing/genocide in Gaza and even the saber-rattling about Iran, which Netanyahu has been trying to start a war with for decades now. This war is in nobody's interest, at all, period, unless that person is Bibi Netanyahu, a direct political ally of his, or is so committed to enacting violence (on either side) that they will almost happily see Israel and Palestine as a whole turn into a literally bloody wasteland.

Even limiting every other article/source to just Israeli press, Israel's attack on Iran is delegitimizing everything it's saying or proposing about attacking Rafah.

Taking over the Gaza Strip, the great "ground operation" that has left more than 34,000 Palestinian dead, was born in a diplomatic and strategic vacuum, with no plan for the "day after," no exit plan, and conducted by improvisation, with daily events replacing the empty square called "strategy" and dictating its content. The same is true for the killing of the Al Quds Force commander in Syria and Lebanon, Hassan Mahdavi (also known as Mohammad Reza Zahedi), which was not based on an understanding or recognition of the expected Iranian response, and which forced Israel to hurriedly built a response to the response – which also is not anchored in a strategy that takes into account the global and regional repercussions, especially the repercussions on Israel's own security.

The war and IDF are carrying out what is best for Netanyahu's political interests, not for Israel itself.

But history has shown us that Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu is a world champion in missing opportunities. There have been so many since the first week after the atrocities of October 7. That's the problem with a striker who plays for himself. He's only concerned about the glory from scoring goals. He doesn't care if his team suffers a stinging loss. That's how it is when your eyes are constantly on the wrong ball – political survival, not Israel's interest. ... The Bibi-ist social media was beaming with unabashed pride on Sunday: If only Netanyahu had been woken up in time on October 7, Israel would have been protected from its enemies and everything would be beautiful.

Bibi's actions and escalation are actively endangering Israel as a whole.

Israel is facing a historic defeat, the bitter fruit of years of disastrous policies. If the country now prioritizes vengeance over its own best interests, it will put itself and the entire region in grave danger Unfortunately, Benjamin Netanyahu and his political partners have repeatedly proven that they are unfit to make such decisions. The policies they pursued for many years have brought Israel to the brink of destruction. So far, they have shown no regret for their past mistakes, and no inclination to change direction. If they continue to shape policy, they will lead us and the whole Middle East to perdition. Instead of rushing into a new war with Iran, we should first learn the lessons of Israel's failures over the past six months of war.

The war and escalation are actively harming the Israeli economy on the long-term

Ratings agency S&P Global cut Israel's long-term ratings to A-plus from AA-minus overnight into Friday, the confrontation with Iran heightened last weekend and amidst the already elevated geopolitical risks for Israel. In addition to the downgrade, S&P also published a negative outlook, meaning the agency believes it's likely there will be an additional downgrade in the future. S&P typically updates credit ratings on predetermined dates, with the exception being if an urgent update is needed. Israel's update was due to be published on May 10, and the agency said the political and security situation led to the urgent update. "We forecast that Israel's general government deficit will widen to 8 percent of GDP in 2024, mostly as a result of increased defense spending," S&P Global said in its statement.

Israeli courts are calling bullshit on the government's claims that they're taking steps to address the famine.

"This is the opposite of how people see the High Court of Justice. People think the state comes to court trembling with the fear of being reprimanded. But actually the court is very careful not to intervene." But the Supreme Court – serving as the High Court of Justice because it was responding to a petition – found a way to intervene. It didn't lash out at the state, it opted for soft activism. "The court, in its wisdom, entered through the opening that the state gave it," says Eyal Benvenisti, an international law professor at Cambridge University. "The justices told the state, 'You're saying you're taking steps; let's hear what you're really doing. And what you can do more of." ... Cohen-Lifshitz wondered why the state was so proud of its coordination with the aid agencies if in the same breath it rejected their reports about the acute humanitarian crisis in northern Gaza, arguing that these reports are based on Hamas' phony numbers.

Israeli claims that they're not going to takeover Gaza are laughably at face value, especially since the IDF is actively building fortifications in Gaza.

Satellite images and photographs shared on social media show extensive development and construction at two outposts the Israel Defense Forces is building on the strategic road that divides the Gaza Strip into two. The army calls the construction of these outposts in what it calls the "Netzarim Corridor" as a long-term achievement. The whole corridor is referred to as something that is here to stay. The Netzarim Road, in the heart of this corridor, bisects the Gaza Strip. The outposts were built along this road, which is intended to enable the IDF to control the movement of Palestinians from the south to the north and launch operations in different parts of the Strip.

And, of course, it isn't actually about Gaza or Hamas at all. Israel is still building new, Jewish communities in Jerusalem. There are many more to come.

A report by Ir Amim and Bimkom nonprofits, said that since October 7, planning agencies have advanced 17 master plans for Jews in East Jerusalem that encompass 8,434 apartments. The plans for almost 3,000 of these apartments have been submitted by the custodian general, which is responsible for managing Jewish assets abandoned when Jews were forced out of eastern Jerusalem during the 1948 War of Independence. Some other plans would expand large Jewish neighborhoods in East Jerusalem, like Gilo and Pisgat Ze'ev, by replacing low-rise buildings with high-rise ones. According to the Peace Now nonprofit, the invitation to bid shows that "Israel is advancing new settlements in East Jerusalem at top speed, and thereby perpetuating the bloody conflict with the Palestinians and the countries of the region."

And of course they're still speeding along any and every action to kick more Palestinians out of their homes, legal opinions be damned.

A court ruled that the Palestinian family's home is owned by a right-wing Jewish group that acquired the interests of a Jewish trust that bought the site prior to Israel's establishment in 1948. The Israeli justice who ordered the eviction stated he's not waiting for the attorney general's legal opinion

[lambsouvlaki]

For the Hell of It - Praise (*)

Characters: Jason Todd x fem!oc

Rating and warnings: NSFW, smut.

Word count: 909

Summary: a tender moment together.

Masterlist

-------

Jason’s bed was large and luxurious, and it had a satisfying bounce when he dropped her on it. 

She looked up at him. 

He stood at the foot of the bed, watching her like a tiger eyeing its next meal as he peeled off his layers. His eyes were dark and hungry. The ironclad restraint he had displayed up to now was starting to fray. 

Her clothes had been discarded on route, her hair was a tousled mess, and her chest was still heaving. The curtains were closed, the rest of the world shut away. Nobody existed but the two of them in the semi dark.  

Naked, he put a calloused hand on her bent knee, and gently ran it down her thigh. 

“This all for me?” he asked, with a crooked smile. Like he hadn’t put his hands to work already, making doubly, triply sure she was ready for him. 

“So damn cocky,” she said, nudging him with her foot.

“With the way you look at me? You betcha.”

“Shut up and get down here.”

He climbed over her, settling between her legs. 

It had become a familiar dance as her body learned the needs of his, and vice versa. His sheer size, at first an alarming and exciting prospect when looming over her, was a comfort now. The white shock of hair hung above his eyes as he looked down at her. 

She ran her legs up his sides, bracketing him. He kissed her slowly as he entered her.

He pulled back to draw in a long shaky breath. She ran a hand up the back of his neck, playing with the soft hairs at his nape. His eyes drifted closed. 

The cockiness never lasted. The vulnerability left in its absence stole her breath every time. 

“Are you alright?” he asked on a whisper.

She cupped the back of his head and kissed his temple. “I’m perfect, baby. You?” 

“Yeah.” 

Only then he started to move, a hand anchored to her hip. The other arm was braced against the bed above her head. 

In many ways Jason was a very complicated man. He had so many opaque and unscalable walls there was no way through unless he explicitly let you in. In other ways he was quite simple. 

“You feel so good inside me, Jay,” she said. “Taking such good care of me.”

The noise he made was so tender, so vulnerable. So unlike the hard shell he wore even in the privacy of his own home. She wanted to hide him under the covers, hold him tight and ward away the world. Mine, she wanted to snarl at everyone who would claim their pound of flesh.

He hid his face in the crook of her neck. 

Out in the daylight he didn’t know how to accept praise or even gratitude. He had no use for fame or glory. But in the dark when nobody was looking, was it so shocking that a man who would destroy himself for a cause he believed in, wanted to be told he was doing a good job?

He put on such a show for her every time they were together. Showing off, sure, but it was all for her enjoyment. He never even touched himself until she was already on the edge, if not already toppled over it. 

And as soon as she could give him any pleasure, he got shy about it. 

This man. 

He rocked into her with a neediness that set her heart aflutter. She wound a leg around his waist and wrapped an arm across the flexing expanse of his back. 

“Keep talking, baby,” he said. 

She moaned in contentment. “I can feel you stretching me with every thrust. Feels divine.” She ignored the warmth in her cheeks at the filth from her own mouth. It was for him, but it was adding to her own pleasure as well. “You’re so thick. So satisfying.” 

He made a guttural groan that made her toes curl and her core clench. Her breath against his ear was shaky. 

“I feel so full,” she whispered. “So safe.” So loved. 

He rocked into her a little harder.

“Nowhere I’d rather be than underneath you, Jason.” She nibbled his ear lobe. “Except, maybe, on top of you.”

He laughed, breathy and helpless, and only a hair shy of a whine.

“Tough luck,” he said, mouthing her neck. “I called dibs tonight.”

She grinned, perilously close to the edge again. 

“Give it to me a little harder.”

“Like that, sweetheart?” 

“Yesss, just like that. Oh, that’s good, Jay, that’s so good.”

He brushed her hair back from her face and gazed down at her. His eyes were dark and desperate, green shot through blue.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said, his voice choked.

She cupped his cheek and grazed his cheekbone with her thumb.

“Yes you do,” she said fiercely. “You deserve the world.”

He groaned low in his chest, and his pace stuttered. 

She reached up to kiss him and swallowed his groans of ecstasy. His hand moved to her thigh wrapped around his hip and gripped her hard. She bound him in her arms and held him as he fell apart.

He shivered and bucked into her in great wracking bursts of pleasure, tipping her over the edge into her own sweet, rolling climax. Her eyes squeezed tight, and his name sighed on her lips. 

Jason curled around her and his heartbeat thundered against her chest. 

She felt like she held the whole world in her hands.

Next>>

[bensonsballerz]

elysium

You can feel the piercing of something long and sharp careen through your massive gullet, the sound of organs being gnashed and blood spilling filling your eardrums. You never thought pale could hurt this much, but you were wrong. You don't even have time to say anything, the only sound exiting from your filthy mouth the choking of your blood. It's warm and copper taste feels familiar somehow, but you wouldn't remember. And you won't get to.

HEALTH CRITICAL!

You hear somebody screaming your name, a voice usually composed and quiet undone by years of grief and isolation that's toppled over at the sight of your death. You were his last hope, his anchor for a boat that's been cast away at sea for many years; you thought he was your anchor, but in reality, it was quite the opposite. You have never heard somebody scream like that... actually, yes, you have many, many times. You just never thought somebody would scream like that over you.

MORALE CRITICAL!

The man next to him is white as a ghost, eyes big and wide in terror. He mutters his favorite curse word (he'd make sure you died a second time if he found out you said he had a favorite curse word) under his trembling breath, his lip quivering. In the end, your relationship was far from perfect, but he believes you deserved better than this. Anything than this.

Your eyes feel heavy and you know it's ending soon, but all you can feel is guilt: you couldn't save anybody, not even one person. You were their only hope, the only tether to Elysium in all of Her glory, and you failed exquisitely. You deserved a far crueler death than this, but all you can do is cry, cry, cry.

Let me say goodbye, at least. I don't want them to be sad.

Life is no fairy tale, Harry boy- this is the end for you. There are no goodbyes and there are no happy endings. You're going to die, then Kim is going to die, then Jean, then the rest of Precinct 41, then Martinaise, then the rest of Revachol, and finally Elysium. There is no hope; just death.

Let it happen, Harrier! Let it happen!

You finally close your eyes, anticipating the warmth of darkness and death like a hug from a friend you haven't seen for a time. All you can hope for is that death will be kinder to Kim and Jean, if She is inescapable.

It's over. It's all over...

...

...

...

SHIVERS: NO.

SHIVHER: YOU ARE NOT DONE YET. YOU WILL NOT DIE.

HIHER: THERE ARE STILL PEOPLE WHO NEED YOU. GET UP.

But I can't.

HER: YOU WILL. THERE IS STILL MUCH FOR YOU TO DO. IT IS NOT YOUR TIME YET.

Through your closed eyelids, through the darkness, you can sense a light below you. You can also hear again. It's quiet at first...

LGIC: GET UP

HAF LGH: GET UP

ESPR D COS: GET UP

But then they grow louder. And the light grows brighter.

COMPOSURE: GET UP

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: GET UP

EMPATHY: GET UP

HER: GET UP

HEALTH AND MORALE RESTORED

THE MIND: GET UP

Ok, ok! I'm getting up, you guys don't need to yell.

You open your eyes, and you see that your lungs are glowing and you are bleeding gold. You are light and you are holy, finally, after 44 years of being nothing but a tar pit of misery.

Is Kim ok? Please tell me he's ok.

You look to him and the light reflecting off of his glasses and tear stricken face. As always, he is an awe of you and he mouths a raspy "how," adjusting his spectacles.

And Jean?

He says his favorite curse word for the second time this day, a hand on his forehead. But he is relieved, you can tell.

Your shining lungs expand with an echoing sigh. As long as they're ok, then this is all worth it.

You try to move your limbs, but all you can feel is tingling; they are weak. The pale is still impaled in you. No pun intended.

HER: I AM YOU. AND YOU ARE ME. I AM YOURS AND YOU ARE MINE.

You can hear the cricking and cracking of bones being forced to move, and you jerk your head to your left to see your arm moving on its own. Your meaty fingers contract and stretch like a overturned bug being poked, and all of a sudden, your hand grips the pale. The sensation is everything and nothing, like touching water, fire, needles, and blankets all at once. It's horrible and it's beautiful.

There is an astounding crack that sends chills down the spines of every citizen in Elysium as your fingers clutch the pale, nails digging in, and you rip it out swiftly, your blood spilling the snow and soil below. The hole in your body emits a gorgeous light, perhaps the most wonderful thing you've ever seen your body exhibit.

ELYSIUM: SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL IS GOING TO HAPPEN.

[beedreamscape]

VERY LONG POST EXPLORING C3 AND WHY SO MANY PEOPLE MIGHT NOT LIKE IT/MY PERSONAL GRIPES WITH IT.

I ended up exploring a bit of that Reddit community of critical role fans (not the main one) where they basically gather together and commiserate how much they hate C3. It's frustrating to read because at some point you can tell they make no effort to engage positively with the campaign and have a penchant for hating anything about it.

But, from the perspective of someone with very little emotional connection to the past campaigns, I kinda get why C3 feels so different and, in my opinion, it's all about personal stakes for the characters.

As writers, we constantly hear that we must give the characters something personal to care about so that the reader may care about the plot - yeah city-destroying laser beam is a big stake, but if main character's loved one will be used as a sacrifice to the aliens to activate the laser beam unless they do something, the tension doubles.

And with a shallow look over the arcs of the past campaigns, especially the fans' favourites, a pattern I find is of those with heavy personal stakes:

People often point the Briarwoods arc as a favourite. It's not just about bringing down the powerful Briarwoods, it's about avenging Percy's family and bringing his beloved Whitestone back to its past glory, all mixed with the fighting of personal demons.

We also got Vax'ildans overarching arc with the Raven Queen and Scanlan's with Kaylie and his self-worth/discovery in the party.

In campaign three, the struggle of Fjord getting over Uk'otoa's influence and turning to the Wildmother, rediscovering himself. Bright Queen's Favor with freeing Yuza, uncovering Nott's past, grappling with their preconceptions of the empire and the dynasty, and meeting Essek. Losing then Recovering Yasha from Obann. Traveler Con.

This post about the first third of the C2 comparing it to C1 explains quite well how M9 is driven by the party's personal stakes over any obligation to any institution.

Not only personal stakes that build the value of the campaign, but places that grow as their own: Whitestone, Emon, Zephrah, Xhorhas, the Menagerie Coast, Zedash, etc.

That's what's missing from Campaign 3: anchors and personal stakes.

Bells Hells doesn't really care about anything! We're entrenched in the Ruidus plot ever since we learned what ruidusborn means in the beginning of the campaign and yet, what does that mean to them? It was the subject of Imogen's dreams and afflictions but what else? The main victims of it will be the gods, but they repeatedly state how much they don't care for the gods and are in doubt if losing them would be bad anyway.

In a certain perspective, I don't blame them - the plot has grown so massive and subjective, while they haven't - they're still level 10 nobodies against a god-eating moon-shaped monster and the insanely powerful guy that wants to free it.

Bells Hells doesn't care for the places they walk through! Only two members of the party are actually from Marquet! Imogen and Dorian. And both are running from their past! so they don't even want to be there! Ashton hates everything about it and all the others have no reason to cling to it.

Jrusar was such a great city with great dynamics that were only half explored and they don't seem to care to return to it even though so much goes unexplored. Yios meant nothing nor did Heartmoor or the Taloned Highlands (and its apparently juicy political intrigues nobody cared to explore) and barely a mention of Ank'harel or the Silken Squall.

WHY do we keep going back to Taldorei???

Marquet as a whole goes mostly unexplored and underused in the campaign and it's so upseting.

Bells Hells have nothing to lose! They hold no personal stakes to the plot, most of them don't have families and those that do feel like something so distant and impersonal, no place or city they love or feel connected to, the only thing they owned (the very valuable skyship rip) they destroyed with barely any consideration. Their morals feel like the only thing at stake and even that feels already lost.

C3 is pulling too much from past campaigns. From the moment they first contacted the VM people, it felt like a mistake, and every appearance since has felt so much like fan service (especially bc specific fan favourites are the recurring appearances, no variety). The time spent in Whitestone, the connections to Delilah, everything with Keyleth, etc.

This last one, in particular, contributes to that group of NPCs feeling, always revolving around some other character struggle - who cares what is going on with Bells Hells when Vax's trapped in an orb and Keyleth is half dying, and Caleb is in an anti-magic collar, and Trent is probably loose, and this character and that character...

We haven't spent proper time with C3-exclusive NPCs excluding Nana Morri since episode 50! No Lord Eshteross or Xandis or Ira or Jiana Hexum or the Green Seekers or Milo. It was so special to me having Dancer and Imahara Joe around even if briefly.

And Lord Eshteross death left such a huge gap in the dynamics of the party with the world. I think it was premature, especially because the thirst to avenge him (which I suppose was meant to fuel their hate and intention to kill Otohan) lasted so little and from there on out began the heavy and meta-gamey (and personally, OOC) relying on VM characters.

The ticking clock on the apogee solstice strained much of the campaign and brought this looming fear of 'if we don't take care of it nobody will so we can't waste time', therefore the alternative paths and personal arcs fell to the sidelines in favor of the elephant in the room, so it felt like several episodes of dragging towards this event, then the peak of ep 50-51, to re-start the drag of post moon beam.

Guest PCs are a whole other can of worms I'm not ready to explore also bc it entails a lot, but it's a shared sentiment that people miss Dorian and what he brought to the table.

On a personal view, the Hellcath Valley was my favorite arc. Bassuras felt so tactile and real and gritty, we had a clear objective of infiltrating the Paragon's Call and retrieving Armand Treshi, Deathwish Run, the mystery of Dusk unveiling into Yu, Fearne's parents encounter, Ira, Imahara Joe and reveals about Dancer and D., first FCG nervous attack, Otohan battle and Laudna's death. SO MUCH.

Special mentions to everything Jrusar and Shade Creepers, Heartmoor and the Museum, Savalirwood, and the time spent on the Silver Sun.

I miss these small-scale objectives, I miss the C3 NPCs, I miss Marquet, I miss turning our eyes to these character tensions and exploration, I miss the one-on-one talks, the unity they shared in those dire moments.

I can't wait to leave the Predathos plot and all the repetitive discussions within it behind.

This doesn't cover everything (interpersonal relationships are a whole other spectrum of discussion) but a few things I feel puts an obstacle towards people liking this campaign when comparing the past ones.

[beansidhebumbling]

Wait I have another one:

Ship of your choice but Person A accidentally seals the mate bond with Person B after doing body shots and sucking a lime out of their mouth. 🙂

The Chemistry of Regret

Okay I had to do college AU Rhysta for this. Hope you like!! This got out of control.

Also the first hands then voice structure is inspired by a line in the fabulous @bittermuire's The Cape which you can read here. Read it!!

Nesta knows of Rhysand Velaris long before she ever has the dubious pleasure of making his acquaintance.

He haunts the Biochemistry department like a spectre.

His overly styled hair gleaming even in the faded newspaper clipping framed outside Professor Wysten's lab.

His black eyes sparkling in picture after picture on the college's socials. Medals and grants and awards the only weight that anchors the Prince of Oíchad College.

The golden boy of the hallowed halls, gone but not forgotten.

And Nesta, living the cruel life of a fresh PhD student grows to hate that curving smirk of a stranger, his sloping signature on the near-empty bottle of Trypan Blue that Wysten refuses to bin, his crisp embroidered lab coat that lies draped over a chair in the dry lab awaiting the return of its owner.

***

Imitator, the dye taunts each time she stains her cells watching blue seep into their crevices, a damning marker of death.

Imposter, the message Wysten imparts in every gushing compliment he in his absence is bestowed that she in her unfailing presence is never good enough to earn.

Lesser, a voice, that must be his, whispers in her ear as she lies awake and wonders if life should feel easier than this.

***

His return from his year in Paris is anticipated like a public holiday. Outfits planned between centrifuge spins, tables booked at his favourite club.

The days are counted down in blood red Xs on the calendar in the study room and when D-day arrives the entire department leaves in a flurry into the cool chill of a January night.

The building is empty, only she and security remains.

Nesta is eager to take advantage of the free slots on the flow cytometer, normally booked until the wee hours. As the sequins on her dress dance like stars and the machine whirs quietly in the background, she runs her cells and finds solace in solitude.

But her cells are soon studied, peace is temporary and then she's queuing on Court Street to enter the Night Palace.

She can feel the bass in her bones as she enters, the dim lighting making the whirling mass of bodies on the dance floor look like art.

***

She has a plan, stay for a drink, long enough to be seen by the tenured professors, long enough to look like she belongs, long enough that she'll be able to nod and smile at the lunch-time conversation.

Not so long that the loneliness erodes her from the inside out, corroding through tissue and bone.

That is the plan.

But then Gwyn, the pretty lab assistant has Sambuca and Emerie has rum and the strobe lights start looking closer to shooting stars.

With alcohol loosed limbs she remembers how much she likes to dance, how the pain of being seen has never stung when there is a rhythm to movement.

So between shots she moves until she gets lost in the art of writhing bodies.

***

She is on the dance floor, hair loose and glitter trailing from her eyes like tears when she meets him.

First, he is large veined hands tentatively touching her waist, awaiting further permission.

She is Nesta Archeron, made of Sambuca and starlight, so she grinds back onto the stranger, the tall stranger she amends as his body presses against her back.

Then he is voice, rich and smooth, as his lips touch her ear lobe, his clipped accent conjuring schooldays at Eton and summers on yachts.

'You're very beautiful.'

The words hit her like sleet in summer.

How...boring.

She is unimpressed and turns to tell him as such.

She is shocked when finally he is no longer solely hands nor voice but Rhysand Velaris in all his tangible glory.

'You!'

She shouts, struggling to be heard over the pounding music, attempting to create a cavern between them even as the crowd presses in from all sides.

'Me.'

His cocky smile turns into a grimace as he reads the disappointment in her expression.

She does not stay long enough to introduce herself.

Sobriety looms too close for that.

She disappears in the grinding groping bodies until his voice melds with the rising melody.

***

He finds her at the bar.

Of course he does. His ghost has been haunting her for the better part of a year why wouldn't his corporeal form do the same.

'Rhysand Velaris.'

His hand, previously branding its heat on the soft wide curve of her waist, is now outstretched and open.

She extends hers, grasping firmly.

'Nesta Archeron.'

Her smile is a tight thin mimicry of what it should be.

His strong brow raises and his eyes widen.

'You're Nesta Archeron, the new PhD?'

She dips her head ignoring the question, too focused now on arranging her cleavage to attract the bartender.

Rhysand's eyes stay fixed to her face, as she successfully obtains her Tequila shots.

'I've been looking forward to meeting my new lab buddy who has booked every afternoon slot in the wet lab for the next month.'

She feels a grin tug at her lips at his pointed tone.

'You snooze you lose, Velaris.'

And in an impulse she wished she could blame on the undrunk shots before her she snipes,

'If it's a problem get Daddy to build us a new lab.'

His laugh is unexpected and far too enchanting for a handsome face. Because he is handsome, Mother damn him.

'Would you like me then? Because I'm very motivated for you to like me Nesta Archeron.'

He caresses the syllables of her name, his teeth clicking on the t and lingering like he wants to hold the letters a beat too long.

'Why? Because I'm beautiful.'

She scoffs.

His posture stiffens.

'No. Because you're brilliant. From what I've read, from what I've heard.'

A pause.

'Of course, you being beautiful is a welcome addition. Not as beautiful as me though.'

A giggle escapes her because he is ridiculous. This is ridiculous. He isn't allowed to be charming, not when she has decided to hate him.

***

'Let's do shots.'

She gestures clumsily to the glasses almost knocking them in the process.

And because she's lost her mind, for that must be the only reason, she grasps his inner forearm licking the tanned skin, letting her tongue drag lightly along, following a vein towards his elbow, ignoring the electricity that sparks through her body as she does.

He is tense, eyes pools of darkness she could drown in, the leather and chocolate of his cologne muddling her brain.

She salts his arm pushing the slice of lime his way. He obediently inserts it into his mouth, moving like a man dazed, eyes transfixed on her lips.

Like a film reel she sees the next three years play in her head if she carries on with this insanity, awkwardness and avoidance abound.

So why is she compelled to continue this mistake?

***

You'll regret this.

Her brain screams as the Tequila slides a burning fire down her throat.

You'll regret this.

It pleads as she kisses the white crystals from soft skin of his arm, nipping slightly so he moans her name in a way she definitely cannot linger on.

You'll regret this.

It begs as their lips meet in a citrus clash that sets fireworks off behind her eyes. He breaks momentarily to spit out the wedge of lime before returning to capture her lips, kissing her like lonely women dream of, hot and expert and claiming.

***

When she opens her eyes to meet a panting Rhysand, those hands still clutching her like she might mean salvation from an unknown damnation, dark hair tousled from her fingers grasping and tugging mere seconds before.

When he touches his ribs before looking in awe at her, like she is more than her frame can contain.

When he says her name like a prayer, like a curse, and she feels the golden links tying them together in a way science can only vaguely explain, she finds their damnation.

And she knows.

She'll regret this.

[dragonagecompanions]

Could you write Solas' reaction to the Inqusitor killing him after the betrayal, but they stay by his side because they know he fears dying alone, and refuses to leave his side before he has passes away, and telling him that he's forgiven, and the Inky apologizes for not begin able to help him.

Obvious content warning.

It can't end like this, not now. Everything is falling into place, his power is finally returned to him. Everything is in his grasp to restore the world to what it once was, to the glory of Arlathan and the Elvhen. He gave up so much for this chance, for his people, for...

For nothing. Solas can feel the terrible, implacable burn of magebane in his veins, even as the blood weeps from the wound in his back. Fitting, really, after his own proverbial knife, and yet the architect of the Evanuris' downfall never saw this betrayal coming. In his arrogance he heard the request to reopen the eluvians to Val Royeaux as an admission of defeat. Had thought that the removal of both arm and anchor would render his friend helpless in the fight to come.

But too many have underestimated the Inquisitor in the last years. Solas was had no excuse, and yet he turned his back to them. Their cries of pain had masked the running foot steps, the drawing of the blade. It is cold comfort to see that pain in their face still, even as that struggle with one hand to keep his head cushioned on their knees.

"I just...wanted to fix my mistake."

"I know." The sorrowful compassion in their face should be infuriating, something he should spit on and refuse, but somehow the Dread Wolf does not have the strength for it. He is grateful for their warmth and company now, as darkness rims their vision.

"I know, Solas. But you can rest now. I won't leave you alone, not now."

Does his tombstone still stand in the fade, green light making mockery of his greatest fear? He'd thought it would be to stand alone at the end of all things, the world beyond his saving. He had not considered that it would be...like this. Gasping for air that cannot help him now, shivering for the warmth that somehow he cannot grasp. Can he blame them, for rendering onto him what he had planned, inevitably for them?

It hurts less now. They must know, for his friend simply holds him closer. The tears make eyes that have stared unfazed at every challenge somehow more and less shadowed, but knowing that his death is one more burden for them is not the vindication he might have hoped for. This was not what Solas wanted, not what Fen'Harel needed. He is failing his people, abandoning them this one last terrible time and he cannot even...cannot...

"'M s'rr'y..."

"I know. Wisdom is waiting for you, Solas. Go and join her now. Stop running, Dread Wolf, and be at peace."

When he is looking at a world they hope not to see for many years, when the blade finds its place in a still heart (even for a friend, the inquisitor has learned to be cautious), only then does the Herald of Andraste signal for their compatriots. They will bring their friend home, style him as a hero who returned to defeat the Qunari and save the Inquisition.

Ironically, this saves the Inquisition. A united south prepares to face the Qunari, but without the distraction of the Dread Wolf's plans Thedas as it is has a fighting chance. The Inquisition will champion the plight of elves in their martyred friend's name, so that perhaps where the Dread Wolf could not bring superiority Solas might usher in a new era of equality. The agents of Fen' Harel will mourn his loss, curse the Inquisition, but may ultimately join this effort--to surprising success

And perhaps, somewhere far from time and space and sorrow, a young dreamer and the spirit of wisdom who long was his companion, are reunited at last.

-Mod Fereldone

[wonder-worker]

[Agnès Sorel] has been paired with her cousin Antoinette de Maignelais in a binary relationship that flatters the former at the latter’s expense.

-Tracy Adams, "Queens, Regents, Mistresses: Reflections on Extracting Elite Women’s Stories from Medieval and Early Modern French Narrative Sources"

Different from her nineteenth-century historians, contemporary chroniclers write little that is positive about Agnès Sorel, except that she was beautiful. They are still less enthusiastic about Antoinette de Maignelais. Antoinette’s reputation worsens in seventeenth-century historical romances, where she becomes Agnès’s dark and envious double, sometimes responsible for Agnès’s death. Following Antoinette into the nineteenth century, we find nothing good about her in histories of that period, either, where she is typically depicted as motivated by the desire for wealth. […] Even some recent historians read the cousins in this way. According to one, Agnès’s “replacement was greedy and cynical;” in contrast with Agnès, who had “brightened the maturity of a fragile and tormented man, raising him above himself, Antoinette lowered him to the level of a lustful old man whose excesses outraged his entourage.”

The difference in the reputations, or afterlives, of the cousins is striking. Several factors can explain the discrepancy. The first, as I have noted, is that Antoinette later became the mistress of Duke François II. Breton chroniclers did not describe Antoinette favorably, and the relationship undoubtedly diminished her prestige, suggesting that she was motivated by greed rather than love. In contrast, Agnès died at the height of her glory, adored by the king. Another factor is the Melun diptych, commissioned from painter Jean Fouquet by one of the executors of Agnès’s will and royal favorite Etienne Chevalier, whom we have just seen with Antoinette and the king at the chateau of Ville Dieu. This gorgeous Virgin with child depicted on the left panel of the diptych is said to bear the facial features of Agnès. The image has left an enduring impression of Agnès as both pure and erotic. No image at all memorializes Antoinette, much less a fabulous one like the Melun Virgin. Still another is that Charles VII never married Agnès to anyone, which might suggest a particularly deep affection; in the eyes of historians over the years, the “double” adultery of Antoinette and the king has been regarded as the more sinful of the two relationships.

In addition to these factors, as I have noted, the king fathered none of Antoinette’s children: two of her sons, Artus and Antoine, were fathered by André de Villequier, and two sons and two daughters by Duke François II of Brittany. The king recognized his three daughters by Agnès, and all were handsomely married. This matters because Agnès’s daughters and their families took the lead in shepherding Agnès’s positive image into future generations.

...The Agnès/Antoinette binary, like its Marie/Eve counterpart, allowed the role of the royal mistress to be conceived of positively, anchoring the role in its positive guise to Agnès while pushing negative associations onto Antoinette. For the long-term effect of the binary I return to the narrative of the French royal mistress as it emerged in the nineteenth century, when Agnès and Antoinette became the two essential faces of the role: Agnès as the ideal that justifies or hides Antoinette, the political reality, or, put slightly differently, Agnès as the loving mistress persona giving cover to Antoinette, the political actor. Agnès and Antoinette, beautiful muse versus greedy opportunist, combined, offer a perfect standard for distinguishing the good mistress from the bad and promoting the good. For this reason, Antoinette’s role might be considered a sort of supplément to the role of royal mistress as realized by Agnès, who was typically assumed to have been little interested in politics. Antoinette might be seen as the active element required to complete the role; the cousins together add up to the French royal mistress of the later type.

[athingofvikings]

A Thing Of Vikings Chapter 138: Deus Vult

Chapter 138: Deus Vult

Perhaps the most illustrative example of the difference between the orthodox nature of Christianity and the orthoprax nature of Judaism and Islam is the examination of their respective statements of faith, which structure their relationship with the divine.

In Judaism, the statement of faith is known as the Shema; found in the text of the Torah, it reads simply as, “Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.” “Hear O Israel, The Lord is our God, The Lord is One.” In this simple passage, the nature of the Hebrew god is defined as being the Lord of the people of Israel, and a singular entity. While there is more to the text of the prayer in liturgical use, this single phrase is the structural core of the Jewish statement of faith in their god, their relationship to that deity, and that deity’s singular oneness. The rest of Jewish law concerns fulfilling the commandments of their Lord. No further professions of faith are strictly necessary beyond this, so long as the deeds and actions of the individual Jew stay on the path dictated by their deity.

In Islam, the statement of faith is known as the Shahada; found in the text of the Koran in various combinations, it also reads simply, “Ašhadu ʾan lā ʾilāha ʾilla -llāhu, wa-ʾašhadu ʾanna muḥammadan rasūlu -llāh.” “There is no deity but God, and I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God.” In this simple passage, again, the nature of the Islamic god is defined as monotheistic, and being specifically the deity on whose behalf Mohammad acted as prophet. And while the formulation of the statement is not found precisely as-is in the text of the Koran, it is directly derived from it, and anchors the religious structure of the Islamic faith—they worship one singular god as Mohammad instructed them to, with the instructions being found in the text. Again, as another orthoprax religion, the instruction of faith is singular and focuses on singular points, with the rest of religious observance being defined by actions.

In contrast, Christianity, as an orthodox religion, has two statements of faith, the Nicene Creed and the Apostles’ Creed, both of which are lengthy, detailing the full beliefs of what it means to be Christian with twelve distinct articles of faith, in the Nicene Creed reading:

“I believe in one God, the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all things visible and invisible.

I believe in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of God, born of the Father before all ages. God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father; through him all things were made.

For us men and for our salvation he came down from heaven, and by the Holy Spirit was incarnate of the Virgin Mary, and became man.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate, he suffered death and was buried, and rose again on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures. He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead and his kingdom will have no end.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son, who with the Father and the Son is adored and glorified, who has spoken through the prophets.

I believe in one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church. I confess one Baptism for the forgiveness of sins and I look forward to the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come. Amen.”

In this text, the full orthodoxic nature of Christianity comes through, detailing the specificity of belief that makes one a Christian. Further, this statement does not come from the Christian holy texts, but was instead compiled centuries later at various religious councils, as the early Christian faith struggled to define itself solely through belief; even later, as the Apostles’ Creed came into general use, due to its shorter nature, significant portions of the statement of faith require inclusion…

—Divine Light Through The Gem Of Man: Studying The Many Facets Of The Holy, Waterford University Press, 1692

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