#Also I read some of Year of Glory to see if it was from that (it wasn't) but oh my gosh if this is one of the most 'readable historians'...

[themidnightcircusshow]

"#And notably also insisting that Scrope was executed for the Southampton Plot because Henry V was homophobic#(because Scrope's defence was that he was just siding with the conspirator's so he could get information!)#(he was Henry's bed mate so obviously Henry must trust him! [Mortimer's argument beimg Henry killed him for saying they slept together])"

...he WHAT?! He's super weird about Scrope and insists he must be innocent because historians are "confused" about his role and he's the good kind of very religious (y'know, not like Henry V) and well, he said so! But I didn't know he'd gotten even more batshit about Scrope. 😩

I can't find it now, because google is the absolute worse, so keep in mind this is going entirely off memory and I could be wrong. But yeah, in an article I read, I recall it mentioning Ian Mortimer arguing that the reason why Scrope got the most 'humiliating' punishment was because Scrope used he and Henry sleeping together in his defense and Henry was furious at the affront to his masculinity.

Which, if true, is ahistorical to truly impressive proportions.

#Asked and Answered #Heartofstanding #Again I haven't been able to track down the article or any primary source of Mortimer saying this so I could be misattributing it to him #Or the article could have been wrong in its interpretations #This is the problem with researching things for fun I'm not nearly as strict about keeping track of my sources #Also I read some of Year of Glory to see if it was from that (it wasn't) but oh my gosh if this is one of the most 'readable historians'... #And the way he says with such certainty that we know the charges of the conspirators trying to kill the King and his brothers was false #(do we? Do we know this? You haven't given a reason WHY we know this?) #And that historians are 'intoxicated by Henry's greatness' #I am used to academic mudslinging but that's beyond

[fuckyeahisawthat]

There are so many places in the Villeneuve Dune adaptations where he just...takes all the narrative pieces that Frank Herbert laid out and subtly rearranges them into something that tells the story better--that creates dramatic tension where you need it, communicates the themes and message of the book more clearly, or corrects something in the text that contradicts or undermines what Herbert said he was trying to say.

The fedaykin are probably my favorite example of this. I just re-read a little part of the book and got smacked in the face with how different they are.

(under the cut for book spoilers and length)

The fedaykin in the book are Paul's personal followers, sort of his personal guard. They show up after his legend has already started growing (the word doesn't appear in the book until chapter 40) and they are people who have specifically dedicated themselves to fighting for him, and right from the moment they're introduced there is a kind of implied fanaticism to their militancy that's a bit uncomfortable to read. They're the most ardent believers in Paul's messianic status and willing to die for him. (They are also, as far as you can tell from the text, all men.)

In the book, as far as I can remember (I could be forgetting some small detail but I don't think so) there is no mention of armed resistance to colonialism on Arrakis before Paul shows up. As far as we know, he created it. ETA: Okay I actually went back and checked on this and while we hear about the Fremen being "a thorn in the side" of the Harkonnens and we know that they are good fighters, we don't see anything other than possibly one bit of industrial sabotage. The book is very clear that the organized military force we see in the second half was armed and trained by Paul. This is exacerbated by the two-year time jump in the book, which means we never see how Paul goes from being a newly deposed ex-colonial overlord running for his life to someone who has his own private militia of people ready to give their lives for him.

The movie completely flips all these dynamics on their head in ways that add up to a radical change in meaning.

The fedaykin in the movie are an already-existing guerrilla resistance movement on Arrakis that formed long before Paul showed up. Literally the first thing we learn about the Fremen, less that two minutes into the first movie, is that they are fighting back against the colonization and exploitation of their home and have been for decades.

The movie fedaykin also start out being the most skeptical of the prophecy about Paul, which is a great choice from both a political and a character standpoint. Of course they're skeptical. If you're part of a small guerrilla force repeatedly going up against a much bigger and stronger imperial army...you have to believe in your own agency. You have to believe that it is possible to win, and that this tiny little chip in the armor of a giant terrifying military machine that you are making right now will make a difference in the end. These are the people who are directly on the front lines of resisting oppression. They are doing it with their own sweat, blood and ingenuity, and they are not about to wait around for some messiah who may never come.

From a character standpoint, this is really the best possible environment you could put Paul Atreides in if you want to keep him humble. He doesn't get any automatic respect handed to him due to title or birthright or religious belief. He has to prove himself--not as any kind of savior but as a good fighter and a reliable member of a collective political project. And he does. This is an environment that really draws out his best qualities. He's a skilled fighter; he's brave (sometimes recklessly so); he's intensely loyal to and protective of people he cares about. He is not too proud to learn from others and work hard in an egalitarian environment where he gets no special treatment or extra glory. The longer he spends with the fedaykin the more his allegiance shifts from Atreides to Fremen, and the more skeptical he himself becomes about the prophecy. This sets up the conflict with Jessica, which comes to a head before she leaves for the south. And his political sincerity--that he genuinely comes to believe that these people deserve liberation from all colonial forces and his only role should be to help where he can--is what makes the tragedy work. Because in the end we know he will betray all these values and become the exact thing he said he didn't want to be.

There's another layer of meaning to all this that I don't know if the filmmakers were even aware of. ETA: rescinding my doubt cause based on some of Villeneuve's other projects I'm pretty sure he could work it out. Given the time period (1960s) and Herbert's propensity for using Arabic or Arabic-inspired words for aspects of Fremen culture, it seems very likely that the made-up word fedaykin was taken from fedayeen, a real Arabic word that was frequently used untranslated in American news media at the time, usually to refer to Palestinian armed resistance groups.

Fedayeen is usually translated into English as fighter, guerrilla, militant or something similar. The translation of fedaykin that Herbert provides in Dune is "death commando"...which is a whole bucket of yikes in my opinion, but it's not entirely absurd if we're assuming that this fake word and the real word fedayeen function in the same way. A more literal translation of fedayeen is "self-sacrificer," as in willing, intentional self-sacrifice for a political cause, up to and including sacrificing your life.

If you apply this logic to Dune, it means that Villeneuve has actually shifted the meaning of this word in-universe, from fighters who are willing to sacrifice themselves for Paul to fighters who are willing to sacrifice themselves for their people. And the fedaykin are no longer a group created for Paul but a group that Paul counts himself as part of, one member among equals. Which is just WILDLY different from what's in the book. And so much better in my opinion.

#dune #dune part two #adaptation #paul atreides #fedaykin

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Rainy Season - Part 4

All You Ever

Azriel reflects on his past mistake including the night with Elain. Cassian makes a huge mistake.

A/N: Before reading this chapter please know that I am not condoning cheating or the actions of Azriel or Elain. I do not feel sorry for either of them in any way. I simply enjoy adding a little complexity to the story and selfishly love sprinkling in chaos. Also this is not proofread, I’m exhausted.

And for cauldron’s sake, please just trust the process before yelling at me!!! This is just one chapter from the two biggest idiots involved, not the whole story.

Part 3 Part 5

Warnings: Not proofread, Alcohol, Language, Unintentional ingestion of an aphrodisiac leading to sex

Azriel

He may have been a fucking idiot but Azriel’s self-awareness was painfully acute. His scar riddled hands were forever tainted with the essence of blood that even her plush lips couldn’t kiss away, his angel mate. What a cruel joke the cauldron had played the day that bond snapped between them. She was resplendent in sun shrouded glory and he was the devil who dragged her down. Just selfish enough to ignore the warning bells that he’d one day fuck it all up, just selfish enough to pull her away from her home and covet her within the walls of Velaris. In the beginning, he’d fought so hard to deserve her though she’d never asked him to. She wanted only him and knew he was unworthy of her, he always had been. It was exhausting - the mask. Constantly trying to hide from her that dark, sadistic side of him that was everything opposite of what she was.

She saw through it, of course. She always had. All she wanted was him, all of him. Begging him to show her beyond the good of him at surface level, she wanted all of his self-proclaimed bad too. She’d told him that dozens of times over the years but dropping that mask meant unpacking so much - so much more ugly than even he was prepared to reveal to himself.

At some point he began to resent her and he knew it wasn’t fair. He resented his perfect, pure, untainted mate. Wasn’t it ironic that she’d shown him everything beneath her own surface numerous times, unveiled that she herself was not the Angel he placed her on a pedestal as. She’d shown him everything and he still viewed her through that near-holy lense.

If only he could have put his stubbornness, his self-loathing aside and realized she would have done the same for him. It was too late for that now.

And now I'm without you, and it took distance to see that losing you, means losing everything

————

Something had been wrong for a while. He ignored it assuming that perhaps it was a mental blockade erected by a combination of fatigue and work tensions. He’d slowly distanced himself from his mate. He knew it hurt her, it hurt him too. His intentions were genuine, sparing her the pain of his own inner turmoil by distancing himself while he worked through it. He was simultaneously aware that he was a fucking bastard for doing so, she deserved an explanation but he couldn’t give it to her yet. He justified it as the lesser of two evils.

Unsurprisingly, the mating bond is a fickle thing. As he distanced himself, a chasm of emptiness opened within him that he’d desperately tried to fill with missions and various courtly duties. Training with the Valkyries helped, being there for Elain through her own struggles….

He took his duty to help her seriously, though it technically was not a duty even assigned to him. A distraction. It was a distraction. Ever the spymaster he spent their initial time together observing her, the things that brought a little bit of life back to those once bright eyes.

He’d sun his wings while she gardened and read across from her in the study, little things so she’d know she wasn’t alone. Eventually she began talking again. At first just a comment here or there but then there was communication, getting to know each other, small talk eventually becoming deeper topics. He learned of her resentment of the choice she felt was ripped from her, left with no time to mourn the loss of her mortal life or consider the implications on her relationship with Graysen because of it.

Not to mention the shock that one of the faces she blamed for being damned to the cauldron, one of the first faces she saw coming out of it was her mate and she was just supposed to accept it? Over time, Elain became a friend. A bright spot to the numbness created by the self-imposed gap between he and his mate. His mate….

It had taken some time to realize that he wasn’t feeling her through the bond, when was the last time he’d felt her? It was becoming fainter and fainter, more faint than it even should be with distance. He’d send feelings to her on occasion. A little spark of joy when he saw a lovely sunset or the moments when his desire for his mate heated his blood so thoroughly he had no choice but to excuse himself for relief by his hand.

He needed her to know he cared, he desired her, he loved her. A little time and space to collect everything he needed to bring to the surface, to give her all of him. He left her feeling like she wasn’t enough but she was everything. He just needed space.

Until she gave him space.

The devastation on her face the day she asked him to leave. Gods, damn him and the hurtful things he’d said. They’d be ingrained in his mind for the rest of his days along with the sound of her sobs as she fell apart before him. He’d done that to his mate. He was responsible for those tears. All because he’d been too selfish and prideful to share all of himself with her.

So, he left. She’d allowed him so much space, he could give her this.

I wish I could love you and make you believe it. It’s all you ever wanted from me

———-

The night with Elain

He couldn’t make it through dinner sober. Rhys insisted everyone get together at the River House for a friendly night of debauchery. Pouring himself a double shot of whiskey, he considered telling Cassian to send Rhys his regards and hole up in the house of wind for the remainder of the night. It was either, go to dinner and deal with all of the questions of “Where is y/n?” and “Why isn’t y/n here?” or deal with Cassian’s well-intentioned but annoying attempts of pressuring him into going, followed by a pout when he’d stand his ground on staying in, and then the inevitable intrusion from Rhys inquiring why he wouldn’t come to dinner.

He loved his chosen family dearly but they were busybodies through and through. All he wanted was to pass the time until he saw his mate tomorrow.

Begrudgingly he threw back his glass, poured another double, then headed to the River House.

Time moved slowly when all there was to do was dwell.

What had happened? He flew slowly to the River House. Going out of his way to circle far overhead of his true home, where his mate was. Was she waiting for him inside? Was she in town? Why couldn’t he feel her? Silence. Just as it had been for months. But the emotions he’d seen in her, they were so real. Shouldn’t they have sparked something in the bond?

As Azriel approached the River House he’d come to the conclusion that tonight he’d inform Elain he’d no longer be able to visit with her as he had been. He’d neglected his mate for far too long, this past week had given him the clarity needed to go home and give his mate his all. He could slowly open up to her, he could do it.

He just needed to make it through the night.

The night went by as usual. Good food, laughter, flowing liquor. He heavily indulged himself in the liquor anything to numb the impatience in waiting for tomorrow.

Feyre and Rhys sat closely together on a lounge, Feyre leaning into him, staring up at him like the stars in the sky.

Cassian and Nesta spent the entire time making bedroom eyes at one another, Cassian whispering dirty promises into Nesta’s ear that made even the queen of smut herself blush, Nesta taking any opportunity to brush her body against his in passing.

Gods, they were so in love it made him sick.

“Home.” He told himself.

“Soon.”

As the evening wound down, Cassian insisted everyone do shots to close out the evening. He was drunk enough that he stumbled carrying in the tray of shots and let out a battle cry of victory over the fact that he managed to not spill any of the liquor.

Azriel should have flown back to the House of Wind a while ago but he needed to talk to Elain.

Nuala and Cerridwen had been on duty with Nyx for the evening, compensated well to work overnight in case he awoke, giving Rhys and Feyre the now rare opportunity to go out to Rita’s. Mor, of course, drug Emerie along and went with them. Given that Amren would rather stick pins in her eyes than go out, she and Varian opted to go back to her place.

Azriel should have gone there, gone back to the River House, gone home and slept in the doorway until his mate let him in.

But he was so drunk. There was no way he was flying anywhere tonight.

Cassian and Nesta brought out a final round of shots. Elain winced, scrunching her nose as she threw it back. Azriel thought she’d be able to take her liquor better by now. Cassian and Nesta waggled their eyebrows suggestively at eachother before throwing theirs back. And damn, if Azriel didn’t wince when he took his shot too. That shit was awful. Had they drank through all of Rhysand’s good liquor? Did Cassian dig this out from the bottom shelf?

Once Cassian and Nesta left for the House of Wind, Azriel took the empty glasses to the kitchen, cleaning up a few of the remaining dishes throughout the seating area on the way. He barely made it into the kitchen before his head began spinning. That last shot had done him in. He couldn’t even remember the time last he’d been blackout drunk. Two centuries ago, maybe?

He still needed to find Elain.

The stairs felt longer and far less steady than usual, taking him more time than he cared to admit to make it up them. His hands felt tingly on the banister and damn, it was hot in the River House. No, he touched his face, flushed and hot to the touch. He was hot.

The tingling was simultaneously uncomfortable and pleasurable, spreading over his body with haste as he neared closer to Elain’s room.

He caught a glimpse of her and her scent hit him like a ton of bricks. Had she always smelled this good?

His breathing increased, nostrils flaring as he took in her scent and fuck - he was hard. It was too late to not say anything now as she stared at him expectantly. The stars in his vision cleared and all he could see was her, zeroed in on her fluttering pulse, those delicate features.

He needed to leave.

He just needed to - shit, what had he come here to say?

Azriel’s shadows whirled reminding him of his mate. His mate. He needed to go to his mate.

He needed to tell Elain something. He couldn’t think straight.

“Elain…”

And that was when she lunged at him.

Well is it too late, and are you too far to turn around and let me be

——————————

Elain

There was nothing the Cauldron loved more than Elain Archeron.

There was nothing the Cauldron hated more than Elain Archeron.

A thin line between the two, really.

She’d spend the rest of her life groveling for what conspired on that night. She never intended to sleep with him. She never, ever intended to hurt Y/N.

She remembered drinking more than usual.

She remembered Azriel finding her in the hallway.

She remembered a sudden rush of warmth, first from her chest, seeping outward through her extremities, low into her stomach and lower, lower.

She remembered Azriel having something important to tell her. She could feel nothing but heat. Her heart racing, breath becoming rapid.

Azriel’s pupils were blown wide, his nostrils flaring. Like every single sense was hyper aware of her state. His arousal wafted through the air, his irresistible cedar and chilled mist scent clinging to her like an expensive cologne.

They were so very intoxicated.

They couldn’t do this. If she’d been sober and unaffected by whatever was running through her veins, she would have left. Immediately.

She wasn’t one to wreck a home and Azriel loved his mate so, so much. The way he talked about her, it made Elain jealous. Not of them, not of her. Only jealous that Elain herself had struggled so hard to feel anything toward her own mate for so long. Lucien who played a role in her loss of humanity, Lucien who would do anything to make it up to her, Lucien who never meant for it to happen, who tried so hard to help her, to connect with her, who wanted nothing more than to love her. Lucien.

Then why was it Azriel? Azriel who was standing in front of her clearly affected by her, trying his damndest not to be. Why was she so drawn to him? A mated male.

Was she sweating? It was so hot. Her breasts ached and her blood thrummed through her veins so voraciously that she was certain she’d bleed out at any minute. And if Azriel could see beneath her gown right now, he’d see how tightly her thighs were squeezed together. How desperately she needed release and by the tightness in his pants - she knew he was in the same state.

“Elain…” Azriel spoke. His breath ragged.

And all it took was her name rolling off of his lips for her to close the distance. One kiss. She just needed one kiss to remind herself that this was wrong. To run the other way.

And it only took one kiss to remind her how much the cauldron loved her. How much it hated her.

The moment when she felt the mating bond snap between her and Azriel.

The alcohol, the liquor, the heat, the bond. A lethal combination leading to the biggest mistake of her life.

The night she’d fucked Azriel.

She could never let him know about the bond.

—————————-

Elain woke up with a brutal headache. She would have killed for some headache power. Her room was dark, shadows deepening the onyx black of night as slivers of moonlight lined the edges of her curtains. Still nighttime, then.

Her surroundings slowly came into focus, awareness sharpening as a soft sound caught her attention. Swiftly she turned her head to find Azriel asleep on the other side of her bed.

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no, no, no.

This couldn’t have happened.

What had she done?

She threw on her dress and tip-toed out of the room in a state of panic. She was a sensible female. She knew too well the pain of losing Graysen, a human male, not her spouse, not her mate. But still, his rejection had hurt like hell. Elain would never sleep with another woman- female’s mate. No.

She paced through the library, back and forth, back and forth, praying she didn’t wake anyone up. The walls were closing in on her. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be.

Oh gods.

And the mating bond. How?

Her chest was tight, she couldn’t catch a full breath. She needed out.

Before she could stop herself, Elain fled into the empty street with no destination in mind. Anywhere but here, anywhere but the bed where she’d likely obliterated a marriage. She’d certainly obliterated her dignity.

The starlight illuminated streets of Velaris were endless, winding through alleys and lanes. In her panicked state, Elain had no clue where her feet were taking her as she blindly followed her gut. It wasn’t until she was in front of the door that she realized her heart had made its choice. It knew exactly who to go to, she only prayed it wasn’t too late.

She took a shaky inhale and raised a hand to knock but the door flew open revealing a shirtless Lucien, his bare, muscled chest heaving. “I felt you coming.” He gasped. “Through the bond.”

—————-

Azriel

The sun’s rays illuminated the edge of the curtains. Azriel’s stomach was tight, nausea from the previous night’s alcohol overwhelming him. His bed felt colder than usual, more stiff.

He looked around to find that he’d never left the River House. He was…

He was in Elain’s room.

“Oh, fuck!” He sobbed to himself as the previous night came pouring back to him. Setting his face in his palms, he cried. What the fuck had he done?

Azriel bathed, desperately scrubbing Elain off of him. By the time he was through, his skin was an angry red. He snuck out of the River House, flying to a grassy knoll high above Velaris. The spot where he and Y/N had first made love, where the bond snapped, where he’d proposed. He shifted uncomfortably as he tried to get comfortable, the unease settling in. It was blasphemy to desecrate such a sacred spot with his shame.

“What do I do now?” He asked aloud, the only response the whipping of the wind around him. He didn’t understand what had overcome him. He’d never been so “effected” before, even in his drunkest moments. Once Elain’s lips met his, his brain had shut down, nothing else mattered but the feel of skin on skin. His body needed release and acted on pure primal instinct.

And now, he had a decision to make. He could go home and lay it all out, slightly easing the guilt of holding in his greatest sin while completely and utterly destroying his mate.

Or, he could go home. Show his mate all of the love that he had been withholding for too long now, sweep her off her feet, take care of her and start opening up. Give her his all, even the ugly parts that he kept so deeply hidden.

Gods, she’d given him so many chances and he’d let her down at every turn. There were no excuses for the way he had treated her.

All she’d ever wanted was him, all of him, including those sides he’d never wanted her to see.

Now he could only go home and love her. Love her with everything he had and pray she believed it.

———————-

6 months after Y/N left

Azriel looked in a hallway mirror on his way to Rhysand’s study. Dark circles hallowed out his under eyes. The drink he’d had prior to flying down here did nothing to numb the violent ache within his heart. Would it ever quell? Would this puncture wound ever heal?

It wouldn’t. And he didn’t know if he wanted it to. He was a bastard and deserved every ounce of this isolated misery. Trapped in a prison of his own making. The ache in his chest a constant reminder of the love he’d squandered. And for what? A meaningless night with a pretty female. Had he not had enough of those nights in his life?

Not that Elain would speak to him. Though she had apologized, countless times. It didn’t matter. As far as he was concerned, he was the only one to blame. Occasionally he’d catch Lucien’s assessing glare, an infuriating blend of contempt and pity etched into his features. Azriel didn’t know which he hated more, he didn’t deserve pity.

Azriel’s skin had sallowed. Had he ever been this pale before? And the bargain tattoo on his arm. Fuck, he hated it. After his third attempt to infiltrate the Summer Court, Rhysand gave Azriel the option of a cell in the Hewn City or a bargain.

Ironically the bargain served as a prison of its own. He was not allowed to go anywhere near the Summer Court or communicate with Y/N in any way. The only method of communication he was able to find a loophole with was the tugs on the bond. He’d pull and pull, nothing.

If only he could try to explain, apologize, anything.

Breaking his gaze from the shell of a male in the mirror, Azriel stepped toward the study.

Cassian’s booming laugh barreled through the cracked open door.

“Trust me, Feyre will love it. I’m sure you guys could use a little spark at the end of the day. You’ll be rolling in the sheets all night.”

Rhys only chuckled.

Cassian continued, “Tastes nasty as hell though. Here’s an extra vial, just in case. The first time Nes and I tried it, it didn’t work. Not sure why.”

Azriel let out a huff, stepping into the study. Cassian and Rhys ceasing their conversation in his presence. They’d been painstakingly obvious in not talking about their mates or anything relationship related in front of him since his mate had left. He refused to speak to anyone about why she left, too embarrassed to admit to this bed of his own making. They knew it was his fault and that was all that mattered.

Azriel scowled. “You don’t have to stop talking about your mates just because I’m around.”

Cassian awkwardly raised his arm, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry brother. We just don’t want to make things harder for you than they have been.”

“Considerate.” Azriel sneered, jerking his head toward the vials. “What are those anyway?”

Cassian smirked, “Oh, just some aphrodisiac potions from a new apothecary in Velaris. Really powerful shit. Nes and I-“ Rhys elbowed Cassian. A warning to not take the conversation too far. They could talk of their happy relationships without absolutely rubbing Azriel’s face in it.

Cassian quieted for a moment before continuing. “It tastes gods awful but the payoff is totally worth it. Remember those shots we took after everyone left dinner several months ago? We mixed it into Nes and I’s glasses and didn’t notice the taste. Didn’t work either though. Must’ve been a dud. Lady at the shop gave us a replacement vial the next time we were in and…. well, let’s just say we keep it in stock at the House of Wind now.”

Azriel went preternaturally still. His shadows growing angry as he ground out, “The night you two did a parting shot with me and Elain?”

“Uh…… yeah?” Cassian replied.

And before Cassian could realize what he’d done, Azriel pummeled him. Hauling him out the study doors and onto the lawn, not even making it to the sparring ring before his fists met Cassian’s face - the two Illyrians disappearing into a frenzy of fists and feet and glowing siphons.

The only sound over the impact of their hits and feral growls was Cassian’s confused, booming voice. “What the FUCK, Az!?”

————————————————

A/N: I am sorry for giving you an entire chapter of Azriel and Elain content but I will make it up to you with fluffy Eris and reader content in the next chapter!!!

@going-through-shit @kalulakunundrum @lisanna2000 @fxckmiup @sheblogs @emryb @one-big-fangirl @historygeekqueen @isa1b2h3 @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @theravenphoenix26 @sidthedollface2 @i-am-infinite @caraaaaugh @evergreenlark @darkbloodsly @piceous21 @anxious-study @chessebookgirl @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @crazylokonugget @mysticalfuncollectorus @starsinyourseyes @b0xerdancer-writes @inloveallthetime

#sarah j maas #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #azriel #a court of silver flames #a court of frost and starlight #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #eventual Eris x reader #Elain #Cassian #Nesta #nessian #acotar x hunter hayes #inspired by a Hunter hayes song #all you ever #rainy season

[trashywritestrash]

Short and Sweet

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Word Count: 853

Warnings: Best friend’s brother— is that a warning? This is just a short lil thing for Valentine’s Day

A/N: The poem and response in this came from Thomas Richardson’s “Gentleman’s Valentine Writer” which wasn’t actually published until 1828 but I needed ideas, okay? Also, I wrote this when Bridgerton was still the lead in the poll lol

Living beside the Bridgerton household had many advantages. Being close in age to Daphne gave you the perfect excuse to spend time with her. However, spending time with Daphne meant also spending time with the rest of her family, which allowed you to form a close bond with them all. One Bridgerton in particular being Benedict.

Benedict was a few years older than you, but within a perfectly reasonable range that made it acceptable for you to fancy him. How could you not? He was sweet and sensitive, but he had a playful side that brought joy any time you were fortunate enough to witness it. Although, you never dared to dream that Benedict might return your affections. You were the best friend of his younger sister, surely he would not think of you in that way.

Initially, you had been excited to be presented before the queen and sent out into society. But while Daphne had been deemed the season's incomparable, you had fallen into her shadow. You were happy to see your friend receive many visitors and gifts, but some days it would hurt to see a line of men outside her door while you waited in an empty sitting room.

Waking on Valentine's Day brought nothing but sorrow. It was only one month into the social season and you already felt that you were destined to become an old spinster. With no prospective husbands in sight, you would likely have to face a second season. You did not expect that you would receive any callers that day, yet you waited in your sitting room in a fine dress, as you did every other day. Your mother sat in a chair at the far end of the room, leisurely reading until something would happen.

Early into the day, your butler entered the room with a calling card in hand, "A Mister Bridgerton is here to call upon Miss Y/L/N."

"Send him in," You replied, feeling your chest constrict. It was possible that one of Daphne's brothers had come to pass along a message for her, but a gentleman visiting while you were accepting callers still brought you a shred of hope.

Moments later, you saw Benedict step through the doorway, holding something behind his back. He smiled, "I see I have gotten here before the rest."

You returned his smile, nervous, yet calmed by his presence. "I think you will find that the gentlemen are coming to your door today, not mine."

"Then they are fools and I am lucky to have you all to myself."

"What can I do for you, Benedict? I find it hard to believe you would be here as a suitor." You spoke the words in jest, but felt your throat tighten as you said them all the same.

Benedict's smile fell into confusion, "What is so hard to believe about that?"

Taken aback by the genuine confusion in his tone, you clarified, "I only mean to say that I would not have expected it."

"If that is the case, I hope that you find this to be a good surprise," For just a moment, you heard a bit of nerves in his voice as he tried to present a confident image. "Unfortunately, I cannot stay long. But I wanted to bring you these and to officially declare my affection."

Finally, Benedict moved the hand behind his back to reveal a beautiful bouquet of morning glory and myrtle. You smiled wide at the sight, "Thank you, Benedict. They're lovely."

Shortly after, Benedict had to take his leave, although he promised to come back the following day. Once he had left, you reached for a book on the language of flowers. You found that morning glories are used to represent affection, meanwhile myrtle is used to represent love and marriage. Learning that brought a blush to your cheeks, finding the meaning to be a little bold, but not unpleasant.

It was then that you noticed a small folded piece of parchment beside the flowers. When you unfolded the paper, you could see the painted design done in watercolors. A man and a woman stood beneath a tree, which was situated between a lovely cottage and a church. The image was small, but you could tell that the couple was you and Benedict. On the other side of the parchment was a simple note.

I boast not eloquence, dear Miss, Nor do I write exceedingly fine; Therefore, I bluntly ask you this-- Pray, will you be my Valentine?

As you looked down at the note, you felt your heart swell. You held it close to your chest, feeling as if you could burst from happiness at any moment. Your mother then looked up from her book. "What is that, dear?"

"It is nothing!" You responded quickly. Luckily, your mother did not push the issue further.

That night, you folded the note once more and placed it in the drawer of the nightstand beside your bed. As you attempted to fall asleep, all you could think of was that you could not wait to see Benedict again.

----------

Want more fanfic? Check out my masterlist!

If you enjoyed this, please consider liking, reblogging, or tipping my Ko-Fi!

#nel writes #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton fanfic #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton fanfic

[hunterrrs]

photos from here, I NEED FOOTAGE OF THIS. also this article is a great read. he’s invited some families who lost their homes in the halifax fires to practice:

By the time you read this, Pittsburgh Penguins players will have munched on the pudding known as haggis, made from the livers, hearts and lungs of sheep. And learned how to shuck oysters, in all their slimy, gooey glory.

All courtesy of Sidney Crosby, the Pittsburgh captain, who brought team building to an entirely new level on Saturday. From the moment months ago that he learned the Penguins would be playing here, Crosby was stoked. A proud native of Cole Harbour, 10 miles from Halifax, the 36-year-old began planning out his transformation from NHL star to tour guide.

“I think just the feel of it, the people, and to see the excitement for the game,” Crosby said Friday. “And just to get around the city a little bit, those types of things.

“It’s somewhere that I’m really proud of, and I hope everyone enjoys themselves there.”

In order to do that, he set something up with a unique Maritime flavor. Welcome to “The Amazing Race: Crosby Edition.”

“When Sidney found out the team was coming here, he wanted to find a fun way to celebrate his hometown with his teammates and educate them on why it’s such a special place,” his father, Troy, said.

He seems to have done exactly that.

After a morning of golf Saturday, the unsuspecting Penguins set out on an “Amazing Race”-like scavenger-hunt competition that would take them through the streets of Cole Harbour, Dartmouth and downtown Halifax, and across Halifax Harbour on a ferry.

Under the format, the players were divided into teams. They were given instructions of where to go, what venues to visit and what tasks they were to do (e.g., eating haggis, shucking oysters), all while going up against the clock.

The instructions came on laminated cards featuring the Penguins logo and a “Welcome to Cole Harbour” greeting.

The message on one of the cards read, “Every player has to shuck two oysters and eat them or have a teammate eat them on their behalf. Careful with that knife, and don’t break any shells!”

Crosby enlisted the help of Paul Mason, one of his baseball and minor hockey coaches, to help plan the event. Mason was paramount in setting up the three Cole Harbour Stanley Cup celebrations in Crosby’s honor, and No. 87 didn’t hesitate when it came to the perfect person to set up this event.

“In organizing this, when he talked to me about it, he wants this entire weekend to be pretty special for the community, for his teammates, for everyone around him,” Mason said. “You can sense how much these few days mean to him. You could sense his anticipation for months.”

Mason said that even though Crosby is the host for his teammates this weekend, he’s going to try to win everything: golf, the scavenger hunt, the preseason game Monday, you name it.

“He’s competitive at everything, even as a little kid when I was coaching him,” Mason said. “And that hasn’t changed.

“When the NHL was shut down during COVID, his dad Troy and I played Sidney and one of his friends in a golf match. They should have won, but somehow we did. He didn’t accept that. He said it was two out of three. When we won the second one he said it was three out of five. We ended up playing seven of them. The seventh one was in December with snow on the ground. They won that one to take the series 4-3. Suddenly that was acceptable because they’d won.

“Once they’d finally won, it was over,” Mason said with a laugh.

During some of those summers, Greenwood has helped organize some of the offseason skates featuring Crosby, MacKinnon and Marchand at a local arena. The competitiveness gets intense at times, something Greenwood said helps all three drive each other.

“Yeah, they’re friends,” he said. “But when they start playing against each other at times, you’d never know it. They want to beat one another at any and all costs.

“You can see how that drive, that determination, that win-at-all-costs attitude rubs off on some of the younger guys.”

Count Drake Batherson as one of them. The 25-year-old Senators forward grew up in New Minas, 50 miles northwest of Halifax, and has been training during the offseason with Crosby, Marchand and MacKinnon since 2019. He calls those workouts “one of my favorite times of the year.”

As such, he’s looking forward to facing Crosby and the Penguins in Halifax on Monday.

“I've still got posters of the Penguins and Sid on my wall at my parents' house, so it's pretty fun now that me and Sid have built a relationship and we're buddies," Batherson said. "It's pretty cool looking back on it.”

It was a tough spring and summer for Nova Scotia.

In late May and early June, wildfires raged through the outskirts of Halifax and throughout the province. More than 16,000 people were forced to evacuate as a result, many eventually returning to find their homes were nothing more than heaps of smoldering ashes.

Less than two months later, the area was hit with record rainfall that caused historic flooding. Water did seep into Crosby’s home, though to nowhere near the extent of some others where people pretty much lost everything.

“The area has been through a lot,” he said. “But the great thing about some of these communities, and the area in general, is that everyone sticks together and everyone’s willing to help each other.

“I think when you’ve seen adverse times here over the years, you’ve seen people come together more and more. And I think we take a lot of pride in that here. The fact that people know they can depend on each other is huge. I think we’ve shown that time and time again, and there’s pride that comes with that.”

Crosby is doing his part to teach local kids exactly that.

On Sunday, the Penguins will hold a practice at Cole Harbour Place. Hundreds of children from the local minor hockey systems have been invited to attend and take part in a Q&A session with some Pittsburgh players and, with a select few kids getting to go on the ice with them.

Part of that group will be kids from minor hockey whose families lost their homes in the fires. Crosby specifically wanted them to attend, with Mason helping to make it happen. Given the trauma they and their families have gone through, it is Crosby’s way of trying to brighten up their lives, even if it’s just for one afternoon.

“That’s Sid, right?” Greenwood said. “He’s going to have an impact on these kids, both on the ice and off.”

He already has.

In 2009, Crosby established the Sidney Crosby Foundation, an organization that improves the lives of children who are sick or struggling. More recently, Crosby and several foundation board members created Nova Scotia Showdown T-shirts heading into the game Monday, with proceeds going to his foundation.

“He’s helping young kids who are going through hard times, and he’s being a role model for young hockey players in the province,” Mason said. “He’s going out of his way to show his Penguins a good time here, and he’s being a great ambassador for the community.”

Greenwood agrees.

“It’s a privilege,” he said, “to say you live in the same place as someone like that.”

#he is soooooooo #sidney crosby #pittsburgh penguins #nathan mackinnon #colorado avalanche #drake batherson #ottawa senators #ryan graves #po joseph #kris letang

[circeyoru]

I firmly believe that Lucifer thinks reader (unwanted soul) as either his kid or younger sibling by how he threatened Alastor if he hurts them. Also I find it cute if Lucifer makes reader an unlimited page book since he's worried if they got into a too heated battle they won't notice their pages are thinning. I mean if he can make fantastic rubber ducks with amazing abilities, I'm sure he can somehow make an unlimited notepad for reader to use. Or at least he gives reader a new welcome to the hotel gift, and because he hasn't seen them in a while

Also I wanted to add to the if alastor got into heaven version where he's dead and got redeemed. Reader would isolate themselves so much so that Lucifer visits once a week to check them. And when extermination day hits again (if it happens again), Lucifer would force reader to reside in the hotel for their well-being. That's where they meet Alastor in his all angel-looking feature glory. He probably checked on their old house first, when he didn't find them he definitely raged killed some demons on the way. But he still feels some sort of connection that lead him to the hotel where he finally found reader.

(Can you tell how obsessed I'm with this series)

Go to MASTERLIST for the works. This ask is for {Unwanted Souls}.

Ohh, I wonder if you're making Reader too op.

Part 1: Reader's/your gift from Lucifer

Instead of focusing on the book or notebook, let me direct your attention elsewhere. Ever thought about the quill? If you know how a feathered quill looks, you'll get what I mean. A quill essentially needs to be dipped in a jar of ink to write. Did I ever mention Reader/you carrying one or even using one? No. Never was 'ink' even mentioned in the story or the trivia (asks). Because that quill was a gift from Lucifer. A quill created by Lucifer and gifted to you. It's enchanted to be writable without ink and on any surface, with a camouflage mode to suit your preference, last feature is that only you can use it. Why Lucifer gave you a quill is because he knows you don't have to use pages as your surface to do crazy things (summoning weapons and casting spells). You can write on a wall, blow on it and it disappears to do what you wrote. That includes writing on the skin of a demon. If you read the demon design, you'll know what I mean. The writing on pages part was just a handicap you gave yourself and it was convenient for you to carry around a book or even a small pad to write with. Plus, you don't like attention, so you use a book with limits. You know you'll go overboard when your emotions rule over you, so you limit yourself.

Part 2: Yandere Redeemed Exterminator Leader!Alastor (what a long title for him)

For context, check this ask.

You do isolate yourself to the point it is concerning. Because you don't ask for help and you did when you asked Lucifer if he could provide you with new quarters that was far from where you were or the hotel. So many reminders of Alastor around you, you can't take it.

Seeing you in such despair, Lucifer shared with you that the souls in Heaven were granted the gift of forgetting when they entered the golden gates. You got the idea of forgetting the years spent with Alastor, from the point you saved him to the point you rage-killed for him. Lucifer advised you not to, but you were persistent in your plan. You returned back to the old place, scrolling around to make sure nothing was amiss and took in the final sorrow of nostalgia. Then you wrote down your command on your skin, you watched the words sink in and then everything went black.

Here, you were back to normal, save for Lucifer being the only one (again) who knew what happened to you. Not sure if exterminations continue (since no season 2 yet), but say that it does but further apart as a compromise for Charlie to save more souls. Lucifer visits you, but only to check and see if your memories came back, when they didn't for a long while, he didn't come as often.

When Alastor came down to Hell, he went to your apartment first thing. It was extermination day, so you were definitely there. You were sleeping through the day until your charms alerted you that there was someone in your apartment. You summoned a dagger made of angelic steel, creeping to the living room.

The moment you saw the pair of white wings, you ambushed and knocked Alastor down to the ground. You kneel on top of him to keep him down, the blade at his neck. "I'll give you a chance to leave and your head won't go rolling on my floor. You can fly back to your precious paradise and I'll let you."

Alastor's head turned to face you, a complete 180 without trouble, his smile softened as he praised, "My darling, you're beautiful."

"What?"

"Why would I want to leave you? I've done so much to come back to you. I'll never leave you, dear. If you want, I can give you my wings to make up for my absence."

Your face twisted to confusion and disgust. "What? Who are you?"

Alastor's eyes searched your face, his eyes scanned around, some things and items were missing. His signature red that would be mixed into your apartment. It was all gone. Just as he lost his memory, yours was somehow gone as well. "I'm.. Alastor. Don't you remember me, My Doe?"

#Circe's Nighty Writings #alastor imagine #alastor x reader #alastor x y/n #alastor x you #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor headcanons #hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor #hazbin hotel oneshots #yandere alastor #yandere alastor x reader #yandere hazbin hotel #alastor fanfiction #hazbin hotel imagines #Unwanted Soul

[go6jo]

personally suguru is very no shirt + plaid pajama pants to me idk. when hes out of the shower and his towel is around his neck and his hair is damp and spilling down his shoulders and back, still a little clumpy when he squeezes it with his towel, his pajama pants low on his hips... then he gives u a little smile like ":) fancy seeing you here" when he runs into u post-shower at the common area by the dorms (he forgot his claw clip there) (but not really bc satoru told him you'd be studying late there so he came anyway)

( — soda bottle anon )

and he'd look so good, too. suguru is confident in his body, all sharp edges and well defined lines as if he were carved directly from stone, a statue of mars, the god of war himself, owning the scars on his chest and showing his chiseled muscles from years spent practicing and, consequently, exceeding at the martial arts, a self-made master of combat. the water droplets get caught in every crevice of his body, lingering on the dip of his collarbones then tracing a path down to his toned abdomen, slowing down as they outline every curve of his abs, down his v-line and hipbones.

anyone who looked at him right now, leaning against the doorway would've been enthralled by the sight, a godlike figure standing upright in all of his glory - mars, the god of war but also virility and sex. anyone would've readily fallen at his knees, eager to worship him but you barely even spare him a glance as you mumble a quiet hello with your nose still stuck in between the pages of your textbook.

suguru is hardly upset by your distractedness, or the lack thereof, he hadn't expected you to fall for such a cheap trick, he knows you, knows you're better than to care for such superficialities. you barely so much as bat an eye when you're both sat on the couch on movie night and he lifts his shirt over his head to tug it off of him when he mumbles something about how you're room feels like a furnace in the summer. and you show absolutely no inhibitions when the shirt he's wearing during practice is doing an awful job at concealing his body underneath it as it clings to his sweaty torso like a second skin, he tells you to not hold back and you don't. he thinks you always look entirely too tempting, chest heaving in the aftermath of your little rendezvouz, beads of sweat falling down your body and little pants escaping your parted lips. and it's all his doing. he does, however, feel your damp skin grow hotter when he slings an innocent arm over your shoulder, singing words of praise about how proud he is of you. and he means it. everytime. he thinks it's alluring really, how much more confident you've grown with each practice. you're strong and stubborn and there's always a smug smile that forces it's way to his face when you've got him with his back against the ground, looking down at him with a glare akin to that of a predator, as if you're about to devour him. he wouldn't mind it if you did. he feels you shiver under his touch when he brings your feet to rest over his lap, your body splayed out on the couch as he kneads on the sore muscles of your legs, soothing any pains you might've had, lifting both of your legs up to his lips, one at a time, to press a feather-light kiss to your slightly scraped knees. he knows what gets you going, knows the way to your heart is though lingering touches and attentive gestures, quiet words who are meant just for you whispered to your ear.

so, instead, suguru walks up to you, drying his hair on the towel wrapped around his neck and stopping once he finds himself standing behind the chair that you're sitting on, his body hovering over yours as he peeks above your head into the book you're reading "anything i can help with?"

you tilt your head backwards to stare up at him, eyes meeting his at last. “if anything, i think you might be more of a distraction when you’re dressed like that” and he would've thought that he might've had some effect on you if it weren't for the chaste smile that you cast him, not a hint of provocation in your voice either, just a light hearted joke.

he inches closer to you, reaching an arm over your shoulder to trace his index finger under the many words written on the page, eyes scanning over each paragraph as his other hand holds his hair up to prevent any water from getting on your book. he squints his eyes a little to focus on the tiny letters on the paper and you remain staring at him, a fond smile on your face as he looks so adamant on understanding the subject you're reading on. your cheeks grow warmer at how he's behaving so casually within such close proximity, as if being this close to you just feels right, familiar even. though you're just friends, intimacy comes so naturally to both of you, you should've been accustomed to it by now but everything always feels new with him, exciting.

and when his eyes shift to meet yours with a smile, you shouldn't feel the way you do, not towards a friend, anyway.

"have you, by any chance, seen my hair clip laying around somewhere" the pads of his thumbs sooth over the darkening skin under your eyes and you close your lids at the tenderness of his touch.

"oh-" you take a moment to think and your eyes widen in realization as you look down again to show him the claw clip that has been keeping your hair in place this entire time. "you can take it"

but he just pats your head once, beckoning you to lift it up "its alright." he retreats and the comforting smell of honey and star anise starts to fade away the further away he goes. your shoulders sulk instantly. “you can drop by my room when you no longer need it.”

and you're not immune to the way his voice deepens ever so slightly, his words strangely seductive as they leave his lips, body growing warmer at the prospect of what those words could've meant were you two in a different situation. you're also not entirely indifferent to the way the muscles of his back stretch under the layer of his pale, delicate yet tough skin as he finishes drying his air with a towel. you wonder what his muscles would feel like under your hands as you smooth them down his back, you imagine he would shiver when the tips of your finger brush against a sensitive spot then he'd let out the quietest of moans as you massage the soreness away. you want to feel him under you. feel his every dip, every ridge on his body. but you think that's too much to ask of a friend, you dwell on the thought that, if you were lucky enough, later tonight, when you meet him at least, you'll get to indulge in sight of him a little more.

#i love u. i was screaming into my pillow when i read your ask. #also him as ares/mars EXACTLYYYYY OP YOU'RE SO RIGHT. me when love and sex and agression are so hardly discernible !!!!!!!!!!!!!! #geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #getou x reader #geto fluff #geto x you #.mine #geto

[doctorsiren]

blessed is the food that you have given us of chubby Phoenix on this fine evening.. he is mouthwatering, appetizing, tasty, flavorful, delectable, succulent, luscious, savory, piquant, scrumptious, yummy, yum-yum, peng, finger-licking good, nummy, flavorous, sapid, delightful, exquisite, lovely, glorious, heavenly, divine, enticing, majestic, ethereal, elegant, attractive, handsome, dashing, dazzling, gorgeous, lovely, magnificent, fair, pretty, wonderful, beautiful, pleasing, graceful, aesthetically, alluring, charming, delicacy, extraordinary, splendid, flawless, delicate, sweetness, glamorous, radiant, striking, photogenic, snazzy, appealing, pretty, angelic, excellent, superb, fine, fascinating, marvelous, ravishing, bewitching, and a distinguished gentleman in your style.. literally so ba-da-ba-pa-ba

oh my god you are literally saving us from the dreading hunger that we suffer from each day, every waking hour that I personally see of buff, skinny, whatever Phoenix (THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING WRONG WITH IT BY THE WAY.), by now I have grown immensely numb to seeing Phoenix drawn as such but then here you come in full glory of shining light with chubby Phoenix and I forever and ever thank you

..the words I used to describe it are synonyms of delicious and good looking by the way so you don’t have to read all of that :3c

I’m glad! Allow me to use this post to talk about some headcanons I have

So Phoenix has ADHD. Feenie was unmedicated until after the whole thing with Dahlia. Once he turned his attention to studying law and doing law school, he got a prescription to help him focus his energy and mind.

AA1-3 Phoenix took the medication.

He stopped taking them during the 7 year gap because he didn’t really need them and also he needed to use that money to take care of his newly adopted daughter (which is one of the factors of his weight gain bc he’s no longer taking medication that has an appetite suppressant side effect). Also, he would work out as well, so the extra weight is both fat and muscle. Working out was one of the things that helped him get over his alcoholism that he fell into after his disbarment.

After AA4, he started taking medication again (as well as biking around a lot like he used to, so he lost some weight but bc he’s already 34/35, his metabolism slowed so he kept part of it). He kept working out because it was already a part of his routine now and he found it to be a great stress reliever. Also, he got a nicely tailored suit (paid for by Miles 💖), which works well with the dad bod he has now :)

Based on the original sprites, he’s got broad shoulders, and based on the fact that he bikes a lot, he’s got strong legs :3

#doctorsiren #ace attorney #phoenix wright #beanix #ace attorney fanart #art #digital art #my art #fanart #procreate #headcanon #I’ve been medicated for ADHD since 2015 #so I’m projecting 😊 of course hehe #also THAT ASK IS SO SILLY HAHHA /POS #I think that’s everything #I mean I have more but I think that’s all the relevant stuff lmao

[bookyeom]

A/N: Happy New Year, @seungkw1 ! This one’s for you (and for me, let’s be real).

Also, see: Seungkwan’s ‘fit in the live he did with Soobin to get where I was coming from with this. Help.

Snapshoot

Pairing: Seungkwan x Reader Genre: friends to lovers (can’t stop, won’t stop…) Rating: PG (kissing, a single swear maybe) Word Count: 1.8k Warnings: kissing, poor studying habits

You really should be studying.

It’s not your fault you’re distracted, though, not when Seungkwan looks like that.

He’s sitting beside you in the private library room you booked for the two of you, hard at work on his essay that’s due in two days. You should be hard at work yourself, but…

He currently looks like that. 

Hair messy from running his fingers through it, reading glasses perched on his nose, wearing his favourite hoodie. A pen resting against his lips as he thinks.

You aren’t sure what prompts you to do it, but soon your phone is in your hands and you’re taking a candid shot. And when you pull up the photo from your ‘recently taken’ album and onto your phone screen, you find it impossible to look away. 

He looks so… soft. Cute. Warm. Cosy. 

Your eyes move between the picture and the boy beside you, your entire body filled with a fuzzy sort of warmth at the sight before you.

You’ve seen him like this before, sure. He’s your kind-hearted, sarcastic, brilliant friend, and so you've been blessed to see him in all sorts of ways. You’ve seen him on early mornings and through late nights, you’ve seen him drunk out of his mind and performing karaoke as all of the Wonder Girls, you’ve seen him before and after coffee, and before and after shitty exams. Studying together is nothing new, either. You’ve seen him in all of his ways, so of course you’ve seen him looking like this — like the perfect boyfriend. You’ve never dared try and capture it anywhere other than in your mind, though, and now that you have it in concrete form, you aren’t sure what to do with it.

You have a lot of pictures of him. There’s a mix in your phone’s photo album of Seungkwan in all his glory: some of him caught completely off guard, some blurry ones where he’d shot a hand out to try and stop you from taking the picture, some of him laughing so hard his cheeks are flushed a pretty pink. To his dismay, you always joke that you’ll use the funny ones for blackmail one day, but he never actually makes you delete them. You cherish those. 

There are also some photos in your phone where he looks like everything you’ve ever wanted — ones where he looks so breathtaking that it hurts. This one you just took is quickly being filed into that same mental folder. It has to be your new favourite, and you’re sure it’s going to be your favourite for a long time to come. And as you continue to stare down at the photo, your eyes tracing over his features, you can’t help but smile down at it.

“Hello? Earth to Y/N.”

Your phone is suddenly being snatched from your hands, and your eyes snap up to meet Seungkwan’s gaze. He raises his eyebrows, your phone dangling between the two of you in his hand, and you resist the urge to grab it like a feral cat.

“What?” You ask, trying to sound nonchalant even though you’re freaking out. Your gaze stays locked on your phone as he holds it up in the air, your eyes following it like a hawk.

“I asked what you were smiling at,” he says. “You were zoning out.” 

“Oh, nothing, it’s just—“

You know it’s coming, but it still has you frozen when he inevitably glances at your screen. You watch in horror as his eyebrows raise, he blinks, and then he’s handing you your phone back wordlessly. It remains silent for a minute or two before he speaks again.

“Why were you smiling at a picture of me?”

You’re trapped — there’s no way out now. How are you possibly supposed to answer that? Because you’re the cutest boy I’ve ever seen? 

“It’s a good picture,” you finally manage, trying desperately to keep your voice steady. 

“It’s not that good.” 

His comment comes out much less teasing than you’d expected. You really thought you were in for it. He sounds a lot more serious, and your gaze finds him again in surprise. He’s looking at his computer, but you can tell he’s not really taking in any of the information as he crosses his arms and sits back in his chair. He adjusts his glasses on his nose, and you can hardly breathe. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been more embarrassed in your life.

“Jeonghan said you like me,” he finally says, and you suddenly want to sink into the floor. 

“Oh.”

He shrugs. “It would be cool if you did.”

“It would be… cool?” You think you probably sound slightly deranged, your voice at least two octaves higher than usual, but you barely register it. 

“Yeah.” He shrugs again, and you can only dream of having even an ounce of his nonchalance. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“You wouldn’t mind.” You have to be hallucinating. He’s just stated that he knows you have a crush on him, and he’s saying it’s cool? That’s almost worse than him rejecting you outright. Worse than him ignoring you forever and —

“As long as you don’t mind that I like you too.” 

You gape. You actually gape, mouth open like a fish as you process. His eyes meet yours, signature smirk on his lips as he takes in your expression.

“Does that really surprise you?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Well, it’s true,” he says, smiling amusedly over at you for a moment before he turns back to his computer. You watch in disbelief as he resumes his work as though nothing had happened. 

“Are you seriously working again right now?”

Seungkwan nods, eyes moving between his notes and his laptop. “I just need to finish this before we can make out, alright?”

The words coming out of his mouth send a shock straight to your system. Since when is he so fucking smooth?

“Yeah, I’ve been waiting for months,” you finally say sarcastically, slumping back into your chair. “Another hour won’t make any difference.” Your tone is dry, and you can feel him look over at you. You suddenly realize what you’ve just revealed, and your eyes squeeze shut. You're expecting him to tease you again but instead, his response comes out filled with confusion.

“Months?”

You freeze. “Hm?”

“Did you say months?”

“…Maybe.”

“How many months?”

You feel your face flush, and your hands lift to cover your eyes, voice muffled when you respond. “Since September, I guess?”

Pause. “Since we met?” 

You let out a groan. Now he’s teasing you. “Leave me alone.”

You can hear the smile on his face. “Cute.”

You’re about to cross your arms and let out a childish huff when you’re jolted by the sound of Seungkwan’s chair scraping across the floor, your eyes shooting open. He stands up, moving his chair closer to yours before sitting down again, and the sudden close proximity has you reeling. Then he moves to rest his hand on your thigh.

“Hold my hand?”

The question is soft, quiet, but you hear it. Seungkwan’s eyes search yours, a smile on his lips, and he raises his eyebrows. His palm remains face up on your leg, and you take a deep breath before shyly moving to rest your hand in his. His fingers curl into yours immediately, and then — he’s back to work. 

Since when has Seungkwan ever been this chill? About anything?

“Stop looking at me,” he speaks up again after a moment, eyes still on his paper, and you shake your head.

“I can’t.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you for the first time since he’d taken your hand, and you can feel yourself flush even more. 

“You can’t what?”

“Stop looking at you.”

You watch as he chews on his bottom lip. You wait, recognizing his silence as thoughtful, and hold your breath.

“Why, though?”

You furrow your eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Are you not bored?” His eyes meet yours again, and you blink in confusion.

His hand is still firm in yours, and you’re silent for a moment before replying honestly, “Trust me, I’ve looked at you quite a few times since I met you, and I’ve never once wanted to look away.”

He searches your eyes, and you can see the surprise that flashes through them. You feel tremendously shy under his gaze, beautiful brown eyes peering at you from behind his study glasses, and you can’t hold strong for much longer. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes fall to the floor.

“Hey,” Seungkwan says, squeezing your hand. “You just said you liked looking at me.” His tone is definitely teasing now.

“I just changed my mind. It’s not as easy when I know you’ll be looking back.”

You can practically feel him smiling. “Come on. Look at me, please?”

You brace yourself before doing what he asks. He smiles when you do, and your breath catches. His gaze is so fond, and you’re about to ask him why when he closes the rest of the distance, his mouth finding yours with ease. You let out a soft, surprised gasp against his lips, eyes immediately falling shut as you melt into him.

“I’m sorry for making you wait,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low. 

“Today, or for the last 6 months?” You manage when he pulls back just slightly, cursing the way you’re already breathless just from one kiss. He smiles at your question, his eyes hooded, but he doesn’t offer any verbal response. He simply kisses you again, and every single remaining thought leaves your mind. 

He kisses you one more time before settling back into his seat, turning back to his computer. His hand stays on your thigh, and you think you must look like the loading screen of a computer as you try and register what’s happening.

“You know I do it a lot, too, right?”

You tilt your head as his voice breaks you out of your daze. “Hm? Do what?”

“Look at you.”

You feel your cheeks flush. “Oh.”

“You’re very nice to look at, you know.” 

You have to be beet red by now. For claiming to not be the overly romantic type, he sure is doing a great job. 

“Seungkwan-“

“I’m doing this one more time and then I really, really have to finish this paper.”

You’re about to speak again, to ask more questions, when he pulls you in by your joined hands and kisses you again firmly. This time, his free hand finds your face, his mouth pressed to yours with intent. You let out another involuntary sigh, feeling terribly satisfied when he hums back against your lips.

He pulls back abruptly before letting out a breathy laugh. “You’re done with your work, right? You really might have to leave for the sake of my grades.”

You can’t help but pout. “Rude.”

He grins at that. “I’ll come over to your place as soon as I’m done.”

A/N: please please please reblog if you liked! it’s what us writers rely on :) 

TAGLIST: @gyuminusone @minisugakoobies @starsstuddedsky@hopeinthebox @tae-bebe @eoieopda @savventeen @wqnwoos

Message me if you want to be added to the permanent taglist!

#Seungkwan x reader #seungkwan fluff #Seungkwan f2l #Seungkwan imagine #Seventeen imagine #seventeen x you #seventeen x reader #my writing #bskficrecs #Bskfic

[mtkay13]

The one and only Qi Ye trio!

Details on the painting, meta and more below!

So this piece is actually a "remake" of a much older drawing that I made right after I had finished reading Qi Ye:

First, I want to elaborate on the drawing itself. I usually don't like to detail the symbolism and ideas that I put in my art, simply because I don't want to impose a reading and I'd rather everyone gets their own; but following some discussions I have decided to do so for this one.

The main theme of this illustration is glory, power, and the ascention towards it. The principal symbol of it is, of course, the stairs going up. I used light, directly, colours and positioning to signify each character's relationship to those themes.

Helian Yi is the one in the light, ascending upwards, in red clothing. Helian Yi's power, as future emperor, is in the light, visible, going towards the heavens as the son of heaven himself--to enact his heavenly duty. Part of his face is in the shadows, and his being casts a broad shadow behind him for, of course, a lot has to happen in the shadows for him to reach the throne. He's looking behind as his ascension comes with dread and paranoia, never being able to fully trust anyone.

Zhou Zishu is entirely in the shadows, doesn't exist in the light. He's standing tall on the stairs but not facing upwards because his own way towards power isn't following the traditional path of having one's name being remembered in historical records. He is at his most powerful concealed in the shadows and doesn't look directly, his gaze unreadable.

Jing Beiyuan is sitting on the stairs, uninterested with the climb towards power itself, uninterested in the glory. The thin line of light on his figure means that among Helian Yi's closest allies, he's the one using his title and influence; light grazes him even if he doesn't want it to. His presence in Helian Yi's shadow signifies how he, along with Zishu, is quite literally behind HLY's ascension. His gaze is knowingly directed towards the watcher.

The main reason I decided to repaint it was because I wanted it to match my current style and, more importantly, my current mental image/character design for them. Jing Qi barely changed since my idea of him was fairly clear from the start, but Helian Yi and Zishu went through much bigger changes.

For Helian Yi, it was mainly a question from taking him out of Jin Wang's robes to get him his own. I really like Jin Wang's wardrobe in SHL, which is why I initially wanted it for HLY, but nowadays it simply doesn't correspond to how I picture him anymore. My understanding and/or envisioning of Da Qing's fashion has changed a bit as well, so I wanted to reflect that. In the original, he more seemed like a kid in vaguely chique robes that were too big for him LOL. His face was afforded a bit of refinement as well, especially since my big Qi Ye spread.

Jing Qi's robes are just a tad less flashy somehow--which wasn't so much planned as just... another design I had in mind. I still really like the first version of the robes but, oh well. His face is a bit more defined now, and overall more details in the quality of his clothing and in his hair piece.

Zhou Zishu...... well, haha. His original design was quite unpolished--a vague mix of SHL!Zishu and some random hakama I barely worked on. He was also very slim and had big eyes, which I just don't see anymore. He's bigger now, by quite a bit, both in height and musculature, and I made him look just a bit older as well--simply because he is older than HLY and JBY by a few years. I much prefer his current expression which is a tad more vicious but also a bit harder to read (I think). His robes, hair shape are much better defined and thought-out, and I am happy with the subtle shading on his face.

That's it!! Thanks for readiinngggg as always!

#qi ye meta #qi ye #helian yi #jing beiyuan #zhou zishu

[svtcrus]

Better without you || geto suguru x gn!reader

ANGST | hurt with no comfort

a/n : another 2am drabble , this one is angsty folks

notes : mentions of death , reader dies , includes some manga spoilers read at your own risk , angsty geto . lowkey just a sad drabble

synopsis : would geto sacrifice you for his perfect world?

"don't do this suguru.." you softly spoke, trying to hide your fear and pain in your voice. yet your words still quivered.

here you were in your formerly shared bedroom with the man you thought loved you as much as you did him.

however that very man had his technique out in the pit of the moonlight that felt brighter than ever. as if the heavens above were welcoming your death already.

here you stood. lips trembling. while geto suguru stood at the doorway with no emotion on his face. the man you've been dreading to see ever since he disappeared after going on that one mission. no excitement nor joy was found within you at all.

while your lips trembled, his lips that looked more dry rather than soft as before, let out a cold chuckle.

"you know I love you y/n. yeah?" it didn't feel like he did.

eyes that were once full with so much colour only bore deep into your fragile soul, darkness is all that engulfs geto suguru.

"but you don't love me enough to stop this?" you unconsciously mutter, a sad smile forming as you look at him. suguru remained silent

when you heard the news of sugurus rampage, killing his own parents, eradicating an entire village. all due to his ever growing dislike of non-sorcerers. that of which was also you, you were a non-sorcerer. every night you slept to the thought of, "does he still love me?", and "am I next?". it took him 5 years to finally answer.

at this point your future was set. you couldn't run away from one of the strongest, former sorcerers of your time. not when you aren't one yourself. so all you did was walk closer to him under the dim light emitting from your bedroom window. the wooden floor creaking from your gentle steps, and next thing you knew you were face to face for the first time in 5 years.

"it's okay. I know why you're here, just do it suguru." you mumble, as tears begun to flow out of your eyes. eyes that used to provide him with so much comfort. so much life. so much love. that's the thing, they used to. now those very same eyes looked at him with nothing but hurt.

'this was all so I could complete my goal' he told himself.

his disgust for non sorcerers was like a drug to him. the addictiveness and glory he felt killing these people he called monkeys. for they gave him an ick, a feeling he couldn't rid himself of if he doesn't rid them first. and he could slowly feel his nerves cringing as you stood face to face with one another.

"it's for the better of the world."

"better without me?"

"yes." was all he said before you felt the piercing of his curse technique going straight through your already broken heart.

"better without you.." he whispered beneath the shadows of his bangs that covered his face. he looked down, now witnessing his last salvation dead before him. yet he didn't feel any guilt nor remorse.

that day geto suguru turned around not sparing another glance to your lifeless form. disappearing once more in the dark.

━━━┅━━━━*✧·̩͙♧︎🫐♧︎·̩͙✧*━━━━┅━━

@svtcrus || 07.27.2023

all rights reserved. do not copy/plagiarize.

#geto suguru x reader #geto x reader #jjk suguru #suguru x reader #jjk geto suguru #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #getou x reader #getou suguru #geto suguru #geto angst #jjk angst #getou angst #i miss getou

[maxwell-grant]

“What's impressive?! I've been a boy this whole time!”

(Spoilers for Puss in Boots 2: The Last Wish)

Big Jack Horner was delightfully wretched and felt a lot like he was a Shrek villain stuck in a Puss in Boots movie and it made for a really interesting contrast, with everyone else in the forest going through swashbuckling adventures of personal growth and companionship, while he’s cheating and steamrolling his way through everything with darkly comedic brutality, quite literally pulling Shrek gags out of a bag as he just kills and burns and stomps his way through the magical wonderland.

It’s like he was designed to be the Final Boss of Shrek, except there’s currently no Shrek movies for him to be in so, into the Puss in Boots sequel he goes, almost like this dark embodiment of the shadow cast over the Puss in Boots franchise that it must surpass (and somehow did). He just does not play by any of the same rules everyone else does and it’s great, it lets everyone look better by default. It lets the Puss vs Death story play out in all it’s poetic glory but still gives the movie a proper bastard for everyone to gang up on. I didn’t think of that at first, but I’ve read some comments and wonderful analysis commenting on Jack Horner as a extended pisstake on Disney, an update of Lord Farquaad for modern times, and it’s an analysis that makes a lot of sense.

In that regard: while this couldn’t possibly have been intentional given their release dates so close to each other, I do think it’s pretty funny that Jack winds up connected to Pinocchio, a character who had having a rather busy 2022 if you can tell. Not only is he followed around by a bootleg Jiminy Cricket, but we see that Jack, who was extremely well-off and spoiled throughout his entire life, bears an incandescent bitterness against all magical creatures (and Pinocchio specifically) for taking attention away from his roadside show, which consisted entirely of him reciting his nursery rhyme over and over (even his family was shown bored by it), and so that’s why he wants to own ALL the magic in the world: so that nobody else gets any.

He, who already owns a massive empire and business and land and literally endless collections of powerful magical artifacts he can use to achieve anything he wants a trillion times over, who doesn’t even know what most of what he has does or is worth, is driven by the fact that Pinocchio upstaged him once,

and so nobody else should get to do anything like that ever again.

(Again, not saying this was remotely intentional, just a funny coincidence)

Also wonderful how his ultimate undoing comes from said bootleg Jiminy Cricket, one of the countless employees he’d abused and crushed over the movie, finally having enough and sending him his incendiary “resignation letter”. 2022 saw the year end with a movie where Jiminy Cricket ends a titanic corporate manchild’s reign of terror and life by setting a magical contract map on fire and freeing everyone from it.

It doesn’t even register as one of the best things about the movie only because the movie has SO many best things going on, that it can just casually work in one of the funniest Shrek subplots of all time like it’s easy. Still shocked at how good this film was and how much life they injected into it, perfect movie to end or start the year with.

#puss in boots #puss in boots 2 #puss in boots the last wish #dreamworks #shrek #big jack horner

[squash1]

hello would you please propaganda me on the dreamer trilogy i should probably read it, but i have not had the motivation,,, hhhrghgh. gimme your reasons on why i should read it /nf

“propaganda me” is probably that best phrasing of anything ever. and this is also my favorite topic of propaganda. so yes. ofc.

probably the #1 reason to read the dreamer trilogy is to get More of the raven cycle universe. if you love ronan lynch and you want to see him grow (and fuck up) and change (and fuck up) this is THE book series. adam parrish in all his glory is also heavily featured. because who is ronan without adam (that’s a question that will be answered in these books!). and my beautiful, baby boy declan (i’m biased it’s okay) is Given A Voice finally. plus you meet some new Killer character. cough cough hennessy. cough cough jordan. cough cough carmen. cough cough lilliana. (so many showstopping female characters)

my caveat to all of this, is yes, it is different than the raven cycle. in like the most beautiful, necessary way. (i love trc with my whole heart so i’m not saying this will any malice). i’ve said this before and i’ll say it again (propaganda at its finest) the dreamer trilogy is an embodiment of what young adulthood is — what moving away from childhood Feels Like. trc is very teenage, it’s very big and grand and everything is So important (but it’s also silly because they’re 16/17 year olds), the dreamer trilogy has a tone shift but it’s So Necessary. because there is a tone shift from childhood to the early years of adulthood. things feel smaller, and more difficult, and somehow more confusing, but it’s THE PAY OFF that matters the most (because yes, we’re building Healthy, strong relationships on this dysfunctional family).

personally i LOVE the exploration of dreaming in the series and all the various metaphors that can be applied to the concept. i’ve talked Extensively about dreaming as a metaphor for chronic illness and i think going into the series with that lens would make for a really cool and interesting experience.

the dreamer trilogy at its core is this baller, action packed (but also sad) series that’s going to explode your brain and cause you to question your sanity. and i think the true testament to this series is that despite Sobbing upon finishing it (ending was not even sad, it was just the end of an era), i Immediately wanted to reread. because there’s so much Content, so much Intrigue, so Much To Unpack.

tl;dr ronan lynch is a gay icon throughout, read it read it read it.

p.s. i would like to hear all your thoughts and also this might be the last straw to get me to reread.

#this is my attempt to convince ANYONE AND EVERYONE to READ tdt #the dreamer trilogy #tdt propaganda #tdt #trc #ronan lynch #adam parrish #pynch #jordan hennessy #hennessy #the raven cycle #declan lynch #mine #ask

[ghost-proofbaby]

I’m so glad you liked the jokes!

(I though they were hilarious because my sense of humor is nothing if not bad dad jokes, puns, and sarcasm. But I can’t even take credit for them because I found them online haha)

For the blurb idk if you intended for me to ask for something specific or not but I kinda just want to see what you’ll come up with if that’s okay? I feel like any idea you had would be better than mine anyway lol. Up to you really on whether or not you already have ideas or need some help. ♥️

the jokes were so so good i loved them truly. my sense of humor is the exact same way. and oh bless your soul for letting my mind run wild. i present to you all an idea that literally sent me feral, in which you've got some new perfumes and eddie is a blind idiot.

warnings: fem!reader, reader is very vaguely described as having hair that is at least shoulder length as well as buying items such as bras perfumes and chapsticks, hints at sexual themes but no actual smut, neck kissing and just good old fashioned kissing happens, eddie is kind of a perv? a little bit? also, not edited (what's new?) minors dni.

wc: 4.1k+ (i got a little carried away)

“Smell this.” 

The demand is paired with a sudden wrist in Eddie’s face that nearly has him falling off the bed. 

“Excuse me?” 

You and Eddie had been best friends for a while now. Since that first week of freshman year. Eddie, in all his awkward glory, had leaned up from his seat behind you in Mrs. Damon’s first hour English class, stabbed you right in the shoulder blade with a dully sharpened pencil just to inform you that he liked your shirt. You, in all your teacher’s pet façade, had only shushed him harshly and glared before turning back around. But some time between the ice breakers and the saving grace of the first bell of what would be a long high school career, you’d decided you would address him before you’d scurried out of that classroom and thank him. But not before you’d informed him that you didn’t even know the band displayed, had just thrifted the shirt for looking cool, and had unknowingly sent Eddie on a mission to educate you in the glory of his favorite band. 

And nearly six years later, he was still on that mission. You were stubborn and had sworn loyalty to Fleetwood Mac before Eddie and Metallica had ever even stood a chance. 

He doesn’t mind. He’d listen to the Rumors album on repeat for the rest of his days if it meant he always ended up in this position at the end of the day — in his room, on his bed, lounging with you to pass the time. 

Your wrist is still held up dangerously close to Eddie’s face in the present day, a look of determination and contemplation overtaking you, “Smell. My. Wrist.” 

Six years is a long time to grow comfortable with someone. And, in Eddie’s case, fall in love with your best friend. 

“I’m not smelling your wrist, weirdo,” he mumbles as he swats your hand away, squinting at the way you were perched on your knees as they sunk into his mattress. He had been halfway to a much needed nap before you had lost interest in whatever magazine you’d been reading, “Why do you even need me to? What didja do to it?” 

His words are still half slurring from fatigue. If he cuts off your pestering strategically enough, he might still achieve that nap his heavy bones so desperately yearned for. 

You readjust yourself, flopping down to sit beside Eddie with your legs stretched out as he lifts himself up. Shoulder to shoulder, calf along calf, the two of you prop your backs against his warm bedroom wall, “I went to Starcourt yesterday with Nancy and bought some new perfumes-“

“Perfumes?” he wrinkles his nose, “Plural?” 

He would have sworn he’d have noticed a new perfume, but these days, he’d been trying to put some restraint on his pathetic crush. Tried to tame the yearning inside of him, which meant less indulging in things like sniffing the air like a freakish dog whenever you entered a room just to drink in the smell of you that had brought him so much comfort over the years. Less letting his eyes linger on the straps of the bras you’d started wearing more of since you’d begun to hang out more with the likes of Nancy Wheeler, who had been single-handedly teaching you how to be a girl in a way Eddie had never witnessed from you. 

You’d wasted most of your critical youth surrounded by boys, by Eddie. Go figure that Wheeler was jumping at the opportunity to mold a blank canvas.

“Yes, I bought perfumes, plural, as in multiple- oh, don’t give me that look, Munson,” you scowl when he makes a face, wrinkles forming adorably between your brows. (Brows he was pretty sure Nancy had plucked for you last weekend, but again — Eddie wasn’t supposed to notice those things anymore. Tampering the crush, or whatever idiotic goal he had set for himself.), “They were on a BOGO sale. Bite me. Anyways, I got these new perfumes, and one of the ladies was telling me and Nance how you should layer your scents. Which, God, doesn’t that sound ridiculous?”

Eddie hums, eyebrows raised skeptically at where this rambling was going.

“So I bought these scents that she said might pair well together. But then, she was talking about body chemistry and-“ you cut yourself off, clearly realizing how boring this topic might be to someone like Eddie who hadn’t even picked out his own drugstore cologne (you had), “Listen, just… just stop questioning it and smell my wrist.” 

Once again, you hold your arm out in front of Eddie’s now softening face. He’s holding his breath, which he hopes you don’t notice, as he weighs his options.

Smell your wrist, probably subjecting himself to a terrible sort of pain when he realizes he'd much rather be placing feathery kisses there before moving onto your knuckles as he holds your hand. Or deny you, possibly hurt your feelings or offend you as he brushes this off as another girly thing he wanted nothing to do with. 

The fleeting image of your face if he were to reject you in this moment is enough to make his choice for him.

He never could say no to you.

“What am I even supposed to be smelling it for?” he grumbles as he reaches out and grabs your forearm, opting that safer territory than your hand as he guided your skin closer to him, “Like, I’m not a scents expert, sweet-“

Oh. 

Eddie’s brain short circuits as the tip of his nose brushes your soft skin. The pet name dies on his tongue, the inhale through his nose cutting off just as suddenly. 

Oh, God. Oh, fuck. 

He already knows he's a sucker for you, a dog with a bone when it comes to your presence and attention. He already relished in your old perfume's scent and the way it would cling to a room, lingering on his sheets when you’d sleep over after a movie night gone too late. When you’d borrow his Hellfire shirt and return it without washing it, leaving the collar tainted with sweetness and enough undertones of vanilla to make a chasm within him yearn terribly. 

But this new perfume, perfumes technically, were something different. They weren’t the same as the body spray you’d been using every day since freshman year. They were deeper, more complicated, more womanly than he had prepared himself for.

“Does it… does it smell good?” you meekly ask him, suddenly going shy at his frozen state, “Like, is it working with my… my own smell? Sometimes perfumes smell good on their own but don’t work with your body’s chemistry, that’s what the lady had been explaining to me and Nan-“

“It’s working.” 

It’s all he can manage to choke out as he lets go of your arm so that it falls away and takes the sweet smells with it. 

God, it was working.

Eddie felt more embarrassed than he had that first month of puberty, when he was just discovering girls and noticing the stretch of t-shirts over chests. He felt even more affected than the first time he’d let his eyes wander over the back of Cheryl T’s thighs the last day of eighth grade, and discovered the wonders of an ass’ curve. 

All his blood would not be rushing south. No. Absolutely not. He wouldn’t allow it, not when he was fully grown and should have some self-control, and certainly not when he was wearing his thinnest pair of boxers with grey fucking sweatpants. 

Your eyes are wide with innocence, or at least what he hopes is innocence, “Really? It smells good?”

He has to clear his throat before he can properly reply, “‘s good, yeah. It, uh, yeah. Smells good.” 

Think of naked grandmas. Think of kicked puppies. Think of literally anything except her soft ski-

“Awesome!” you’re suddenly sitting crisscross beside him, facing him fully, “Okay, that’s- awesome. Cool. Cool, cool, cool,” were you just as flustered as he was? Was he reading this wrong? “The lady actually told us - okay, I know it’s stupid and boring so bear with me - but she told us to put them on all our pulse points. So that way, it… uh… it makes the perfume last longer.” 

He can’t get the smell out of his nose. Something so sweet, something so enticing, something so… you. The perfumes were fancy, but somehow, they were you. Smells of summer and spring and tooth-aching sweetness that was driving Eddie mad.

He’ll never be able to let you sleep in his bed again. He doesn’t want to consider what shameful, hormone-fueled decisions he would make if he had to experience his pillow smelling like that even when you were long gone. 

Get it together, Munson. 

“Makes sense,” he lies, still struggling to get his tongue to function properly. All he’s thinking about is trailing it over that sweet spot on your wrist now, lips sucking on every inch of skin you currently had exposed- Naked grandmas. Kicked puppies, “Is that all you needed? Can I take a nap now?” 

Hell, he’s torn between wanting you to stay and ushering you out of his trailer so he can have a few moments alone. Weighing the risks of escaping to the bathroom for a few minutes too long just to get his problem under control. 

He’s twenty, not fifteen. A girl’s perfume should not be affecting him this way. 

Your face falls ever so slightly, “Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry. Like I said, I know it’s boring-“

“It’s not boring,” he interrupts, realizing that he’s mere seconds away from genuinely hurting your feelings. Or perhaps he’s already there, having been a complete idiot. He still remembers your face the day he’d contained his reaction to your new bra — how he’d gone into autopilot and snapped the strap like some little boy on the playground just to play off how flustered it made him. You hadn’t admitted it to him, but his reaction had hurt you. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, “The whole science behind it — it sounds pretty cool, honestly.” 

Nothing that made you so excited, so giddy, could ever be boring to him. He loved seeing you buzz with your emotions and expectancy. He just didn’t love the way his heart and mind seemed to run with every single, little, goddamn bone you tossed him. 

You were his best friend. He shouldn’t think of you like that. He couldn’t. 

“It is,” you light back up in the slightest, saucer eyes boring into his again. Not quite as animated as before, but not quite as deflated as you had been heading, “Actually- Can I ask another favor?”

Anything. 

“Sure, sweetheart,” his heart had finally slowed its pace, the reigns back in his control as the perfume lingered in the air but didn’t overwhelm him, “What’s up?” 

“So… the wrists aren’t the only pulse points you’re supposed to wear perfume on.” 

Oh, God. Where were you going with this?

“No?” he tries to tease, tries to smile at you. It’s fruitless — his heart has begun to pound again, “I sure hope it wouldn’t be. I mean, blood kind of rushes everywhere, isn’t that the point-“ 

“The neck,” you blurt out, making the rest of Eddie’s sentence disappear into the air, “The, uh, the neck is the other place. Well, not just the neck, it’s…” you trail off, twiddling with your thumbs for a second before you lift a hand to gather away any stray hairs from curtaining the side of your neck. You even go so far as to secure the hand behind your ear, “Behind the ears. You’re supposed to spray it behind your ears, too.”

“Okay…” he enunciates slowly, resisting the urge to bite his lip as he starts to catch up with where you’re going with this, and desperately hoping that he’s wrong. 

“Can you… Would you…” you pause and take a deep breath, eyes shutting for a second. When you open the back up, a new wave of determination is set around your pupils, “Eddie, can you smell my neck?” 

What sort of sick, twisted, wet dream am I living in right now? 

Eddie is suddenly convinced you never interrupted his attempt at a nap. He’s asleep right now, soundly curled into himself, and you’re still lounging casually with your magazine on the other side of his bed. That must be it, because there’s no way you’re actually offering him to press himself so closely into your vicinity as he’s only ever dreamed of. 

“What?” he weakly questions. 

If this is a dream, dear God, don’t let me wake up. 

“Can you smell my neck?” you repeat yourself with a little more confidence before pulling your best puppy dog eyes, “I just- I want to make sure it smells good. Everywhere.”  

Damn Nancy Wheeler for whatever journey of self-discovery she’d sent you on. Damn her, and damn the perfume lady, and damn Eddie for reaping such benefits. 

He should say no. He should really, really say no. 

He’s wearing goddamn grey sweatpants, he should say no. 

“S-Sure.” 

Famous last words. 

Your hair has already been moved, making it easier for Eddie when he leans forward at his waist. You lean in as well, jutting out your chin and angling your neck for his taking. 

It’s such a bad idea. 

The tip of his nose is bumping your skin again as his eyes flutter shut. He’s trying so hard to contain himself, to not make a fool of himself. But when he feels that softness again, when he’s being unraveled by warm notes of vanilla and patchouli, deep breaths of apple blossom of blackberry – he just breaks. 

He doesn’t realize that his lips have joined his nose in brushing up against your sweet spot until he hears you let out a shaky gasp, one that almost resembles a whine. 

His reaction should be to pull back. He should remove himself, apologize for going too far, stop before he’s fallen off the cliff himself. He doesn’t. 

Instead, he takes a moment of stillness as his head reels, overcome in the smell of your new perfume again and ears straining relentlessly to seek out another one of those pretty sounds. 

He wants to hear it again. He needs to know if it was a moan or a gasp, or nothing more than a ticklish breath. 

His lips pucker with intention this time. His nose trails up behind your ear, taking in the full bodied scent of the perfume on the skin as he places another chaste kiss against your pulse.

It’s racing. Your heartbeat is goddamn racing. 

The moment his lips connect, another gasp sounds. A sharp intake of breath that whistles so sweetly to his ears before you’re exhaling with a proper, albeit quiet, whimper. 

No amount of naked grandmas or kicked puppies can save him now. He’s a goner – he’s been a goner – and he leaps off that cliff full force now as he leans back and out of your space. 

Your eyes are shut. Eyelashes fluttering prettily, just barely brushing the skin beneath your eyes. 

He almost whispers out a gentle sweetheart as he stays close enough for you to feel his breath on that very same cheek, but when your eyes finally do open to meet his, he can’t get a single word out before his body moves to its own accord. 

His lips press to yours before he can overthink it.

He waits for the inevitable – for you to freeze up against him, for you to shove him off, for you to curse him out. He shouldn’t have done that. He should’ve asked for permission, he should have had more self-control. 

But you don’t. Instead, you take him by surprise and you kiss him back.

Instantly, without an inch of hesitation, your lips work in tangent with his. Parting and welcoming him as if they had been waiting for this moment longer than he could comprehend. Pressing back with just as much, if not more fervency as his do. You match his desperation every step of the way until you’ve both exhausted all the breath inside your lungs. He has no choice but to pull back, to part from you and gulp in oxygen before he makes any more bad decisions. 

Lord know he’s full of them when he’s suddenly gazing into your glossy eyes. 

“I’m sorry-” he immediately rushes out to apologize, but a sharp shake of your head halts him. 

“Don’t be,” you whisper, “I… Do it again.”

“What?” 

“Kiss me again. Please.”

Eddie isn’t in the business of making you beg; he never really can say no to you. 

He kisses you again. And again. And again. A collage of pecks and soft slipping, tasting your chapstick and somehow moving the two of you so that he’s back to his original position with his back against the wall, and you now straddling his lap. You hover, completely unaware of how much you’re affecting him. When you let his tongue slip into your mouth without any bartering, he ends up letting out a moan that slips right down your throat. His hands are still so hesitant, but when you reach down and encourage his palms to engulf wherever they please, he’s on a mission of exploration. Soft caresses to your thighs, from the ditch of your bent knees to the skin hardly hidden beneath the hem of your lounge shorts. They wind their way up the pathways of your hips, squeezing at the soft give of the flesh there before he continues upwards. Up, up, up – until they find home in the curve of your waist, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you impossibly close. 

That damn perfume doesn’t just linger, not anymore. With you pressed against him, with the way he’s wound so tightly around you, it drowns him. Vanilla, coffee, blackberry, apple blossoms. A multitude of scents he’s sure his plain nose can’t even pick up on, and that he doesn’t really care to name. All he cares about is the smell of you. Something new and something fancy, but so very you. 

“I-” you break from the kiss, “Can’t-” you smack another one on him, beginning to take initiative, “Believe-” the next one misses his mouth, hardly landing against the upturned corner, “It took-” your final kiss lands on his dimple before you pull back fully and cup his hands within your palms, still hovering and straddling his waist, “A stupid fucking perfume ruse to get you to kiss me.”

He’s lovedrunk, all slow blinks and dumb-founded smile as he looks up at you, hardly processing the words, “What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” you squeeze his cheeks a little tighter in your touch, “I can’t believe I had to pull that whole stupid act of fluttering my lashes and oh, Eddie, can you smell my perfume for me? To make sure it smells good? To finally get you to just do something.” 

His head clears a little as the ghost of your kiss still buzzes on his lips, “Wait- what?” 

Your palms slide away, scratching at what scruff has gathered across his jaw line before your hands fully fall away, “You made me act like a damn fool, Eddie Munson.”

“It was all just an act?” 

“I can’t believe you were so oblivious.”

“You only made me do that so I’d kiss you?” 

“That,” you shrug, curling your hands into fists and gingerly placing them on his chest as his arms untangle from you slightly, only his knuckles resting on your waist now, “And the bra thing. And the whole thing when I bought all those chapsticks and couldn’t pick a favorite flavor.”

“They all tasted good,” he says, confused as he peers up at your faux annoyance, “I even tried them on for you-”

“I didn’t want you to try them on,” you whine, letting a few breathy laughs slip as you sit back, resting your weight entirely on his thighs and narrowly missing his boner you surely hadn’t noticed yet, “I wanted you to taste them off of me. I wanted you to make me put each one on, and kiss me stupid before you’d demand that I move onto the next one. I wanted to be the one to get your lips all sticky, not the fucking chapstick tubes themselves.”

“You-” Eddie’s mouth drops wide open, nearly wider than his eyes, “Hold on, you only brought that up so I’d fucking kiss you?” 

You nod as if it had been obvious, grinning wildly now, “God, you’re dense, Munson. I kept telling Nancy you’d figure it out eventually-”

“What does Nancy have to do with this?” 

“Nancy has been trying to help me concoct ways to get you to grow the balls and kiss me for months now. Although, to be fair, the bra thing had been Steve’s idea.” 

“Harrington?” Eddie gasps out in disbelief as you only throw your head back in laughter. It’s a beautiful sound, one that makes Eddie’s heart race even more painfully than the perfume had, “You went to Harrington for advice about me?”

When you lift your head back up to look at him, you’re all soft smiles and delighted eyes as you quietly admit, “I was getting kind of desperate here.” 

His chest heaves, finger unfurling from around your waist. 

“I was starting to think maybe you just didn’t like me bac-”

Without warning, Eddie’s hands are gripping your hips and he’s flipping positions, pinning you beneath him. He can’t wrap his head around it. You’d been wanting him to kiss you all this time. And he’d been a blind idiot. Snapping your bra straps, stealing away chapsticks and applying them himself when this entire time, he could have been living out his wildest fantasies. 

He doesn’t give you a chance to say anything more as he begins to attack you with kisses. One for every missed opportunity. No expanse of skin goes untouched as they graze over your lips, your cheeks, your chin, your neck – anywhere Eddie can access feels the pressure of his eagerness. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he curses himself over your giggles, coming up for air just to stare at you, “I could have- Oh my God. Sweetheart, I’m such a fucking idiot.” 

“You are,” you agree breathlessly with aching cheeks, “God, you are.” 

He balances himself on his forearms as he stays lifted above you, his hair forming a curtain to cut the two of you off from the rest of the world. 

You’re beautiful. Even more beautiful than that first day he’d met you in class, when you’d shushed him and all he did in return was make absolute heart eyes at you. 

His best friend. The person he’d be yearning and pining for for six long years. Who had been trying to get him to kiss her for over six months now. 

“I like you,” you confess, not breaking eye contact as a hand comes up to his cheek. He’s quick to turn his head, to let your palm press against him as he presses a kiss to your inner wrist, the perfume engulfing him again, “In case that wasn’t obvious.” 

He swallows hard, letting his lips remove themselves slowly from your skin and his nose to linger as it presses into the smooth skin, “I like you, too. Have for a few years now.”

“A few?”

“Okay, yeah- the whole time,” his words pull a wider grin from you, “Don’t look so smug. I’m not letting you live down this whole perfume bullshit scheme.” 

“And I’m not letting you live down going feral over some overpriced scented oils,” you retort, your cute snort cut short as your breath catches when he kisses your wrist again, “In all seriousness, though… Do you really think it smells good?” 

He takes the opportunity to finally lower his hips. Just enough so that his crotch is brushing against your inner thigh, “Yeah, I think you could say I think they smell very good.” 

Your hand travels back, caressing at his ear and sending a shiver down his spine before both of them latch behind his neck, prepared to pull him down into a kiss, “You got hard over some new perfumes, Munson? God, you’re easy.” 

“I am,” he doesn’t fight it as he lets you, not gravity, tug him downwards, “I am so easy when it comes to you, baby.” 

“Good thing I’m wearing one of those new bras, then,” you muse, placing far too quick of a kiss for his liking onto his lips before you tug him a bit lower, burying his face back in the side of your neck as you whisper in his ear, “Prove it.” 

Eddie should probably send a thank you card to Nancy Wheeler and the mall’s perfume lady. Not Harrington, though. Never Steve Harrington.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar

ghost's taglist: @emmaisgonnacry @figmentofquinn @bebe07011 @barbedwirebats @ayooooo0 @neverlearnedcivility @munson-enthusiast @digwhatudug @wow-cam @daddysmodifiedprincess2 @cancankiki @gothmingguk @nix-rose @thesesuggestedblognamesbegreat @chevelle724 @madaboutjoe @take-everything-you-can @josephquinnsfreckles @thebanisheddreamer @water-loos @dailyobsession @whenshelanded @happy-and-alone

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#ghost's stories #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x you #no use of y/n #i had so much fun with this i'm not even sorry #it had me YEARNING #GIGGLING #KICKING MY FUCKING FEET #god i hate him i wanna show him my new perfumes #shamelessly described my own new perfumes i just got too sorry

[b1rds3ye]

My Heart Burns For You

Rodolfo is still by your side and ready to fight for Las Almas, but after a near-death encounter he realises he can't stay silent about how he feels for you.

Pairing: Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra x GN!Reader

Genre: Fluff, Canon-Compliant (Straight after Borderline), Confessions, Friends to Lovers,  Italicised sentences are characters talking in Spanish

Word Count: 2.3k

For Fall4Rudy by @glitterypirateduck

Prompts: “I can't get you out of my head” (6), “Say it again” (16)

Warning: Graphic descriptions of injuries, talks of death

A/N: In the campaign Rudy almost dies in a fire, bleeding after a gun to the face then the next day he’s just vibing. I get that the military is fast paced but DAMN- (Also YES I GOT TO CONTRIBUTE TO FALL4RUDY I WAS SO SCARED WITH ASSIGNMENTS I WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO SKDJFALKSDS)

It was the early hours of the new day. The Vaqueros are vigilant all day, all night, even on their own base, meaning you were pacing back and forth on watch duty. You volunteered this time, with your fellow Vaqueros not arguing with a knowing smile. It seems everyone but the sergeant major himself has become aware of how close you had become, or aware of how you swoon whenever he spoke to you, or offered that little extra bit of care. Combined with what was one of the highest stakes missions to date, you couldn’t help the need to see Rodolfo the instant he and Alejandro got back from the Mexican border…

… if they get back.

You tutted at yourself before turning your head back to the horizon, grip tightening on your rifle. They will be back and you will be the first to see them, you wouldn’t have it any other way. Like cowboys you will see them on the horizon, riding in front of the burning glory of the sun. With a successful mission they will bring the new day and reignite the passion and hope that the Vaqueros so desperately need.

There’s a distant but familiar growl of a cargo truck, and you immediately take cover, gun at the ready as you look down its sights as you try and get a visual of the vehicle. Right on cue, you hear the familiar cackle of Alejandro’s voice through your comms.

“Guns down, friendlies returning to base.”

You smile as you loosen your posture, standing back up again. But simmering under your joy is the thought that they’ve returned home a little too early.

“I’m taking it’s a successful mission, Colonel?”

“Sergeant.”

The line is silent for a few moments.

“That’s a negative.”

It is meant to be morning and yet the sky is looking ever darker. The stars do little to illuminate your darkening expression. Your swallow is thicker than the tar that shapes the tattered roads beneath you, scorched after years of neglect under Las Almas’ heat.

“Where’s Rodolfo?”

You try to ask as nonchalantly as possible. To hide the fact you’re demanding an answer like a kid to your direct superior.

“I’m here.”

The tension in your shoulders was relieved at that voice. You would rather see him, rather have him tell you as he stood beside you. Ideally his voice wouldn’t sound strained, fatigue bleeding through the speakers into your own weary mind, painfully reminding you that you’ve essentially pulled an all nighter to catch a glimpse of him before you hit the hay.

“I had to come back to you.”

You chew your lips as the static cuts off. Before you can think any further at Rodolfo’s odd choice of words the truck pulls up to you as you stand by the entrance of the base. You squint even as the full-beam headlights turn off, the glare stubbornly clouding your vision. The slam of a car door has you tilting your head to Alejandro as he exits the truck. His smile is genuine but strained.

He was in the driver’s seat. And if Rudy was around, Alejandro never drove.

The colonel seemed to be reading your mind.

“Rudy is being rather honest right now, I needed to give him some adrenaline.”

On the other side of the truck, Rodolfo’s silhouette eventually comes back into view. His head had lulled forward, footsteps pounding against the sandy grounds of Las Almas. They were determined but not nearly as clean as his usual gait, pebbles audibly grinding against his boots. Only when he emerged from the shadows of the truck did you realise why Alejandro needed to give him a boost.

“Rudy…”

Rodolfo is silent, only marching ever closer to you. His visage is nothing short of horrific, blood both fresh and dry painting a terrifying collage on the upper half of his face. He must have tried to wipe the blood off, finger-sized smears across his countenance that haphazardly spread onto the wrists of his hoodie did little to relieve you.

“Rodolfo? Friend, you must get patched up-” Alejandro muttered after the sergeant major. Upon realising Rodolfo was beelining straight to you, Alejandro only gave you a firm nod with a knowing look. “Sergeant, patch him up.”

But Rodolfo had already reached you, hand held ever so lightly around your bicep like the gentlest but encouraging breeze to follow him into base. You can’t bring yourself to resist, not even trying to slow down his brisk walk and instead look over your shoulder to address Alejandro.

“Roger that, Colonel!”

Alejandro only waves you off dismissively with an amused expression between a smile and a grimace as Rodolfo paced double time into the building with you in tow.

“Rodolfo?”

“I need to tell you something.”

He leaves it at that and the damning baritone that ends his sentence leaves you unable to even dare to say anything else. Instead you can only take him in apprehensively as he leads you down the familiar hallways towards your quarters. When you expected the familiar indoor smell of your second home to wash over, instead it was dominated by the pungent odour of something charred. Bitterly mixed with smoke and gasoline, you dreaded the image conjuring up in your mind as you notice a hole in Rodolfo’s jacket, loose threads singed off in a cruel finish.

When you reach your room, you take the lead, pulling Rodolfo down to sit on your bed. It’s only then does his hand tighten, fingers attempting to clamp around your bicep but it only closes around air. You head straight to your first aid kit, and then to retrieve a towel that you dampen with water. He watches you all the while.

Rodolfo parts his knees, letting you stand between his thighs. With one hand you take his chin, the other giving light dabs across his face. You can’t help but grimace as you notice the towel dirty with red, but Rodolfo doesn’t seem all too bothered with his own injuries, the weight of his head on your hand getting heavier as he gets comfortable.

“What on earth happened so suddenly that you need to tell me now?” You chastise lightly. “I’m sure it can wait tomorrow, you need to rest-”

“No, we failed,” Rodolfo grumbles. His syllables were a little slurred, no doubt to the adrenaline running off but his eyebrows were adorably furrowed as he tried to maintain concentration. “We will head out in the morning to find Hassan, I need-”

“To rest,” you argue. Your ministrations cleaned up the main mask of his face, and now you could get a good look at him without being concerned that he was going to kick the bucket in a few minutes. You give him a frown before you continue to dab at his temples and the blood that got stuck in the roots of his hair, Rodolfo offering the odd hum of contentment all the while. “We can handle it tomorrow, if we’ll be fighting like you said, we’ll need to concentrate-”

“I love you.”

Your hand stilled. You instinctively wanted to argue that he must’ve had too much adrenaline but he is looking as serious and sober as ever.

“You tell me I’ll need to concentrate but I can’t get you out of my head.”

He reached up to take your hand that’s at his temple, despite the thickness of his fingers he nimbly moves them to thread in between yours. You do not doubt that the man standing before you is Rodolfo, but something was different. He was changed. The fire in his eyes held a different light, more sombre, a tinge of desperation. He was distracted, or instead, he was too focused on a singular goal that he disregarded everything else like a moth to a flame. He still wore his dirtied gear upon sheets that you’ll likely have to wash later.

“What happened tonight?” You whisper tentatively. In truth, you weren’t sure if you wanted to know the answer.

“I almost died.”

In any other situation you would have laughed. Of course he almost died, you two almost die every day. It comes with the territory of being a Vaqueros.

But the both of you know that.

“In the cartel safehouse, alone,” Rodolfo murmurs. “I saw Hassan, he talked to me. They set the house aflame but I was concussed, I couldn’t move no matter how much I wanted to.”

He looks away briefly and you offer his hand a gentle squeeze of encouragement. He leans forward, getting closer to you until his tactical vest clacks against yours.

“Alejandro saved me,” he admits. “But before he did… I thought I was done.”

For a second, Rodolfo is back in the safehouse, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows a cough.

“I swear I was burning in the flames of hell already, it was suffocating. In those moments when I had no choice but to lie and wait, I could only think of one thing. They say that your life flashes before your eyes but that did not happen to me.”

And then it was Rodolfo’s turn to tighten the grip on your hand, expecting you to slip away through his fingers like smoke.

“I could only think about you.”

Rodolfo drags your hands down to his cheek. Pulling his hand away briefly to then manipulate yours to cup his face. He leans into it and you indulge, gently stroking the plushness of his cheek with your thumb. With his face close up to yours, you now notice the faintest stray smears of soot against his skin and you try to wipe them away even as it gets your own hands dirty in the process. His face is flushed, skin warm to the touch like the final embers of a campfire.

“The only regret on my mind - that you never knew how I felt about you. I know the lives we’ve chosen are dangerous, but you were always my respite. I accept it is fair that I will die out on the field as a Vaquero but when I was burning in that safehouse I could only think how it was unfair to you.”

His eyes had slowly closed as he nuzzled deeper into your palm.

“It was unfair to you if I never got to show you my gratitude or repay you. It was unfair if I didn’t get the chance to at least try to give you the comfort you have given me.”

You could barely hear him over your pounding heart. Rodolfo resigns himself, slowly lifting his head from your hand. He doesn’t look particularly sad, only accepting, looking as resolute as ever.

“You don’t have to feel the same, but you deserve to know. Coronel may fight for Las Almas, but I realise now I am fighting for you. Regardless of how you feel, I always will be.”

With no words able to capture how you feel, you can only push forward, pressing your lips against his. Rodolfo was more than happy to accept, his hand already slipping to the back of your head, pushing you impossibly closer to him. Any closer and there will be teeth clacking and even then it would not feel close enough. Your military gear only feels like a hinderance, as it creates an uncomfortable pressure against your chest that you push through just to get a taste of him. His groan is swallowed up by you and reverberates through your entire being. Pressing up against him, the bitter fumes of toxic flames that surrounded him were distant, managing to instead get the whiff of his cologne; the smell of comfort after quiet nights spent huddled together in base. His other arm cradles the curve of your back, the firmness of his bicep nudging you forward until your abdomen is against his.

And with a single kiss you pour all of the emotion you can. For all the days spent pining helplessly at his natural kindness. For all the times he refuses to let you do a mission alone, to the hushed, panic whispers of reassurance when you’re bleeding out on the field. To let him know he’s already paid in kind if not more. That every time you reload your rifle and step onto cartel territory, ready to sign your life away, that you had been fighting for him all the same.

When you pull away, Rodolfo does not let you move any further than you have to to regain your breath. He rests his forehead against yours, heaving breaths intermingling. His hands have crept up to your neck, thumbs rubbing soothing circles against your skin. No doubt his fingers have accidentally dirtied your face with the soot and dirt from the mission, but you will gladly adorn the markings as a sign that you are his.

“I love you too,” you say breathlessly and he instinctively lets out a content sigh.

“Dios mío, please, say it again.”

“I love you, Rodolfo Parra,” you reply and he offers a smile worthy to be put in a museum.

It takes a few testing tugs until Rodolfo allows you to finally part from him, not after you distract him with a quick peck on the lips. You gingerly pick up the towel that had been forgotten on the floor, setting it aside and now opening up the first aid kit beside you.

“Now that I’m your lover I can order you around, hm?” You tease and you giggle with how his smile turns shy upon referring to yourself as his partner. “I’m going to patch you up, we’ll wash up, and then you’re going to rest.”

“How cruel,” he replies fondly. “But I guess whatever mi vida says must go, yes?”

Call of Duty Masterlist Check Out the Rest of Fall4Rudy Here!!

#FALL4RUDY #rudy x reader #rodolfo x reader #call of duty x reader #rodolfo parra x reader #cod x reader #rodolfo rudy parra x reader #rodolfo parra #rodolfo cod #/*avery actually writes*/

[mister-a-z-fell]

After some questions about my ‘true’ form and whether or not I have a thousand eyes and a veritable farmyard of creatures emerging from my collar, I have decided to show you this record of an encounter between myself and a certain writer at the latter end of the Elizabethan period. I remember the event slightly differently, but I suppose one has to make room for artistic licence.

I’m assured that if you click ‘keep reading’, the full transcript will appear.

To assist you, I’ve added a glossary at the end.

And no, Crowley, this still doesn’t count as having wheels.

“This is an true accounting of mine own eyes, set down by mine hand this tenth night of September, in the yeare of Our Lord sixteen hundred and one. They will say I am gone mad, for such visions belong to those who dwell in Beth’lem Monastery, but I swear on all that is precious to me, this se’nnight past I saw an Angel.

I was but newly set out from the towne, and some light yet remained to guide my path, when I looked to the east and saw of a sudden a second dawn. T’was no earthly fire; Aye, I warrant you, I am not bestraught! My father spoke, in Harry’s day, of the great conflagration of Edinburgh. He told me that Hell had claimed the sky, for all above was a fury dress’d in crimson and wretched with soot. But here was nothing of red.

I have seen it since in dreams and will, I ken enow, see it as I draw my final breath. Hasten the day.

It was akin to a man. I gleaned as much in those moments when I looked upon it, ere it saw me and my wits fled me. But also unlike a man, for where a man has but one pair of hands were there some severall, and where a man has flesh and bone was there flame. Such pale fire have I never seen but I should think it alchymy, and mine eyes were indeed ensorceled, for I saw colours without name, and things too marvellous and awful to relate. I will. I must. This labour’d span is raised to worthy work, knowing the glory that awaits. But oh, I am affraid. I pray my sins have not snatched the cup from my lips.

This fearful apparition stood upon the hill, and the white fire that was its crown was with the thin night clouds commingled. Its face — no. Of that no more, yet. I cannot. All about was compassed in armillary radiances which turned one within another, the forme entire and every hand with pearlie lustre enwheeled.

Below, the flames of Tuscalonian hue that formed a body for the Presence were so and so girded with armour: bright fragments, the whole twixt corslet and grand guard, matched with cushes; all of nacreous stuff and lapis-ensigil’d but for one place high ‘pon the rightmost thighpiece where the intricate device was marred and running gold in place of gore.

What can wound an Angel? I think on this and tremble as the very earth trembled where it stood, ague-shooke by a low’ring thunder.

I have held golden angels in my palm and have seen them in holy glass and in base iron gaulle, with doves’ wings upon their shoulders. Foh, we are God’s own fools. Its wings were the clouds pierced by stormlight, dark upon light upon dark, and where they moved was printed a world beyond my understanding, witnest through a furnace shimmer.

I saw a flock of stars draw close around it, and it seemed to dote upon them and cosset them as a hunter with his favourite hounds, and I would there have fainted all away an if I had not been fixed in terror. For they were not specks and embers laid distant upon the sky, a sailor’s comfort and guide, but each and each an inferno pluck’d from Heaven; baleful sentinels from which no secret could be hidden. Such fell lights would render trivial the earthly fires of Nebuchadnezzar.

Words are meat and drink to me, yet do I tell this so poorly I should be ‘shamed and nevermore lift a goose-pen. Still, ‘tis no matter for who shall read it? When all is said, I’ll put these lines away and think on them no more. In telling will I win myself a little peace.

Wheretofore had I been silent, so now instantly did I weep, and laugh, and cry out for God’s mercy, and it looked upon me. Od's-me, it turned its Phoebean eyes on me and I saw its face. Above the gleaming corselet had that most blessed igenieur placed a maske of fine, unblemish’d parchment, in th’ likeness of a gentle visage, before the sainted flame. Troth, a kindely lanthorne of such boundlesse compassion that I fell upon my knees and made to crawl into the fire, sooner to know its forgiuenesse. Then did it smile, as no painted visor could, and all my knotted thoughts were ravel’d out and I was at once a babe, a foole, unfolded and sanctuarized. Under this soft and clement regard I swounded, onely to wake in my lodgings, ‘tired, but not tyred, my travells lost beyond recover.”

Glossary:

Beth’lem Monastery — Bishopgate hospital that would later become the notorious ‘Bedlam’.

se’nnight — seven nights — a week

warrant — assure/promise

bestraught — mad

Harry — another name for Henry — in this case Henry VIII

ere — until

ensorceled — enchanted

commingled — mixed with

compassed — surrounded by

armillary — resembling concentric rings set at angles

pearlie lustre — a pearl-like glow

enwheeled — encircled (shush, Crowley)

Tuscalonian — pale straw-yellow

girded — armoured

twixt — between

corslet — armour covering the upper body

grand guard — armour protecting the heart and left shoulder

cushes — armour for the thighs

nacreous stuff — resembling mother-of-pearl

lapis-ensigil’d — decorated in blue

intricate device — complicated symbol

ague-shooke — shivering, as with a sickness

low’ring — threatening/ominous

golden angels — gold coins stamped with the likeness of Michael defeating Lucifer

holy glass — church windows

iron gaulle — ink

Foh — an exclamation of disgust

cosset — fuss over

an if — if

goose-pen — a quill

Wheretofore — while until now

instantly — at the same time

Od's-me — an exclamation: ‘God save me’

Phoebean — relating to Phoebus/the sun

blessed igenieur — The creator

visage — face

Troth — an exclamation: ‘indeed’

lanthorne — lantern

painted visor — an immobile mask

ravel’d out — unwound

unfolded — exposed

sanctuarized — protected/sheltered

clement — forgiving

swounded — fainted

‘tired, but not tyred — a pun: ‘tired (attired) meaning dressed, tyred meaning weary

recover — remember

Addendum:

I’ve been asked to provide a translation for the Latin community. My grasp of Elizabethan Spanish would, I fear, let me down, so this is couched in modern terms…

Este es un relato verdadero de lo que vi, escrito por mi mano esta décima noche de septiembre, en el año de Nuestro Señor mil seiscientos uno. Dirán que me he vuelto loco, pues tales visiones pertenecen a los que viven en el Monasterio de Beth'lem, pero juro por todo lo que me es precioso, que la semana pasada vi a un Ángel.

Hacía poco que había salido de la ciudad, y aún quedaba algo de luz para guiar mi camino, cuando miré hacia el este y de repente vi un segundo amanecer. No era fuego terrestre; ¡te juro que no estoy loco! Mi padre hablaba, en tiempos de Harry, del gran incendio de Edimburgo. Me dijo que el infierno había reclamado el cielo, pues todo lo alto era una furia vestida de carmesí y desdichada por el hollín. Pero aquí no había rojo.

Desde entonces lo he visto en sueños y estoy seguro de que lo veré cuando exhale mi último aliento. Ojalá sea pronto.

Era como un hombre. Me di cuenta de ello en el breve momento en que lo miré, hasta que me vio y perdí la razón. Pero también era distinto de un hombre, porque donde un hombre tiene un solo par de manos había varias, y donde un hombre tiene carne y hueso había llamas. Nunca he visto fuego pálido como éste, a menos que fuera hecho por alquimia, y mis ojos estaban realmente encantados, porque vi colores sin nombre, y cosas demasiado maravillosas y horribles para relatarlas. Lo haré. Debo hacerlo. Esta vida dura merece la pena, sabiendo la gloria que aguarda después de la muerte. Pero tengo miedo. Rezo para que mis pecados no me hayan arrebatado la copa de los labios.

Esta temible aparición se alzaba sobre la colina, y el fuego blanco que la coronaba se enredaba con las delgadas nubes nocturnas. Su rostro... no. Aún no puedo hablar de ello. Todo estaba rodeado de ruedas de luz que giraban unas dentro de otras, y toda su forma y cada una de sus manos estaban rodeadas de un resplandor nacarado.

Debajo, las llamas de color amarillo pálido que formaban el cuerpo de la Presencia estaban cubiertas por piezas de armadura: fragmentos brillantes que, todos juntos, formaban una coraza, y una armadura para las piernas; parecían de nácar cubiertas de símbolos azules brillantes, excepto en un lugar en lo alto del muslo derecho, donde los adornos estaban dañados y sangraban oro.

¿Qué puede herir a un ángel? Pienso en esto y tiemblo como tiembla la tierra donde estaba, sacudida por truenos ominosos.

He tenido ángeles de oro (monedas) en la palma de mi mano y los he visto en vidrio sagrado y en tinta simple, con alas de paloma sobre sus hombros. Buaj, somos los propios tontos de Dios. Sus alas eran las nubes atravesadas por la luz de la tormenta, oscuridad sobre luz sobre oscuridad, y donde se movían vi un mundo más allá de mi entendimiento, presenciado a través de un resplandor como de horno.

Vi una bandada de estrellas acercarse a su alrededor, y parecía adorarlas y mimarlas como un cazador a sus sabuesos favoritos, y me habría desmayado si no me hubiera quedado helado de terror. Porque no eran motas y ascuas lejanas en el cielo, consuelo y guía de un marinero, sino cada una un infierno arrancado del Cielo; torvos centinelas a los que no se podía ocultar ningún secreto. Luces tan terribles harían que los fuegos terrenales de Nabucodonosor parecieran triviales.

Las palabras son carne y bebida para mí, pero estoy contando esto tan mal que debería avergonzarme y no volver a levantar una pluma. Aun así, no importa porque ¿quién lo leerá? Cuando termine, guardaré este escrito y no pensaré en él. Contando esto me ganaré un poco de paz.

Había estado en silencio, pero ahora lloré, y reí, y supliqué la misericordia de Dios, y el ángel me miró. mSobre la coraza reluciente El Creador había colocado una máscara de pergamino fino y sin mancha que parecía un rostro amable, frente al fuego sagrado. De hecho, era una linterna bondadosa de una compasión tan ilimitada que caí de rodillas e intenté arrastrarme hasta el fuego, para poder sentir su perdón. Entonces sonrió (como nunca podría hacerlo una máscara), y todos mis confusos pensamientos se desenredaron y me sentí simultáneamente un bebé, un tonto, expuesto y protegido. Bajo esta atención suave e indulgente me desmayé, sólo para despertar en mi alojamiento, vestido, pero no cansado, incapaz de recordar cómo había llegado hasta allí.

#hashytag good omens #they aren’t wheels they’re parhelia #unofficial Appear Unto #Now with added Spanish