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on-a-lucky-tide · 2 months ago

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A funny prompt: Gaz’ No-Good, Terrible, Very Bad day. In which in the span of 24 hours he walks in on NikPrice, GhostSoap, then AleRudy bumping uglies because those pairs of idiots keep having sex in weird places and Gaz keeps having to bare witness.

How you wanna play it is up to you, but I love the way you write Gaz and I wanted to lean more into the comedic side of sexy times rather than the hot n heavy stuff this once.

Mikey, I love you for this prompt. I actually wrote it all out and then Tumblr shat itself. Serves me right for writing in the app on my phone, eh? I hope this redo is as good. Two of my favourite things: humour and sex.

Gaz has a really bad day.

cw: sexual content.

Really, Gaz should have called it a day when he had decided to have a Rich Tea with his breakfast brew and the fucker had broken off in it because he had gone zero point one second over the optimum dunking threshold. Bad omen. Yeah, pack it all up lads, turn in.

If someone were to ask him precisely when his day had gone to shit, he would definitely say it was then, because if he had to recall the next part he was pretty sure he'd require several sessions of therapy.

It was unusual for the store cupboard to be locked, which was his first warning that something was amiss. But airpods in and his mind on the afternoon's planned exercise with Bravo Company, he didn't think much of it. There were only five people on base with a key, so it was easier to leave the door unlocked. When it came time for inventory at the end of the week, Price was disturbingly effective at nailing anyone with sticky fingers so no one bothered pushing their luck.

As DJ Snake turned down for what and the beat dropped, Gaz tugged his lanyard out of his shirt and jammed the key in the lock. Shouldering the door open, he slapped a hand over the light switch and looked up at the same time, only to be faced with Lieutenant Riley's lily-white arse pounding between two hairy legs directly opposite. "What the fuck?"

Gaz practically slapped himself in the face in his haste to snatch the airpods from his ears and cover his eyes with his palm. He heard rather than saw Tav slide down the wall he'd been pinned to, and the resulting yelp as he hit the concrete floor.

"Did ya ma no' teach ye tae knock?" Tav squawked.

"You're in the store cupboard, Tav! The fucking store cupboard!"

"We locked the door..."

"He has private fucking quarters, which is... literally what they could be used for, fuck my life!"

Ghost cleared his throat and Gaz chanced a look through the slats of his fingers. He regretted it almost immediately when he glimpsed the lieutenant's monster hog, which was somehow three times the size hard as it was soft, according to the sparse glimpses Gaz had snatched in the shower. Professional curiosity, you know. Ghost was completely unfazed, standing there with it all just hanging out. "Uh, sir, if you could..."

"What'd'ye want, Garrick?" Tav growled, pulling his hoodie over his lap to hide whatever gaping devastation the lieutenant had inflicted.

"Camelbak skin. Top shelf on the left."

Gaz heard a box grind over the metal shelf and the split of plastic sellotape. When the rustling stopped, he looked through his fingers again and saw Ghost holding the skin out for him to take. He hadn't even pulled his boxers up, his hard dick still on full display. Gaz sidled over, keeping his face turned away, and took the offered plastic parcel. "Cheers," he murmured awkwardly.

"Welcome," Ghost rumbled back, and if Gaz didn't know him better, he'd say the bastard was laughing at him. Seconds later, he hightailed it out of there as quickly as he could, pinching the bridge of his nose and hoping the image of all that pale skin thrusting away between Tav's hairy stalks wasn't going to haunt his fucking nightmares. Luckily, he had a fitness course to coordinate that afternoon, which would help take his mind off of it.

No such fucking luck, as it transpired.

As Bravo Company were taking a breather after making good time over the course, Gaz snuck off into the woodland for a quick slash before they moved on to first aid training. As he rounded an old oak tree, he caught the sound of hushed voices over the usual bird song and rustle of leaves. Little fuckers had snuck off for a smoke and thought he wouldn't notice.

He did up his fly, put on a stern face and readied his most blood-curdling shout as he stomped in their direction. The 'oi, ya little cunts' sat on the tip of his tongue as he burst through the bushes, only for it to dissolve into a high-pitched little 'ah!' when he came face to face with Rudy, slack-jawed and sweaty.

Colonel Vargas was two knuckles deep in him, Rudy's cock drooling over his superior's wrist, hips twitching. That was all Gaz managed to see before he swung himself round and covered his eyes for good measure. The low voice he had heard must have been some truly filthy Spanish, because Rudy looked about ready to blow.

"Hola, sergeant," Alejandro said calmly. "¿Qué tal? I thought you were not due in the woodlands until tomorrow."

"Uh, yeah, orienteering is... tomorrow, sorry, colonel, I thought you were trainees, I, uh..." Gaz glanced over his shoulder and saw that Alejandro had moved his body to shield Rudy from view. He whispered something softly in Spanish in his lover's ear, because Rudy was hurriedly yanking up his trousers, his belt rattling, looking panicked.

"It is I who must apologise, amigo. I cannot control myself with Rudy, and with all this nature around us, I let my heart lead my head," Alejandro said. "I would be... grateful if this indiscretion did not get to the captain."

"Uh, sure, mate, yeah. Mum's the word... I'm gonna... go this way. As you were, or... not." Gaz hotfooted it back through the bushes, his face on fire, and was relieved to find some troopers slacking off because he had someone to beast. Seriously, this day could fucking do one. It couldn't get any worse.

Famous. Last. Fucking. Words.

First aid training concluded in time for dinner and Gaz sent the troopers to mess. He didn't go himself because he wasn't sure he could look Tav or Ghost in the eye just yet. Instead, he headed to his bunk and snacked on some Pringles as he finished off a report on the week's progress for Price. And yeah, he left out the sheer volume of unnecessary cock he had seen that day.

Last thing on the day's list was to submit the report and he could turn in, hoping that tomorrow had less cock and arse on the agenda for him. He rapped twice on the captain's door and let himself in, missing the sudden scuffle of movement as the hinges creaked. "Hey, sir, got the summary ahead of sched-u-oh, Nik."

Nik was sitting in Price's chair bolt upright, his hands in his lap beneath the desk, shoulders squared. "Gaz, my brother," Nik greeted, but his voice sounded a little... tight. "Kak dyela?"

"Where's... the..." Gaz studied Nik a bit more carefully and began noting a few more oddities. His skin was flushed, eyes blown wide, usually slick hair all ruffled out of place, and he was shifting minutely in his chair, but keeping his feet very, very fucking still. "He's..." Gaz pinched the bridge of his nose, "he's under the desk, isn't he?" Because of course he fucking was.

Nik flashed a mischievous smirk.

Gaz sighed. "Jesus fucking Christ..."

Nik bit his lower lip and then opened his mouth to say something, but Price got there first, his voice low, rough and husky from his hiding place beneath his own desk. Probably from where he had just been gobbing off Nik's--no, no, for Gaz's own sanity he just couldn't finish that thought.

"Leave the report on the desk," Price growled.

"Yup, right, it's on the desk," Gaz replied, getting as close as he could to be able to chuck it on the keyboard without risking seeing Nik's cock next to his captain's face. "Have a, uh... a good..."

"Garrick," Price snapped.

"Right, yeah, going. Going."

Nik waved at him as he left but Gaz could do nothing more than cringe his way back into the corridor. Three for three. Fan-fucking-tastic.

There was no way he was getting any sleep after that. Gaz headed for the mess and a cup of tea. Maybe if he managed to dunk the biscuit properly, the day would stop fucking with him.

He was completely engaged in a thousand yard stare when Tav slid onto the bench opposite. Gaz gave him the side eye. "Surprised you can sit down."

Tav smirked. "Aye, s'taken some practice."

"Nope, no, no more. It's gonna take years of therapy, decades, to get over seeing that man's arse between your legs."

"Dunno what yer whinin' about, ah've got bruises from where the fecker dropped me."

Gaz snorted. "Good."

"Look, ah... ah came tae apologise. It weren't decent, an', uh..."

"Mate," Gaz sighed, slapping his hands on the table as he sat up. "The shit I've seen today, Ghost's pale arse ain't even the half of it." He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. "Do you fuck in there a lot?"

"Oh aye, and other places."

"Oh god..."

Gaz's eyes narrowed as Tav turned in his seat and extended a leg. That was an exit manoeuvre. Tav rolled his lips into his mouth, smirked, and then landed the killer blow. "Pretty sure we've done it in yer bunk."

"You cun--oi, c'mere you rat Scottish bastard!"

Tav fled cackling and Gaz followed with full intent to put a few more boot-shaped bruises on his arse. Perfect end to his no-good, terrible, very bad day.

#kyle gaz garrick #nikprice #alerudy #ghostsoap #johnny soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #captain john price #cod nikolai #rodolfo parra #this was a good break from the smut prompts #i had to!#alejandro vargas #gaz and i out here repping the londoners #yeah booii

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hells-okayest-dad · 4 months ago

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Worlds Beyond Number is so funny because we'll open up with Suvie who will be having the worst day of her life for the eighth time in a row. Aabria the player will be openly weeping. And then. Then we will make the hardest cut to Ame and Eursulon who are having the most wholesome and whimsical forest witch spirit adventures. Different days indeed. Truly the masters of tonal balance and emotional whiplash. Bravo.

#Suvie has not known a day of peace since she was seven years old and i love her for that #worlds beyond number #the wizard the witch and the wild one #brennan lee mulligan #aabria iyengar #erika ishii #lou wilson #seriously folks listen to this podcast

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crackshipguardian · 1 month ago

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Or consider; Clint is so extremely Not Like Other Girls that Barney has to logically be on the other end of that spectrum, and there is simply nothing more Like Other Girls than exclusively going by your middle name so much so that no one knows your actual first name

The interesting case of Barney Barton's name

Let's focus on a bizarre mystery in the Clint Barton universe (even though it's not really a mystery). And no, I'm not talking about why Clint is portrayed as a loser in the latest comics.

I'm talking about the the biggest idiot in Clint's life. His brother, Barney Barton. And based on the title, you can probably guess the topic of focus: about his name, duh.

To be fair, if you're not deeply into his lore or Clint Barton's family lore, you might not think his name is a mystery. You might assume his parents just didn't love him enough and named him Barney. Easy thing, right? Nope. Wrong.

Many people don't know this, and I don't blame them, but this bastard actually has a different name.

Please give a round of applause for: Charles Bernard Barton!

Yes, it's on his tombstone. And I bet he would rather be in his grave right now instead of being alive, but unfortunately, he didn't have much choice <3.

Don't feel bad if you didn't know this; his full name appears once and once only. It was shown in Hawkeye Vol. 3 and never mentioned again.

If you're like me, you probably have many questions. Why was his name mentioned only once? Why is his name Charles Bernard? Why is he ALWAYS called Barney? Why is his nickname based on his middle name instead of his first name? Why isn't he called Charlie or whatever????

Well, I'm going to answer every question you have—or at least I'll try!

We'll break this post into two parts: first, the real reason behind his name (from the author's perspective, but remember this is just my theory) and second, the fun reason I use in my fanon.

I'm dedicating it for @carcrash429 because I promised them Barney posts a long time ago but my depression didn't let me </3 I have more posts in my drafts so I'll public more soon. And for @hawkzeyes because they're my bestie.

Why Did the Authors Hurt Him with This Name?

The answer is quite simple. Barney was never supposed to have a significant role in Clint's story. Let me explain this. He first appeared in Avengers #64 (March, 1969) as a racketeer from the mob.

Look at him, the fancy criminal, with his own crew working for him. Even Egghead, a well-known villain bastard, wanted to work with him. He's a serious deal, guys; Barney must have held a high rank in the mob or whatever. Everything about him screams: a bad guy.

And despite all that, his sole purpose was to reveal Clint's name to us readers. And that's it, it was the only reason for his existence.

So, let's consider this from the author's perspective. We have a character who is a criminal, destined to die for the plot, just because we want to make Clint's name reveal more dramatic. He's suppose to be a bad guy who decided to change his ways before his tragic death, and in some way he serve as the other side of coin trope for Clint. What name should we give him? In this goofy comic with characters who look ridiculous—where even one of the villains is called Egghead—it's no surprise the authors would give him a stereotypical name.

If you don't know it: The name Barney is slang for "an angry argument." According to the Oxford dictionary, it's also defined as "a derogatory term for a man," originally meaning a worthless or contemptible man, but later used to describe an inept, unfashionable, or unattractive man, sometimes implying a loser.

In short: This name carries very bastard vibes.

I'm pretty sure they didn't pay much thought with naming him. They probably chose it quickly because it fits and that's it. And it sounds a bit like a nickname for a mobster (there is a real gangster from one of New York's crime families named Barney so yeah).

Barney remained Barney for a long time because he wasn't meant to be someone important like I said before —just a family member from Clint's backstory who was supposed to reveal Clint's name to us and make Clint angry for the plot.

But then came Hawkeye Vol. 3 where they decided, "Fuck it, let's un-barney your barney". And it turns out Barney isn't a very good name for someone like the Barney we see in Vol. 3. That's why they decided to give him a better name, making him seem more serious and fancy.

And now we have his name on the tombstone, and only on the tombstone. After that, Hawkeye Vol. 3 never refer to him as Charles and Bernard again. Even Barney's friend from the FBI calls him Barney in the letter to Clint for some goddamn reason.

The authors probably simply wanted to show, "Hey! He's a deep character with a serious name. He's more than just a goon from now because we need to give Clint more trauma."

You get that vibe, right? From now, Barney is just a nickname for Charles used by his friends, coworkers and family and that's it. Sounds reasonable, doesn't it? And it should be, however something got very wrong. No one seems to use his real name. Everyone calls him Barney regardless of who they are, even those who should use his real name.

Like, in his freaking MEDICAL CHART in New Avengers (2010), they called him Barney Barton.

It's ridiculous. But why this happened? It's simple The authors simply doesn't know his name.

Those who wrote him later after Hawkeye: Blindspot didn't bother to check his previous appearances (which you can see by how they wrote him). This kind of thing is common in the comics industry. For instance, remember when in Hawkeye Vol. 4 they forgot that Clint was dating Jessica and accidentally made him cheat on her? Funny times.

The only reason Barney appeared in later comics as Trickshot after Hawkwey: Blindspot is because the authors wanted a villainous counterpart to Hawkeye and they didn't pay much attention to his character. They just wanted an evil Clint lmao

Barney's time as Trickshot was a weird chapter in his lore, where he became a very different character than he was before. He just became a loser copy of Hawkeye before the authors eventually forgot about his existence. Then, in Hawkeye Vol. 4, it was suddenly decided to bring Barney back without bothering to explain why he quit his villain work. Why? Because nobody really cares about him; he's just a side character and he was needed for the plot. That's why Barney is the most frustrating character I've ever liked—his personality and motives changes in every new comic. It's INSANE.

But not every author forgets the fact that his real name isn't Barney… though they still don't use his actual name correctly. In some comics with different Earths or in other media, they refer to him as Bernard.

(Secrets of the House of M #1 [Earth-58163])

Why? Perhaps because they want him to sound fancier or more serious. They likely didn't use his first name because those who are not into Hawkeye lore wouldn't know that Barney and Charles are the same person. It's that simple.

Which brings us to another question: WHY IS HIS FIRST NAME CHARLES????

To be fair? I don't know. I wish to know. I've tried to research it, but I've come up empty-handed. Maybe I'm not good in research.

I mean, people tends to have nicknames from their second name but it's still weird. We may never find out why they made him Charles Bernard and not Bernard Charles.

Why Did His Parents Hurt Him with This Name?

Alright, it's time for the fun part of this post: how I imagine the reasons behind his nickname in story-wise. Let's dig in, shall we?

First and foremost, it's important to note that his parents never called him Barney. Perhaps this is because flashbacks always focus on Clint alone. It's Clint Barton's world after all.

Their father referred to Barney as a brat in one issue, but that's the extent of their parents acknowledging Barney lmao.

And the only person in flashbacks from their early childhood who calls Charles by his nickname is Clint. So it's likely that his parents called him by his real name and the nickname came from Clint.

So we can assume it's a childhood nickname that carried into adulthood. But why Barney? You could assume that Clint just called him Barney because it sounds better than Charlie, but I like to complicate things. I have 2 (maybe 3) options I usually explore in my stories (which I've never published because I'm a coward, so you'll never read them).

1. There was a lot of Charles in their neighborhood.

Probably there were many other kids named Charles, and to avoid confusion, they started giving each Charles a nickname (because Charles is popular name, duh — it's #11 in Top Names Over the Last 100 Years). Which is a normal thing tbh. I had another kid with my name in school, and my friends gave me a nickname to avoid mixing us up too.

Maybe Barney's friends started calling him Barney, and Clint picked it up and started using it too.

2. There was another Charles in their family.

I like to write in my stories that he was named after his grandfather from his father's side, and to distinguish between them, they called Charles "Bernard." Clint became so accustomed to "Bernard" that he started calling him Barney. This nickname persisted even after their family stopped exist lmao.

Maybe he also had a cousin with the same name after their grandfather, and that could be another reason why he was called Bernard. I don't know why people name their children after their siblings' kids, but it happens sometimes.

3. BOTH

Do I need to even explain this? I always incorporate both of these headcanons in my stories. It began with family, as he was named after his grandparent so they called him Bernard, then his friends started calling him Barney. Easy story.

I imagine that he was also called Barney in the army/FBI, because there were too many Charles. And that's why his best buddy from Hawkeye Vol.3 calls him this way.

These reasons are also the same reasons why I believe he continues to be Barney and never Charles later in his life.

I'll borrow a bit from the canon, because there's one interesting thing here.

(I think it was from Thunderbolts issues but I don't remember now.)

He probably doesn't like his name. Yeah, I know this panel is probably about his name being Barney and him being bitter about it because it's a stupid name (because authors didn't bother to check older Hawkeye comics again). But I don't care. I'll do whatever I want with this panel and treat it as if he's bitter about his real name lmao.

Why is he bitter? Why doesn't he like his name? You can create any headcanon you want, but mine is simple: he was named after someone in his family, and he hates his family. Maybe this caused him to have a bad relationship with his name. Or his parents were the only one who called him Charles and he hated it because of that. And he would want to disconnect from his past and therefore uses Bernard.

He was called Barney for most of his life, so I think he usually tells people he is Bernard and not Charles. Or "Yeah, I'm Charles, but you can call me Barney". I also think that after the Trickshot fiasco, he changed his name to Bernard Barton (probably not legally because he's still a wanted criminal). And he did it in other universes (like in Earth-58163).

That's it. I hope it wasn't too messy. Remember, it's just my theories and headcanons so you can not agree with me if you want.

#fuck you *unbarneys your barney*#this is the funniest way you could have made this post bravo #barney barton #clint barton #hawkeye #child abuse #simply because his parents hated him So Much they named him Charles and went Actually Fuck You and called him Barney instead #on top of The Other child abuse #the writers hate his guts so much which from a meta level is so funny

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shapelytimber · 11 months ago

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Disco queens d'un soir : Jeanne Brakmar and Harriette des Doigts !!

I mean, it would have been a shame to do nothing with the blond wig

[PRINT] - [COMMISSIONS]

Translation and explanation for the names and process below vvv

Why Jeanne Brakmar : 'Jeanne' is the feminine of Jean, and 'Brakmar' is a silly vulgar word that means "erect dick" in french slang (it sounds pretty close to Vicquemare) (and the phrase "fuck me, Jeanne brakmar" said in an heavy french accent is just too funny)

Why Harriette des doigts : It was @quijicroix 's idea ! It translates to "Harriette fingers/fingering" kgkgkgn 'du bois' and 'des doigts' are prononced nearly the same (yes the 'gts' is silent, because french is a language of clowns)

(I had an alternative name that I thought was very funny, but incomprehensible to anyone who's not french : "Comment Dom Costeau" kfknglfn is it a drag name ? Not really. But I hope the french speackers reading this will appreciate this tastefull word plays)

I think having both drag names be a dirty derivative of their name reinforce the cheap drag/first time doing drag feel of the drawing :)

It's been too long since I've drawn Disco Elysium fanart :) I really should do it more often

PS : Deso les francophones pour l'utilisation du mot brakmar tel un vieux gars de 50 ans au pmu lfkckgkglcl j'ai jamais dit j'etais pas beauf

Btw si vous avez la refs du 'disco queens d'un soir', bravo a vous, on ne récupérera jamais ces 2h30 perdus

#the colors took forever omfg-#harry du bois #jean vicquemare #disco elysium #cw alcohol #cw french #harry du bois fanart #jean vicquemare fanart #disco elysium fanart #drag queens #fanart #art #my art #art prints #digital art #illustration #artist on tumblr

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avastrasposts · 2 months ago

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I managed to watch The Uninvited tonight, and let me tell you, without spoilers, it's really fucking great! Funny, sad and thought provoking with a great cast.

And Pedro...Pedro is so perfectly cast! And I'm not just saying that because it's Pedro, but you'll see what I mean when you see the film. The role fit him so so well, and he was brilliant (as always).

Lucien is basically sober Dieter Bravo, and I think you can imagine what effect that has on people... there was literally a vocal reaction in the theatre when he first appeared 😅

Can't wait to rewatch it!

#pedro pascal #the uninvited #lucien flores

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whocaresstillthelouvre · 2 months ago

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So It Goes...

Gold cage, hostage to my feelings Dieter Bravo x Female Reader

Rating: Teen. Summary: Today's the day you've been dreading... letting everyone know. Little do you know your day is about get worse... Dieter has to leave. Warnings: pov switching, pining, fluff, comfort, so much inner turmoil for them (don't worry they'll figure it out soon), call back to one of my favorite simpsons episodes, a secret reference to drag race because @devineconjuring is very funny, croissants Words: 3,400

A/N: Help, I've fallen for characters I've written and I can't stop writing out scenarios. If you love Dieter and Golden Girl like me, welcome back. The biggest most grandest thank you to @devineconjuring for being the bestest beta who lets me yell insane typo'd ramblings to her. She gave me the title suggestion and also is so smart and wonderful and excuse me, I have to go wave a flag with her name on it as I march in a parade in her honor. Previous Chapter Golden Girl Masterlist Masterlist

*** His phone shrills him awake at 8:25.

ALEX DAVIES CALLING

Shit.

He gently shuffles out of the bed, instantly missing your touch when he delicately lifts your arm off his chest. He quickly tiptoes out the room and answers the call.

“Alex,” he whispers, eyes focused on the framed wedding photos that hang across the hall from the guest room.

“Sorry to call so early, Bravo, but Spencer’s decided to go a different way and he’s going to need you for reshoots on Bittersuite. He needs them stat, so your hiatus has been cut short.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How short?” He steps closer to the collection of photos, focusing on the photo of you smiling in front of a grand bookcase full of leather books. Your white wedding dress with the delicate threads of golden ivy flourishing across it catches his eye. He had downed drink after drink that night, trying to quiet the thoughts that rattled through his mind. God, he wishes it was him.

“Shooting starts Tuesday… back in London.”

His head hangs down. “Fuck,” he mutters.

“Sorry, Bravo. You good to leave tomorrow?”

“I have no other choice,” he grumbles, his eyes focusing on a backlit photo of you laughing and dancing at the reception.

“You don’t. I’ll have Court get your travel and hotel situated. She'll follow up later today. Alright?”

“Alright,” Dieter sighs, his heart breaking at the thought of 7,000 miles separating the two of you and not being here for you.

Ending the call, he opens his camera and aims it at a candid shot from your wedding. You and him are laughing, your heads thrown back, your arm grabbing his. Warren stands with his arm around you, wearing that same sly smile he always has. Dieter zooms his camera in, cropping Warren out of the picture. Now, it’s just you and him. To a blind eye, it looks like it could be a happy bride and groom on their wedding day. He snaps a pic, feeling somewhat like a criminal, rewriting the narrative of your wedding night in his head as he quietly walks back into the guest room.

You’re still asleep, splayed across the bed, mouth slightly agape. Your green pajamas have your old initials embroidered on them in golden thread that reminds him of the ivy on your wedding dress.

He gently lays back down. His jeans annoy him, but he didn’t trust himself to sleep in anything besides them. Like a self-imposed denim chastity belt.

He replays last night–the secret moments, half-spoken confessions, feelings, and declarations swallowed down before they could escape. One day you’ll know. One day he won’t feel like he’s crossing a line. He just wants to do good by you.

Two days now, he’s woken up next to you, feeling like he’s been in a dream. But everyone eventually wakes up. Reality always returns.

Today’s the day you open the proverbial door to hell, letting everyone know. Today, he has something to tell you: tomorrow, he leaves for London.

He watches you peacefully sleep, chest steadily rising and falling. You’re the first thing he’s seen when he’s opened his eyes for two mornings now, yet it feels like something he’s done for a lifetime. You’re not his, and yet it feels so right.

You sigh in your sleep. He wonders if you dream of him. Or is it Warren? God, he hopes it’s him.

He shouldn't feel this way. Your life will soon turn too chaotic, too unknown.

And yet he can’t ignore the way you looked at him last night, eyes heavy with words left unsaid. He wonders if you truly know how he feels. If you feel the same pull he’s always felt.

He pulls the sheet up over your shoulder with adoration. He wishes he could stay in this bed with you forever, shielding you under his heart and the soft blankets.

Tomorrow he’ll be far away, on a film set–surrounded by people, lights, and cameras–playing the hero of the story. And none of it will matter. Because you won’t be there with him. Because he can’t protect you. Because he won’t wake up next to you, feeling the warmth of your body next to his. Because he won’t be able to get lost in this temporary illusion of him being the one who holds you and loves you.

He could wake you up and tell you everything. Confess all the feelings he’s felt for all these years, risk it all, take a chance, and gamble with his heart. But he can’t. He’ll continue to toe that line for as long as he can, too terrified of losing you. He’ll take his unspoken words with him across the ocean and time zones. Where they can’t hurt you.

The morning sun shines through the sheer curtains, backlighting you, casting you in a rich golden glow. For now, he’ll stay here, laying beside you. Pretending you're his golden girl for a little longer.

–

Your phone alarm rings, jolting you awake. Your head is pounding. The bed is empty, but you swear you remember placing your head on Dieter’s warm chest in your drunken haze and being lulled to sleep by the tranquil rise and fall of his chest. You try to rub the sleep out of your groggy eyes, letting out a large yawn. God, you drank a lot last night. Speaking of last night–the realization wallops you upside your already aching head–the song confession to Dieter, the way his eyes rounded in sadness, how close he held you against him. The press of his lips against your forehead when he wished you sweet dreams. The feel of his arm wrapped around your body, pulling you deeper against him.

Another realization hits. You have to let people know today because, once they know, you can begin to move on. God, you don’t even want to think of the prospect of telling everyone. What will you say? Hey, it’s me, Warren left me for someone else, but it’s okay. I was kind of miserable in the marriage as it stood. Anyway, see you around!

You shake the thoughts out of your head. First thing first, find Dieter, then get some sustenance in your stomach and some Advil for your head.

“Dieter?” you call out as you get out of bed.

No answer.

You walk down the hall, and the house is quiet.

“Dee?” you shout as you head down the stairs.

Nothing.

Did your feelings offend him? Did your drunken confessions spook him?

The only sign he was here is that the records are cleaned up, no longer strewn across the floor. No note left, nothing. There’s no way he’d do this to you… right? God, what did you tell him last night? You feel like a fool. Not even 48 hours after your husband walked out and you’re trying to confess your love to someone else… let alone his best friend.

Why does this hurt more than your marriage ending?

Flopping against the couch, you feel ridiculous at how sad you are over Dieter leaving you like this. You feel the trail of a lone tear as it falls down your cheek. You knew today was going to be awful. You just didn’t think it would be this ba–

The doorknob jingles open, and Dieter walks in with a white bag and a tray of coffee.

You can’t hide the smile that spreads wide across your face when you turn and see him.

“Dee,” you whisper.

“Hey, Sweets,” he sends you a lopsided smile. “Was hoping I’d be back before you woke up. I got you your favorite.”

"You're the best, Dee," you say, gratefully accepting the coffee.

You can’t even recall the last time you told him what your favorite food was. Something as simple as breakfast is making your heart race in the middle of your living room. “You didn’t have to…”

“Of course I did,” he interrupts, walking over and setting the bag on the coffee table. “You need food, and I need…” He trails off, his eyes staying on you for just a second too long before he looks away. His voice softens. “...I need to make sure you’re okay.”

“Thanks,” you say quietly. “I am.”

He sits down next to you, tenseness radiating from his body and the way he moves. He clears his throat, nervously raking his hand through his hair.

You take a drink of coffee. Of course he ordered it the way you like it. “What’s on your mind?” you ask tenderly, turning to him.

He looks up at you, and for a quick moment, you think he might tell you everything you want to know… but then he looks away and leans back, rubbing his face with both hands.

“I–uh,” he starts, then stops. His voice cracks. “I have to leave tomorrow.”

A bomb. Dropped in the middle of your living room.

Your heart sinks. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” He whispers, as if saying it out loud will make it even more real than it already is. “Spencer wants me back for reshoots. London. I leave first thing tomorrow.”

Your stomach twists, the thought of him being thousands of miles away hitting you harder than you expected. You haven’t even begun to process the end of your marriage, and now the one person who has held you together is about to leave.

“Oh.” It’s the only word you can manage.

His brown eyes watch you, his brows furrowed as he tries to figure out your reaction.

“Look, I-I wish I could stay here and not g–”

“No, I know. You have to.” Your voice cracks. “I’m sorry, I’ll be okay. You can’t just stay because…” Your words trail off as they reach your mouth, dying in your throat.

Because you have to lie. Because you do need him. Because you know you can’t do this without him.

His jaw clenches. His eyes flash through something akin to anger, sadness, and frustration.

“I know, I’m sorry.” His voice is so fragile, like he knows just how much this is going to break you.

“Last night… What I said… Did I–?”

“You didn’t say anything wrong,” he interrupts, his voice soft but firm. “You didn’t.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, his hands clenching into fists as if holding himself back from saying more. He stands and paces the room like he’s trying to burn off the nervous energy buzzing within him.

“I told you I’d be here for you, Sweets, and now, I can’t.” He stops and turns to you. “I can’t be what you need right now. Not like this.”

Your heart breaks a little more at his words. You want to tell him he’s wrong, that he’s exactly what you need. But you don’t. You just nod, because you think he might just be right.

He moves closer, standing just inches away, his eyes searching yours for something. You don’t know what he’s looking for, but you want to give it to him.

“Dieter,” you say, your voice barely audible as a tear slips down your cheek. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to either,” he says softly. He steels himself with a deep breath. “But I have to.”

“Can we just have breakfast together still?” Your voice sounds so infantile and desperate. Another tear falls.

He kneels in front of you, wiping your tears with his thumb. “Of course,” he says, giving you the smile you’re going to miss.

—

He reaches into the bag and pulls out a croissant, flakes scattering like confetti around you. This is undoubtedly the saddest party he’s ever been to. He smiles at you, and you return it, but the smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. He feels like a fuck up again. He feels sick to his stomach, his appetite waning as he studies you.

“How’s your head?” he asks softly.

You glance down at your cup, swirling the coffee absentmindedly, avoiding his gaze. “No complaints yet,” you reply with a weak smile, trying to lighten the mood.

Dieter laughs at the joke, but he knows you’re upset. Hell, he is too.

“You should have seen the line at the café,” he says, trying to distract you. “A guy recognized me and let me cut the line, so I got the last croissants of the morning. Sometimes this whole acting thing works out.”

You let out a weak laugh, but it’s barely a whisper against the silence that envelops you both. He wants to reach for your hand, to bridge that gap now clinging between you like a thick fog. “I’m glad I went, though,” he adds. “You deserve a good breakfast after last night.”

“Yeah, last night…” Your voice trails off.

His heart sinks at the way your words are left hanging in the air, raw and unspooled. It hurts to see you so distant. The croissant feels heavy in his hands. He places it on the table with a sigh.

“Look,” he starts, trying to steady his voice. “I-I hate this, Sweets. You nee—I told you I would be there for you, and now, I’m going to fail yo—”

“No, Dee. God, I’m sorry,” you turn to him, your eyes rounded with guilt. It breaks his heart to even look at you, sitting vulnerable next to him, still in your cute little pajamas.

“I didn’t mean to put you in this position.” Your voice trembles. “I just… everything is so overwhelming right now. I’m still trying to process all of it.”

He nods, his chest tightening with every word you speak. “It’s okay,” he reassures. The words feel hollow coming out of his mouth. He knows it’s not. He knows he’s lying. “You’re allowed to feel everything. I just…I want to help you, not make it worse.”

“I know you do,” you say softly. “That’s why it’s so hard.”

“Hard?”

You look away, fiddling with the edge of your pajama top. “Dee, it’s hard… because… I’m scared of what this means for us. For me.” You breathe in deeply. “Warren left me–no notice, no explanation. And now… here I am, sitting with you, and last night I–I–the song, you know. It feels like I’m just rushing into something I don’t understand, and now you’re leaving… for… so long, and I feel…you–you’re so important to me, and you’re–you–”

He interrupts gently, “You don’t have to say anything more if you’re not ready.” He can’t hear this now. He can’t. He stayed up holding you last night, thinking of that song and the lyrics. Eyes like sinking shipsOn waters so invitingI almost jump in

You nod, returning to your croissant. The bite you take of the flaky pastry echoes in the shared silence that hangs heavily in your living room. He wants to pull you close and hold you, but the fear and the quickly approaching deadline of his inevitable trip keep him at bay.

“What are you going to tell everyone?” he asks quietly. His shoulders hurt from the stress of holding everything back; he tries to loosen them. He feels like he’s letting you down with every word he speaks.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I guess I’ll just… tell everyone the truth.”

You’re so brave. He swallows hard. Warren’s ruined your life, and now he feels as if he’s done something wrong too.

“Well, you’ve already told me, so there’s one person down,” he offers with a slight smile.

You laugh, and his heart soars, reminding him of the plane he’ll soon be on, traveling far away from you. Why can’t his brain just allow him one victory?

“I guess I’ll start with the important people and work my way down the list,” you shrug.

“Sounds like a plan, Sweets.”

“God, I am not looking forward to it,” you sigh, dusting off the crumbs that had fallen from your now-finished croissant.

He watches you with a mixture of admiration and concern. Your shoulders slump, pressed down from the weight of your own thoughts. His heart aches for you and all of the vulnerability you’ve shown him.

“Come here,” he finally whispers, leaning back on the couch. You hesitate for only a moment before sliding closer. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you in. His heart skips a beat when you lean against him, resting your head against his chest. This is all he’s ever wanted.

“Cartoons?” you ask, your voice already relaxed.

“Cartoons,” he nods, grabbing the remote. Now, this is all he’s ever wanted.

—-

The clock ticks above the television screen. Dieter has to leave your house by 3 to pack and get ready to go. You almost ask if you can accompany him, but you stay silent. You have too much to take care of today. Your family doesn’t even know yet. The sooner everyone knows, the sooner you can begin to heal.

It’s 2:45 now. Fifteen minutes left. You cuddle closer to him, relishing the feel of his soft shirt. He chuckles at Homer Simpson ordering a crab juice, and a small smile edges your lips. For a moment, you feel happy. You hum a peaceful sigh, feeling his strong arm wrap around you even tighter. His lips ghost the top of your hair as he takes in your scent with a deep breath.

The clock insidiously continues to tick. You wish it could just stop. That time could suspend itself here in your living room. But it won’t, and it doesn’t.

The Simpsons episode ends. Dieter reluctantly extracts his arm from around you. “I—need to get go—”

“I know,” you say.

He stands, the space between you widening, a chasm filled with unsaid words and feelings not realized. You watch him move, already mourning the warmth of his company as he slowly begins to grab his belongings. The sun filters through the windows, lighting your house in a bright glow, but all you feel is the darkness of your and Dieter’s impending separation.

You reluctantly rise from the couch, feeling foolish in your pajamas as he puts his sunglasses on and grabs his keys.

“Well,” he softly says, reaching for the door. “I should get… going.”

“Yeah,” you reply, trying not to sound as sad as you feel.

“You know, I’ll be back before you know it,” he offers, though the words feel like a fragile promise.

“I know,” you say, stepping towards him, bridging the distance between the two of you.

“And I’m always just a call or text away,” he says, his hand cupping your chin. “Take care of yourself, Sweets.”

“I will,” you whisper. “You too, Dee.”

You lean forward to kiss him. Just as your lips are about to meet his, he slightly turns his head, your kiss landing softly at the corner of his mouth. A bit of hesitation lingers between you, and a flush of embarrassment warms your cheeks as you pull back. He offers you a shy, sweet smile before he turns away and walks out the door.

Why did you lean in? You feel like a fool.

He walks down your front path and unlocks his car, and with one last solemn nod toward you, he gets in. You can’t watch him drive away. You shut the door.

Now it’s only you in your cold house, alone. You head to your kitchen and grab a bottle of wine and a wine glass.

It’s a pajamas and wine day today.

You pour yourself a glass and settle on the couch. It’s time to move on. It’s time to take care of yourself. You’ve got this.

You spend a long time on the phone with your parents, reassuring them that you are okay and will be fine. Exhausted, you switch to Turner Classic Movies and find a marathon of war films. Oh good, nothing with love, please. You begin to write the list of everyone who needs to know as William Holden tries to escape a POW prison camp.

Dieter’s text tone dings from your phone. Two texts. Your heart pounds against your chest when you read them.

Hey, sorry about earlier. I just knew if I kissed you…. I wouldn’t stop

---

Next Chapter

#dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x you #pedro pascal #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo #dieter x reader #dieter the bubble #pedro pascal fanfiction #ppcu fanfiction #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic

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oatmealdoodles · 3 months ago

Text

My messy thoughts on the new episode

(spoilers for Ghostf**kers)

tldr I LOVED this one the animation saw POPING OFF the writing was great, it was well paced, everything. I just wanted to ramble so here i am talking to no one:

Ok right off the bat i had to pause this like 7 times in the first five minutes because the beginning of this is just packed with insane jokes, glass to see they havent forgotten about being a comedy show

It’s so sad to see Blitzo in this state, especially that it’s been over a month. Like look at this guy he is GOING THROUGH IT.

also this was uncalled for how can you do me like this?

ok like my one problem i don’t like this little Scooby-doo reference with old people. I just skipped it and lost nothing, i don’t know why this is here.

the fight between Blitzo and Millie in the vents was also really well done im so glad Millie is putting up boundaries on dealing with everybody elses Bullshit.

I also don’t hear anyone talking about this but Vivinie Williams (Millie’s VA) did so well in this. Like all the voice acting in this show is peak but I’ve only really heard praise for Brendon and Bryce. Their argument here specifically, the fury in her voice was so well done, bravo.

JESUS CHRIST THEY DID NOT NEED TO GO THIS HARD this scene has been stuck in my head for the past two days, Brandon killed it in he recording booth, the animation is also just so VICERAL. Also the way the fire starts from his hands because he blames himself for it, like Viv went too far with this one. That was not ok.

Bitzo’s panic attack was also done so well. Little detail but i love that when Blitzo screams “Don’t touch me!”, Millie respects this and doesnt, instead comforting him with words. They only touch when he’s calm and ready. Love that.

Bro i was NOT expecting a flashback on how Millie met Blitz, also Millies design slays so hard

the way I gasped.

I also didn’t realize how much I needed an episode focusing on these twos friendship until now. Like FINALLY a Millie episode that doesn’t suck!

Little thing i realized but notice how Blitzo doesn’t make a sex joke at this. Blitzo. Not making a provocative joke. Really just goes to show how UNCOMFORTABLE and SCARED he is. I physically recoil every time I see this it’s gross

Those flashback scenes were also just so brutal. Like chaining his horns so he’s FORCED to watch is so psychotic I can’t.

its kinda sad that Blitzo’s whole motivation for doing this is to distract himself from his feelings, when that’s what he’s literally forced to confront by Ronaldo.

Love a possession story. I can really appreciate how Millie does not believe Ronaldo for a second, she knows that Blitzo would never think that of her and she trusts him enough to be confident in it. Nice subversion, you go girl.

This was so needlessly brutal and funny, they really went all out with this one

Yeah I think that’s all I wanted to day, just again i loved this one and it was definantly worth the multiple-month wait. Though my Hyperfixation has mostly died im hopeful that it will resurrect soon. We’ll have to wait and see.

#helluva boss blitz #helluva boss millie #ghostf**kers #helluva boss ghostfuckers #helluva boss #show analysis #hyperfixation #helluva boss ronaldo #ranting into the void

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onebadassunicorn · 1 month ago

Text

His Blue-Eyed Angel

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: war, blood, gore, depression, feelings of hopelessness, serious angst

word count: 4.5k

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Story tags: @bravo-delta-eccho @tele86 @tiredsleepyhead @celestialgilb @theflowerswillbloom @fuckingsimp4azriel @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @salvatoresister1 @imperfect0angel @stvrdustalexx

Image owned by Dream World Dweller.

For more amazing artwork by this artist, join Patreon and become a subscriber to this artist's collections!

********************

Chapter 16

Y/n POV

I lay in the cold dirt, my body trembling as pain rippled through me. The faebane arrows had stolen my magic, and with it, any chance of defending myself. My sword had fallen from my grip, and my wings were broken in places, the feathers bloodied. I could feel the damp earth pressing against my skin, feel the vibration of Hybern soldiers around me, their boots stomping closer, their laughter ringing in my ears.

But it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. The bond. The faint hum of it still pulsed, fragile and delicate, as though mocking me with its existence.

My mate.

The love of my life.

Azriel.

A tear slipped down my dirt-streaked face as I stared up at the ashen sky. It was funny, I thought bitterly, how life could be so wonderful and yet so cruel in the same breath. How in one moment, I could meet the love of my life, the one the Mother had made just for me, and in the very next, he was ripped away - taken from me before I’d even had the chance to understand what it truly meant.

The thought burned through my mind, sharp and relentless. Why hadn’t I realized it when he looked at me with that quiet intensity, when his voice softened as he called me angel? Why hadn’t I felt it when he trained me, when we visit Velaris together, when we watch the stars at night, when his hands lingered just a second too long on my wrist, or when he spoke to me in that low, gruff tone that made my heart race?

I saw the devastation on his face, the love and regret warring within him. And despite the exhaustion, the blood, and the agony of the moment, my heart swelled with something fierce and unyielding.

I loved him.

More than life, more than anything.

I had loved him long before I understood the bond, and now it burned through me, consuming every part of me.

But there was no time for it.

Not now.

I had been blind to the truth. Or perhaps, I hadn’t wanted to believe it. Not when Azriel was so wrapped up in Elain, so seemingly out of reach.

But he loved me the entire time.

Me.

And now?

Now, I knew. I had felt it when the bond snapped into place—an electric cord that had ignited my very soul. I’d seen it in his eyes, felt it in the way his voice cracked when he said, “I love you.”

I’ll come back for you. I swear it.

I let out a ragged breath, the tears slipping freely now. Wasn’t it cruel? To finally find him—my mate—only to have to let him go and save Elain? To watch him soar away, carrying someone else to safety while I stood my ground, knowing I couldn’t ask him to stay. Knowing that I was doing the right thing.

My hands curled weakly into the dirt, the sting of my injuries barely noticeable compared to the agony in my heart.

Why didn’t I see it sooner?

If I had, would it have changed anything? Would I have told him that I loved him before today? Would I have fought harder for him? For myself?

I closed my eyes for a moment, the bond flickering faintly in my chest, as though it, too, was trying to hold on to life. To him.

I thought of Azriel’s face—how his expression had twisted with desperation when he called angel, how his voice had shattered when he said he loved me. The memory was a lifeline, even now, even as the soldiers swarmed closer, their cruel voices ringing out as they closed the distance.

“I love you,” I had whispered as he flew away, knowing he wouldn’t hear it.

And I’d meant it.

I would love him forever, no matter what came next.

My tears mixed with the blood on my cheeks as I lay there, my breaths shallow, my mind spiraling.

Life was cruel.

It gave me the greatest gift I could ever ask for in one breath and then took it away in the next.

Azriel.

The broody, stubborn Shadowsinger.

The one who could take my breath away with just one glance.

The one whose touch I yearned for.

The one I would put above my own life.

My love.

My mate.

And yet, despite it all, I clung to that single, fragile promise that had been whispered to me before he left.

I’ll come back for you.

My fingers curled tighter into the dirt, slick with my own blood pooling underneath me as darkness crept in around me. I held onto that promise with every shattered piece of myself.

Please come back, Azriel.

******

Azriel POV

Azriel landed hard in the center of the war camp, his wings flaring wide as he touched down, Elain cradled protectively in his arms. Her pale face was streaked with dirt and blood, her body limp, her breathing faint but steady. Azriel’s chest heaved, his shadows writhing violently around him as though echoing the storm inside him.

“Feyre!” His voice rang out, sharp and urgent, cutting through the chaos of the camp.

Feyre appeared almost immediately, her bow still slung across her back, her violet eyes widening as she took in the sight of Elain in Azriel’s arms. “What happened?” she demanded, rushing toward him.

Azriel gently lowered Elain into her waiting arms, his hazel eyes dark, haunted. “Hybern took her,” he said tightly, his voice raw and rough with emotion. “Y/n… Y/n went after her Elain. She kept her safe until I could get there. Feyre—get her to the healers. Now.”

Feyre hesitated for just a moment, her gaze darting between Azriel and Elain, sensing something far worse in his tone. “Azriel—what about Y/n?”

He clenched his jaw, his wings twitching as if ready to launch himself back into the air immediately. “She stayed,” he said, his voice breaking just slightly. “She told me to go—to save Elain.” He shook his head sharply, his fists clenching. “She held Hybern’s soldiers back to I could fly. I had to leave her.”

Feyre’s eyes widened in horror. “What? No—”

“I have to go back,” Azriel said fiercely, his shadows flaring around him like a dark, living force. He turned sharply, already heading toward the command tent where Rhysand and Cassian were likely coordinating.

Azriel stormed into the command tent without waiting to be announced, his wings snapping open as his shadows spun wildly around him. Rhysand looked up from the war map, his violet eyes narrowing instantly at the look on Azriel’s face. Cassian, who had been standing nearby, froze, his brows knitting in immediate concern.

“Azriel?” Rhys demanded sharply, straightening. “What happened?”

Azriel didn’t stop as he closed the distance, his voice low and laced with devastation. “Hybern took Elain. Y/n went after her and kept her safe until I arrived. She sent me back with Elain, holding off the soldiers so I could fly.”

Cassian swore, his expression hardening. “Where’s Y/n now?”

Azriel swallowed thickly, his chest heaving as he struggled to find the words. “I had to leave her,” he choked out, his voice barely more than a whisper. “She told me to go. To save Elain. She stayed behind—she held them off.” He looked away, his jaw tight, his hands trembling faintly as his shadows coiled violently at his feet. “The bond snapped for her.”

The tent went still.

Rhysand’s face paled slightly, his violet eyes widening with shock. “The bond snapped for her? You mean – you already knew she was your mate, and you never told her?”

Azriel nodded, his voice hoarse. “Yes. I never told her.” He paused, the memory of her face burning into his mind—her wide, tear-filled eyes, the confusion, the love. “She looked at me… and she said, ‘You’re my mate.’”

Cassian cursed under his breath, pacing away before turning back, his face grim. “And you left her there?”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Azriel growled, spinning toward him, his voice raw with guilt and anger. “She told me to save Elain. Time was running out. I couldn’t fly without her holding the soldiers—” His voice cracked, and his wings sagged slightly as he whispered, “I told her I loved her. I told her I was coming back for her.”

Rhysand’s face paled, his shoulders tensing as the full weight of the situation settled in. “You’re telling me she could be dead? Or Hybern has her?”

Azriel’s jaw worked as he swallowed hard. “Yes.”

Cassian cursed under his breath, pacing a few steps before turning back sharply. “If they’ve taken her, it’s because they know who she is.”

Rhysand turned his gaze to the far horizon, his power curling around him like a storm held barely in check. “There’s too much at stake. If they know she’s my sister, they’ll…” He didn’t finish the thought.

Azriel’s gaze snapped up, his hazel eyes blazing. “She’s alive. I know she’s alive. I can feel her.” The bond, though faint, pulsed weakly in his chest, a thread he refused to let go of. “But we have to go back—now.”

Cassian looked away, his jaw tight, his face shadowed with grief.

Rhysand exhaled sharply, his jaw tight as his gaze flickered between Azriel and Cassian. “We’ll go,” he said, his voice firm, though there was an edge of unease to it. “We’ll go now.”

Azriel didn’t hesitate, turning on his heel and striding out of the tent, his wings flaring as he prepared to take off.

Rhysand followed closely behind, his voice carrying low and steady as he called out, “Cassian—rally who you can. We need to move fast.”

Cassian nodded and disappeared into the camp, barking orders as he went.

Azriel paused only long enough to glance skyward, his shadows twisting restlessly around him.

Hold on, Angel, he thought fiercely.

I’m coming back for you.

The bond pulsed faintly—so faintly he could barely feel it. But it was there. It was still there. He tugged it with everything he had so she would feel him. To know she was not alone.

And as he launched into the air with Rhysand and Cassian beside him, the only thing that filled his mind was her face—her voice—her tears as she had looked at him and whispered, You’re my mate.

He would find her.

Or he would burn the entire world to the ground trying.

******

Azriel POV

The clearing was suffocating in its silence, the chaos of battle now replaced by an eerie stillness.

The remnants of battle told a grim story: blood pooled in the center of the clearing, dark and viscous, staining the earth in a sickeningly large patch.

Scattered feathers, black and tattered, lay around the pool, some clumped together, others streaked with red.

Azriel’s breath caught in his throat, as his hazel eyes locked on the feathers. His shadows lashed out in panic, coiling around his feet as he staggered forward, his boots splashing in the blood.

His hazel eyes locked on the blood pooled in the center of the clearing. It was everywhere - dark and congealed, soaking the earth in a way that made it impossible to imagine anyone surviving such a loss.

And then Azriel saw it.

The sword.

Her sword.

It lay abandoned in the dirt, the blade stained red. The earth surrounding it was soaked with blood—so much blood—dark and drying in the ash.

Azriel’s breath caught painfully in his chest. His legs faltered, and he dropped to his knees beside the sword. His trembling fingers brushed over the hilt, his shadows curling protectively around it, as if it could somehow shield him from the truth.

Cassian landed heavily beside him, his breath coming in sharp bursts as his gaze swept over the devastation. He cursed softly under his breath, his hazel eyes wide and horrified. “Az…”

Rhysand descended more quietly, his violet eyes dark and calculating as he took in the scene. His posture was tense, his jaw tight, the telltale signs of his control slipping.

Azriel’s hands trembled as he held the hilt of her sword in his hand, his shadows curling and snapping with restless fury. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, the bond between him and Y/n faint and fragile.

It pulsed weakly, like a flicker of light on the verge of going out, and it was tearing him apart.

Rhysand stepped forward, crouching near the blood. He dipped his fingers into it, testing its warmth, before rising to his full height. His face was grim as he looked at the pool, then at Azriel. “She’s lost too much blood,” he said quietly. “I don’t see how anyone could survive this.”

Azriel staggered, the words slamming into him like a physical blow. “No,” he said, his voice trembling. “No, she’s alive. She has to be.”

Cassian frowned, his brows drawing together as he looked between Azriel and Rhysand. “What happened, Az?” he asked, his voice steady but low. “What did you see when you left her?”

Azriel exhaled shakily. “She was fighting them—Hybern’s soldiers,” he said, his voice raw. “There were so many of them. She told me to save Elain, knowing I would not be fly if she didn’t hold them back. So, I did. I picked her up and flew. But before I left…” His voice faltered, his throat tightening as the memory clawed its way to the surface.

“Before you left?” Rhysand pressed, his violet eyes burning with intensity.

Azriel’s breathing was shallow, his chest heaving with the weight of his guilt. “

Cassian stepped closer, his broad frame tense as he placed a hand on Azriel’s shoulder. “Az, look at me,” he said firmly. “What happened before you flew away?”

Azriel shook his head, his shadows coiling around him in agitation. “I looked back,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “I saw them—ten, maybe more—surrounding her. She was fighting them off, but they overwhelmed her. I saw her fall. I saw them drag her to the ground.”

"And I left her," Azriel said, his voice rising with anguish. "I left her there. She told me to save Elain, but I shouldn't have—I should have stayed." He dropped the hilt of her sword, his hands clutching the blood-streaked earth as his body trembled. "I left her when she finally knew, when she finally... loved me back. And now she's-" His voice broke, and he lowered his head, unable to say the words.

Cassian’s hand tightened on Azriel’s shoulder, his hazel eyes darkening. “And the bond?” he asked carefully.

“It’s faint,” Azriel rasped, his voice breaking. “So faint I can barely feel her. She’s dying, Cassian. And I left her. I—” His words dissolved into a broken sob, his hands clutching the blood-streaked earth, grabbing her bloodied feathers in his hands.

Rhysand crouched beside him, his expression cold but not unkind. “We’ll find her,” he said firmly, his voice like steel. “Do you hear me, Azriel? We’re not giving up on her.”

Azriel lifted his head, his hazel eyes swimming with tears as he looked at Rhysand. “But what if we’re too late?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “What if—”

“Then we make sure they regret ever laying a hand on her,” Rhysand said, his voice dark with promise. “But we don’t give up. Not until we know.”

Cassian straightened, his wings flaring as he glanced at Rhysand. “Then we move quickly,” he said. “But not without a solid plan first.”

Rhysand nodded, his violet eyes blazing as he rose to his full height. “Agreed.”

Azriel forced himself to stand, his legs shaking as he clung to the faint, fragile hum of the bond. The image of her wide, panicked eyes, the way she had whispered “You’re my mate” as the bond snapped. It haunted him, driving him forward even as despair threatened to crush him.

******

Azriel POV

The camp was thick with tension as Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel landed, their wings heavy and their faces etched with grim defeat. Night had fallen, the glow of distant fires casting faint shadows across the ground. Soldiers and members of the Inner Circle glanced their way as they landed, their expectant gazes quickly shifting to concern when they noticed the absence of Y/n.

Tarquin was waiting for them, but his usually composed and regal demeanor was shattered. He stood bloodied, his clothes torn and his face bruised, the aftermath of the battles he had fought to reach the camp. Despite his injuries, his sea-blue eyes blazed with fury and anguish as he stepped forward, his gaze quickly scanning the group.

“Where is my little sister?” Tarquin demanded, his voice raw and cutting through the tense air.

Rhysand stepped forward, his wings folding tightly against his back as he met Tarquin’s enraged gaze. “We couldn’t get to her in time,” he said, his voice low and grim. “Hybern’s forces had already moved out by the time we got back...they took her.”

Tarquin’s expression froze, his bloody face paling for a moment before twisting with rage and grief. He stepped towards Rhysand, his voice rising in a harsh, accusing shout. “You left her? You left her behind?”

“Tarquin—” Rhysand began, his tone steady but tense, but Tarquin cut him off.

“I trusted you!” Tarquin roared, his voice cracking with the force of his fury. “I trusted you to take care of her, Rhysand! And you—”

He turned, his furious gaze landing on Azriel, who stood as still as stone, his face pale and his hazel eyes hollow. “You were supposed to protect her. Where were you when she needed you?”

Azriel didn’t respond, his jaw tightening as his shadows swirled erratically around him, unable to contain the storm inside him. His hands trembled at his sides, clenched into fists, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet Tarquin’s furious gaze.

Tarquin’s voice broke with emotion as he turned back to Rhysand. “Do you know what they’ll do to her? Do you know what they’ll do to our little sister?”

Rhysand’s violet eyes burned as he met Tarquin’s gaze. “We will get her back,” he said firmly, his voice a low promise. “She’s not gone yet.”

“Not gone yet?” Tarquin repeated bitterly, his chest heaving with anger. “Do you understand what Hybern’s army does to their captives? She’s your little sister, Rhysand. She’s my baby sister. And now they have her. She is an Illyrian female AND The sister of two high lords. Do you know what they’ll do to her because of what she is? Because of who she is?”

“I understand the stakes. I understand what’s at risk. And I won’t stop until she’s back.” Rhysand said sharply, his wings flaring slightly as his tone cut through Tarquin’s tirade.

Tarquin’s gaze burned as he stared at Rhysand, his bloody hands trembling as he balled them into fists. After a long moment, he shook his head, his voice dropping into something colder, more threatening. “You’d better find her,” he said, his tone hard and brittle. “Because if you don’t, Rhysand, I won’t stop until I’ve made Hybern, his entire army—and you—pay for her life.”

Rhysand didn’t respond, his gaze unflinching. But for Azriel, Tarquin’s words carved deep into him. He wanted to say something, anything, but the guilt was suffocating. He remained silent, his shadows coiling tighter around him.

He turned and walked away, his shoulders trembling as he sought solitude. Once he was far enough from camp, his knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, his shadows wrapping around him like a shroud. In his shaking hands, he clutched a bloodied black feather, one torn from her wings during the fight. The blood stained his fingers as tears spilled down his face, his shoulders shaking violently.

His mate.

Taken from him.

The one he loved more than anything.

For him, the realization of love came in fits and starts—quiet, elusive moments that lodged in Azriel’s mind long before he acknowledged them for what they truly were.

He remembered the first inkling as a subtle warmth when he caught her in an unguarded moment: Y/n kneeling beside a little boy on the beach in Summer Court. The love in her eyes as she crafted sea creatures from the water, and the little boy squealing and clapping with pure joy. The sunlight wove through her hair, the light shining behind her making her appear ethereal. He’d chalked it up to admiration of her gentleness and beauty at the time, something distant and impersonal.

Then there was the touring of Velaris, not long after her arrival, talking of her mother and her past. The moment she let her guard down and let him in. Let him see the broken parts of her.

There was the first time he sparred with her, and she took down him down easily, pinning him to the ground, teasing him for being distracted. And the stroll down the riverbank, sharing secrets of her training. The sun’s rays had caught glints of blue in the color of her wings and hair, her eyes dancing with mischief as she told him how she could read his movements before he made them. Azriel had stood beside her, impressed by her knowledge and her fire. She’d turned her head, eyes like the deep ocean, and smiled.

Just that: a small, unburdened smile.

It had felt as if the stars in the heavens overhead had shifted, somehow reorienting the world around that single gesture. He had dismissed the flush of warmth in his veins as simple admiration for her beauty—nothing more.

But those fleeting moments added up. They came to him in the long stretches of silence, drifting through his mind unbidden. The sound of her laugh, low and throaty, as she teased Cassian over some ridiculous jest. The fierce tilt of her chin when she stood her ground against Nesta in an impromptu sparring session—neither truly trying to win, each testing boundaries and learning trust. The gentle way she’d spoken to him late one night in the library, handing him a cup of tea with a quiet question in her eyes, as if ensuring he was well, that he was seen, that he was cared for.

He’d tried to ignore these small, vital signs. He had been fond of others before, after all. He told himself they were just impressions of a new friend, a trusted ally, someone who brought out the best parts of him—the parts he hardly dared believe still existed.

He had resisted the word love, afraid that it would transform all those gentle, stolen moments into something fraught, something demanding.

He was Azriel, the Spymaster.

He did not yearn, did not cling, did not bare his heart to another without fear of losing something vital.

Until today.

The day he lost her.

When he left her behind in Hybern’s clutches to rescue Elain, the magnitude of his feelings slammed into him. The guilt and regret he felt were not simply about failing at a mission or disappointing Rhysand. They cut deeper. They ripped something essential out of his chest, leaving an aching cavity where her presence had always flickered like a secret lantern in the dark.

Grief.

Heartbreak.

He missed her smile, the curve of her wings, the music of her laughter. He yearned for her safety as fiercely as he had ever longed for peace in the shadows of his own soul.

That was the truth he could no longer run from: it wasn’t just fate that tied them together, not merely the Cauldron’s decree that she was his mate.

It was the way her laughter drew him closer like gravity. It was the calm he found in her presence, the sense of being understood, forgiven, and cared for in ways no one else had managed. It was the staggering depth of rage and sorrow he felt now that she was gone, something that demanded he move the earth and sky to bring her back.

He loved her.

The realization settled into him as he watched her hold back soldiers to save him. Save Elain. It didn’t come as a sudden epiphany, but as the final, inevitable truth of all those gentle moments he had collected in his mind. A truth that he spoke as he rescued Elain and vowed to come back for her.

A truth that made him vow, with trembling conviction, that he would do anything—brave any danger, defy any order—to see her safe again. He would tear through every barrier between them to keep her at his side, to show her the tenderness he’d too long withheld, and to spend whatever years fate allowed them proving that he was worthy of the faith she had silently placed in him.

In loving her, he rediscovered some long-lost piece of himself, something he never dared to hope he could have. He realized his love for her had always been there, shimmering in the quiet, stolen glances and soft exchanges. He had simply never dared to name it.

Now, with her absence like a wound, he understood he would never be whole without her by his side.

His shadows curled closer now, as if sensing his torment and trying to comfort him. He would have snarled at them if he had the energy. There was no comfort to be found. He should have done more—been faster, cleverer. He should have risked himself further. If he had reached Y/n first, if he had stood guard over her while fending off those warriors, perhaps he could have coaxed Elain to run, to follow him. Perhaps he would have brought them both out safely.

What good was he if he could not save the one the Mother had chosen for him?

He remembered how he’d vowed silently after he had hurt her by pushing her away, again and again, that if she ever needed him, he would not hesitate.

And yet he had.

He had left her.

Now she was at Hybern’s mercy. Pain spiked like a blade in his chest at the thought of what they might do to her. He closed his eyes, jaw clenched tight, regret souring his mouth.

Azriel swallowed back a bitter taste, resolving that whatever price he had to pay, he would pay it. Whatever danger he had to face, he would face it. He would find her, bring her home, and beg forgiveness that he did not deserve. There would be no rest, no peace in him until he looked into her eyes again and saw understanding and absolution.

For now, there was only silence and guilt, thick as a blade pressed to his throat. He would carry this remorse like a burden, driving him forward into the next dawn, the next battlefield. Until he redeemed himself—or died trying.

Chapter 17

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