#the crown is so done with them in so many worlds

[axolotluv]

I've noticed this trend lately

[donutfloats]

I feel like we missed out on Narinder being a dog tbh

I love the dynamic of a dog and sheep because of the whole dog herding sheep and stuff

Also Narinder could have been a Cerberus!!!!!!! That would have been so cool!!!!!!! And he could have worn one of those spiked collars that protect dogs from wolves

[fellsilver]

Prev. post was also brought on by me thinking Lael deserves to curbstomp SOMEONE, to go apeshit just ONCE, but I don't think she ever will. Oh absolutely she'll defend herself. Absolutely she's killed when the situation's called for it and will again. But, she is a not a creature of vengeance and rage. She'll never get lost in that particular sauce.

[beggars-opera]

On the road leading into the center of Concord, Massachusetts, there sits a house.

It is a plain, colonial-style house, of which there are many along this road. It has sea green and buff paint, a historical plaque, and one of the most multi-layered stories I have ever encountered to showcase that history is continuous, complicated, and most importantly, fragmentary, unless you know where to look.

So, where to start? The plaque.

There's some usual information here: Benjamin Barron built the house in 1716, and years later it was a "witness house" to the start of the American Revolution. And then, something unusual: a note about an enslaved man named John Jack whose epitaph is "world famous."

Where is this epitaph? Right around the corner in the town center.

It reads:

God wills us free; man wills us slaves. I will as God wills; God’s will be done. Here lies the body of JOHN JACK a native of Africa who died March 1773 aged about 60 years Tho’ born in a land of slavery, He was born free. Tho’ he lived in a land of liberty, He lived a slave. Till by his honest, tho’ stolen labors, He acquired the source of slavery, Which gave him his freedom; Tho’ not long before Death, the grand tyrant Gave him his final emancipation, And set him on a footing with kings. Tho’ a slave to vice, He practised those virtues Without which kings are but slaves.

We don't know precisely when the man first known only as Jack was purchased by Benjamin Barron. We do know that he, along with an enslaved woman named Violet, were listed in Barron's estate upon his death in 1754. Assuming his gravestone is accurate, at that time Jack would have been about 40 and had apparently learned the shoemaking trade from his enslaver. With his "honest, though stolen labors" he was then able to earn enough money to eventually purchase his freedom from the remaining Barron family and change his name to John, keeping Jack as a last name rather than using his enslaver's.

John Jack died, poor but free, in 1773, just two years before the Revolutionary War started. Presumably as part of setting up his own estate, he became a client of local lawyer Daniel Bliss, brother-in-law to the minister, William Emerson. Bliss and Emerson were in a massive family feud that spilled into the rest of the town, as Bliss was notoriously loyal to the crown, eventually letting British soldiers stay in his home and giving them information about Patriot activities.

Daniel Bliss also had abolitionist leanings. And after hearing John's story, he was angry.

Here was a man who had been kidnapped from his home country, dragged across the ocean, and treated as an animal for decades. Countless others were being brutalized in the same way, in the same town that claimed to love liberty and freedom. Reverend Emerson railed against the British government from the pulpit, and he himself was an enslaver.

It wouldn't do. John Jack deserved so much more. So, when he died, Bliss personally paid for a large gravestone and wrote its epitaph to blast the town's hypocrisy from the top of Burial Hill. When the British soldiers trudged through the cemetery on April 19th, 1775, they were so struck that they wrote the words down and published them in the British newspapers, and that hypocrisy passed around Europe as well. And the stone is still there today.

You know whose stone doesn't survive in the burial ground?

Benjamin Barron's.

Or any of his family that I know of. Which is absolutely astonishing, because this story is about to get even more complicated.

Benjamin Barron was a middle-class shoemaker in a suburb that wouldn't become famous until decades after his death. He lived a simple life only made possible by chattel slavery, and he will never show up in a U.S. history textbook.

But he had a wife, and a family. His widow, Betty Barron, from whom John purchased his freedom, whose name does not appear on her home's plaque or anywhere else in town, does appear either by name or in passing in every single one of those textbooks.

Terrible colonial spelling of all names in their marriage record aside, you may have heard her maiden name before:

Betty Parris was born into a slaveholding family in 1683, in a time when it was fairly common for not only Black, but also Indigenous people to be enslaved. It was also a time of war, religious extremism, and severe paranoia in a pre-scientific frontier. And so it was that at the age of nine, Betty pointed a finger at the Arawak woman enslaved in her Salem home, named Titibe, and accused her of witchcraft.

Yes, that Betty Parris.

Her accusations may have started the Salem Witch trials, but unlike her peers, she did not stay in the action for long. As a minor, she was not allowed to testify at court, and as the minister's daughter, she was too high-profile to be allowed near the courtroom circus. Betty's parents sent her to live with relatives during the proceedings, at which point her "bewitchment" was cured, though we're still unsure if she had psychosomatic problems solved by being away from stress, if she stopped because the public stopped listening, or if she stopped because she no longer had adults prompting her.

Following the witch hysteria, the Parrises moved several times as her infamous father struggled to hold down a job and deal with his family's reputation. Eventually they landed in Concord, where Betty met Benjamin and married him at the age of 26, presumably having had no more encounters with Satan in the preceding seventeen years. She lived an undocumented life and died, obscure and forgotten, in 1760, just five years before the Stamp Act crisis plunged America into a revolution, a living bridge between the old world and the new.

I often wonder how much Betty's story followed her throughout her life. People must have talked. Did they whisper in the town square, "Do you know what she did when she was a girl?" Did John Jack hear the stories of how she had previously treated the enslaved people in her life? Did that hasten his desperation to get out? And what of Daniel Bliss; did he know this history as well, seeing the double indignity of it all? Did he stop and think about how much in the world had changed in less than a century since his neighbor was born?

We'll never know.

All that's left is a gravestone, and a house with an insufficient plaque.

[yanderenightmare]

tomura with hero reader whose quirk he's stolen, rendering them defenseless

Shigaraki Tomura

TW: slight nsfw, implied prev noncon, captive reader, Stockholm syndrome, implied mental break, mental deterioration, disassociation, manipulation, angsty, but also weirdly fluffy? reader is super fragile

gn reader

The chub of your inner thighs is still wet with the act. You rub them together for no other reason than that it feels pleasant. You trace the awful scars on his arm, using his warm chest as a pillow—the sound beating of his heart thumping rhythmically at your ear, a soothing presence.

 He balances a red book atop your crown.

He doesn’t seem very interested in reading it—only regarding it with jaded eyes, a meager scoff then and there before turning the page. But still, even though the book didn’t excite him, it bothered you that his attention was elsewhere. It sowed the seeds of doubt and gave root to way too many intrusive thoughts, sprouting out and spreading like weeds throughout your mind, making your chest curl at the possibilities.

“Do you think I'm ugly?” you have to ask. You have to know, why isn’t he looking at you.

He pans away from the page, beady garnet eyes softening from scrutiny to nonplus.

Your question stunted him—nearly made him believe he’d heard you wrong. Why someone like you would ever ask someone like him something like that seemed beyond all reason. It would be the same if a flower asked gravel.

But then again, you’d become a little ditzy as of late. Or maybe you’d been so for a little while already. It’s hard to say—you don’t talk as much as you used to. You no longer scream either, though that had ceased even longer ago.

You continue to delicately run your finger over the tear where his tough skin meets the even tougher purple tissue as though mapping the damage. There’s a frown on your face. No, not a frown—a pout. 

He thought for a moment to use it against you like he’d done everything else so far. Lie and say yes, tell you you’re about as ugly as he is—gravel—make you fall even further apart than what you were already. But something compelled him to choose differently.

“I think you're the prettiest thing in the world.”

Your pout is sucked between your teeth as you pick yourself up to peer down at him—eyes round and misty and something more, something strange—dare he say joyed?

You're scaring him.

“Really?” you choke out as if you’d been holding back a lump.

He hasn’t known how to treat you lately. You’ve become too soft to handle poorly—too frail to harass and too willing for him to feel the need to. Earlier, you'd even begged him to fuck harder and deeper—even cum inside. Actually, you hadn't veered away from his touch in a while. More like you've been embracing it.

He'd brushed it off as mere compliance at first, a state of meekness, weakened by being touch-starved, something that perhaps developed into a minor case of Stockholm syndrome.

But the way you're acting now—seems more concerning.

“Yeah,” is all he warrants as an answer. Though, he was curious as to yours as he begs the same question, “What about me?”

A smile graces your face then—there’s a comfort to it, a mild and affectionate one, unexaggerated, honest, as you smoothly swing your leg over his lap.

A look like that has no place on your face, especially when regarding him, and yet he finds himself hoping for more. He lays his book aside as you lean forward and doesn't stop you when you cup his face in both your palms.

“As far as I'm concerned, you’re not just the prettiest boy in the world—you're the only boy in the world.” You say it with a kiss, lips just as soft as the words leaving them. It shocks him, though he accepts and gives it back.

You close your eyes, laying your chest against his—he keeps his open to look at you. Observing and assessing.

You’ve truly become a whole other person altogether. A far cry from the tough hero you once were—the one who’d beat him within an inch of his life and leave him to choke on the blood.

“Will you stay with me today?” you ask against his lips—playing with his hair, looping the curly tresses around your fingers.

There’s a neediness to your voice, a certain desperation, a sadness—something lonely and something that reminds him all too much of himself. He feels both a strong urge to reject and soothe it all at the same time.

“No, I gotta go,” he says despite it. He had business.

You hide your face in his neck and continue with your tracing, now on the scrapes striping his throat where he’s raked his nails time and time again. “When will you come back?” Your tone comes out even sweeter, only a murmur mushed against his skin.

It nearly makes his heart twist. “It’s better I don’t answer that.”

It’s funny. Though the thought had struck him, he didn’t gauge any ill intentions. You could be asking, acting, plotting some escape based on the hours of his absence—yet somehow, with the way you nuzzle into him like that, as though you’re pouring your all-too-candid grief into him, he can't sense any other ulterior motive.

“Last time you left at this hour, you came back all beaten and bruised,” you mutter, now with a hint of bitterness—as if you’re cursing whoever hurt him under your breath.

It’s ironic. He sneers lazily, almost fondly, at the old memory. “You’re the one who used to beat and bruise me, remember?”

He’s truly curious if you do. Or if something’s spirited your past life away and left you like this—no longer an aspiring young hero, but something whose only value is warming his bed at night.

You arise, an appalled look of affront upon your face.

“No, that can’t be right,” you very nearly cry, as if the very thought was killing you. “I would never hurt you—I love you too much.”

Apparently, you don’t remember who you were at all.

“Love me?” he all but croaks. It’s a laughable prospect, and yet he doesn’t even smile. There’s something awful in his gut that prevents him. “Don't be stupid. You can't love me.”

Your face doesn’t drop its grimace, only further tears with forlorn outrage. “Of course, I love you!" you insist. "You’re my whole reason for living...”

You look so despaired—wrecked from his dismissal. The tears well quickly then slip down your face just as fast—and yet it isn’t the same crying as you used to. This time, it’s quiet—in wait or in dread as you beg the question, 

“Don't you love me?”

It’s an unexpected one, and it quickly proves to be an existential one—even more so than your unnerving confession. Despite not wanting to, it leaves him to dig through the muck in his head he’d long ignored, down in the dark where he’d tried burying the truth he'd felt oncoming. He'd wanted to deny it, reject it, amend it, simply because it confused him too much to acknowledge—complicated things—changed things he didn’t want or need changing.

He wonders if it’s somehow proof of fate—even though he despises such a concept. That, no matter how much you practice free will, no matter how many knots you make upon the red string, the world will pull and straighten it out, and you’re left to realize you’d brought it all on yourself.

First, he took your quirk, then he took your body—your mind shortly followed—and now it seems he’s managed to take your heart, too. 

There’s nothing left of you that isn’t his. 

There was a time he’d frolic at the thought of having reduced you to such a pathetic ghost in a shell—back then, he’d do anything to destroy you—he’d surely shatter you into a million little scattered pieces if presented with the chance, make sure you were broken for good. 

But that was the old him. Or rather, that was his dream for the old you—the hero he loathed down to his rotten core.

But the pretty misty-eyed thing looking down at him now, aching for his answer, wasn’t that person anymore.

And the truth is, the person you are now scares him more than that hero ever did. 

You were… well, you were the person who warms his bed at night, the person who traces his scars and plays with his hair—the person who wraps themselves around him and keeps him from falling apart when he stumbles through the door into the tiny little room he keeps you a prisoner in. You're his.

This time, his heart does twist. He’s never before spoken the words that dance on his tongue, or if he has, they’ve been long forgotten and come out as dust balls as he affirms them now, 

“Yes. I love you.”

There’s a flash of hope in your eyes, though it just as quickly diminishes—as if you don’t believe him.

Your lip warbles as you confirm it, “No, you don’t.”

More tears run silently down the tracks on your cheeks, gathering at the tip of your chin before dripping upon his chest—each one like a gunshot through something hollow.

“If you did, you wouldn’t go. You wouldn’t leave me here in this room, all alone.” Your nails curl into your palms where they rest atop him. You bow your head as though you can’t bear to look at him, as if it hurts. The next words come out beneath your breath, “How am I supposed to compete with the whole world?”

You’re making him feel like dying. The continuous twists of his heart feel as if you’re about to tear it right out of his chest.

He sits up and lifts your face. It’s strange, even with his two-finger gloves on. He doesn’t think he’s ever held you like this. Though, suppose it’s been a night of many firsts already. And here comes another,

“As far as I’m concerned, you are my world.”

There you are, the one thing he doesn’t wish to destroy.

Your sore eyes become round, then swell with different tears. There’s a hitch in your breath as you sigh through a shuddering sob, throwing your arms around his neck and clinging to him tightly—your body jostling while you rub your wet face into his neck, holding him close for comfort as if you're scared to ever let go.

He returns the gesture, though somewhat hesitantly, wrapping his arms around you and laying his head to rest against your shoulder.

And then, as he holds you—for the first time ever, fear of actually losing the fight ahead strikes him.

He hadn’t much cared about the outcome before. Either he’d destroy or be destroyed.

This wasn’t as simple. As said earlier, this complicated things.

But then again, it was even more of a reason to go.

“But I still have to leave.” 

You part from him—the betrayal in your tone demanding his justification, “Why?”

Suppose, in some ways, this actually made things simpler—as that was a question he had no problem answering.

“‘Cause there are monsters outside…” He rests his forehead upon yours, gazing back into those terribly glassy eyes looking back at him as he speaks to you about your dear old colleagues. “Monsters who want nothing but to take you away from me.”

If only they could see you now, they’d know… you no longer want to leave him.

“So I have to go out there and make sure they have no chance,” he explains, almost like a vow, “You’re mine, and I’ll destroy anyone who says otherwise to keep you that way.”

The way your eyes melt makes him feel all fuzzy. It’s a special type of glee, a victory before the battle even begins—to see you root for him—so deep in love with him that you’ve forgotten you’re celebrating the onset of death to all of your former friends.

They probably wouldn’t be able to take you away from him even if they somehow managed to invade this very room. You’d sooner die than betray him.

And that makes him feel all the more ready for the war ahead.

“So kiss me good luck, and I’ll come right back to you soon.”

♡ SHIGARAKI TOMURA ♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist

[elllisaaa]

ateez when their s/o gives them cutness aggression

-> words count : 963 words

-> genre : fluff

-> sorry if I made any mistakes, english is not my first language.

-> reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated !

-> author's note : @mjilv gave me the idea of doing an ateez version so here it is ! hope you'll like it !

-> masterlist | ateez masterlist

svt version | ateez version

KIM HONGJOONG

cause of the aggression : hongjoong coming home very sleepy after a long day working at the studio.

actually, it’s more the way he latches on you as soon as he spots you that melts your heart.

you immediately wrap your arms around him and bury your nose in his hair, then you leave a string of kisses on the crown of his head. 

even after so many hours working, he still smells so good and you’re a little jealous. 

and hongjoong is too tired to try and stop you from doing your thing, on the contrary, he relaxes even more in your embrace, quietly humming in satisfaction.

“how was your day joongie ?”

“so much better now that I’m with you.”

PARK SEONGHWA

cause of the aggression : seonghwa proudly showing off the new lego set he just built. 

you had always thought that your boyfriend’s passion for lego was endearing, but the way he always seeks out your approval on everything he adds to his collection makes you want to keep him with you forever. 

so instead of paying attention to the piece in his hands, you squish his cheeks and kiss his lips repeatedly instead. 

seonghwa whines a few times, asking you what you are doing but honestly, he loves the affection so he quickly shuts up.

“now, what were you saying, baby ?”

“i’m not sure i wanna talk about legos now. can you kiss me again instead ?”

JEONG YUNHO

cause of the aggression : you know the golden retriever energy he has ? yeah, that is enough.

because why does his whole face light up when he finds you in the cereal aisle at the grocery store, showing off the new ice cream flavors he’s been wanting to try. 

and you don’t care that you’re in public because you just need to show him that you love him.

so you grab his arm and stand on your tippy toes to be able to kiss his cheeks as many times as you want.

and yunho’s giggles as you do it don’t help calm you down.

“what was that for ?”

“don’t act like you don’t know how cute you are, jeong yunho.”

KANG YEOSANG

cause of the aggression : you know the way he’s looking above himself sometimes ? that is literally the cutest thing ever wtf ???

so when you pass behind the couch and your boyfriend does that, you cannot help the urge to bend down and leave a trail of kisses along his forehead.

yeosang sometimes doesn’t understand you, but he loves your kisses so he lets you do your thing. 

when you finally let him go, you notice his red ears, and you chuckle lightly before giving him a real kiss on the lips.

“i’m never getting used to this.”

“good, i want you to be surprised everytime i come out of nowhere to give you affection.”

CHOI SAN

cause of the aggression : san pouting at you because you don’t want to sleep with him due to the unbearable heat of the summer. 

you were already sweating like crazy, and you didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night all sticky because your boyfriend wasn’t able to keep his hands off of you.

but the way he was pleading you with his whole face was too cute to ignore. 

so you simply sighed as you settled in his arms again and went to kiss his pouty lips. and as soon as you were done with your attack, san was all smiley again.

“you’re such a child.”

“maybe, but you love me.”

SONG MINGI

cause of the aggression : his big smile, the one that makes me want to kill myself because he’s too fucking pretty for this world. 

when he’s smiling like that, it’s already hard to manage, but when that smile is directed at you, it’s impossible to pass on the opportunity to kiss his whole face.

so you don’t hesitate to cup his face in your hands and press your lips against every inch of his skin.

and his smile doesn’t leave him as you go on, his own hands going down to grab your waist.

as soon as you’re done, he’s pressing a kiss to your own lips, and his eyes are filled with love.

“i really don’t deserve you.”

“you do mingi, you deserve the world.”

JUNG WOOYOUNG

cause of the aggression : we all know how cute he is when he’s taking care of kids so seeing him be all lovey dovey with your little cousins makes your heart flutter. 

as soon as wooyoung said his goodbyes to the little girl because you had to go, you’re all over him.

he doesn’t understand what’s happening, and he’s whiny at the beginning, trying to push you off of him.

but he progressively gives up on his plan and simply lets you do your thing. 

and when you finally let him go - and breathe some fresh air - he cannot hide his cheeky smile.

“something’s wrong with you, i swear.”

“as if you’re not just as crazy !”

CHOI JONGHO

cause of the aggression : once again, the smile. like, his big gummy smile… killing myself again.

no but how can you resist him when he’s smiling at you like that ?? you can’t ! 

so even if he didn’t ask for this, you kiss his face as many times as you can before jongho starts to protest. 

but both of you know that it’s only to try and keep his composure, because he loves it when you’re showering him with your love like that.

but he has a reputation to hold (he has none but you let him believe it because he’s cute).

“all of that just because of my smile ?”

“don’t play dumb ! you know very well how weak i am !”

-> i don't allow any copies, reposts or translations of my work.

ateez taglist (fill in this to added) :

@sharonxdevi @hann1bee @lil-kpopstan @heevllog @lichyuu @foxinnie8 @lovelyuyu

[kirain]

Wall of the faithless isn't canon in bg3. They changed alot of things actually. So no Gale isn't "scared" he's just an obsessed asshole who doesn't learn from his mistakes.

Oof...

There's really nothing I can say except: you're wrong. The City of Judgement and the Wall of the Faithless are canon to BG3. If you don't like Gale, that's fine, but you don't have to make things up or completely disregard the lore to do it. Larian Studios literally hired people from Wizards of the Coast—the company responsible for all the canon lore, characters, and campaigns in D&D—to help them with the story. It took them five years, I believe, to fully study and understand the lore. They constantly conferred with the team to double, triple, and quadruple check every slice of content they added to the game, and parts of the game are now considered canon to D&D 5E.

As for Gale "not learning" from his mistakes ... when you first meet him, he literally admits he made a mistake with Mystra. Though personally I don't see it as the "power-hungry" move people seem to think it is. Gale simply wanted to be considered an equal to his partner (really his groomer), which is a perfectly healthy and normal desire for anyone in a relationship. Your partner should treat you like an equal, but Mystra very clearly saw Gale as a pet. A trophy. A worshipper. Subservient. Beneath her. A silly mortal with delusions of grandeur (which she cultivated), which is really rich when you learn she was once mortal herself. Mystra is a hypocrite.

Gale tried to prove himself worthy of equality by trying to bring Mystra what he thought was a piece of her missing Weave. For anyone who doesn't know, the current Mystra was torn to pieces by Cyric and Shar, then put back together by her Chosen. Though back to full power by the events of BG3, she's still technically missing pieces of herself, and Gale mistook the Karsite Weave for one of those pieces. Instead of simply telling Gale it was corrupted Weave, she let him go on believing it was hers. Personally I think that's because she was tired of him (maybe he got too old for her 😒) and was hoping he would do something that, in her mind, would justify abandoning him—but I admit that's full conjecture on my part. What is true is that she knew the orb wasn't hers, but for some reason she let Gale think it was. Even after she abandoned him and left him to die, she never told him. Not until she realised she could use him.

In Act 3, while the argument can certainty be made that he's thirsty for power, Gale ultimately becomes fed up with the gods because, as he knows better than anyone, they treat people like commodities. While I have no intention of ever ascending him myself, it looks like he actually makes good on his word. He doesn't threaten or toy with his followers, he inspires people to walk their own path, he only asks for prayers as payment (as without some form of devotion, gods in D&D cease to be), and if you romance him ... he ascends you into godhood as his equal. Mystra could have done this for him, she just didn't want to. And if you don't want him to ascend, it's genuinely so easy. I don't understand what people are complaining about. It takes one conversation with zero checks to convince him to completely abandon his ambitions. One. If he was truly "power hungry", it wouldn't be that easy.

Again, I would argue that Gale's true goal isn't really power, it's freedom, and divinity gives him that freedom. He has many conversations where he makes it clear he doesn't want to live under the gods' thumbs anymore; which, in a world like Faerûn, is extremely understandable. As I said in my Wall of the Faithless post, he's scared. Eternal torment for a simple mistake, one of which could've been avoided if Mystra told him the truth or treated him like an equal? When your partner is a goddess, how can you not feel inadequate? And if you convince him to give up the crown, he's perfectly content with Mystra's forgiveness. Even in the Early Access, that's all he really wanted.

Gale's far from perfect. He's arrogant and overconfident and insecure and he can be prone to emotional outbursts (most of which he apologises for, however), but he's nowhere near the heartless, power-hungry monster the haters seem to think he is. He is, in fact, one of the most compassionate companions in the entire camp, to the point that he accepts everyone, including Minthara. He votes for Astarion to stay when you find out he's a vampire. He gets mad at you if you surrender him to the Gur. He's one of the only companions who will openly marry/stay with you if you become a mindflayer. He's willing to sacrifice himself to save the world, and willing to damn himself to be with you. He loves every act of kindness, while hating every act of cruelty. I understand that the bugs from launch ruined a lot of people's perception of him ... and unfortunately some of those glitches are still present even now, but he is a good man.

[galstelperion]

Galadriel has the light of the two trees ensnared in her hair:

“...and her hair was held a marvel unmatched. It was golden like the hair of her father and of her foremother Indis, but richer and more radiant, for its gold was touched by some memory of the starlike silver of her mother, and the Eldar said that the light of the Two Trees had been snared in her tresses.”

— Unfinished Tales, "The History of Galadriel and Celeborn"

And her eyes bore a sheen of starlight of which the Calaquendi who beheld the light of Valinor for many years held:

I find the prevailing theory that Sauron covets her light in the same way Morgoth coveted the Silmarils very interesting. That he would see in her a faded memory he had not even thought to reach for, the memory of being Aule’s disciple, the memory of being Mairon the admirable, not Sauron the abhorred.

But the light he desires most, that he would burn the entire world for, rejects him, burns him, just as the Silmarils burned Morgoth…

But Morgoth persisted in capturing the silmarils light and for a time wore the three glittering stones on his crown:

“For they were set in the Iron Crown, and treasured in Angband above all wealth; and Balrogs were about them, and countless swords, and strong bars, and unassailable walls, and the dark majesty of Morgoth.”

— The Silmarillion, Chapter 19: Of Beren And Luthien

— art by neexsethe

Now I wonder if this connection they are making to her hair and to the light Galadriel holds, how he longs for it so deeply it even brings that smile back to his eyes…

There are many who might say this conversation he had with Mirdania is purely manipulative in nature and I would agree to an extent. He certainly went into to that conversation with the intention of turning her worries about what she’d seen away from suspecting him…

At the same time, I also don’t think this touch was calculated and intentional. This scene felt very well done because it showed us, for the first time in many episodes, perhaps a hint to Sauron’s truest desires again. Galadriel’s light and hope and goodness being at the very of that.

Mirdania will die off in an episode or two. This scene was clearly meant to fully establish and really remind the audience of what Sauron wants most…

I can’t help but think this scene will somehow be reflected in his persistence to capture Galadriel, and if, like Morgoth before him, he will have the chance to keep that light bound with him, even for a small time?

[ineedtherapydesperately]

desperately wanna write a childhood friends to lovers au w chloe and red in the timeline where bridget never goes evil and is still besties w ella

like imagine all the hangouts and sleepovers they have, crying and whining when they have to be separated because red, dear, we really must return home or chloe, love, we've been in wonderland for a week already

imagine little chloe bursting into her parents' bedroom declaring that she'll always be red's knight in shining armour, because every princess, especially a crown princess, needs a knight to protect her and ella and christopher just KNOWING that chloe is gonna stay by red's side forever and ever

so they start planning the wedding with bridget, thrilled to have the opportunity to bring their families even closer together. they're gonna be in laws! a family, just like they've always dreamed.

imagine little red telling her mum that chloe has a really pretty smile and really pretty eyes, and it makes her happy to see chloe happy, and that chloe is the bestest friend in the whole wide world and bridget has to stop herself from squealing and pinching red's adorably flushed cheeks, because her daughter was so in love already, even if it was just puppy love. that doesn't stop her from screaming gleefully into her pillow later that night tho

imagine them growing up together, attached at the hip, never straying from the other's side. imagine them going to auradon together, everyone already knowing that red and chloe, chloe and red, are a package deal. you can't get one without the other, a known fact since the duo were old enough to travel through the rabbit hole on their own

imagine chad walking in on them cuddling, watching a movie and cooing at them, snapping pictures on his phone before they notice him, yelling at him to leave them alone. alright, alright, I'll leave you lovebirds alone and red flushes in mortification and shut the fuck up chad, we're completely platonic and you know this because little miss goody-goody would definitely be rougher around the edges, growing up with red, and she'd definitely cuss up a storm at chad, but she loves him, she swears, just maybe not as much as she loves red

imagine them going through all the motions of a romantic relationship, cuddles, cheek kisses, hand holding, cute dates and all that, but insisting that it's just platonic, and that's how they've always been because they're best friends and their parents are so very done with them, just praying for them to get together, and chad has even started a betting pool for when they'll realise they love each other. he thinks it'll take them until at least their second year at auradon prep - at least, it'll take chloe that long

imagine chloe and red having matching lock screens, and having each other set as their home screens as well. imagine red baking chloe anything she asks for, like peppermint cookies and flamingo feather cupcakes and blueberry muffins, because chloe, her princess, her knight, has a raging sweet tooth that red can't help but indulge every time. imagine chloe taking red on ice cream dates, because red LOVES ice cream, and refusing to let her pay for it because red was a princess and deserved only the best treatment, thank you very much and red has to point out that chloe, you're a princess too. but, red, you're the crown princess and im your loyal knight <3

imagine red finally realising her feelings and ranting at the council of parents because holy shit aunt ella, your daughter is so dense?? and christopher can't help but cringe because he knows exactly who chloe got that trait from and he's like I'm sorry but while we charmings are quite, charming, we're also quite oblivious, especially to matters of the heart and bridget can't stop laughing because darling, you may need to hit her with glass shoes for her to figure it out, which makes ella blush because that's exactly what she had to do that night at castlecoming

god I have so many feels about this I am totally normal about glassheart. final part absolutely inspired by @strugglingsapphic's recent post bc I love the idea of oblivious chloe not knowing shit

[trappolia]

── PUT ALL YOUR FAULTS TO BED, YOU CAN BE KING AGAIN

leona kingscholar. the musings of the second prince, regarding the crown and his consort.

Some days, Leona thinks about what the word king means to him and how it links back to you.

Contrary to popular belief, he does not so easily forget the whispers of rumours behind his back; though, loathe as he is to admit, Leona knows that some are less rumour and more truth, no matter how spiteful. He is a prince, after all, and not some spoiled rotten child who has had compliments fed to him on a golden spoon.

Leona knows, better than anyone, that you deserve more than him.

He’s well aware of the fact that many perceive him as lazy, irritable and intimidating, and that is only saying the least. The perfect example of a student who has had to repeat a year way too many times, who is probably still in the world’s greatest magical academy because of his royal blood and noble connections.

The second prince is one way to describe him as well. Second to everything his brother does is also a possible description. Second to the throne, to their parents’ love, to the praise and glory befitting of a king; because Leona will never be king. not as long as his brother and his blood live, because Leona has always been the second option.

And so he acts like it. What else can he do? Surely he cannot try to usurp his own brother; Leona may be a better king than Falena, but he is also intelligent enough to understand the consequences of a coup, long-term or otherwise. Not to mention his nephew, who undoubtedly has the capacity to be a real pain in his ass if Leona ever does away with his father.

Now Leona spends most of his time bored and unpleasant to be around, not so unlike the whispers that circulated the halls of Afterglow Savannah's royal palace when his signature spell was discovered. It is when you find him, lazing around in the light of the sun creeping into the greenhouse (one of the only times he has ever felt that he has ever felt that he could escape from the shadows), and, for one reason or another, you decide to stay.

Leona hates it.

He hates the way you shine a light in his life. It’s too bright, too hot, and he can’t get rid of you no matter how hard he tries. And, at some point, he has become too scared to get rid of you. The underlying fear of losing that light, reduced to the shadow of a king and a crown prince that he once was; it kills Leona. It kills him because he was supposed to be a king, grew up wanting to be the perfect one to rule over the kingdom, and kings do not have weaknesses.

But Leona is not a king.

He is the brother of one, the second son of a royal family. With enough skills and intellect to survive in the battlefield that is the royal court of the Afterglow Savannah. He is born to a long line of kings, emperors, leaders; has learned from the stories of the great kings of the past, of which their blood courses through his veins; but he is not a king. Never was, and never will be.

But then again, who is to say that he isn’t a king in another sense?

"The only kingly thing you haven’t done yet is actually opening your eyes, Leona," Ruggie’s damned hyena laugh echoes in his mind, the mischievous smirk on his face while his eyes stay rooted to the pathetic homemade crown on his head.

Leona does not think Ruggie has the right to laugh, when he doesn't even understand.

Because even with his eyes closed, the second prince sees. He sees the way your breaths come and go, the warmth of the sun and the chill of the breeze on your skin, your quickening pulse and heartbeat. He sees it all without ever needing his eyes, and that is the exact reason why he doesn’t want to open them.

Because if he does, he will see you, backlit against the sun and light of the greenhouse you both visit so much, and then he will want more; you by his side in the kingdom of Afterglow Savannah, bathing in the morning light while wrapped in royal robes, the consort's crown on your head, your rightful place on the throne beside his. You cradling his cub in your arms, sweetly whispering to the result of your love, the future ruler and heir to the throne that is rightfully his. Leona knows that there is none other more deserving of a consort's crown than you, and he would kill anyone who tried to take it from you.

(He would kill for you in a heartbeat. No matter what the cost.

One day, Leona thinks, he will not be the only one to fear the extent of what he feels for you.)

But what murder is justified when the crime hasn’t even been committed? When you do not have the consort's crown, because Leona doesn’t even have the king’s.

(Child’s play; reaching for something he will never get. Leona is a master at this game, even when he loses every single time.)

Silly lion, you would chide him with a smile. Not for these foolish fantasies (for Leona would never admit them), but for the most mundane things. Being late to class, forgetting to do homework, getting detention, forgetting to go to that detention. Such simple, pathetic things, and Leona listens because you are his consort, and kings listen to their consorts.

(Pathetic, hopeless little fantasies.)

"Leona?" you call out his name, your voice the melody of his sweetest, softest, weakest dreams.

Leona's eyes flutter open, lashes brushing against his cheeks as he blinks in the light.

He sees you there, bent over to peer at his sleeping expression. The way your head eclipses the sun makes it seem like you’re wearing a halo (angel’s crown), and if Leona looks closely, he can see his own kisses tangled between your locks and the light.

He closes his eyes before he can meet your gaze, see your lips and everything else he has ever wanted. He will settle for sense and touch, if not for the sake of his sanity, then for you.

"What is it now?" he snarls, feigning annoyance. He hears you laugh, and Leona knows you see right through him.

Just give him some more time, then he will give you a kingdom, the world, and everything else you’ve ever wanted and deserved──

──but for now, this will be all he can offer you.

© trappolia 2024

[heeseung64]

BAD HABIT

your best friend jay knows everything to do with you. your sleep schedule, hobbies, habits - and above all- he knows how to make you feel better.

bestfriend to lovers enha jay x fem reader. long (not proofread). reader is a cleanfreak! jay is in deep love, mental breakdown, angst to fluff to smut. | inspired by this one gojo fic on ao3 i cant remember its name but it was crazy af

"Pick up next time. Or maybe I will stop finding you." A wheeze of huffs and catching of breaths add fog to the air around you. The patter of rain stopped drumming at your crown from an umbrella shaded upon your shadow. You look up and see the look of concern grow on Jay as the light finds your face.

You were crouched upon the kerb, tears streaming down your rosy cheeks in the summer night. You don't spend your nights like this at all, in some random street crying, but today- the day where everything didn't turn out right? the day where you spot your betraying ex across the street- reminiscent of your worse days, the day you spill your coffee, the day you get told off for not doing things right; the day you start to feel the world has no longer any means for you to be here.

you decided that the kerb upon the side of the river's bridge was where the universe wanted your peace.

but of course, Jay had other plans. ㅡmore under the cut ♡。

He watches your pink nose and wet hair collide with his chest as you grapple him for a hug. You croak, contradicting your actions with your words, "You didn't need to find me."

"But I always end up finding you anyway." He scoffs, hesitantly stroking your back with his thumb, scared you'll hear his heart quickly thump for too long. It wasn't long til he dragged you into his car, the fan on blast in attempt to keep you dry. He watched silently in his peripherals as you tried to claw onto your skin, hearing you mumble how dirty and unclean you were.

Everyone knew you liked to stay clean, to them it felt like it was your way of keeping routine.

But Jay knew cleaning yourself was how you breathed life. He knew if you didn't apply your favourite scents, or if you didn't scrub til you bled- your whole year would be over. There were so many occasions where he knew you were crying over the smallest fact that you didn't apply your favourite lotion. Your ex didn't even know that you had a favourite lotion, but Jay had extra in his bathroom just for you.

You didn't think of it too much, you've done so much together with him and yet you lived both of your lives away from each other- having relationships to had relationships, complaining about school work to now college complaints, hearing about family gossip and being in each other's milestones. It wasn't weird for him to always be at yours and vice versa either. Jay was always there, and yet, why haven't you noticed?

"We're almost home." Jay whispered at the red light, pulling your arm away to make you stop scratching yourself. He holds your hand and grasps it close to his thigh as he continues to drive. Home? you wonder as you try to stop picking at your skin. Your memories can't even bring up the first time Jay called your place home, it's like he always said it. The spare key is always paired with his keys to his own place- and you call his home too.

"Home?" you breathe out, a rare word amongst the plethora of remarks against your own thoughts.

"Yes, silly. Home." He chuckles, making no more of your confusion. "I'm silly?" You pout at his mockery as he turns into your driveway, opening your door to yank you out. "Very." His breath ricochets on your neck as he takes out your seatbelt for you.

Since when was Jay so handsy? You thought to yourself. Jay was always an act over say man, but were you guys always this close? Not even any of your friends got this close. You turn away as heat rushes to your cheeks, yet it was still unhidden, caught by his eyes.

"Do you have a fever?" He asks, only for you to push away his hand that was going to touch your forehead. "N-no." you say, "Just filthy." You go back again, taking yourself inside with Jay.

You felt his stern look since the moment he saw you huddled up like a lost puppy on the side of the road. This time felt weirder, with his jaw tightening at every time you scratch, and his eyes narrowing every time you sniffle. It's like it was hurting him too, but you always believed it's because he was sick of you. This night, you knew he was mad. But it didn't stop him from doing what he does best.

"Sit there. I'll start the bath." You were instructed by the stern man who made you sit on a towel on your bathroom floor. He knew you didn't want to dirty your bed with the clothes you wore, and you didn't want to dirty your floor either. He rummaged through your closet, taking your intimates and your favourite set of pyjamas ready for you, placing them on the bed.

"I can do this mys-" "And if I lose you in the process?" He stops to look at you, softening his eyes as he kneels towards you, "Let me take care of you."

You didn't even get time to respond as he gently pulls you up, undoing your buttons and brushing your hair to the side. "If you're uncomfy, just say the word." He stops, holding your shoulders as he reads your face for an answer.

All you could do was look at his lips, glistening under the white light. Speechless at his service, waiting for him to utter another word out of his sweet lips. "Jay.." was all you could fathom. He watched as your eyes practically kissed his face with the way you stared back, yet he stood his ground, silently waiting for you (like all this time) to give him your consent.

You help undress yourself as a response to Jay, making him clear his throat, pulling himself back to the present.

He looks away as you take off your last pieces of clothing, taking your dirty clothes away from your sight. He leaves you for a second and you capture the mess in the mirror, causing tears to spill over the rim of your eyes and your breaths to be shaky. "Jongseong.." You call out his full name in times of trouble, and he hears your whimper, coming out to hush you and wipe your tears.

"I'm so ugly and dirty!" You cry out, only for Jay to shush you, squishing your cheeks. "You're beautiful." He says, touching the bare skin of your shoulders, gesturing you into the shower as he starts it, hot. Just how you like it.

"Can you stay with me please?" Your shaky voice echoes across the bathroom. Jay chuckles as he unbuttons a few of his from his white long sleeve, rolling it up to his elbows as he compiles all your favourite soaps and scrubs. "What happened to "I can do this myself"?" He asks you over the sound of the pouring shower.

"Because.. I'm silly." You blurt, crying out again. The shower door opens again, this time with Jay lathering all sorts of your favourite things on your bare back, with all the perfect ratios you put on yourself too. Vanilla bean and small jasmine musk, coffee bean.. Hints of flora.. The sweet salt.. and honey. It's all expensive, but they were all gifts from him, every one of them, and it made you content.

Jay admits he'd never wanted to eat you if you were dessert, but in the spur of things he blurts, practically confessing. "They say you know when a pretty girl walks into the room." He starts, as he massages patterns on your back, water dripping and staining his corporate uniform, decorating his belt and dress pants.

"You can smell her goodness before you see her." Jay says that as he looks into your eyes, soap running down your bare skin and neck. You blush, turning away as you palm your hair with shampoo. "That's bullshit." You chuckle, scrubbing at your scalp as Jay moves his way to your waist.

"Look at you. I don't think that's bullshit to me."

You stop your tracks as he continues to scrub away at your waist, gently working his way up and down and around your intimate areas, telling you that you can clean them yourself, but he insists on scrubbing everything else. His fingers are foamed as he massages your legs, mentally screaming and silently mumbling at how you should let him take care of you more. He moves up again, catching your eyes.

"Jay.." You start, done with your hair, watching his hands falter and reach for your face. "Mm?" He replies, drunk by your scent and the image of your body.

"Did you ever do this to your ex girlfriend?" You blurt, causing Jay to pause, furrowing his brows. He gestures you to step out as you dip into the bath.

"No," He bluntly responds, "Not at all." He says, unbuttoning the rest of his buttons, before going completely shirtless.

"Y/n." He calls your name, easily forgetting your question. And you gently look up to him from the bathtub, "May I join you?" He kneels against the bathtub, caressing your warm skin as the petals from your favourite salts pour over the giant pool.

You freeze at his eyes, need and determination written all over it, the facade has been broken, and you read him ever so clear now. To the service, the questions and the blatant confession, you realise how badly you loved each other. As if knowing and living in each other's presence wasn't enough, this man had asked if he could bathe in it.

"Please." You whisper, reminding him of the days when you were in high school, where your pride would only falter when he was around, and the first time you said please was the first time Jay offered you a ride home, ironically a day where you were found on a kerb again.

"Wait for me, pretty." He cooes, showing his vulnerability to you. He undresses himself, belt hanging on the door knob and his pants folded over the basket, glad that he was always here enough to have spare clothes. He showers, fog and steaming covering himself, but not his torso, to which you remember was the same toned figure you always manage to catch yourself staring at. He watches you intently fron the distant bathtub, softly scrubbing your arms as you wait for him quietly.

You blushed, tearing your eyes away swiftly as he comes out, bare. He chuckles at your reaction as he steps in, sitting right opposite from you. You turn away, still sniffling from all your little cries, and pink from this current situation.

"Silly. You've seen me before, why are you so shy?" He whispers, a bit of his deeper voice seeping out as you scoot away.

"Seeing each other naked isn't normal.." You seep out, and he sighs. "It really isn't." He responds, waiting for you to catch his hint. "You're the one who wanted me here." He teases, hands coming up to poke your cheek.

"I didn't ask for you to find me. Why did you?" You try to change the subject, but it prevails. "Bad habit of mine. I like chasing after you." He casually replies, grabbing a soft sponge before handing it to you. "My back." He gestures turning away as you begin to go over his back.

"All these years of chasing after me, when you could've said one of the sentences you told me in the shower and I would've folded?" You chuckle, tracing the lines on his back. You hear him chuckle, turning around. "When you had boys lined up trying to date you? I didn't believe I was the perfect match."

"What makes you think you are now?" You tease, to which Jay's eyebrows knot. He comes closer to you, wading against the foamy water, reaching your sides as he pulls himself closer to face you.

"I know I am. You know that." He smiles the same confident smile, and your eyes couldn't help but trail down to his lips again.

Jay sees your eyes forming constellations with his features, and he doesn't hesitate to bring your face close with his hands, gently pulling you to taste your lips for the first time.

You go limp at his touch, hands reaching up to rest on his chest as he holds your nape, kissing your lips like he's unable to drink for tomorrow. You don't stop either, eventually throwing yourself on him.

The still waters eventually rock, swaying as you both erupt out of heat, hands still connected to each other's bodies as you begin to dry each other.

"I love you." You blurt, towels covering the both of you up. "Stay the night, please." You plead into his ear on your tippy toes, kissing his jaw as he watches you slightly pout.

He leans back covering his hardened member from looking at you, clearing his throat as his ears redden. This was his last straw. Can't you get it already? Jay needs you. He always wanted to be by your side, forever. And now that you confessed? He's not going away, not ever.

"I wasn't planning on leaving you, princess." He maintains eye contact with you as needily grabs your sides, tugging you to your main bedroom, the dimly lit lamp caressing the tone of his body as he hovers over your body- sprawled and bare under his eyes.

"What makes you think you are now?" Jay repeats your question, "What a stupid thing to say." He scoffs, parting your hair behind your ear. He leans into your face kissing the sides of your lips. "You're just as stupid for not showing me." You scoff back, and he raises a brow. "What do you want me to show?" He asks, suggestive of his actions. You couldn't bear to drag your eyes up to his face, distracted by whats touching your core so forcefully. Jay notices this, and lifts your chin up to face him. "Answer me, y/n." Just with his voice, the call of your name was enough to pool warmth between your legs, in the stretch of everything, your scent is clouding his mind. You're hazed by his image, and in doing so, you reach to hold his face, tugging it to bring your lips to his ear.

"Show me how much you've been wanting me." you plead.

It was enough- more than enough actually. He couldn't help but smash his lips onto yours after hearing it, tangling his slender fingers around your hair. "I'm afraid I might make you all dirty if I do." He whispers, biting your ear as you shamelessly moan under him, mewling and squirming under his confinement.

"I don't care. I want you." You beg, tears spilling over his member grinding on you and your thighs, you're so full of wetness you couldn't even build your walls of pride anymore. You find his eyes narrow at your words, smirking as he uses his hands to roam down your torso, groping your breasts.

He cups them, maintaining eye contact as he peppers his kisses down to meet your breasts perked just for him- and you moan, impatient. Jay kisses them, twirling his thumb on your nipples as he groans at your reactions, wanting to hear more. "You want me so bad hm?" He groans as he moves down, groping your sides, tracing your curves. "You smell so sweet to me, princess." He says while looking at your entrance, so swole and pink, "I've been waiting to know if you taste just as good." He confesses, placing a finger on your fold, tickling you as you squirm under his touch.

He gathers two fingers to play with your wetness, his cold digits warming up inside you, and he can't help but gape at your glistening pinkness, adding his thumb to swirl your clit around as he reaches down to kiss you again. "Fuck." He groans, pain from the hardness of cock throbbing as he watches you go undone by just the touch of his hand. "Just two fingers and you're going crazy, are you going to be okay, my princess?" He calls you princess again, another nickname he always called you- but this time, the nature of it unfolds, and he treats you so unconditionally with his fingers, lapping and folding in you as you can't help but moan out his name. "Just like that?" He asks, his palm being covered in your slick as you furiously nod, tears seeping out of the corners of your eyes and your nails digging into his forearm thats shaking on you. "Please.. Jay.. I want your-" He shushes you, kissing your neck as he moans. "You can't fit me if I don't play with you like this baby."

You pout, feeling him swirling in you and the sound of his breath rivalling yours as he fucks you with his fingers. You're frustrated, getting hushed every time you feel a climax approach, only to be stopped and kissed sloppy, the slapping of your thighs and juices from his messy movements echoed, with occasional spit decorating your body. Jay was needy, and you were full of his desire, forgetting how bad your day was, forgetting how clean you are.

"Please!" You beg this time, pushing him off, making him under you as you sit on him, your folds practically grinding against his shaft as you place your hands on his chest, kissing his neck vigorously. You grind on him as he watches you do it, sucking on his finger, raising a brow as he moans. "Taste s'good." He breathes, ragged, raw. Unhinged. "Fuck. Where did you learn this?" He asks, eyes fierce, full of intent. Jay genuinely wanted to know. Jealousy was growing in his pants, and his hands that were digging onto your folded thighs that cradled him were showing it well.

"Where did you learn how to fuck too?" You comeback at his words, and he groans groping you as you straddle him. "I should've been the first. I should've been your first. You should've been mine." He mewls, kneading at your skin. "I am now." You reply, getting off of him, stroking his shaft with slick and wetness lapping bubbles between your fingers. You bend down, kissing his girth, your body churning at his size.

"Fuck." Was all he could breathe, watching your eyes follow his as all you continued to do was please him, teasing him. "You taste so good." You blurt, licking his tip as it pops out of your mouth. In return, he tugs you, placing you on your back again. "Enough." He starts, "Let me fuck you right." He growls, holding your legs apart as he kisses your neck again, distracting you from the stretch beneath you.

You gasp, clawing on his back as all he could do was smile. "See?" He teases, starting slow to make sure you don't get hurt. "Jongseong.." You whimper again, making him slow down, peppering you with kisses as he gently places his thumb over your clit again to make you moan. "Shh," He hushes you, "How do you feel baby?" He whispers, and in your reply you moan his name. That was enough to know he had you.

"Shit." He curses, finding it hard not to cum so early. His dream, true and unfolding in front of him, and the noises were exactly as he always imagined. He couldn't slow down either because you kept moaning, so he fucks you hard, rough. Your voice was broken by now, overpowered by the slapping of each other's skin and the erotica of the room. "Princess, I'm so close," Jay starts, his abs contracting hard in front of you and his chest heaving as he holds your legs together, kissing them as he continues to shove himself.

"Cumming-" Was all you could say, pointing to your own hole as he lets you know of his release. He brings up the pace, pressing your legs down on you as he fucks his length deeper into you. "Fuck I'm gonna cum-" He yelps, and you moan, feeling his hips falter, stopping inside of you as he releases it all.

You hold your breath as he does, heaving out as he gets himself off, cum dripping out. He sloppily tries to stick it back in, kissing your thighs and intertwining your fingers with his as he mumbles sweet words to you.

"Baby, I feel so filthy right now.." You mumble, pouting at the mess on the sheets, not to mention the marks on each other's bodies. "But you'd look so hot like this all the time." He blurts, earning a playful slap from you.

"I'll clean you up princess, don't worry." He smiles, "Just let me enjoy you while you're dirty." He teased, planting a kiss on your forehead, caressing your sides and massaging your legs as he pulls you close, hearts beating in sync. "I love you." He chokes on his words, and you kiss his lips, reciprocating his statement; "I love you too."

[maxarchive]

Alain Prost's praise for the champion who has become his equal

If he wasn't initially keen to talk, it wasn't because he didn't want to share his place on the list of four-time F1 world champions (with Sebastian Vettel), but because he didn't have the time. Alain Prost really likes Max Verstappen and has never been reluctant to speak highly of the Dutch driver for L'Équipe. The French world champion finally agreed to give us his analysis of his 27-year-old counterpart last Sunday. Thirty minutes of Zoom interview that demonstrate the esteem, even admiration, of the 69-year-old former driver for Verstappen.

Having Verstappen as a neighbor on the prize list. Does that mean anything to you?

Yes, sincerely. I am pleased to be in such good company. Because there are only three of us with four titles, but I remember when Michael joined me and when Lewis came through. I will not forget that Fangio was the first driver to win four crowns (the Argentinian champion was crowned a fifth time). All the same, we're among a handful of names who, without sounding presumptuous (he reflects), are out of the ordinary. We're part of history. To be a four-time world champion is a kind of pride. And Max, looking back on his career, can be proud of it. He hasn't stolen any of his crowns. You can have a bit of luck, like me in 1986, but you have to know how to provoke it and then seize it. Max is not missing anything. I remember that in 2016 during his first victory I was commentating for Canal and I promised him a bright future. He didn't disappoint me. What he's already achieved is really impressive. Verstappen is clearly unique. He is not just anyone, whether it's his personality, his character or his commitment. You can love him or hate him, but he certainly doesn't leave you indifferent. Like many great champions, he's atypical.

This crown, do you think it was the hardest for him to win?

Only he can say. I don't know what his car was really worth. (He reflects.) And then we mustn't forget that highly controversial title in 2021. It's still very difficult to have an objective analysis. Frankly, both of them (Hamilton and Verstappen) deserved the title for the whole season. It was Max who won it in the conditions we all know. It was his first crown, and once again he went out and won it. It's always difficult to win your first crown. In fact, I remember very well what I said that evening in Abu Dhabi: from now on we'll see the real Verstappen. And we've seen him since then (he smiles). He's freed himself. He's erased his little mistakes and his impatience. He's become very, very strong. Coming back to this year, he's had to fight hard and I think he's shown some very fine things. A lot of confidence, a lot of serenity. Even when he complains, but he has always done it, he did it with less annoyance. That's the mark of a more accomplished champion.

You describe an extraordinary champion. Does he have any weaknesses?

At the moment, it's hard to find any. I don't know what he'll do in the future, but even in terms of communication, with all the rumours with Mercedes and the worries with Red Bull, I've found him to be very solid… He's good on all terrains. He's a very tough driver on the track, but you can't see that as a weakness.

So he'll be unbeatable next year?

Well, next year is another debate. It will be a rather special year, the last with the current ground-effect car. We've already seen a tightening of performance between different teams. Max's strength is that, in certain races, he can make the difference all by himself. And that's a big advantage for a team, and of course for the Championship. So I'd still put him as favourite next year, but now the other teams know that Red Bull is beatable.

When Vettel won his fourth crown, you were delighted because you felt he was very close to you in terms of personality. Do you think Verstappen is more on the side of Ayrton Senna?

Max has a lot in common with Ayrton, especially at the start of their careers. Today, a little less so. He has his own way of being. He's always followed his own idea, in his own way. That's why, when you get to know him a little, I think he's close to Seb or me. These are things I like about him. On the track, I find him very respectful.

Very respectful?

Yes, in his own way. He's not a cheater. You're going to talk to me about track limits. But it's the way he drives; it's an education. For him, it's the norm. The best proof is that when he's penalized, he accepts it. As always, he goes as far as he can.

Hamilton fought against Alonso or Nico Rosberg, you against Senna. Do you think he lacks high-level opponents to climb even higher in the collective imagination?

Nowadays, it's the rule not to have two drivers of the same level in a team. But Max has had to deal with Ricciardo, Gasly and Perez. After all, they're not just heats! We're talking about Grand Prix winners. You're talking about his popularity. The good thing about Max is that he's free. He doesn't cheat: he's just the way he is, following his thing. Tomorrow, he could tell you that in a month's time he's quitting, and nobody would be surprised! That's him and that's his thing. He certainly cares much less about the image he may have than many other drivers. But I think he'll be remembered as an incredibly talented driver. Very tough, of course, but his four titles are totally deserved and he's right up there at the top.

[emilybeemartin]

A whopping, like, 2.6 people have expressed interest in my recent adventures in watching Bean films, which is all the encouragement I need to present to you:

An Incomplete Guide to Sean Bean Roles (Investigation Ongoing)

Our guy has a vast filmography, and I'm not even close to being halfway through it, but I've watched a lot of his significant ones in the past few weeks thanks to a perfect storm of illness, injury, and lapses in client work. Crucially, I have created superlatives for a variety of them and present them here for your benefit. Disclaimer: many of these films are violent! Or have butts and/or tits! Some have dick! Some have dated bits that didn't age well! So, if you have triggers or are watching with young viewers, do your research first! Also, these are just the opinions of one solitary millennial! Nothing is objective! Nothing is real! I care not!

Okay, CYA done, let's begin. I'll get the two most obvious ones out of the way up front, otherwise they'll dominate half the categories:

ACT I

Greatest Bean: Fellowship of the Ring. I've said it before and I'll say it again, he achieved more pathos with Boromir than a lot of his other roles have allowed for, and every note he hits just sings. No debate.

Best Bean for Your Buck: Sharpe. For the best confluence of quantity, quality, physicality, emotion, humor, and action, you can't beat Richard Sharpe.

Favorite Dramatic Bean: Time; he earned that BAFTA fr

Softest Bean: The first date scene in Stormy Monday, where Brendan shyly gets to know Kate, slow dances with her, lends her a shirt and strokes her back after she asks if they can just go to sleep instead of have sex.

Most Dashing Bean: Vronsky in Anna Karenina, that uniform cuts, damn

Swooniest Bean: I know I'm supposed to say Chatterley, and he is undeniably sexy as Mellors, but there are parts where his character is actually kind of off-putting. I'll lay a good chunk of the blame on the weirdly ominous score, the very of-the-time depiction of dubious consent, and Joely Richardson's tendency to look like she's having the worst time of her life while shagging the hot gamekeeper. No, I'm giving this category to Stormy Monday again. He's just so gentle and genuine in this one, without some of the obligatory "heartthrob" overtones of his nineties stuff. He never raises his voice at Kate or manhandles her. He really does feel like some kid who just wants to be sweet to his girlfriend.

Laddiest Bean: When Saturday Comes, specifically the strip club and bathtub scenes.

Favorite Sad Bean: As a collective, he has some great grief scenes in World on Fire, but! The railroad track scene in When Saturday Comes?! That was RAW.

Favorite Mad Bean: Black Death; there are plenty of movies where he doesn't smile at all, but unlike some others, his grimness and anger felt proportionate to the story, rather than just rage because he's good at rage.

Favorite Bad Bean: There are so many great Bean villains (Goldeneye, obvs), but I think my favorite is Patriot Games. Bonus points for all the different hairstyles he has in this film (long locks-shag-shag ponytail!-buzz-wet spiky buzz). Also HUGH FRASER AAAA

Favorite Dad Bean: Wolfwalkers, where Bill Goodfellowe literally turns his own convictions and beliefs upside-down in order to protect and support his daughter.

INTERMISSION

A note on GoT: I haven't watched it. When season one was first coming out, it was during a time where I really couldn't handle watching any kind of sexual assault onscreen, and while I have a higher tolerance now, I just... don't want to. I like seeing gifs of Ned Stark and appreciate that it's one of his great roles, but I just can't make myself take the plunge.

ilysm you grizzled dead wolf man

ACT II

Favorite Costumed Bean: Odysseus in Troy: curls, leather, thighs.

Favorite Un-Costumed Bean: He strips in quite a lot of his films, so let's give it to Lady Chatterley for sheer screentime, exertion, and the bonus of being naked and wearing a flower crown. Honorable mention to When Saturday Comes for the totally not homoerotic amount of butts and also dick in the locker room bathtub scene.

Hurtin'est Bean: Bravo Two Zero. Oof, don't watch this one if you have an aversion to seeing pain, although---you're a Sean Bean fan, and we all know one of his MOs is being GREAT at pain. This one was directed by Tom Clegg, who directed Sharpe. Also lol at the sickle-shaped wound on his shoulder, which is covering his 100% Blade tattoo (he gets a lot of sickle-shaped wounds on his left shoulder).

Best Inside References: The Frankenstein Chronicles, where he plays a former Peninsular soldier, and every reference to his service is a reference to Sharpe, including shots of his greenjacket, pistol, sword, and flogging scars. Honorable mention to The Martian for the Council of Elrond line.

Most Unsettling Bean: Cleanskin for moral grayness, The Frankenstein Chronicles for body horror

Most Inefficient Use of Bean: Black Beauty. Despite getting high billing he's only onscreen for about two minutes and I'm convinced the long shots are a body double. Criminal.

Biggest Missed Opportunity: We were robbed of a Sean Bean Odyssey. R o b b e d

Funniest Bean: Deploying Bean for comedy is woefully underused, but he made full use of his ~15 seconds in The Vicar of Dibley ("Spring" episode). He's also hilarious in Wasted, though I haven't watched the show, only the clips he's in on YouTube, where he plays a mock version of himself serving as a spirit guide for a stoner. IMO, though, Sharpe gives him the most room for humor.

Favorite Character Quirk: In World on Fire, when Douglas is having WWI flashbacks and really coming apart, he kept putting his hand to his mouth. My modern brain first read this as talking into a phantom radio, but of course that wasn't right, and then I realized--he was reaching for a phantom gas mask. CHILLS. AMAZING. (Honorable mentions to the Mouth Rub and the Tongue Thing [pictured above]).

Most Nostalgic Bean: National Treasure. The concept may be utter silliness, but you have to admit, this is a fun movie to watch.

Best Dismount from a Horse: Henry VIII, he goes pshwing out of the saddle

Best Swordplay: You may think there's no possible answer to this, but there is---two moments, specifically: the preparatory sword-spin he does at Balin's tomb just before the goblin attack in Moria, and the four lunges he does at 1:26:22 of Sharpe's Battle. It's just facts.

Prettiest Bean Film: Wolfwalkers, hands downnnn

Favorite Bean Death: All right, you knew we had to eventually end here. It's Boromir, obviously--- nothing tops that. But if we're looking at other roles, I think Patriot Games is my favorite, followed by Goldeneye.

So! That concludes this installment of Bean films, though I'll be continuing the labor, and I hope you will, too. What are your favorites?

[readychilledwine]

What Once Was Lost

Rhysand Week Day Three - Loved Ones

Summary - Your baby shower should have been the happiest day of your and Cassian's life, but you and Rhysand just can't shake the feeling that something, or someone(s), is missing

Warnings - Loss of parents and siblings, discussion of mourning and grief, brother/sister bonding moment, pregnancy, angst, fluff, implied favoritism from a parental figure

A/N - Happy @officialrhysandweek day 3. Rhysand's love language towards his family screams gifts. I had something like this planned for a girl dad Cassian fic, but doing it with Rhysand just felt so right as things flowed together. I was pretty excited for this to be a prompt for this week because it gave me an excuse to finally write, revamp, and post this.

✨️Rhysand Week Masterlist✨️Rhys Masterlist✨️Master Masterlist✨️

You were being irrational.

At least you repeated that to yourself over and over as you hid on the balcony. This should have been one of the happiest days of your life. A baby shower to celebrate the life you and Cassian had made after many centuries of trying and trying with no results. Yet, you found yourself a mess of tears and makeup, face buried in your hands and you cried. 

Every celebration came with a feeling of emptiness. It always had and for some reason, you felt it always would. It had been years since the night you woke up to your father's pained screams, since he then clinged to you, holding his last remaining baby girl for dear life, then you lost him too.

You wanted to move on, yet you still felt stagnated, unable to move forward. Something was missing today. Someone. Multiple someones, actually. Your mother, your big sister, your father despite his cruelty. It seemed like a joke to be celebrating without them.

The door opened and shut softly, followed by the scent of salty citrus, “Sister! There you are," Rhysand's face fell as he saw you crying. "Is it that bad,” he asked gently. “Did I mess up planning this that badly? Is it the cake? The white? I promise its-”

“It's not any of that, no,” you interjected. “I- its.”

“Oh.” He knew. Rhysand knew. He had felt it on his own wedding day, after the birth of his own son, after every milestone he accomplished. “You know they would want you happy-”

Those words made you sob harder, hugging yourself tightly. You felt this level of mourning wasn't healthy after so many years, so many heartaches, but it was as if your life had adapted and grown around the murders of your mother and big sister instead of moving on from it.

“Y/n, the depth of your mourning does not determine how much you loved them. What determines that is how we honor them.” Rhysand moved to lean next to you on the wall, “And have we done that. We've changed things mother felt would remain the same until the end of time, we rebuilt the Rainbow in honor of Stel, we ensured their stories were heard, written into the Night Court's history. We even honored our father through alliances, trade, and the crowns we wear.” 

He wiped his own eyes before continuing, “We've honored them by becoming the male and female they expected us to be. By becoming the husband and wife to our partners that they expected us to be. By loving each other and pushing each other to be better the way they expected us to. We've honored them by being happy, by cherishing each other. You, my starlight, have been my treasure since they left us.”

You only smiled slightly, “Until you had Nyx.” Your nephew, your light. He was the source of happiness for the Inner Circle you all had never seen coming. He had spun everyone's world, but mostly Rhysand's. Nyx filled a void with his sweet squishy face and bright blue eyes filled with wonder and joy.

“No,” your brother said the word with such gentleness but firmly. “You are still my treasure. My son is my world. And when i see you with him, I feel complete.” He meant that. You could tell by the little look of pride he had.

The transition from Rhysand as a full-time workaholic to almost stay at home dad had been a rough one, but one he would not undo. Feyre practically ran the Night Court now, while Rhysand enjoyed a life of fatherhood and solitude unless necessary. No one outside of the Inner Circle knew that fact, of course, but slowly, they would.

“Nyx will reshape the world some day,” his hand moved to rest on your stomach, his body moving to face you as it did, “And this little life you a carrying, this little being who is already so celebrated, so loved, who has already brought so much joy, this is his sibling. The closest thing he will ever have with Feyre's choice to never have a child again.”

Rhysand's hand felt your bump, trying to find where the soul growing inside of you was resting. “It's time to stop the circle of grief, dear sister,” he made you look at him. “To live. To love freely. To hold tight to the things we both cherish most. You are carrying the greatest blessing you could ever give this family.”

His eyes were still on that swell of life, a soft smile as he thought out his future niece or nephew, “Two more months,” you reminded him. “You can hold them in two more months.”

“It's forever,” he pouted before placing both hands on your tummy. “Have you two picked names?”

You could only nod as you two held eye contact. You searched those comforting eyes for any sign or hint of the gender you'd be giving birth to. He was the only one who knew the gender of the baby, information he carried so close to his heart he had not even told Feyre. You and Cassian had wanted to be surprised at birth, but your mate's anticipation made it impossible to wait 61 more days.

Rhysand had planned this whole party around that fact. The garden was filled with white flowers. The house had white linens and decorations. He’d gone as far as having enchanted white flowers spread throughout Velaris. 

After the overly extravagant dinner being served, you and Cassian would be moved under the flower arch he'd constructed with Elain. Then, when you both indicated you were ready, the flowers would change to pink or blue. Cassian, Feyre, Eris, and Azriel were all supporting pink, praying for a sweet baby girl. You were in black, matching your brother, in a silent message that you both wanted healthy. Mor, Amren, Elain, Nesta, and Lucien all Sported accents of blue, using old fisher wife stories to say you were carrying a baby boy. 

Rhysand pulled your mind back to the present, to him, with a soft kiss on your forehead. “You look so much like Mother. When I miss her, I look at you and find peace and comfort. I am reminded of the way she looked at me because your eyes look at me the same.” 

He hugged you the best he could, letting there be silence as your tears finally stopped. Rhysand had dedicated his life to Velaris, to the found family you two shared, to you. Your heart and mind knew that dedication would pass to this baby, to raising them to be strong willed, confident, humbled. “People are waiting for us,” he whispered into your hair. “Your husband is waiting for you two. Let's go eat.”

It was a gentle pull of your hand, bringing you to the center spot of the table next to Cassian. Lamb, chicken, prime rib. Rhys had spared no expense to make sure this day was special for you, and the meal filled with all your favorite proteins and sides was proof of that. Food was enjoyed with laughter, final wagers placed between the Inner Circle and Vanserras. 

The time had finally come, faelights guiding you and Cassian to where Rhysand wanted you to stand. Smaller lights had been woven into the arch made from roses, peonies, and wisteria. 

Cassian was a ball of energy, smile growing as he held both of your hands, “Ready, starlight?” 

“Ready,” you confirmed, and before your eyes, shades of pink filled the garden. Pink daisies, pink roses, pink asters and tulips. It bathed the room in promises of gentleness, compassion, beauty, and kindness, the qualities your mother and father raised you to have as Princess of the Night Court. Qualities Rhysand had continued to teach you long after their deaths. 

Cassian lifted you immediately, crying as he held you against him, mumbling into your neck how you had honored him. How you were giving him the most precious thing he'd ever have. Whispering his promises to protect her, to love her, to be a good father to his angel.

The celebration in garden was slowly drowned out by the loud party that had erupted through the streets of Velaris. Fireworks going off, music playing at the highest volume, bells chiming from the temple. The only sign of something different was the wisteria, fading to its soft purple shade, your older sister's favorite flower, your mother's favorite color. Rhys made a confused face at the sight of it before smiling. 

“That's not supposed to be happen,” Feyre seemed almost panicked, moving to fix them.

Rhysand grabbed her hand, stopping her in her tracks, “That's my mother and sister,” he said quietly. “They're letting us know they're here.”

“How would your dad indicate he's here,” Feyre joked. 

Rhysand only pointed to where a crow sat watching from the tree. Its dark eyes were on you and you alone as the Inner Circle rushed to take turns holding you and Cassian as you both cried out of joy. “Same way he watched her when she was little. Always playing favorites.”

Rhys moved to you then, playfully pushing Cassian away to take his turn. “You have my blessing,” the sentence needed no further details, no explanation. He was letting you use your mother's name. Your lip began to tremble, Cassian nodded as he and Rhysand looked at each other. “I can't wait to meet sweet little Astra."

General Taglist:

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[ilyrafe]

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅'𝒔 𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 ✧ 𝒓. 𝒄.

pairing: ex-boyfriend!rafe cameron x ex-girlfriend!reader

warnings: angst

word count: 1k

“hi, rafe.”

just your voice is enough to decentralize him entirely. he didn’t expect to see you at sarah’s party, only because he didn’t know you were back to kildare.

you look beautiful as always. your hair is shorter, but that’s the only thing that has changed about you, at least, it’s what he can assume. the flower crown you’re wearing adorns your sage green dress beautifully.

“hi.” he takes a sip of his mock tail, trying to pretend he’s cool with you there, as if he knew.

“how have you been?”

“good.”

you know rafe too well. his short answers tell you he’s not at all amused by your presence, and that breaks your heart even more. he looks so handsome with a buzzcut, and it’s like he knows it.

“i guess you didn’t know i was coming.” you chuckle quite awkwardly. “sarah convinced me to come, she said it wouldn’t be an issue, but... if you want me to leave, i will.”

“i really don’t care what you do, y/n.”

you sigh, defeated. he’ll never forgive you for what you said. you thought that maybe he would have changed, or at least, understood your point, but you see that he hasn’t done either.

“okay, um... i’ll see you around, rafe.”

he watches you leave, and you’re not even pretending to be happy. he ruined your mood and he knows it. rafe sees sarah comforting you, and she shoots him a glare, making him roll his eyes and leave his spot at the bar.

he should probably leave, too.

when he turns his back and makes his way inside tanney hill, he doesn’t look back. he goes straight to his bedroom and plops down on his king sized bed. the music is muffled, thank god.

he’s been trying to make amends with sarah, even letting her come back home and be with john b in peace. sure, he doesn’t get along with the pogues, but if accepting them is what it takes for him to have the smallest sense of peace, he’ll do it.

rafe has also decided to get sober. after almost dying of an overdose, he was really scared and decided to quit. he wants to make ward proud. staying away from alcohol is a lot harder than quitting coke and marijuana, it turns out. the mock tails aren’t as enjoyable.

as if doing all that isn’t hard enough, you’re back. and with you being back, all of the feelings he’s successfully repressed are coming back up again, stronger than ever.

he hates that he’s given you this amount of power over him.

rafe never did feelings before, and the one time he did, you left him because of himself. rafe is his worst enemy.

he really loved you. well, scratch that. he never stopped loving you. you took care of him, you improved his relationship with ward and sarah. you asked him to quit drugs and selling it. you listened to him and you took none of his bullshit. you held him accountable while giving him grace.

deep down, he knows he fucked up. he wasn’t ready to grow up, but no one likes to say they’re wrong, do they?

“i just think it’s funny how you really believe this little island is an entire world for you.” you snorted. “but i know why you don’t wanna leave this shit hole. you’re a nobody outside the outer banks. there is no “kook versus pogue” once you step out of this place. you’re just another trust fund baby with drug issues to everyone else, rafe.”

he never understood your incessant need to “explore the world”, it’s so childish. you always talked about how you wanted to live in paris, toronto, tokyo, london, seoul, or berlin or whatever (honestly, you have mentioned so many cities, he has lost count), and you always said that you would be happy anywhere else, but rafe doesn’t see himself being happy far from north carolina. from kildare. from tanney hill. it’s where he comes from and where he wants to die. it’s what he knows.

a knock on his bedroom door interrupts his thoughts. rafe huffs and rolls his eyes. when he opens the door, he comes across you.

“what do you want?” he questions, irritated.

you enter his room and close the door behind you, drowning out the noise of the music once again. you’ve missed his bedroom. his bed.

“i think... i think i owe you an apology,” you say. “i shouldn’t have been so mean to you that day, it wasn’t right.”

rafe remains quiet, sitting on his bed, just listening to you talk.

“i just… i never liked it here, and i end up projecting that onto others, and i did that to you. i’m sorry.”

in theory, hearing you apologize should be gratifying, but rafe can’t identify any sign of regret in you. it’s not that he doesn’t think your apology is insincere, it’s that the regret he wanted to see doesn’t exist. you don’t regret leaving kildare nor leaving him.

“apology accepted.”

“thank you.” you smile.

“y/n, are you happy?” he asks.

“hm?”

“are you happy there?”

your smile and small nod tells everything he didn’t want to know. you are happy. in fact, you’re happier than ever.

“i am.”

rafe has vivid memories with you, and your smile has never been so wide, your eyes have never been so bright. maybe this will take him to hell, but he hates that you’re genuinely happy away from there, especially because he isn’t happy. and if he is not happy in where he feels he belongs most, there is no place in the world that makes him happy. 

maybe happiness isn’t an option for him, and the most upsetting thing about this is that money really can’t buy happiness. not the one rafe really needs anyways.

you want to tell rafe how you’re enjoying life for the first time, how being independent is amazing, but also sucks, but it’s still amazing, how the feeling of achieving something on merit is indescribable... but rafe would never understand.

it’s funny how two people who are so similar at first are so different in the end.

“that’s all that matters to me, then.”

i love feedback! let me know your thoughts! <3

[chucapybara]

alright arlecchino hopping around in my head still so soft mornings with your darling knave!

oh, arlecchino being so utterly enamoured with you. she tends to wake up earlier than you do; a harbinger has many things to go about doing in a day, after all, and being one who manages the affairs of different house of the hearths across teyvat, it's no easy feat.

but on the off days, after a long night of making love to you, she finds herself trapped in your orbit, unable to escape. (not that she'd ever want to.) your soft, radiantly divine figure rests curled beside her, your breath tickling her cheek, and she loves it.

in the respite that comes, in this calm between the noise of her nightmares and of her day work, she finds that all the world is still when you are. an absence of howling, the absence of shades are substituted, if only for those few moments, with the gentle sunbeam that kisses your skin.

(she wishes she were the sun, for a brief time. oh, how her blood almost boils with envy for that heavenly star which gets to kiss you every morning before she does; and were it not for the fact that she loathed to wake you in such peaceful sleep, she may have done so already.)

arlecchino shifts, resting her head on her arm, facing you, observing every rise and fall of your unrobed shoulders, chest. her mind is quiet, silenced, lacking of any other thought except for you.

you, who is so precious to her, that she would rend heaven upon earth and bring down cities and crowns in your name if you asked her to. she who would raise armies and queendoms worshipping you—if she did not already dislike the thought of sharing you with another. (the notion of others gazing upon you with reverence to match hers is preposterous in its nature, so she strangles the thought in its crib.)

as she ponders her prayers for you, she notes how the blanket of your shared bed has dipped below your waist. arlecchino almost has the mind to tuck you back in, to preserve your comfort—all the more when she catches how you shiver, ever so slightly, when exposed to the naked air—but she realises doing so may only wake you.

and so she unfurls her wing of balemoon bloodfire, its crimson feathers catching the sun's rays, illuminating it as sunsets are wont to do. she drapes it over you in replacement for the blanket, mentally chiding it for doing a poor job at keeping you warm.

though, perhaps, this in and of itself was a blessing, too.

your expression eases, and so too does arlecchino's scarlet-eyed gaze soften. her wing rests soothingly around you, almost ticklish, exuding the hearthfire's homely coziness.

and it is this same ticklish sensation that rouses you, slow, steady. your lips part in a yawn, and you peek open a bleary eye, finding your sweet one already long having been observing you. your soul sings.

"good morning, lover," arlecchino murmurs fondly, pressing close. now that you're awake, she has no reservations about pulling you close. she loops an arm around your back, blackened hands ever gentle, ever soft.

you smile, still half-asleep, but savouring the affection. your own palm finds its way to arlecchino's spine, tracing delicately up and down, making your darling knave shiver.

(oh, how weak she finds herself at your touch. let all other things to which she be impenetrable, but for you, she spares a key.)

arlecchino is strong, and it shows in the grooves of her muscled form, tensing in the wake of your drowsed touch. she is especially vulnerable in the space just beside her wing, where you pay special attention, massaging lightly there and leaving tender brushes of your lips. fluttering kisses, with all the softness of rainbow rose petals on the gentle wind.

"morning, arle," you mumble in a wispy breath. you graze your fingertips some along the curve of her side, to the cursed ink on her arm (that is no more a curse than it is a part of the woman you love), tracing them as though you didn't already have every inch of arlecchino mapped out in your memory.

your eyes flutter closed, and your hand goes still, relaxed now on arlecchino's back once more as you are quickly returned to sleep's embrace—arlecchino cradling you, bloodfire wing secured around your form.

but this time, sleep itself has no choice but to share you with her.

all the time in the world could not compare to these tender, infinitisemal moments—your limbs tangled like vines, hair strewn across the pillows upon the bed that is only both yours to own, with you in her arms.

arlecchino's lips draw forth like a magnet, pressing tender kisses along your brow. "rest well, my dove."

and when she speaks, she hopes her faithful prayer follows you into your conscious, to warm your heart and remind you always of the devotion only your sweet knave holds, just for you. only for you.