#⟨⟪ I've been feeling very poetic lately. ⟫⟩

[callingcxrd]

I know people mean well and this is something I don't blame them for but I am getting so tired of hearing that Oh, your struggles make you special! Thinking differently means you'll change the world! Like maybe I don't want to be some miraculous idolised Other any more than I would want to be some demonised freak to you all maybe I just want actually understood

[cherubfae]

Can you write Alastor x a Reader who works in radio? I don't think Alastor would let them on air since he doesn't seem the type to have a co host to me but maybe he'd have a intern who gets him coffee or a script writer.

Good To Be Back On the Air || Alastor x reader

tags: gn!sinner!reader (described to have horns but is an otherwise ambiguous demon!!), fluff, pre-established relationship, mentions of death, true crime, vox being vox lmao, jealous alastor, blood/bloody play (sorta??), Valentino is his own warning (threats of SA but nothing happens), mentions of injuries and being kidnapped (use of chloroform), implied VoxVal

a/n: I hope you enjoy!! This got a bit long!

Much like Alastor's life before he died, you were also quite the popular radio host for your time. Engaging, funny, and respectable. Your audience loved tuning in the early hours of the morning to you recanting the strange occurrences of the multiple killings of men from the late 1920s until that stream suddenly stopped during the year 1933 within New Orleans, Louisiana.

True crime has always been your passion, in life and in death. You certainly didn't think you'd end up in Hell for taking the life of someone trying to mug you on the street. A tall, masked man who saw to it that you'd never see the light of day again. A couple gunshot wounds to your abdomen proved effective as you rest against the wall, bleeding out onto the concrete with your soon-to-be killer lying facedown and dead mere feet from you. Killed by the very thing you sought to bring awareness towards. Quite poetic in a way.

As your gaze clouds and vision becomes unfocused, you look up at the stars. The ares around you was beautiful. It was one of your favorite parts of town, even your death wouldn't taint the beauty of the stretching oak and maple trees reaching tall towards the skies. The faint sound of smooth jazz playing from the record shop only a few paces away mixing with the swirling scent of coffee. At least you were dying in a place that you loved.

Now, here you are. In Hell. Doomed to total damnation for all fucking eternity. You'd been down here for a couple months, taking up residence near Cannibal Town, yet still unsure of what to make of all the carnage, debauchery, and depravity. You didn't think you belonged in Hell, even if you took the life that simultaneously extinguished your own.

"What's wrong, dearie? I've known you to be quiet but today you are exceptionally so." Mused Rosie, her gentle tone pulling you out of your reverie. You glanced down at your tea, sighing.

Leaning your cheek against your palm, you meet her charcoal-black eyes. Genuine concern etched onto her politely beautiful face. "I'm just feeling lost is all, I guess. I told you how I ended up in Hell, right?" Solemnly, Rosie nods.

Placing down her tea cup, Rosie wiggles towards you a bit. "Maybe you just need to find that old spark again! Something that roused you when you were alive! I have a friend who was a radio host, same as you. He may be able to have a job for you! Alastor is as charming as they come!" She grins, her mouth full of pointed teeth on full display.

Your brow quirks. "Alastor? The Radio Demon?" Rosie nods, excitedly. Alastor had been the prolific serial killer that haunted New Orleans back in the 1920s. It felt weird that the main man-- subject, you studied in life would soon be your acquaintance and potential boss in death. You'd heard many hushed tales about the aforementioned Radio Demon dealing in bartered souls and how he wreaked havoc against his fellow Overlords overnight. He definitely seemed like the kind of demon you didn't want to make light of, or worse, be on his bad side.

"He's a quirky one, for sure, but don't listen to all those rumors and gossip!" Rosie waves her hand with a laugh. "Alastor is still a gentleman and I'm sure he'd be delighted to offer you a job! Maybe you can intern for him? Besides! If he's ever rude to you, ol' Rosie will kick him in the shins! I'll wear my extra-pointy boots!" She giggles, holding your hands in hers. "You'll be in good hands, my dear! I'll let Alastor know you're coming right away!"

Staring down at the neatly folded paper in your hand, you double and triple check the address scrawled in neat calligraphy.

Hazbin Hotel.

Was it normal for a former serial killer slash radio host to become a hotelier that's trying to rehabilitate sinners?

With a shrug, you made your way up the incline taking note of the rather ominous looking radio tower jutting out from the far-right side of the hotel. A sign displaying the words on-air was currently unlit and it looked quite dark inside from what you could see from the ground. Perhaps the great Alastor wasn't at home.

Knocking on the front door, you're greeted by a tall, deer-like demon with two-toned hair and sharp yellow teeth dressed in a dapper red-pinstripe suit complete with a microphone-like cane. Scarlet eyes stare down at you like a lion watching a gazelle. You feel utterly and completely exposed, like he's peeling back your every layer, surveying you, before he even said a single word.

"Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel, my dear! Quite a pleasure! You must be the little darling that dear Rosie sent, yes?" Alastor places his hand on your lower back, guiding you past the hotel's front doors and into the welcoming comfort of the establishment's front lobby and reception area. "This is a place where wayward sinners such as yourself can find peace and be led on the path of redemption to ascend to Heaven by Hell's very own princess, Charlie Morningstar!"

On queue, a blonde-haired girl sprints up to you squealing and flailing her arms a bit. She takes her hands in yours and offers you a big, delighted smile. You like her immediately. "Oh, my gosh! Welcome, welcome to Hazbin Hotel! I see you've met our gracious host Alastor! He's mentioned that you're going to be interning for him-- how exciting! We are so thankful to have you!"

To think, all those months ago had been the start of your journey with your friends. You had felt so out of place in Hell, in your new skin, uncomfortable with the weight of sharp horns protruding your skin and the strength of your clawed hands. You were quite pleasantly surprised at what you could withstand now as a demon.

With the attention directed back at him, Alastor grins with a whine of radio static. It was the equivalent of a lazy smirk with his half-lidded scarlet eyes taking you in one more, searching for any potential risks you may pose though you didn't intend any of that sort. You felt your skin begin to heat the longer his gaze remained on you, and hesitantly break the eye contact with the demon in favor of Charlie, who has been excitedly talking about all of the hotel's features.

"I brought your coffee, sir." Alastor hums out a soft 'thank you' yet continues to fiddle with the buttons and tracks on his console, not raising his head to look at you. "Rosie gave me some venison for you. She said aid it's your favorite when it's fresh and raw." Placing Alastor's simple black coffee on a small side table, you revere your boss with a fond expression. Rosie had been truthful she said he was the charming sort. There certainly was an air of respectability about him that men lacked from your time.

"Our dear Rosie is certainly a clever one, and she is quite correct. There is no better way to enjoy meat than having it served fresh. Preferably off the bone but this will do." Alastor tilts his head, turning to the side to regale you from the corner of his eyes. Those damn beautiful scarlet gems. "Something the matter, my dear?" Alastor's voice is a soft crackle.

Stumbling in surprise, you wrack your brain for a plausible answer. When you find none, you shake your head from side to side cursing the heat that sets your cheeks ablaze.

Alastor smirks, standing from his stool and approaches you. He grasps your chin between his thumb and forefinger; his claw lightly dragging across your lower lip. Blood beads up following the path his claw created. He swipes it up, licking it in front of you.

"Tasty," Alastor grins, leaning down and bumping his nose into yours. "As I said, meat is best when fresh." He squeezes your cheek lightly, chuckling at the exudes into his palm. "If I wasn't certain, I'd say you have a little crush on me, hmm?" He turns his back to you, those damned scarlet eyes that see straight through your soul strike you where you stand. "That'll be all now, dearest. Thank you for your time and your blood."

You couldn't get out of there fast enough. You weren't afraid of him, no, you were more scared of kissing him now more than ever. A fantasy of both of you pressed tight to one another with mouths soaked in blood would be all you can think of for hours.

Whatever was going on between you and Alastor continued on much like a game of cat and mouse only he seemed to be going out of his way more and more to fluster you, saying things that would catch you off guard.

"I don't think of myself as much of a man who desires a relationship beyond friends and family, but cohabitating with you as lifelong partners does sound desirable."

"Hmm, tell me. Are your horns sensitive?" His breath ghosts then one day, causing you to shriek and cover them. You pout, turning your head to glare at him. Alastor's grin only seemed to stretch further. "Only teasing, darling, no need to get so uppity."

It was a slow evening, Alastor had sent you off on another errand. There was a sense of apprehension worrying his brow, glancing at the analog clock. The hour hand strikes the 3am mark. He'd sent you off almost an hour and a half ago, so where were you?

Interference crackles onto his radio, Alastor hissing as the feedback screeches. With ears pinned back, his eyes narrowed further when a familiar voice crosses.

"Ugh, I will never understand why thr fuck you use this shit, Alastor." Groaned Vox. "Anyway, I got your cute assistant here. You should see them, shaking like a leaf." The radio glitches in tune with Vox's laughter. "Valentino here has been itching for a new plaything, doesn't that sound good, sweetheart? Maybe we can broadcast that for all of Hell to see, right Al--"

Smash. Alastor's fist smashes through the radio cutting off Vox's boastful rant.

On the other side of the city, Vox blinks in confusion. "I lost the radio signal? Oh, fuck, God this shit is so old." He sighs, leaning back in his chair. Spinning around, he gives you a wry smirk. "Guess we'll see if the Great Alastor comes to rescue his lost pup, hmm?"

Glowering at him, left bound and gagged, sitting on the cold, hard floor. Valentino gives a harsh tug on your hair, your teeth sinking into the cotton gag shoved in your mouth, a muffled grunt leaving you.

An electric feeling in the air has your hair rising. Vox and Valentino share a confused look. A large fist blasts inside of the V Tower, claws sharp as they did through the metal like it was butter.

"Oh, fuck, it's Alastor!" Vox shrieks, scrambling to get away from the broken window. A second fist smashes through sending Vox into the opposing wall with a deep thud. Valentino runs to his friend's aid, helping him up.

"Well, this is what you wanted, honey."

Vox groans in protest. "I know."

Green electricity crackles, a dark shadow pooling into the room and with a shriek, manifests into Alastor.

Paying the two no mind, Alastor crosses the threshold and kneels down before you. His clawed fingers are gentle as he removes the gag around your bruised mouth. "Sorry it took me so long, mon cour." A tentacle bursts through his back, spiraling directly into Vox and Valentino, sending the two into the neighboring room with a loud crash.

Scooping you into his arms, Alastor calmly walks through to the next room, his hand cupping the back of your head. "Rest." He regards the other two males with a snarling crackle.

"If I didn't have more important matters to attend to, I would eviscerate you two gents. Touch what is mine again and I'll broadcast your fucking screams all over Hell." Alastor hums, exiting V Tower.

"Holy shit! Did you see?? He finally sees me as his rival!" Vox cheers, tossing both arms into the air in celebration.

"This may sting, but I trust that you can handle it." Alastor says, rubbing off the blood from your brow with a cotton ball doused in isopropyl alcohol. Wincing softly, you take the moment to look at him closely. You'd never seen Alastor so disheveled. Even with dealing with enemies, he was always composed. But, tonight, he had been anything but the picture of composure. He looked positively feral.

Valentino sighs, "Honey, you need psychiatric help."

"Is there something about my face you find interesting, dearest?"

Squeaking, your face flushes, shaking your arms frantically. Gasping you quickly place a hand to your ribs. Guess they really did fracture something when they knocked you out.

Alastor stills your hands with his own. "Easy now, pet. You're in no state to be moving around like an interpretive mime. I was only teasing you, my dearest. You had me worried tonight."

Hanging your head low, you turn your gaze away. "I'm sorry, Alastor. I don't know how they got the drop on me. I was walking home and smelled something odd--," you gasped in realization. "Chloroform. It had to be."

Alastor growled tensely at that. He tied the bandage around your arm and with a snap of his fingers the medical kit disappeared and a serving tray appeared carrying a kettle full of hot chocolate and a staple 1920s dessert: pound cake. This one was drizzled with a bitter chocolate and filled with strawberries.

Alastor takes your hand and gently kisses your knuckles. "Care to join me for a treat?" His tone was a touch more gentle than it had been a heartbeat ago. You smile, nodding eagerly. He grins and begins to cut the cake, serving you first. "One more thing."

|| I DON'T GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORKS TO BE REPOSTED, RESHARED, OR EDITED. TUMBLR IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT AND THE ONLY PLACE WHERE I POST MY WRITING. ALL CHARACTERS BELONG TO THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNERS, THE STORY BELONGS TO ME. || CHERUBFAE © 2024

Softly, Alastor kisses your cheek. It was the lightest of touches and over as soon as it happened. He busies himself by pouring two mugs of steaming hot chocolate, the apples of his cheeks were a rosy hue.

[blingblong55]

Nothing- König

Based on a request:

Hey kasper!! >__< i hope this request finds you in good health, i'm that anon who asked earlier if your reqs are open and dont worry! Im willing to wait <33 just take your time and no rush.. Anyways- May I request a fluff fic on konig (or ghost) where they come home from a very long mission to see that their darling is baking something delicious? (Can be any pastry dish you want WAAHH) Maybe a pastry chef reader and shes on her day off and used the time to bake something! The house smelled definitely like heaven and I bet that Konig (or ghost 😭) was immediately the taste tester for the day!! TEEEHEEEE >3< jus some domestic fluff cause i've been reading way too much angst lately BAAAHHHHAHSHAHAH -🍰 anon :3 ---- F!Reader, fluff, domestic, established!relationship, baker!reader ----

A/N: If you came for the Ghost version of this, click here

It was a tough mission. His body was sore, and scars and bruises adorned him. "Home," he whispers once his body is near to giving up. Home is you, he thinks. His pretty darling is home and all he can do is drive faster. How much can a man last when he isn't in the arms of their lover?

Once he steps wearily through the threshold of his home, his boots fall heavy by the entrance. The weight of the mission on his shoulders but as soon as he caught the aroma wafting through the air, his fatigue seemed to dissipate. A soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he followed the scent. The mask he dreads to wear home is tossed to the side.

There you are, his pretty girl, standing amidst a flurry of flour a sugar. You didn't notice him as you stook your tongue out and tried to clean the corners of the spoon. Flour from the past minutes is still on your blouse and cheek.

He clears his throat, your eyes light up with delight when you notice him. As you rushed to his side, he felt himself grow those everloving butterflies. "Welcome home," you whisper, your voice soothes his weary soul.

König returns the embrace, savouring the familiar scent of your hair. "It's good to be home, Liebling," he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

Home.

What a funny word, no? At least to him, it is. If you would've told him years ago he'd be calling you his wife or that he'd even have a person to go to, he'd laugh at your nonsense. A man like him isn't worthy of a home–

"I missed you Bär," you say as you cup his face. It's beautiful really, how he lets you love him this much. It's poetic how good he feels when he sees you even more when you hold him like this. Are you truly an angel?

As you both pull away, he can't help but admire the sight before him. Flour dust on that pretty face of yours and your hair pulled back into that clipped messy bun, yet you are still the most beautiful sight he has ever seen. The warmth of your smile is chased by shadows that linger in his mind, and he feels a surge of gratitude for your presence in his life.

I mean look at you, what good must he have done to have you here?

"What are you baking?" he asked, his curiosity piqued. Your eyes sparkle with mischief as you gesture to the countertop. "I'm experimenting with a new recipe. Chocolate chip cookies."

König's stomach rumbled in anticipation, and he couldn't resist stealing a taste of the dough. You laugh at his eagerness, swatting his hand away. "Patience, Bär," you smile. "They'll be ready soon enough."

Maybe all is well and he doesn't have to run or hide. He can just be here, with you.

As you two wait for the cookies to bake, he finds himself drawn to your side, appreciating the simple pleasure of being in your company. You two exchange stories of your week. Laugh and playful pushes followed along.

What if this is what he is meant for? Maybe life isn't so bad for a man like him. Not with you, at least.

Finally, the timer dinged, signalling the cookies were done. As you pull the tray out of the oven, he finds himself dreaming of more. Maybe next time around, when all is peaceful, there will be a kid, maybe two eagerly waiting for a taste of a new family recipe.

"These are incredible," König declares as he takes another bite and savours the sweetness with his tongue.

You beam with pride, your cheeks flush with pleasure from this compliment. "I'm glad you think so. There's plenty more where that came from," your voice softer now.

As you two indulge in this impromptu midnight snack, König can't shake the feeling of contentment that settles over him. In this moment, surrounded by warmth and love, he knows that there is nowhere else in the world he rather be.

And as he and you lean on the counters, he realises that sometimes, the greatest adventures were found not in the battlefield, but in the quiet moments of domestic blissed with the one he holds dear.

F!Reader, fluff, domestic, established!relationship, baker!reader

It was a tough mission. His body was sore, and scars and bruises adorned him. "Home," he whispers once his body is near to giving up. Home is you, he thinks. His pretty darling is home and all he can do is drive faster. How much can a man last when he isn't in the arms of their lover?

Once he steps wearily through the threshold of his home, his boots fall heavy by the entrance. The weight of the mission on his shoulders but as soon as he caught the aroma wafting through the air, his fatigue seemed to dissipate. A soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he followed the scent. The mask he dreads to wear home is tossed to the side.

There you are, his pretty girl, standing amidst a flurry of flour a sugar. You didn't notice him as you stook your tongue out and tried to clean the corners of the spoon. Flour from the past minutes is still on your blouse and cheek.

He clears his throat, your eyes light up with delight when you notice him. As you rushed to his side, he felt himself grow those everloving butterflies. "Welcome home," you whisper, your voice soothes his weary soul.

König returns the embrace, savouring the familiar scent of your hair. "It's good to be home, Liebling," he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

Home.

What a funny word, no? At least to him, it is. If you would've told him years ago he'd be calling you his wife or that he'd even have a person to go to, he'd laugh at your nonsense. A man like him isn't worthy of a home–

"I missed you Bär," you say as you cup his face. It's beautiful really, how he lets you love him this much. It's poetic how good he feels when he sees you even more when you hold him like this. Are you truly an angel?

As you both pull away, he can't help but admire the sight before him. Flour dust on that pretty face of yours and your hair pulled back into that clipped messy bun, yet you are still the most beautiful sight he has ever seen. The warmth of your smile is chased by shadows that linger in his mind, and he feels a surge of gratitude for your presence in his life.

I mean look at you, what good must he have done to have you here?

"What are you baking?" he asked, his curiosity piqued. Your eyes sparkle with mischief as you gesture to the countertop. "I'm experimenting with a new recipe. Chocolate chip cookies."

König's stomach rumbled in anticipation, and he couldn't resist stealing a taste of the dough. You laugh at his eagerness, swatting his hand away. "Patience, Bär," you smile. "They'll be ready soon enough."

Maybe all is well and he doesn't have to run or hide. He can just be here, with you.

As you two wait for the cookies to bake, he finds himself drawn to your side, appreciating the simple pleasure of being in your company. You two exchange stories of your week. Laugh and playful pushes followed along.

What if this is what he is meant for? Maybe life isn't so bad for a man like him. Not with you, at least.

Finally, the timer dinged, signalling the cookies were done. As you pull the tray out of the oven, he finds himself dreaming of more. Maybe next time around, when all is peaceful, there will be a kid, maybe two eagerly waiting for a taste of a new family recipe.

"These are incredible," König declares as he takes another bite and savours the sweetness with his tongue.

You beam with pride, your cheeks flush with pleasure from this compliment. "I'm glad you think so. There's plenty more where that came from," your voice softer now.

As you two indulge in this impromptu midnight snack, König can't shake the feeling of contentment that settles over him. In this moment, surrounded by warmth and love, he knows that there is nowhere else in the world he rather be.

And as he and you lean on the counters, he realises that sometimes, the greatest adventures were found not in the battlefield, but in the quiet moments of domestic blissed with the one he holds dear.

A/N: I want to hold him.....

Tags:

@simpsallthetime1997 @tipsykeen @lonelybitchs-world @viawritesstuff @avaleigh16 @aprilplage @wtfwhydoesnooneknowthebooksilove @undercover-smutlover @riskyboi123 @madsdawson @rennroo @liyanahelena @goldenmclaren @ghostslillady @moonsua1 @rvivienner @frizzseaberries @spicypicklesoh @viomast @vampsquerade @alxexhearts @Juneonhoth @tiredmetalenthusiast @jinxxangel13 @strangepuppynightmare @defnotlpuluvyou @enarien @luvecarson @nellsbobells @willowaftxn83-87 @saoirse06 @ikohniik @nobodys-coffee @strawberrychita @sae1kie @Llelannie @Macnches2 @bbyfimmie @skelletonwitch @bittermajesties @1234beeandpuppycat @sparky--bunny @honestlyhiswife @who-can-appease-me @ghostwifeyy @konigssultwithghost @pinkblossomsworld @kaoyamamegami @the_royal_bee @beansproutmafia @soapybutt17 @asianbutnotjapanese @a-goose-with-a-knife @foxface013 @anonxasian @born4biriyani @thegreyjoyed @mychemichalimalance @marshiely @tuihiatus @iruzias @sleepyycatt

[ceilidho]

No I agree with the last anon, I love all your stuff but something just feels *different* about this one, like in a really good way. I hope you get the chance to publish your writing one day and make a ton of money from it. You deserve it ♡

i tried to focus on a few different things in this fic!!! idk if this is interesting at all, but lately as i've been writing, i've been trying to think about the following things:

physicality. really describing the love interest's body to the fullest extent. thinking about things like scars, hair, the different shades of their skin, skin texture, etc.

giving the narrator (reader) more story/internalization. i noticed i resonated with my reader characters more when i felt like they had some palpable inner nature and quirks that gave them dimension (while still trying to keep the reader character neutral enough for anyone to slip into)

choosing words more deliberately. i've been scouring vocabulary lists and finding new synonyms for words and religiously checking merriam webster's word of the day.

balancing poetry with more matter-of-fact / plain language. still attempting to keep the audience grounded in what is actually happening in the story while also making them feel transported with some more poetic passages.

mixing spoken dialogue (i.e. ["Go over there," he says]) with internalized dialogue (i.e. [A gruff voice at your side tells you to quiet, bird—s'too early for your bitchin’ before manhandling you onto your stomach] - note the italicized dialogue that is being spoken but only registers in the reader's mind). i just find the contrast is very appealing.

making sure that VISUALLY the story is engaging to read. that means a mix of sparse dialogue, big/dense paragraphs, and short one-line sentences broken into paragraphs. i want readers to look at the page and feel drawn in and like their eyes are bouncing all over the place rather than bogged down by paragraph after paragraph

anyway lmao im yapping. thank you so much for reading my work and being so kind!!!

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

T-48 hours to Armageddon (when we watch me finish GO Season 2), I want to make a statement. and a will.

I've been getting a lot of ominous statements from the fandom. They've become increasingly concerned for my mental stability and even survival post the season two finale (thanks guys). I feel like as mascot I need to make some kind of statement, in case I do not survive the Final Fifteen. Maybe a will. Don't worry, this contains no spoilers (?) and no speculations or fanfiction about season 3. It is simply My Dramatic Outpouring of Poetic Emotion.

Firstly, @neil-gaiman, good day to you, Neil, this is the first interview (?) I have watched of yours. And I see you said "quiet, gentle and romantic" which until now I was kind of assuming was a fandom inside joke. I'm glad I know what to expect going into the second half of season two. In case I do not survive, thank you very much for this journey, you have created a masterpiece. I think I will watch Coraline in the next 48 hours since I am living on borrowed time and I do very much want to watch that before it all ends.

Secondly, to all the maggots, thank you very much for kidnapping me and dragging me into this beautiful pain with you. I do not think I will survive the Final Fifteen. I fell for Crowley and Aziraphale too deeply. But all my love to you, and I hope you will ensure my memory lives on. Take my posts and my meagre contributions, for they are yours. Maybe @1800ineedshelp, Lina, you can ask the maggot choir to sing Eleimon Aegovoskos (for those unaware, that is a hymn I wrote for Crowley) at my funeral, if my body is found and not discorporated. @queermarzipan I need you to mention my love for Drarry.

I have already put a POTC post in queue, maybe I'll add a few more so I linger painfully on this site even after my mortal remains are resigned to the stardust that Crowley once created.

Thirdly, @howmanyholesinswisscheese, please make the funeral arrangements and pay for them, thank you. You can play Someone to Stay if you like as you cry over your beloved late son (me). I hope I was your favourite (only) problem child and family disappointment.

Those who made art for me, @ivory--raven, @1800ineedshelp, @madfangirlontheloose, @arkytiorlecter, my deep thanks, let it be displayed in lieu of a photo.

Lastly, OFMD fandom, I'm sorry I entered so late. Make sure the show is renewed. Fly your gay flag high for me.

I still have two days, but I'm taking precautions because I'm very organised like that. Take my love, maggots, all of you, I couldn't tag everyone though I want to. May the nightingales sing again.

Your mascot and prophet, very, very dramatically yours,

Asmi

[sugaredrhubarb]

Reading with Ru: Aug/Sept Fic Recs

I know I'm certainly in need of some positivity and escapism lately, so I'm gonna try to do semi-regular fic and book recs! Starting with a retroactive what I've been reading from the past couple of months with this account! (I might go back in time and make an all-time rec list later)

COD

starting with cod because i know most of you go here

Sergeant Squeaks by @charliemwrites - (series of one-shots ghost x reader and price x reader separately) both one of my favourite reader characters and my favourite canon setting depictions of Ghost and Price. their own weird brands of showing love are wonderful; the tension leading to getting together is fantastic, and the sex is super enjoyable.

Ghost Stories by @kneelingshadowsalome - (ghost x medic!reader) I'm repeating myself, but I love Salome's writing. This is where I was first introduced to it, and I think it's really special. Ghost POV as he struggles with developing and then accepting love. felt so real and grounded. angsty and then fluffy, and you can't help but adore the reader as well.

saltwater by @ceilidho - (ghost x reader) It's pretty unlikely any of you don't know Ceil, but on the off chance you haven't given this one a read yet, it really is a must. I lump praise on her pretty regularly, but I don't know anyone who is able to portray their character's emotions as intimately as Ceil. her ghost feels really grounded in all his complexity. there is a common theme in these recs of really enjoyable reader characters, and this is not an exception; the reader feels like a full but still ambiguous character who is vulnerable and strong and really great.

don't leave me locked in your heart by @ohbo-ohno - (ghoap x reader dark!) we all know bo, we all love bo. I always love the way she depicts ghost and soap's dynamic changing and evolving to include the reader. the descent into dark territory in this is really really fun. It's also just hot and well-written! if you haven't read it before, go read it, and then go read all of bo's drabbles and asks on here. genuinely one of my favourite dark but still fun writers. I think she balances it really well.

body electric by @yeyinde and Afterburn by @sprout-fics - (141 + Los Vaqueros x reader) a classic. I've returned to these so many times. sometimes you just want to read dirty, filthy, well done, smut and then warm cozy aftercare. not to wax poetic about pure sex (except that's exactly what one should do), but I think it can be really hard to write group sex like this and still have such insightful and individual glimpses into each character and dynamic, and Lev does it wonderfully. and then it's also hard to find good aftercare fic, and Sprout's feels like literal aftercare for both the reader character and the reader.

other fandoms

tried to curate to themes i think overlap in some of the cod works! and I think most of these can be read fandom blind.

i revisited @winterrose527's fic in August, and even though she already knows how much I love her work, I won't skip a chance to repeat it. Anna writes for asoiaf and is pretty much the queen of Robb Stark/Myrcella Baratheon, but I would say the modern AUs (my favs) can be read almost completely fandom blind. Any contemporary romance enjoyer would love her work. I'm really partial to her kid/single-parent fics. I think it's so hard to get right, and I always adore reading her kid characters and how she approaches love stories when kids are involved. anna's works are always brimming with love and incredible platonic, familiar, parent-child, and romantic relationships (if kid fic isn't your thing she also has a ton of other great fics). personal favs: We Could Be a Little Something, And There They Are, All the Same

Lawless by @goldcranes - (arthur morgan x ofc) age difference, cowboy love story, essentially a romance novel. if goldcranes has no fans, I'm dead. I encourage you to explore her work; very few people write as strongly across multiple fandoms as she does, and each of her works feels like a really strong love story with special characters.

The Odyssey by @sunlightmurdock - (bradley bradshaw x reader) 1980's roman literature prof x virgin student - no need to know top gun. katie's work is another entry in the 'feels like it stands really strongly separately from the source material' category. she has multiple ongoing AU's that I really love, but this one is a favourite. i think she does complex characters really well - their actions always feel intentional, and as flawed as they are, I always love them.

Wouldn't it be Nice by allyoops - (m/f captive A/B/O) if you aren't reading original works smut on ao3 you are missing out and allyoops is a great place to start for noncon, dubcon, age gap, taboo etc. enjoyers. they have a ton of works; usually one shots with lots of really delicious dynamics and different settings and tropes.

An Intoxicating Presence by FormerlyIR - (mob a/b/o haladriel) MOB. A/B/O. HALADRIEL. picks up with Halbrand in prison thanks to undercover FBI agent (and his mate!) Galadriel. does that sound crazy and awesome? well it is. mix it with Gal's internal struggle, the added complication of omegaverse, and overall great writing. really fun and really damn good.

civitas terrena by banalityofweevil - (darklina) angel Alina on an exploration of love in immortality with fallen angel Aleks. honestly, it's just a must-read for enjoyers of writing. incredibly creative with divine (literally and figuratively) imagery. i think one of my comments was on the precision of lulu's diction and I really stand by that.

tinsel into gold by ribbonedhare - (darklina) ddlg and cnc friends, this changed me. it is so warm and soft and my god, is it good. just scrumptious.

Be My Babydoll by KittyDruthers - (darklina) ddlg dollification need I say more

check the reading with ru tag for more!

[misc-obeyme]

for the drabble thing kinda 👉👈 (mostly be rambling per usual but could be an idea). I've been listening to music non stop at work and favorite record by fall out boy came on today

and there's a lyric that goes "and I confessed, confessed to you riding shotgun, underneath purple skies" and it screams mammon and mc to me. ALSO the rest of the song makes it sound like past tense/lost love/one that got away...angst potential too. Like reminiscing? Mc moved on but he never did.

I just like thinking about different ways he may confess, and if he'd just blurt it out without thinking? Or maybe he's hyped himself up, he's driving mc up to a hilltop to stargaze, he's got it all planned - and something mc does just makes him blurt it out

if it was something silly like turning on the A/C before he could finish asking them to, because MC just knows him that well, that would be hilarious

Mammon: hey uh, can you-

mc, already turning the dial: i got you

Mammon: i am in love with you.

- ✨ anon

also, partially related but Flu Game by the same band reminds me so much of nightbringer!mc and I could go on forever about it

Yes this feels very Mammon to me... blurting it out before he means to lol! I do like the angst of MC moving on, but he never did, too! That's some good potential right there.

BUT I did a drabble based on the rest of the idea, that he's taking MC to a hilltop to confess but doesn't quite make it lol.

Mammon knows he has to tell you. It's been stewing inside him for a while, brought to his attention every time you meet his eyes, every time you say his name, every time you touch him or hug him or do something before he even asks. He's nervous to say it, but he won't risk losing you because he was too afraid.

He has it all planned out. What better way than to take you for a drive? Up onto the highest hilltop in the Devildom. Thinking about it makes his pulse race. He's on high alert all day, not able to focus on anything except the moment when those words pass his lips.

Mammon rehearses what he'll say. He thought about getting poetic, but in the end he decides it's better to just be straightforward. To be honest, to be true, to tell you exactly what he needs you to know, so there is no possibility of miscommunication. He chants it in his head all day. I'm in love with you, I'm in love with you, I'm in love with you.

You settle into the passenger seat of his Demonio like you belong there, riding shotgun beside him. He wants to say it right then, before he's even started the car.

I'm in love with you.

Mammon holds it in as you click in your seat belt and smile at him before turning on the music. It's a playlist you made together of all the songs you both love most. As you start singing along to the chorus, he wants to say it again.

I'm in love with you.

Mammon's eyes are on the road, but you are all encompassing. Despite this, he doesn't let his attention wander from the task of driving. He cares too much about you to be reckless.

He hasn't said much because he doesn't trust himself to speak. The road gets tricky as he starts up the winding cliff side to get to the highest hilltop. He can't look away from it, but he's sweating. He wipes quickly at his forehead.

"Hey, MC, can ya-"

"I got you," you say, already turning the dial.

His heart skips. And the words he's been repeating in his mind all day come bursting out. "I'm in love with you."

For a moment, the only sound is a soft song that has begun to play. Mammon's mind is buzzing, full of static at the shock of what he's just done, what he's said. He didn't even make it up to the hilltop.

"Er- I mean-" he starts to say, but it's too late.

He sees you reaching toward him in his periphery. He takes your outstretched hand without even thinking about it.

"I love you, too," you say, simply.

Mammon holds your hand like it's the only thing keeping him alive as he finally makes it to his destination. He stops the car and turns to you, taking in the way your eyes are shining brighter than all the stars and city lights streaming in through the windshield. He leans over to kiss you and the current between you is like lightning, brighter and more intense than any other light could hope to be. Wild, unpredictable, full of passion - just like him.

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

[gingermintpepper]

hi, i haven't read the iliad and the odyssey but want to - do u have a specific translation you recommend? the emily wilson one has been going around bc, y'know, first female translator of the iliad and odyssey into english, but i was wondering on if you had Thoughts

Hi anon! Sorry for the somewhat late response and I'm glad you trust me with recommendations! Full, disclosure, I am somewhat of a traditionalist when it comes to translations of the source text of the Iliad + Odyssey combo wombo, which means I tend to prefer closeness in literal verbiage over interpretation of the poetic form of these epics - for that reason, my personal preferred versions of the Odyssey and Iliad both are Robert Fitzgerald's. Because both of these translations (and his Aeneid!) were done some 50+ years ago (63 for his original Odyssey tl, 50 flat for his Iliad and 40 for his Aeneid) the English itself can be a bit difficult to read and the syntax can get confusing in a lot of places, so despite my personal preferences, I wouldn't recommend it for someone who is looking to experience the Iliad + Odyssey for the very first time.

For an absolute beginner, someone who has tried to read one or both of these epics but couldn't get into it or someone who has a lot of difficulty with concentrating on poetry or long, winding bits of prose, I fully and wholeheartedly recommend Wilson's translation! See, the genius of Emily Wilson's Iliad + Odyssey isn't that she's a woman who's translated these classics, it's that she's a poet who's adapted the greek traditional poetic form of dactylic hexameter into the english traditional poetic form of iambic pentameter. That alone goes a very very long way to making these poems feel more digestible and approachable - iambic pentameter is simply extremely comfortable and natural for native english speakers' brains and the general briskness of her verbiage helps a lot in getting through a lot of the problem books that people usually drop the Iliad or Odyssey in like Book 2 of the Iliad or Book 4 of the Odyssey. I think it's a wonderful starting point that allows people to familiarise themselves with the source text before deciding if they want to dig deeper - personally, researching Wilson's translation choices alone is a massive rabbit hole that is worth getting into LOL.

The happy medium between Fitzgerald's somewhat archaic but precise syntax and Wilson's comfortable meter but occasionally less detailled account is Robert Fagles' Iliad + Odyssey. Now, full disclosure, I detest how Fagles handles epithets in both of his versions, I think they're far too subtle which is something he himself has talked at length about in his translation notes, but for everything else - I'd consider his translations the most well rounded of english adaptations of this text in recent memory. They're accurate but written in plain English, they're descriptive and detailled without sacrificing a comfortable meter and, perhaps most importantly, they're very accessible for native english speaking audiences to approach and interact with. I've annotated my Fagles' volumes of these books to heaven and back because I'm deeply interested in a lot of the translation decisions made, but I also have to specifically compliment his ability to capture nuance in the characters' of these poems in a way I don't often see. He managed to adapt the ambivalence of ancient greek morality in a way I scarcely see and that probably has a hand in why I keep coming back to his translations.

Now, I know this wasn't much of a direct recommendation but as I do not know you personally, dear anon, I can't much make a direct recommendation to a version that would best appeal to your style of reading. Ideally, I'd recommend that you read and enjoy all three! But, presuming that you are a normal person, I suggest picking which one is most applicable for you. I hope this helps! 🥰

[radiowallet]

Home

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Marcus Moreno Summary: Dieter takes Marcus to a party in the valley. WC: 4.5K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Sexual content. Exclusive M/M dynamics. Written in third-person POV, male protagonists. Anal sex, dirty talk, kissing, cum play, semi-public sex. Small angsty moments. Yearning. So much yearning. AU Marcus Moreno (no wife, no Missy). A lot of purple prose and waxing poetic.

A/N: Hi, hello, it's been a very very long time since I've shared any writing here. I don't have any good excuses other than real-life stressors, mental health and anxiety, and the overall stress of being on Tumblr really really got to me. I'm trying to ease my way back in. Slowly. I've really enjoyed catching up on all the amazing fics you guys have been writing. Thank you to everyone, still here or otherwise. Even when I was off dealing with irl stuff, I could feel the support.

Pretend Alleyways Masterlist II Main Masterlist

For any new writing follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

Marcus chewed at his nail bed, surveying the house from the backseat of his Uber. It was hardly the first time he’d pulled up to the Sherman Oaks home. He was comfortable with the routine at this point. Tapping in the code for the front gate with practiced ease. The same one Dieter had scribbled onto the back page of a forgotten script after that first night together in New York City, his cell ringing incessantly from his back pocket, a car waiting down the curb to whisk him away. Marcus swore he could still taste the mint and menthol on the actor’s breath when he stepped in close and pressed the paper into his hands, kissing him until his toes curled. 

“Please say you’ll come visit.”

After that, it had been one strategically planned visit after the other. Marcus was almost mathematical in his process, arranging flights out west around his patrol schedule, switching shifts, and taking on extra duties just to rationalize the time away. Burning the candle at both ends but not caring even in the slightest, happy to run his tank on empty. He’d drive all fucking night if it meant more time with Dieter. 

So he took to the task with a vigilant level of focus, texting details and arrival times, the actor responding with a barrage of emojis, always ending with a heart. 

Marcus liked the way the little pixelated picture made his stomach flip.

Once together, it became less of a routine and more of a dance, the two of them falling into an easy rhythm that Marcus had no desire to predict. They would lose themselves in each other, wrapping tightly around the other, the heat impossible to turn away from. There were late nights and early mornings, the color of the sun replacing the hours on the clock. Sometimes, he would give up on sleep all together, content to match the actor’s eccentricities, watching Dieter move from room to room, minute to minute, until the other man would return to his arms. 

But as each visit came to a close, Marcus would find himself falling back on easy habits, his mind already making plans and rearranging schedules, focusing on that instead of the overbearing weight of goodbye. 

In the middle of one farewell, Dieter had grinned and nipped at his bottom lip, a tease curling around the curve of his cheek. 

“Don’t worry so much about the vigilante shit, sweet boy. You’re welcome anytime.”

Marcus had frowned at that, but Dieter was unfazed, humming an off-key pop song under his breath before giving one more piece of advice. 

Be spontaneous. 

Marcus had gnawed on those two words the entire plane ride home, the concept both enticing and diabolical at once. He imagined all the ways he would have spoiled Dieter if they lived in the same zip code. Spur of the moment cups of coffee, flowers just because, nights in and out and everything in between. But even those daydreams felt out of reach, Marcus unable to let go of the need to control everything. Everything. Everything that he possibly could. 

Except Deiter Bravo. 

The actor was bound for overseas, a six-month shoot looming ahead, lonely and large. They had spent the weekend before much the same way they had any other. Twisted together, sweat and cum and lips and hands pressed into bare skin, ignoring the ticking of traitorous time. Cruel miles were taking the other man away from him, and Marcus couldn’t stop the swell of jealous fear flaring inside his heart. 

Would he even be missed when the whole luminous, wonderful, exciting world was waiting for Dieter on the other side of the tarmac? 

A deep cough from the front seat dragged him back to the present, and before he could second guess himself again, Marcus climbed out of the car, tapping out five stars with one hand and grabbing his overnight bag with the other. He hesitated, just the smallest moment of debate, before he knocked, three sharp raps on the large black door. There was a shout from inside, Dee’s voice alerting someone he would get it, a breath and a curse as the lock was fiddled with, and then they were standing face to face after only 39 hours apart. 

Dieter seemed shocked to see him and he didn't bother hiding it, his jaw dropping in time with his arms, the shirt he had been buttoning hanging open to reveal his bare chest. Marcus couldn’t help but steal a glance of tan skin and a soft belly, licking his lips in anticipation. When Dee called his attention back up, the other man was smiling wide. 

“This is…”

“A surprise?”

“A great fucking surprise.” 

It was almost a blur after that. Fumbling hands and broken laughter as they came together in a messy kiss. They managed to make it up the stairs and down the hall, Dieter’s bed barely breaking their fall. 

Marcus wanted to take his time, should have been taking his time, but Dieter’s voice was in his ear, thanking him — thanking him? — for showing up tonight. Thanking him and begging him and pressing salt-slicked lips into the curve of his neck. And before he could breathe the other man in, savor the moment that was coming out of nowhere, they stripped away each and every layer, Dieter panting beneath the hurried press of Marcus’s fingers deep inside. 

Sooner rather than later, Marcus was sliding into the other man one final time, their hips flush and their fingers laced. He came with a groan, face buried into the dip of Dieter’s neck, while the actor sunk his teeth into his shoulder, the pleasure burning away into the edges of pain. Only after they both found their breath, bodies pliant and limbs loose, did Marcus find his voice. 

“Do you want to order in?”

Dieter didn’t say anything and Marcus craned his neck up to peek past the other man’s chin and catch a glimpse of him worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Did you already eat? Because that’s okay.”

“No…,” he started, fingers tracing a line of muscle from the top of his shoulder and back around, lingering along the teeth marks he left there only minutes earlier. “I haven’t eaten. I…there’s this thing I have to….well, not have to. I was getting ready for it when you knocked—“

“Dee?”

“There’s a party,” he finally blurted out, eyes finding the swing of the ceiling fan above, a grimace pulling his lips into a jagged line, a deep shade of pink settling on his cheeks. 

Marcus leaned up on his elbow, watching the small battle of wills dragging across Dieter’s face. He thought maybe he should try to comfort the other man but he was suddenly anxious, those creeping realities working their way up his spine. 

“A party?”

“Yeah, it’s sort of this farewell thing my friends are throwing,” he explained, not needing to. “Really, just an excuse to get blitzed.” 

The lack of eye contact suddenly made much more sense. 

“You wanted to go.”

It wasn’t a question. 

Dieter was up and over him in a flash, one large hand bending around Marcus’s jaw, thumb pressing the seam of his lips shut. “I didn’t want to be alone.” 

Marcus pursed his lips, the pad of Dieter’s thumb still pressing firm. He felt the callous from where Dee cheated his paintbrush, a perfect spot to push a kiss before pulling away. 

“You want to go.”  

Dieter searched his face, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, trying to pull apart the determined set of Marcus’s jaw. When he came up empty-handed, he fell back to his elbows with an exaggerated sigh, one large hand still cupping the cut of the hero’s cheekbone, keeping his thumb close enough to touch. 

“I want to go with you.” 

———————

Marcus smiled from where he was leaning against the doorway, watching Dieter rummage through his ridiculously sized closet, a string of muttered musings leaving him as he pulled item after item off of hangers. The Heroic had slipped back into his jeans and t-shirt once the decision had been made that they would attend the party together, not really packing (or owning) anything that fit the L.A. scene. 

He was two steps towards the bathroom, intent on fixing his messy hair when Dee stopped him with a strong grip on his elbow. 

“Leave it,” he teased, a quick kiss pressed to his lips, fingers tugging at one of the sweat-slicked curls. 

Now he was standing behind him, sliding a stone-washed jean jacket up one arm and then the other, one more kiss, this time gifted to the back of his neck. The jacket hangs a bit loose around him, Marcus guessing a mix between the cut and style, and Dieter’s broader frame both at play. He couldn’t help himself, tugging the collar to his nose and inhaling deeply, the smell of weed and cologne and something subtle sweet filling his lungs. 

He felt Dieter’s eyes, watching him carefully in the reflection of the mirror, his hands finding the dip of his waist beneath the bulky fabric, gripping hard then soft, one, two, three times. Marcus took in the pair of them — sex-mussed hair and bright blush on him, wild eyes, and a teasing smile on Dieter — and he suddenly had no desire to go to this party. Any party. 

No. 

All he wanted was for Dieter to pull this jacket off the same way he had so easily slipped it on, and drag him back down to the safety of the mattress. 

“Come on, sweet boy,” he hummed, the hook of his nose tracing the shell of Marcus’s ear. “Sooner we get there, sooner I get to take you home.”

The word followed Marcus down the stairs and out to the car, his stomach flipping each time he let the meaning of it roll around inside his head.

Home?

———————

Driving in L.A. was an experience in and of itself. Marcus had made his own attempts, managing to find a rhythm in the few times he had been sent out to the west coast on assignment. It wasn’t much different than driving in any other city, as long as you were prepared to sit in what felt like endless hours of traffic. Of course, Marcus had the pleasure of abusing side streets and off-ramps when it came down to emergency situations. 

Driving with Dieter behind the wheel was a different experience altogether. He seemed unfettered by speed limits or traffic lights, one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped around Marcus’s knee, singing along to the song on the radio but only getting about half the words right. If not for his powers and years of honing his reflexes, Marcus would have maybe suggested he do the driving when he was in town. 

As it was, it was nice to settle into the plush leather seat and listen to Dieter’s slightly off-key voice, his hand squeezing Marcus’s knee in time with the beat of the music. He leaned back and closed his eyes, weighing the risk of asking Dieter to just keep driving. Maybe if they kept going, all night and all day, they could avoid the inevitable goodbyes looming in the distance.

———————

The last time Marcus and Dieter had been at a party together, they had only ever heard of each other, recognizing names and faces from newspapers and movie screens. They didn’t know any different than what was said in headlines or plastered on billboards, rumors and hearsay coloring in their opinions of one another. How many assumptions had Marcus made about the actor upon that first meeting? That he was pompous. Self-centered. Selfish. An addict. An asshole. A monster. 

Or maybe Marcus was afraid that was how Dieter saw him. 

The monster in the night. The shadow that lurked in the corner. Fighting away the evils of the world, the palms of his hands so very dirty with blood and secrets and violence. Living in the between of good and bad and never knowing where he really stood.

But when their eyes met across that darkened alley, only the glow of Dieter’s cigarette casting shadows between them, those half-truths and packaged lies that Marcus took for granted started to fall away. Somewhere between their small secrets and one smokey kiss goodnight, he started to learn who Dieter Bravo really was. 

This party was different in so many ways than that first elegant affair. Gone was the light classical music, replaced with something loud, a heavy bass and fast lyrics. Bowls of chips instead of passed trays. Stiff black and white was traded in for soft denim, Dieter’s scent surrounding Marcus from room to room. They entered the party together, no longer separate, no longer strangers, and instead more.

So much more.

Dieter’s arm was wrapped around Marcus’s waist, holding him close by his side as they navigated the packed mansion. The crowd parted around them, little waves of people ebbing and flowing to make room for the two men, boisterous cheers of joy raining down upon them. Dieter preened beneath the attention, his smile wide and his cheeks warm, the hand wrapped around Marcus’s waist squeezing hard to grab the Heroic’s attention. 

“They like to make a fuss,” he hummed into Marcus’s ear. 

He couldn’t help but cock his own grin back, turning his head just enough to brush his lips along the shell of Dieter’s ear, delighting in the shiver that followed. “I think you like the fuss.” 

———————

They get separated about an hour in, an inevitability between the number of people vying for Dieter’s attention and the sheer size of the house. Marcus excused himself to the bathroom, trying and failing not to be annoyed when the first empty one he found was on the opposite end of the party. By the time he made it back to where he left Dieter, the other man had moved, now sitting on a couch, friends and fans alike draped around him. 

There was something strange about watching Dieter Bravo in what some would consider his natural habitat. He was bright and shiny and impossible to look away from. He almost looked relaxed, his arms thrown over the back of the sofa and his legs stretched out long, only the tap tap tap of his heel giving him away.

Marcus wanted to insert himself. To crowd himself beside the other man and press his palm to the bend of his knee in hopes of soothing away the small tremor of anxiety, but he hesitated, his own worries holding him in place. So he stayed where he was, back glued to the wall, arms crossed and frown firm, as he tried to decipher the scene playing out in front of him. 

Was Dieter’s laugh real just then? Or was the one Marcus had teased out of him hours prior? The sounds seemed so similar, a copy of a copy that looked and felt and sounded real. Were his cheeks pink because he preferred their attention over Marcus’s? Or was it because this room was too damn hot? What did it mean when Dieter touched her knee? Or kissed his cheek? Or leaned a little bit more into their touch? 

And why did Marcus care? 

He didn’t consider himself a jealous man. 

But it almost felt inevitable, the dark tendrils of jealousy seemingly always present, ever since that fateful moment in the alleyway, smoke and secrets traded away for unspoken promises for more. Marcus clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes, watching the other man glow beneath the attention of others. Was it merely a reflection back of the attention poured upon him? The mirrors of a disco ball catching in the light and shining for the delight of others? Or was Dieter just enjoying another moment in the limelight? 

Marcus couldn’t seem to see the line between real and fake, or what side he stood on. 

Someone handed him a drink in the midst of his brooding, and the sting of the alcohol paired well with his bitter mood. He was trapped in a hell of his own making, refusing to look away from the crowd gathered around Dieter, but hating every second of it. 

The jealousy burned inside of him. What had just been something dark mingling in the background was now present and in full force. Marcus was jealous. Jealous at how effortlessly Dieter lived his life, able to navigate crowds and fame and fervor without ever breaking a sweat. Jealous at how his smile seemed just as bright as it had when he opened his door hours earlier. Jealous at how someone else held the attention of his sweet brown eyes. 

And suddenly there was fear. Icy cold and horrifying reality. 

Marcus didn’t belong here. Here with these pretty people and their clean lines and bright lights. He was messy edges and dirty hands, stained with years of violence that would never scrub clean. There was dirt on his ledger and red on his chest, and Dieter was beautiful. So very very beautiful.

Another wave of panic gripped tight at Marcus’s throat. 

When was the last time he told Dieter he was beautiful? Yesterday? Or the day before that? Either way, it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. And he couldn’t fathom a world where he lost the chance to say it again. 

He couldn’t lose this. He couldn’t lose him. 

The lights above them flickered, an unwelcome side effect of his superpowers, Marcus’s unruly emotions too much to handle all at once. It was just enough to drag everyone’s attention up, stealing their eyes away from Dieter, but only briefly. The actor caught his gaze in the small interim, brows pinched and lips curved, his sharp mind putting the puzzle together. Marcus blushed beneath the scrutiny, feeling very much like a child caught in the midst of a crime. He slammed the cup down on the nearest surface he could find and shoved his dirty hands in the pockets of Dieter’s jacket, and turned away, the lights flickering one last time as he made a quick and embarrassing exit. 

From behind he could hear the shout of a stranger.

“Hey, Dee where’s your boyfriend headed?”

Marcus was so focused on the fact that someone else called him ‘Dee’ that he missed the way Dieter's eyes lit up at the word boyfriend.

The bathroom he had found earlier was blissfully empty, and he took care to lock the door behind him. He braced himself against the sink, the cool porcelain a balm to the heat of his palms, breathing in and out, sharp and fast, to match the beat of his heart. A knock came seconds later, Dieter’s voice chasing the sound. 

“Let me in, Marcus.”

It didn’t sound like a request.

Marcus unlocked the door with a flick of his wrist, and the actor slipped in, eyes pinning him in place as he locked the door behind him. For a moment both of them refused to speak, 2 feet of space between them, and enough silence to last a lifetime. It was Dieter who finally broke the tension, stepping forward until Marcus was within his reach, the palm of his hand cupping his cheek to keep him close.

“Flattered as I am, I can’t decide if I like jealous on you or not.” 

Marcus knew it was foolish to lie at this point. If his fucking superpowers hadn’t given him away, then storming off surely had, and any denial would have rung hollow. Besides, they had promised. Months ago, in an opulent hotel room, cum and sweat sticking them together. They promised to always be honest with each other. 

“I don’t belong here, Dee.”

“Shut up.” The sentiment came out as a tease, the tip of Dieter’s thumb tracing the stubble along Marcus’s cheek, but the look on his face was serious. 

Marcus shook his head, unsure how to say what had seemed so clear to him only minutes ago. “I’m not…I’m not g–”

“I swear to fucking all, if you say the word ‘good,’ Moreno.”

His mouth clamped shut, and he smiled for the first time since he left Dieter’s side earlier in the night. The other man yanked him in for a quick kiss, only pulling a breath away when he spoke again.

“You are better than all of us, sweet boy. Please tell me you know that?”

Marcus wanted to shake his head in disagreement, the very idea that Dieter saw the good in him too much to bear, but the actor was already kissing him again, lips slanting sweetly along his own. When they broke apart for the second time, Dieter said it again, and then again, each time pairing a kiss with his words. Marcus thought maybe he would have kissed him a hundred times and then a hundred more, praise and adoration passed between them until the inevitable end of time caught up. 

But then Dieter crowded in closer, kissing him with much more fervor, his intent clear. Hands scrambled as belts were tugged free and pants were pulled down, bodies twisting until Marcus was plastered to Dieter’s back. He slipped inside the broader man easily, still slick with his release from earlier. Dieter whined at the stretch, pressing back into Marcus, fingers curling around the edge of the bathroom counter as he began to beg. 

“Hard, baby. Please.”

Marcus nipped at Dieter’s ear, refusing to move, the entire length of him buried to the hilt inside him. “How hard?” 

“Hard,” Dieter begged again, squirming in Marcus’s tight grip. “Hard as you can. Need to feel you. F-feel so good.”

It was an intoxicating rush, reducing Dieter Bravo to stumbling pleas and wanton moans, and Marcus swore as long as he was able to pull air into his lungs he refused to take that feeling for granted. He pressed a soft kiss to Dieter’s skin and gently nudged his nose to the back of his head, coaxing his gaze up to meet Marcus’s in the mirror. 

He dragged his hand up Dieter’s chest, stopping to feel the steady thump of his heart, one, two, three beats, before moving up to wrap his fingers around the other man’s throat. He whined again, writhing to and fro, the sound more pitiful with each passing second that Marcus refused to move. 

“I’ve got you, mi cielo. I’ve got you,” he hummed the promise, pressing another kiss to Dieter’s sweat-damp curls. He squeezed the actor’s throat again, watching as his cock seemed to pulse in time with the action. He bit back his own groan, his own cock painfully hard where he was buried inside the other man. 

“M-marcus…please…”

When he finally moved, it was slow, almost torturous for the both of them, but Marcus refused to be rushed. Not this time. Fuck any and everyone who dared to knock on that door. That dared to interrupt them. That dared to break between this moment. He pulled the other man closer, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other still gripping tight to his throat. Dieter’s hands were still scrambling, designer soaps and over-priced products falling to the floor as he seeked some sort of leverage. He finally found it, stonewashed denim bunching between his fingers as he dug them into Marcus’s forearms.

And only then did Marcus give into his request, snapping his hips as hard as he could, teeth sinking into the curve of Dieter’s neck. There would be bruises, bad ones, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, too overwhelmed at the thought of marking the other man as his own. Dieter didn’t seem to mind either, begging Marcus again and again to give him everything he had. 

“Want to feel it,” he sobbed, the pleasure just on the other side of pain. “Want to feel you when I’m gone. Please.” 

“You will, baby. I promise,” Marcus growled. “You’ll feel me for days. You won’t forget me. P-please… don’t forget me.” 

The admission fell out of Marcus before he could stop it, along with his own broken sobs to match. The pain and tears burst to life, the broken pieces he had hidden all over his body finding new life as he begged Dieter to take it all with him. Each slam of his hips and bruising touch of his hands. Every bite from his teeth and kiss from his lips. The words and the promises and the things neither of them knew how to say but felt all the same. 

“Take me with you, Dee. Please, take me with you.” 

“I will, sweet boy,” he gasped, his body shaking beneath Marcus’s anguished hands. “Sweet boy. Good boy. I promise.”  

Dieter came first, though Marcus wasn’t sure how, his sobs and sighs of pleasure long past any sort of coherence. His cock twitched and pulsed, coming completely untouched. Marcus watched Dieter’s face break apart in the reflection of the mirror, his brown eyes wild and skin flushed, lips parting around a feral scream. 

Marcus fell apart in kind, sparks of heat bursting at the base of his spine as tight velvet squeezed around him, Dieter’s voice in his ear, his jacket sticking to his skin. He spilled inside the other man, tears and spit and snot pressed into Dieter’s neck, little words of praise coaxing him through the brunt of it. Eventually, the tears turned to laughter, the two of them clinging tighter as they made guesses at how many people heard them.

“Either way, I hope they enjoyed the show because I sure did,” Dieter teased, nipping his teeth on the hinge of Marcus’s jaw. 

They did a piss poor job of cleaning up, Dee’s cum barely wiped clean from the porcelain with a towel found below the counter, too high a thread count for something so filthy but neither man really gave two shits to look for an alternative. The products were tossed haphazardly into the sink, the idea of stacking them neatly ridiculous. They both agreed; you get what you ask for when you throw a party in the valley. 

Marcus took better care when it came time to clean Dieter up. He warmed up the water from the sink as best he could, using that same fancy towel from before to wipe up the trickle of cum slipping slowly down his backside. He couldn’t stop from stealing one small indulgence, using his thumb to press some of himself back inside the other man, Dieter’s legs visibly shaking from the sudden stimulation. Marcus shushed him with a soft kiss to one of the many bite marks littered across his neck, humming out a quiet apology.

“Do they hurt?”

“They do,” Dieter grinned, tilting his chin to admire the marks as he tugged his jeans up over the swell of his ass. “I’m gonna need a few more before I get on that plane tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmmm, definitely.” 

Dieter pressed something hard into Marcus’s hand and when he looked down he could see it was his car keys, the silver teeth catching in the light. 

“Take me home, sweet boy. I have plans for you.”

There was that word again, breathed out so easily, like a promise he knew he would keep. 

Home. 

[biscuitbox23]

The Stag and the Warbler

Pairing: Jaskier/Dandelion x Witcher!Reader.

Summary: The bard has written a song about you. And it has given you a lot to think about.

Author's note: It's a late night thought I've had for a while. Jaskier has always been my favorite character in both the Witcher games, books and the tv show. I wanted to give him a bit of honor by writing this :) —also a little Skyrim reference cuz im not creative in song writing.

Warning: platonic love, fluff, kind of a bittersweet ending.

As Jaskier strummed the strings of his lute, he hummed the tune of a popular ballad. "Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart…" he sang but then paused mid-verse, his forehead creasing in concentration. "I tell you, I tell you, the Witcher comes- no, that does not sound so good," he muttered.

You couldn't help but chuckle at him. You busied yourself with grooming your loyal steed, Melorax. The horse stood still, contentedly munching on bits of hay. While you brushed off dust and dirt from his coat, you could see the tiny frown written on Jaskier's face as he tried to come up with a better verse for his song.

Curious, you asked him, "Who is this hero exactly?"

Jaskier looked up, glad for the distraction. "Ah, well," he said, his fingers stilling on the lute. "It's just a tale, my friend. A story of a brave warrior who fights for justice and honor."

You nodded, understanding the stories that Jaskier shared with you during your travels as a Witcher. Tales like these were always inspiring and entertaining. Jaskier had been your companion for quite a while now, and you had grown fond of his musical talents and witty banter. He would often compare your kinder nature to his friend Geralt, who hailed from a different Witcher school whom you had heard of but never met. After grooming Melorax, you approached the front of the horse and kissed his soft muzzle. The horse whinnied softly, and you smiled at him, feeling content.

"You know I just hunt monsters for coin," you recall, sitting near him as you started the small bonfire.

"Well, yes. But, Y/n of Verden makes a good song subject. Don't you think?" Jaskier smiled widely at you as you put your hands near the fire for warmth. His fingers began strumming on his lute, calmly humming with the tune of his renowned instrument.

You began to listen closely. "With a silver sword gleaming and signs so fierce and cold…" Jaskier sang, "Believe, believe, the Stag of Verden has told."

"Stag?" You asked sheepishly, looking over at him with an expression of confusion.

"Umm… do you prefer to be called deer?" Jaskier asked sheepishly.

"Just confused with the Stag part…" you replied.

"Well, you remind me of a stag."

"How so?" You asked.

"Well, you're strong, very resilient, and almost similar to that of a protector of the realm," Jaskier beamed with poetic pride.

Upon hearing those words, a sense of pride and appreciation washed over you. It was rare for a Witcher to receive such positive recognition, as they are empty vessels of beings whose sole purpose was to slaughter monsters and collect payment. Being regarded as a hero was a new and unexpected experience for you. However, it was evident that most people still saw you as an exterminator who only existed to rid the world of dangerous pests rather than a true hero. All you let out was a slight chuckle.

Jaskier turned his head towards you, and his eyes met yours. He noticed the corners of your mouth curling up, and your eyes sparkled. Curious, he leaned slightly to his right and tilted his head, trying to catch a glimpse of what had caused this reaction in you. "What's so funny, Y/n?" he asked, his voice full of genuine interest and amusement.

"Oh, nothing," you jested. With a look of concern on the bard's face, he turned his gaze back towards his musical instrument, the loot. He asked in a questioning tone, "Is there something wrong with my song? Don't you like it?"

"I assure you that I like it," you said to the worried songwriter before returning to warm your hands by the fire. "Please continue."

Jaskier's face lit up with joy as he responded, "As you wish." He meticulously plucked the strings of his lute, producing a melody that seemed to flow effortlessly from his fingers. His body swayed with the rhythm, and it was clear from his performance that he was a true virtuoso of his craft.

"In the heart of the woodlands, where shadows dance and play Beware, beware, the Stag is on her way For monsters she'll conquer, with every foe she'll slay

You'll know, you'll know, the Stag brings light to the gray."

You were captivated as the bard plucked at the strings of his lute, his voice soft and sweet as honey. The music wrapped around you like a warm embrace, easing the tension in your body and calming your mind. The bard's songs were beautiful masterpieces of melody and meaning. What impressed you the most was how his music seemed to capture the essence of the world around you, bringing to life the sights and sounds of your travels in a way that words alone never could. Being a Witcher often meant living a life of solitude and danger. It made you feel isolated and alone. But having the bard by your side changed everything. His easy conversation and quick wit were a constant source of comfort and amusement, and you eagerly looked forward to every new adventure with him by your side.

By the end, you knew you could never repay the bard for all he had given you, but you were grateful nonetheless.

"You know one thing," you thought to him, "you remind me of a Warbler."

The bard chuckled at you with his sweet smile, "a warbler?"

"Yeah, those birds that sing a lot," you recalled.

As you reminisce about your childhood, your mind wanders back to when you were a young girl, growing up in a Witcher school. Life wasn't easy for you, especially since you were a frail child with a mother who struggled to provide for you. Days at school could be long and tiring, and you often find yourself exhausted by the end of them.

One particular memory that stands out to you is the sound of the Warblers that would perch on the window sill of your room. Their melodic songs would echo through the walls, piercing your ears and keeping you awake at night. You would try to drown out the noise by covering your ears with your pillow, but it was no use - the Warblers always seemed to find a way to sing their way into your thoughts. Despite the annoyance they caused, however, you couldn't help but feel a sense of comfort and familiarity in their presence. After all, they had been a constant presence in your life for as long as you could remember.

"They were annoying when I was young," You scoffed playfully, "I hated listening to them sing whenever I wanted some peace. Now that I'm older, I wish they still sang to me," you look at the burning bonfire as the warmth engulfed the front of your body. “I like your songs, jaskier, even if you played the same tune for a week. I won’t get tired of you.”

"Huh…" Jaskier gave your statement some thought, "I've never had anyone think of me that way." He sat over next to the fire, feeling a bit cold.

"Why? May I ask," You cocked a brow at him.

"I'm a bit of an exasperation and––" Before Jaskier could continue, he stopped himself. He could ruin his godly reputation in front of you, and he did not want that.

"A skirt-chaser?" You continued.

"Oh- No, no, not that," you can sense the embarrassment that overcame his confidence.

"right, alright," A mischievous chuckle escaped your lips as you heard the mention of the notorious bard. His reputation preceded him, and you couldn't help but be amused. Word on the street was he had a knack for breaking up marriages or being the third person for sleeping with married men's wives. You won't deny it. Jaskier was handsome and quite the romantic.

The atmosphere was serene as if the world had a standstill. Not a sound except for the gentle rustling of leaves as the wind passed through the trees. "Can you sing me a song, Jaskier?" You asked, "Please?"

As Jaskier continued his endless string of tales, you couldn't help but politely express your reluctance to hear more. In response, Jaskier flashed a sweet smile and said, "Yes, you may, Y/n."

One day, Jaskier won't be around you. One day, you won't ever see him again, and it will be just you and Melorax on the lonely road. It could happen tomorrow, or it could be years from now. You tried not to dwell on that possibility, but it was always there lingering at the edges of your consciousness. But that did not matter now. It was a love that grew deep inside you that you have never felt. It's a companionship that was a strange yet familiar feeling. One day, he will see you as a monster like everyone else did when they saw you. Despite this, You listened intently to his stories and musings, even when they seemed nonsensical or meandering. You laughed at his jokes and marveled at his wit. You knew these moments were precious, and you never took them for granted because you will never know when that moment will end.

A/n: hey guys :) I apologize if my interpretation of Jaskier and the Witcher universe had errors. I was busy with school to read the books and watch the show for extra context and accuracy and did this all by itself. Overall, im unite happy with how this turned out.

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

With Me, Always. (Oneshot)

Rhysand x Reader

Hiiii. I've had many requests about writing for Rhys - and while I am gradually working on the more detailed ones, and working on my Lucien series, I thought I'd post this sweet lil oneshot I wrote.

Warnings: None. It's just angst and fluff.

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The Windhaven Camp was ready for the Winter Solstice.

As much as such a soulless place could be ready for the celebration, anyway. There was something darkly poetic about garlands and wreaths and sprigs of holly and ivy being hung on buildings that you knew housed awful people. Awful things.

Only three days left to go. If nothing else, the males were in decidedly brighter spirits — meaning there weren’t quite so many sneers, as usual, while you strolled through the camp. It had become a hive of even more activity than normal, with people flying family members in for the celebrations, and the few shops and businesses there were staying open later and later to accommodate last-minute gift buying.

If nothing else, the hectic atmosphere meant that none of the males seemed to glimpse you and your friend, Ivanna, sneaking further into the hills and mountain range for your clandestine work-out sessions.

“You’d think,” Ivanna panted, stopping to lean against a tree, “that considering we’ve grown up here and never left the damn place, we’d be a bit more used to the cold.”

You snorted, tipping your head back and heaving your heavy breaths skywards. Indeed, it seemed the air was teasing a snowstorm — your wings could feel it; a freezing caress that made you long for the roaring fire of Ivanna’s small home. Your small home.

It was almost two years, now, that you’d been living with Ivanna and her father above his shop — a courtesy he’d hesitantly agreed to, only because your own late father had been a friend of his. But as an Illyrian female with no family left — and sparse assets left behind by your father — your best option had been taking refuge in your closest friend’s home. Shacking up with the only three Illyrian males you were friends with — Rhysand, Cassian and Azriel — would have raised too many eyebrows. And so her father had reluctantly taken you in.

Your gratitude for that generosity was about as far as any pleasantries with him went; one look at the ruined remains of her clipped wings was reminder enough of what a bastard he was. Unlike your own father, who had been a very rare breed of Illyrian male — a kind one.

“Shall we walk back,” You said once you’d caught your breath, “or should I fly us?”

“Ugh. Fly.” Ivanna grimaced. “I don’t feel like having frostbite for Solstice. Speaking of which — what have you bought me?”

You rolled your eyes, your lips twitching as you scooped her up into your arms. “Stop asking. I’m not telling you what I’ve bought you.”

“Rude.” She didn’t even jolt as you launched into the skies, your wings beating against the wind. “I have another question.”

“Of course you do.”

A flash of a wicked grin. “Have you heard from Rhysand?”

The humour eddied from you, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake. The subject was a sore one — one you tried not to broach, if you could help it.

“Since the last time you asked that very question?” You shrugged tersely. “You know I haven’t.”

No, you hadn’t seen Rhys, or heard from him, for months and months, now. The male, who had once been the only light you had in this dark place, seemed to have forgotten your entire existence since becoming High Lord. It was…lonely. Painful. You knew how busy he must be — and grieving the loss of his mother and sister, too. But he’d never shut you out before, never pushed you away. That he’d not even been back to visit, to say hello…it hurt. And the best you could do was pretend that it didn’t.

Ivanna offered you a gentle squeeze as you swooped down into the camp, landing on the path that cut through the training rings. They were mostly empty, with most males having already started their Solstice break, but your stomach plummeted a bit as two dark, towering figures turned into your path.

Edric and Cenric were two males — twins — who you’d had the displeasure of growing up around. Illyrian brutes through and through, they got off on the torment of females — the torment of you and Ivanna, in particular. It had died down a little when you’d become close to Rhys, Cassian and Azriel — but with them so absent these days, it had ratcheted right back up.

“There you both are.” The one on the left — Edric — smirked. “There’s been a spillage in one of the tents. Ale all over the place.”

You rolled your eyes, tugging Ivanna past them. “Guess you’d better find yourselves a mop and bucket, then.”

The twins were quick to dart into your path. It was Cenric who folded his arms, puffing his chest out. “That’s your job. All you females are good for.”

Your head fell into a tilt. “Is that why you opt for rutting against a pillow instead of finding an actual, living being to stick that poor excuse of a cock into? I suppose that vile mouth doesn’t win many females over.”

Both twins’ eyes flashed with rage, with challenge. Edric stepped towards you, his towering height and flared wings seeming to swallow up the lingering daylight.

“Go mop up the mess,” He hissed through gritted teeth, “before I shove you to the floor and make you lick it up.”

You opened your mouth to retort — and promptly snapped it shut at another flash of darkness. Like a cloud of pure midnight pluming behind the twins, the empty path was suddenly shrouded in a mass of smoky black that cleaved in two.

As Rhysand appeared.

“Hello, you two.” The High Lord greeted the twins, his smirk mocking. “How lovely to see you both.”

The two males had the good sense to back down — even if they did so reluctantly. But with Rhys so newly in power, a whole host of adjustments was rippling through the camp. Nobody wanted to get on the High Lord’s bad side — having not quite discerned, yet, what kind of High Lord he was going to be — lest he remember it for years to come.

So both twins dipped their heads and ground out, “High Lord” in unison.

“I see the two of you are still your delightful selves.” Rhys studied them. “Do me a favour, boys — fuck off.”

There was absolutely no hesitation as the twins dipped past the High Lord, not sparing a glance back. Not until Rhys called out to them once more.

“Find a camp mother and ask for a mop and bucket.” He ordered. “Clean your filthy mess up yourselves.”

Edric seemed to pause; seemed to contemplate barking back at him. But it was Cenric who had the sense to pull him away. They quickly disappeared out of sight, their bickering fading with them.

And then Rhys turned back to you. The smirk softly moulded into a smile. “Hello, you.”

Both you and Ivanna bowed your heads. It felt weird — saying the words. “High Lord.”

Rhys snorted. “What’s with the formalities?”

Ivanna relaxed beside you, lifting her chin. But you…you kept your gaze on the ground; didn’t think you could bear looking at him for too long. It would bring too many things to the surface.

Namely, that one, single night of passion you’d shared with him before things had changed so fast, and he was suddenly High Lord of the Night Court. That very night liked to remind you of itself every day. And even more thoroughly, now, with the person in front of you who shared that memory. You begged — begged — your cheeks not to heat beneath his intense gaze.

“How are you, Ivanna?” Rhys politely regarded your friend. “You’re looking well.”

Ivanna inclined her chin. “As are you, High Lord. I’m very well, thank you.”

“Glad to hear it.” His eyes slid to you again. You could practically feel them coaxing you, begging you to look up.

Ivanna cleared her throat. “I actually just remembered — I have to do some stuff. And things.”

That had you looking up — quickly, abruptly, pleading with Ivanna not to leave you alone with him. But she was already clapping you on the shoulder and striding ahead.

“Enjoy your stuff and things.” You shouted after her, huffing.

A middle finger was her only answer.

In front of you, Rhys chuckled. “I forgot how much you two bicker.”

You flicked your gaze to his. Just momentarily — just enough to convey that you didn’t feel like standing and talking.

“Mm.” You murmured, brushing past him. “I suppose it’s easy to forget such things when you never come around anymore.”

You’d barely taken a step forward before he was jumping into your path. Gently grabbing your hand. The warmth of his thick glove was pleasant against your bare, frozen fingers.

“Wait.” He said. “I—how are you?”

“Oh, I’m great, Rhys, thanks so much for asking.”

“…I’m sensing some anger.”

You pulled your hand away. Used it to pinch the bridge of your nose between your thumb and forefinger. “What brings you to Windhaven, Rhysand?”

“Well, it’s common courtesy for the High Lord to deliver well wishes at Solstice—”

You scoffed, launching into a walk once more. But Rhys was quicker, darting right back into your way.

“And I wanted to see you.” He said. “Please—let’s just go inside and talk.”

You stared at him. So many things you wanted to say. So many ways he’d made you feel. And yet you hated that very fact. That it had become unavoidably clear, and there was no escaping it.

You loved him. You were in love with him.

“Come on.” He said, his eyes flickering your shivering form. “At least come and warm up.”

The cold was beginning to become painful, your wings aching with the chill. You could ignore Rhys, go straight back to Ivanna’s house, but…you had a feeling she’d turn you away. Tell you to hear him out.

So you nodded — folded your arms, just so he couldn’t grab your hand again. “Fine. Lead the way.”

You didn’t know where he planned to take you. His mother’s cottage was the most logical place, but…maybe it was too soon, too raw—

“The fire’s already burning in my mother’s place.” He said, as though he’d read your thoughts. “Where are your gloves?”

Your eyes stayed pinned forward as you strolled beside him. “I forgot them today.”

Within seconds, he was pulling the thick gloves from his hands. “Here.”

“We’re almost at the cottage—”

“Put them on or I’ll do it for you.”

You scowled, snatching the gloves away and shoving them on. Their size wolfed your hands, but their pleasant warmth was such a relief, you almost moaned.

Rhys had always been a mother hen. Always behaved like this around you. Even when he was at his limit, stressed beyond comprehension, he’d looked after you.

And then it had all just…stopped. You’d tried to be understanding. Tried to have compassion for the fact that he’d become High Lord very suddenly, much sooner than he’d anticipated. That he was grieving on top of that. And if he’d needed space, you would have happily given it to him…

But to not even just…send a quick word, to tell you he was alright. To know that you were stuck in this awful place, worrying about him, thinking about him…

He probably didn’t even realise how much it hurt. How much you missed your friendship above all else.

His mother’s cottage loomed, sad and empty looking. It had squeezed your heart every time you passed it, to think of the female that had been so kind to you over the years, just — gone. The friend you’d once found in Rhys’s sister, a young girl of such potential — gone.

And then Rhys, just — gone.

He opened the front door, stepping aside to allow you to enter first. Indeed, the fire was roaring heat into the room, and you hurried towards it embarrassingly fast, your hands outstretched to its warmth.

Rhys chuckled softly, shutting the door behind him. “There’s a snowstorm coming. I can feel it in the air.”

You merely nodded — knew full well that he hadn’t brought you here to talk about the weather. As you leaned against the mantelpiece, embracing the power of the flames before you, you allowed your eyes to wander the small room.

It was just as it was when you were last here, months and months ago, now. You’d lost count of how many. The cramped area was crammed full with the echoes of the past, memories from long ago, and…some—some more recent.

Your eyes shot to the worn, shabby couch — your mind darting straight to the last night you’d been here. The night that, after so many years of close friendship, of subtle touches and glances, of meaningless flirting…one thing had finally led to another. You couldn’t remember what conversation, exactly, had led to you and Rhys kissing. How, exactly, you’d ended up on your knees before him, his rough groans filling the cottage as you’d sucked and licked him and brought him to a roaring release.

He’d had to leave for business the next morning. Within days…everything had changed.

Rhys was staring at that exact spot on the sofa, too. Probably reliving that night just as colourfully.

You felt a little petty as you bit out, “Have you brought me here to suck your cock again?”

His eyes flickered to yours, the swimming violet softening. “Of course not. Is that what you think?”

You shrugged. “I don’t really know what to think anymore, Rhys. It’s not like you’ve given me anything to go on.”

His eyes shuttered. Slowly, he moved to the rolled arm of the couch, perching atop it. No wings in sight, now.

“First and foremost,” He said. “I just want to know how you are.”

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Your eyes glazed over as you forced them to stay on one, insignificant rip in the sofa. Anything to avoid meeting those eyes.

“Why?” You asked flatly.

“Because I know you.” Rhys shrugged. “I know when you’re not fine. Not to mention the fact that you can’t even look at me.”

Your hands tightened into fists. You hated how right he was — that he did know you. That he probably knew every thought currently swimming through your head. That he probably wouldn’t stop pushing until you spilled the truth.

You were mentally willing yourself not to cry as you forced your gaze to him and shrugged weakly. “Alright.” You relented. “I’m not fine. I cannot possibly be fine when I miss you, and I think about you every damn day, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“…Y/N—”

“And believe me, Rhys, I know you’ve had a lot to contend with. A lot on your shoulders. And if you need to deal with that stuff on your own, that’s fine…but I’m so fucking scared that you pushed me away because of what happened between us that night. Because you didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did, and it might have damaged our friendship beyond repair. I cannot bear that thought because all I care about is having you in my life, even if you can never love me the way—”

You cut yourself off — blinked out of your thoughts, stunned by how freely you’d allowed your words to run. Your cheeks heated as you quickly wiped the tears forming in your eyes. But you knew it was too late — that you’d said too much.

Rhys stared at you. “The way what?”

You closed your eyes, tears spilling over. “Even if you can never love me the way I…the way I love you. I don’t care, Rhys — I just want you back in my life. That’s all that matters to me—”

“I’ve been in love with you since we were teenagers, and you put me in my place for being a prick.”

You stopped, your eyes flying open. You went so, so still.

“I fell in love with you that day.” He stared back at you seriously — vulnerably. “And I have only fallen for you harder and harder every day since. I have been utterly consumed by you since we were eighteen years old. And I love it. I love you.”

“…what…” You breathed. “I…why did you push me away?”

He shook his head. Swallowed, hard. “Everything happened so damn fast. My mother, my sister…becoming High Lord. With my father dying, I knew there would be unrest…dissenters, people who held grudges against my father and would use me as a scapegoat to exact revenge. I needed to be in Velaris…to protect my people. And I wanted to come back, to see you, but…” He released a slow, heavy breath. “The target that has always been on my back is even bigger, now. Tamlin’s family killed the people closest to me. And if people knew what you meant to me…if they knew that I love you…I would be putting a target on your back as well. And that isn’t fair.”

Another tear rolled down your cheek. All these months of wondering…of thinking you’d fucked things up completely. You hadn’t even considered that Rhys was trying to protect you.

“It is for me to decide, Rhysand,” You said quietly, wiping your cheeks, “if I can live with a target on my back. That choice is mine.”

“I know that.” He whispered. “Believe me, I know. But I just…if I lost you too…”

You pushed away from the mantelpiece. Stalked over to him, until you were stood mere inches from him, your legs touching.

“Isn’t it better to take that risk…to live,” You said, “than this alternative? Than us being away from each other? I’m miserable without you.”

“As I am without you.” He met your gaze. “And that is why I came today. Because I can’t take it anymore. I love you, and I want you with me. I want you to come to Velaris.”

You blinked at him — balked. You’d never even been anywhere outside of Windhaven, never dared to push those limits and face potential consequences.

“I…” You stared into those violet eyes, stunned. “…this is my home…”

“In the loosest definition, yes.” Rhys slowly reached out a hand. Slowly brushed his fingers against yours. “But you don’t even have a home of your own here. You don’t have anything of your own here. You should be living, Y/N. Ivanna, too.”

If you were honest…Ivanna was the only thing keeping you there. The thought of leaving her behind, alone with the males…you couldn’t bear it.

But if she could come to Velaris, too. If you could have both Ivanna and Rhys…a life…

You frowned. “What would I do there?”

Rhys shrugged, properly grabbing your hand. “Whatever you want to do. I could find you a position in the court, or…or something, anything else. As long as you're happy. As long as I get to have you with me. Always.”

You studied him. The wonderful, selfless male before you — who you loved so, so intensely. You should have known, all this time, that he’d only pushed you away to protect you. That Rhys would never have left you without reason.

The relief almost had you succumbing to tears all over again.

“Take some time to think it over.” He lifted his other hand to your cheek, his thumb grazing beneath your eye. “No pressure. Just…promise me you’ll put yourself first.”

You snorted, wiping your eyes. “Says the male who puts literally everybody before himself.”

He smirked softly. “Guilty. But I’m always going to do that. Because I love you.”

Your heart guttered. Words you’d wanted to hear for so many years…they didn’t seem real, now.

You swallowed down another onslaught of emotion. “You really mean it?”

“More than I’ve ever meant anything.”

You swallowed. And before you could allow your tears to grip you again, you leaned forward. Pressed your lips against his.

The kiss was…sweet. Not the hungry, passionate kisses you’d shared that one night all those months ago. But a tender kiss that spoke of promise, of a future, of love.

Rhys kissed you back, deeply and slowly, tangling his fingers within your hair. He tugged you closer, slotting you between his legs.

And only when you were both gasping for breath, your chests heaving, did he pull back. Pressed his forehead against yours.

“I love you.” He breathed, his eyes boring into yours.

You pecked him — once, twice. “I love you, too.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” He smirked. “And not only do I love you, but I believe I owe you.”

“…oh?”

“Hmm. If I remember correctly, the last time we were in this cottage, you had your head between my legs. It seems only fair that I return the favour.”

You felt heat pool inside you. Felt your toes curl in your boots. And you knew, from the way Rhys’s nostrils flared, his pupils dilating, that he immediately noticed the change in your scent.

“You’d better return that favour, then.” You bit down on your lip. “It is Solstice, after all.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

He grasped the back of your head, pulling your face back to his. And every part of you sang and shattered beautifully as he laid you down on the sofa.

And fell to his knees before you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ all acotar tags: @moonfawnx @writingsbychlo @moonlitcelestial @orangecreamsicle54 @saturnspoet0711 @andahugaroundtheneck @nightscourtt @mysticalcheesecakemiracle @luckypersonmentality @nobody00sthings @kristalhi @tencrushesperday @janzquu @we-were-beautiful @thewarriormoon @cirwin2013 @mrs-azriel @the-kwami-of-fandom-frustration @libraryofathousandstars @daily-dose-of-sass @pixiestix13 @basicbittywitty @simplefan-638 @highlady-ofillyria @false-desire-182 @fictionalcharacterlereasigim @theofficialmadman @kemillfreitas @sledgehammer-21-1 @shannonsaid @jtargs @morelovemorepeacemoretattoo-blog @new-adventures-everday @positivewitch @crushedcloudsx @cartoonnerdgirl @a-frog-with-a-laptop @ssmay123 @linduzmunna @ruler-of-hades @kennedy-brooke @peachyandmoon @ariaaira @topaz125 @blitz-fall @azrielsbbg @gracedarr @goldentournesol @localhopedealerr @swagfreakathletemonger @sfhsgrad-blog @lo0oserlex @ruleroftides @mayabennett03 @vera0124 @mich0731 @balam-sen @luciensbxtch @holywolfsstuff @chloesgoneposts @margssstuff

[poomphuripan]

Hey! Have you watched 'Your Name Engraved Herein' ? I did it last weekend, and I'm still feeling very miserable. Do you have recommendations for shows/movies that offer the same visceral kind of pain? I'm a sucker for angst so I really wanna see if anything can surpass what this movie did to me lol. ^_^

hi nonnie (❁´◡`❁)

Your Name Engraved Herein is literally an iconic queer film, who HASN'T seen it (┬┬﹏┬┬) It stills leave me reeling after so many weeks after watching it.

But I grew up watching sad angsty LGBTQIA+ films so I've grown accustomed to this specific genre of sad LGBTQIA+ films i wanna bawl my eyes out after watching. so here's a few recommendations you've probably seen already, but i'm just here to give you a nudge to watch them in case you haven't seen (though it's my personal recommendation to take a break or watch happy things in between these films or else after the first few films, you're just numb to the pain and misery, and won't be able to maximize emotional connectability with the characters).

1. Happy Together (1997) dir. Wong Kar Wai

Synopsis: Ho Po Wing and Lai Yiu Fai, a couple from pre-handover Hong Kong, visit Argentina hoping to renew their ailing relationship. The two have a pattern of abuse, followed by break-ups and reconciliations. One of their goals in Argentina is to visit the Iguazu waterfalls, which serves as a leitmotif in the movie.

my thoughts: i didn't know what the hype was with wong kar wai until i watched this film. 100/10 cinematography and it breaks me every time.

2. Brokeback Mountain (2005) dir. Ang Lee

Synopsis: Two modern-day cowboys meet on a shepherding job in the summer of ’63, the two share a raw and powerful summer together that turns into a lifelong relationship conflicting with the lives they are supposed to live.

my thoughts: not the best of its genre but i cried a lot watching it the first time so i'm giving it a little space here in this list. Ang Lee has delivered a lot more LGBTQIA+ films

3. Lan Yu (2001) dir. Stanley Kwan

Synopsis: Set in Beijing in the late 1980s and early 1990s, the film makes vivid reference to the Tiananmen Square massacre. Lan Yu, an architecture student in desperate need of money, finds himself in the bed of successful businessman Chen Han Dong. While Lan Yu falls in love, Chen tries his best to avoid emotional attachment, showering Lan Yu with expensive gifts and even getting married. However, as the years go by, Chen soon realizes that he cannot live without Lan Yu.

my thoughts: god i want to quote this entire film as i was watching it. THE ANGST. THE PAIN. it's been recently restored in 4k so i rewatched it a while back, god the pain is still visceral.

4. Farewell My Concubine (1993) dir. Chen Kaige

Synopsis: Abandoned by his prostitute mother in 1920, Douzi was raised by a theater troupe. There he meets Shitou and over the following years the two develop an act entitled “Farewell My Concubine” that brings them fame and fortune. When Shitou marries Juxian, Douzi becomes jealous, the beginnings of the acting duo’s explosive breakup and tragic fall take root.

my thoughts: pain. pain. pain. pain. pain. ABSOLUTE PAIN. but also i adore poetic and tragic films so this was THAT masterpiece for me.

5. Maurice (1987) dir. James Ivory

Synopsis: After his lover rejects him, Maurice, a young man in early 20th-century England, trapped by the oppressiveness of Edwardian society, tries to come to terms with and accept his sexuality.

my thoughts: hugh grant is gay af and i'm always here for it. i never fully bought him being charming male lead in all those het romcoms he got

happy watching! \(￣︶￣*\))

[scarletpath]

Lately I've been thinking about how I, an Asexual, would fare if I was the Tav in BG3 with all the ✨romance✨.

Lae'zel and Shadowheart: Quiet honestly I would be so oblivious if they showed any attraction to me. It would go right over my head. I'm a people pleaser and I would find Lae'zel's personality very intimidating, so I would be so confused. We would have an awkward conversation about how my Asexuality isn't the same as hers. Shadowheart would find it interesting and in a way very useful and nonburdensome.

Wyll and Gale: Woo boy. These two would make me want to throw myself off a cliff because I would feel so bad. As stated, with me being a people pleaser, I'm friendly and open, I've had people fall for me because of that. And it sucks! At first I would be thinking "Oh, boy. They're so nice. I'm having such a good time. I'm so lucky to have them as a friend." and I would view their interest as awesome friendship. But as soon as their words start to get more poetic and flowery and they hold my hand, my whole mind would go into DEFCON 1. I would avoid them and I would inadvertently hurt their feelings. Eventual we would have the talk, we would be apologizing to each other till the cows come home and remain as friends.

Karlach: She's already pretty open and expressive of her desires so I honestly wouldn't have a problem. I would tell her that I'm not actually interested in those kind of things. I feel like she would be the one apologizing because she would be worried if she made me uncomfortable but I would laugh and tell her that it's okay

Astarion: As usual fashion, he's a chronic flirt. And I do not have the mental arsenal to react or to even say the proper things in response. I would probably stare and slowly move away or blush and mutter something out loud and never leave my tent. He would probably want to know what's up with my strange attitude towards him and I would begrudgingly tell him that I'm Ace. He would be surprised but actually very supportive about it. He's all about that consent and would never push. But it doesn't stop him from teasing me for my reactions. But jokes on him, I can make up sex jokes impromptu with a deadpan look and every time it will cause him to wheeze out and laugh. As well as my ridiculing mocks that delight him every time. So we would end up being very impish friends.

Halsin: I think he is very good at spotting if someone is showing interest in him so I don't think I'll even come up on his radar for that kind of thing. But if he does ask, I would tell him and he would be very understanding about it. And probably say something wise about nature and stuff about it haha.

Minthara:

[softguarnere]

It Will Have Been Worth It

David Webster x reader

Soulmate!au in which the first words you ever hear your soulmate say appear on your skin when you turn thirteen

A/N: Out of everything I've ever written for this fandom, this fic has been one that has given me the most trouble. According to my notes, I started it on October 31st of last year 😬 None of my ideas for it felt right when I had them on paper, and I eventually just left it sitting in my drafts. Randomly got inspiration for it a few days ago, and now it's done! Better late than never, I guess A very special thank you to @brassknucklespeirs (welcome back babe, I missed you!!!!) and @liebgotts-lovergirl who both chatted with me about this fic last fall when I started it, and who both helped me with ideas all those months ago 💕 As usual, this is written for the fictional depictions from the tv show - no disrespect to the real life veterans! Warnings: alcohol, mentions of war, the author using every impressive high school vocab word she could possibly remember

Just because David has a large vocabulary doesn't mean that he's in total command of it at all times. Throwing around words that make other people furrow their brows as they try to ascertain what he means brings him some sense of satisfaction, but he also has a habit of flashing his arsenal of expressions when he's particularly nervous, hoping to throw off whoever has made him feel as if he's lost his footing. And when he's had a few drinks? Forget about it – all the words he once had at his disposal are suddenly either strung together to form nonsensical sentences or are nowhere to be found.

Is he pretentious? Perhaps, although he would argue that there's much more to the story. An elementary school teacher taking a liking to a poem he wrote when he was eight and exclaiming, "David, I think that you could be a great writer some day!" may have started him down that path, but he ultimately blames the words that appeared on his skin when he was thirteen.

He used to love looking at his parents’ soulmate tattoos. "What a lovely name" on his mother's wrist and "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet" on his father's. It always seemed so romantic to him, the thought that those had been the first words that his parents ever heard each other say, and that they got to flaunt those beautiful lines that they had given each other.

"If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it" appeared on the inside of his forearm on his thirteenth birthday. A beautiful line, really.

It's haunted him ever since. 

"Make sure that you give your soulmate a tattoo that's just as pretty." His father had winked at him and slid him a piece of birthday cake – strawberry with vanilla buttercream frosting, he still remembers – unaware of the panic he had just set off in David's chest. Because that was the first time he had realized that, yes, he was responsible for giving his soulmate a poetic tattoo. His own is a beautiful turn of phrase. Whoever his soulmate is, they deserve a line that looks just as pretty on their own skin. It’s a duty that he comes to take very seriously.

Every person he meets, Webster makes sure to compose an amiable greeting for them, just in case. He’ll quote Shakespeare if he finds they’re particularly attractive, invoking his parents’ first meeting, since you never know. So what if some people push hard sighs through their nose whenever he opens his mouth to speak? He’s a student of literature; producing striking sentences is half of his job.

And, he reminds himself, one day he’ll find his soulmate, and he won’t have to worry about creating turns of phrase that are unequaled and unforgettable – except for his novels, of course. But whatever words he provides for his soulmate’s mark, he’s determined to make them as dazzling as the bright light thrown from a suncatcher on the clearest summer day.

. . .

It’s at seventeen that he learns that not everyone finds their soulmate. The library is quiet, save for the sounds coming from the diligent scratching of pencils, the turning of pages, and the soft breathing of focused students. He turns a page in his own book and is confronted with the staggering statistic that only twenty percent of people are recorded to find theirs.

“That’s less than one fourth of the population!” He exclaims to himself without meaning to, disrupting the tranquility of the study space and garnering several peeved looks for his outburst. A seemingly unnecessary one to everyone else, but justified in his own mind.

Twenty percent! He’s still aghast as he gathers his own books and escorts himself from the library. The cool breeze blowing through the late afternoon can’t even distract him from the train of thought that has now run off the rails, chugging along through his mind with no sign of stopping.

Because now, come to think of it, people get married all the time, soulmate tattoos or not. And there’s no law or anything stating that you have to marry your soulmate once you meet them; they’re simply the person who would be the best suited for you. You could go about your lives as nothing more than just friends – or worse, nothing at all, even if you did find each other.

To say that the conclusions reached that afternoon astound him would be an understatement of epic proportions. He’s never quite the same after that. But it doesn’t stop his extraordinary expressions.

. . .

War breaks out. He leaves college for the experience. He volunteers for the paratroopers because, even though they’re new, they’re the best. If he wants to write about war – or write anything good, really – he’ll have to get his hands dirty with experience so that the sentences that stain his pages can be clean, clear, concise, and indelible to his readers. Honestly, it’s not until he hears one of the other men in his company point out that the new migrations and travel opportunities given to them by the conflict may well improve their chances of finding their soulmates that he realizes that statistic he once read will soon be incorrect.

For a brief and terrifying moment, Webster – as he is now called amongst his fellow soldiers – thinks that maybe Joe Liebgott is his soulmate, and that he’s responsible for giving him a really awful line. Webster had made an offhanded comment about the quality of the eggs one morning at breakfast, and the Californian had given him such a perplexed look that Webster’s panic led him to believe that the cab driver must have “What do they season their eggs with around here? Sawdust?” somewhere on his person, and that the reason he remained so quiet around him was due to not wanting Webster to hear him speak so that they would never know if they were actually soulmates. Luckily those fears had been laid to rest when Webster caught a glimpse of the words “Cabbie, if you drive any faster, I think the car will start flying” on his leg during a run up Currahee. It turned out that he simply didn’t agree with Webster’s observations on the quality of the eggs. Still, Webster remembers to be more careful with his words.

When he can be, actually. Which is not when he’s been drinking.

The British pub is loud with the sounds of servicemen singing and laughing well into the night. The general consensus that they’re finally going to be thrust into combat soon has filled many men with a renewed zest for life, and from the sounds and sights all around, people are relishing the nights like these while they can. And who can blame them?

“What did they even teach you at Harvard?” Hoobler wants to know as Webster downs a shot. “I mean, as a literature major, and all.”

“Is it just reading?” Skinny Sisk questions. “’Cause if so, then anyone with a library card can probably get a degree.”

Webster purses his lips, his glass returning to the table with a harsh slam that announces the displeasure that he’s trying to keep out of his voice. “Ha ha ha. Very funny.”

“I was being serious,” Hoobler clarifies. “You know, just out of curiosity, and all.”

“How do you even use a literature degree?” The conversation has caught the attention of Joe Toye and George Luz at the next table, and they turn to join Webster, Hoobler, and Sisk, suddenly very interested in the academic intricacies of studying literature.

“Well, I’m studying literature because I want to be a writer,” Webster admits.

“And write about what?”

Webster makes a vague gesture, trying to encapsulate their environment, the lives they’ve lived since enlisting, the world itself – everything. “War,” he says instead, an understatement.

“Hey!” Luz says brightly. “You could review books. There’s an idea.”

Toye cocks an eyebrow. “Is there money in that?”

“You could review Hitler’s book,” Luz continues. “Really tear it apart on it’s word choices, and all that.”

“Hitler can read? Who knew!” Skinny asks, making everyone laugh.

“What do you think he even would read? In all his spare time, I mean, when he’s not invading countries and forcing men like us out of our homes to come and stop him.”

All eyes immediately turn to Webster, expectantly awaiting an answer. The literature student freezes with a bottle of beer halfway to his lips.

“What?” He asks.

“It was a question, Professor,” Toye says. “You gonna answer it?”

“You were serious?”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

Despite himself, Webster can feel his eyebrows shoot up, betraying his surprise. “How would I know?”

“Well, in your expert opinion,” Luz suggests.

Skinny nudges Hoobler. “He just doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t know.”

Heat rushes to Webster’s face, and it’s not entirely from the warm glow of the alcohol. If it weren’t for the dim lighting of the pub, the tips of his ears would probably be glowing a bright pink with his ignominy.

“They didn’t teach me that at Harvard,” he says.

Hoobler smirks. “Uh huh. Sure.”

“Awe, come on!” Webster exclaims. “I’m just trying to fight a war. I am not prepared to make speculations about Hitler’s literary preferences!”

“Excuse me,” a new, much sweeter voice cuts in. At once, all the men’s defenses are down as they turn to see two prepossessing women standing at the edge of their group. They look familiar, somehow, and if it weren’t for the dim lighting and the alcohol, Webster would swear that he’s seen them in passing before. “Hi, I’m Evelyn, and this is my friend (Y/N).”

The second woman, seemingly a little shyer, offers them a small wave and a smile as her friend takes the lead. Perhaps it’s the darkness playing tricks on Webster’s eyes, but he could swear that she’s looking at him, and that she suddenly looks a little fidgety as the introduction goes on.

“We’re with the Red Cross,” Evelyn continues, her words providing explanation as to her familiarity. Then, implausibly, she fixes her gaze directly on Webster. “(Y/N) here has been watching you for a while, so I decided it was high time that we came over and introduced ourselves.” She leaves the obvious unspoken – because war is an uncertain thing and it’s better to die with no regrets than to always wonder what could have been.

Me?! The other paratrooper’s eyes flick between (Y/N) and Webster as he stands, his friends struck with the same sense of wonder. With Skinny or Tab, this sort of scene is not infrequent, but nothing of the sort has happened to Webster – if he’s being completely honest, not even in college.

He clears his throat. So focused on willing his hands not to feel sweaty through sheer force of will, Webster extends his for a shake, not even bothering to watch his words.

“Hello. I’m David Webster,” he says, noticing how soft your hand is in his. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You beam at him. “If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it.”

He freezes. Behind him, he can feel his friends tense up as well. “Oh my God,” he whispers, for it’s all he can do. The words that he’s been waiting his entire life to hear have just come out of your mouth – and he’s just recited what must be the blandest line in the history of soulmate tattoos!

Webster rolls up his shirt sleeve and reveals his tattoo, the beautiful line staring up at him in confirmation. Air vacates his lungs, leaving him breathless as his heart pounds in his chest.

You begin to roll up your own sleeve, and Webster winces at the anticipation of seeing his introduction on your arm. But when the ink on your arm is exposed, you glance up at him, something like a smirk playing at your lips.

“Oh my God,” Webster says again, wanting to kick himself, and for a completely different reason this time.

“It was the first thing that I ever heard you say,” you tell him.

Evelyn gasps, then slaps a hand over her mouth, though it does no good to contain the giggles that still pour out. The other Easy Company men crowd around, trying to catch a glimpse of your arm.

There in the pub, in front of everyone, the first words that you, Webster’s soulmate, ever heard come out of his mouth stain your arm, making several people laugh: I’m just trying to fight a war. I am not prepared to make speculations about Hitler’s literary preferences!

At least now he doesn’t have to waste the rest of his life being so cautious with his words.

[cha-melodius]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Thanks to @ninzied for the tag!

How many works do you have on ao3?

120!

What's your total ao3 word count?

1,371,932

What fandoms do you write for?

RWRB, TMFU, Lokius

Top five fics by kudos:

Please Don't Let Me Be So Understood

Nova, Baby

Class(room) Warfare

All the Old Showstoppers

Always Where I Need To Be

Do you respond to comments?

I try. I used to be very good at responding but my backlog has gotten extreme (1491 unanswered comments as of right now, if you're curious) so at this point I pretty much only answer if it's a chapter in an ongoing multichap, or someone asks a question.

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I have a caradin fic that's straight up a break-up fic with no resolution, but I still feel like my angstiest is probably Black Moon (napollya), because they're in love but the situation is so fucking bleak. Sorry guys.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Any of them that end with a proposal lol? I've got a lot of fluffy fics and all of my long fics end with pure fluff, so I don't think I could pick out one.

Do you get hate on fics?

I have been lucky not to really get any, at least lately. I've gotten... less than polite comments, of course, but no outright hate (knock on wood).

Do you write smut?

Yes, although I would not say it's an integral part of my writing tbh.

Craziest crossover:

Craziest might be Maybe, This Time, which is a Mandalorian/BSG crossover that involves dimension-hopping lol.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes! I've had a few of my TMFU works translated and now there's someone in the RWRB fandom that translates most (!!) of my fics into Mandarin, which is mind blowing and flattering and I'm so grateful because I've gotten comments from people who have read them translated and loved them.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not yet!

All time favorite ship?

I don't think I can pick one; some of my past ships are just that—past—but there are a few I will carry in my heart forever.

What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

If I want to finish it, I will, even if it takes a long time. I might stop wanting to finish a wip, but that's not the question is it?

What are your writing strengths?

Banter/dialogue, action, pacing, plots. People have told me that they can picture my scenes like a movie because of the description and that makes me feel good.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Although I have my moments, I don't really tend to think of my writing as beautiful. I'm just not that poetic/lyrical.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

Sure! If it's in my own fic I usually have a native speaker look over it (I haven't done this lately but I have gotten Russian consults for TMFU fics).

First fandom you wrote in?

Xena: Warrior Princess, back when that show was airing. Fanfic primarily distributed over internet mailing lists and posted on your own website.

Favorite fic you've written?

Stealing Nina's idea and doing one in each of my main fandoms I've written in because it's hard to pick (even then this was rough).

Nova, Baby Series—Spy AU, Firstprince

Love is a Losing Game—Chess AU, Napollya (SHOCKER I KNOW)

What Makes a Good Man Series—Spy AU, Lokius

Here It Goes Again—The Mandalorian (Caradin but mostly Din character study in a time loop)

I'm not sure who's been tagged and who hasn't or even everyone who has done this, but a few tags below the cut. If you'd like to do it, jump in!

@kiwiana-writes, @rmd-writes, @three-drink-amy, @cricketnationrise, @14carrotghoul

@leaves-of-laurelin, @tintagel-or-cockleshells, @inexplicablymine, @firenati0n, @liminalmemories21

@orchidscript, @sparklepocalypse, @loki-is-my-kink-awakening, @mirilyawrites, @heytheredeann

@nicijones, @justabigoldnerd, @myheartalivewrites

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

okay so lately I've been thinking to post like fluffs or something and I already have a lot of ideas. So, I wanted to ask if you have any tips for new writers? I've been really inspired by your works and I wanted to start posting as well. <33333 (I'm new to asks so I have no idea if I did this right 😭 but tysm <3)

Me?!?! Little old me for writing tips?!?! I'm actually so honored, thank you so much 🥹 I actually put a lot of thought into this and all the different things I've learned along the way, so I hope this helps! And if you have any more questions, feel free to ask!!

Read. Okay, so I know that this sounds so cliche, but reading is literally a lifesaver for writing. I read a lot of fanfictions that pertain to the fic I'm writing to see how others did it and help guide the way I do it. Does that make sense?? I hope so 😭 Obviously don't copy anything, but like for my newest fic (that's coming out hopefully soon if I can beat this writer's block!!) rewrite the ending in every lifetime, I felt really inspired by @.forlix's setup for her fics and @astraystayyh's when the snow falls, we fall apart for act 3 of it. It also really helps broaden your vocabulary and allows you to get a feel for certain ways to describe body movements, tones, and facial expressions (something I've always struggled with!!).

Punctuation. I've always been SO BAD at punctuation because I was never taught how to properly use it at my school. Also, when I'm writing, I never use it because my thoughts are so flighty I feel like if I stop to put a period or something, everything will leave me. SO, I will always make sure to copy and paste my work into a free punctuation checker like Scribblr (it's pretty good, though there are a few things it will miss), but the one I like the most is ChatGPT. Like, I'm going to be so fr, it has SAVED my ass, but the only thing is you have to paste whatever you want punctuation checked, and if you don't want Chat to change the way you say something, just in parentheses say (Can you punctuate this without changing any of my words please). This will still check punctuation and spelling but will fit your personal voice.

ChatGPT. I literally don't care what anybody says; this resource is useful asf. Like, I use it for synonyms, definitions, and if I don't know the word I'm trying to think of, I'll input something along the lines of "Chan (word) his arm around her waist, leaning down to press a kiss to her head." (What would a good word be for the (word) above?) It's SUPER helpful for getting stuck on words like that!!

Ask for help. Like, I'm so serious, I will ask many of my very amazing mutuals (quite often, I might add) about the way I worded something, if my poetic quips make any sense, which way I wrote something sounds better, bounce ideas off each other; honestly, just about anything I can think of that has to do with writing, I have asked the amazing @yongbun, @jeonginsleftcheek, and @luvtak. So if YOU need anything, always feel free to ask me or anybody else that you feel comfortable with :))

Feel it. Okay, so this is helpful for getting stuck on really deep emotional scenes. I would get so into trying to make it look pretty that I didn't get down into the actual emotions. It's really helpful to just set your computer down, shut your eyes, and imagine the scene. Feel everything they feel—the anguish ripping inside their very soul, the way it feels like an earthquake has just ruptured in the base of their spine, the universe seems to be tearing apart with every breath they take. I don't know, just me personally, I love anything that pertains to the soul and super dramatic emotions. It makes me feel a lot less alone about my deep emotions :)

Writer's jealousy. I had to write something about this because being an artist, you are always going to see somebody better than you, and that can cause some really nasty conflict inside of you. Sadly, there is nothing I can do to stop that, but I can say really try not to let it get to you and instead view it as a learning experience from those people and how they write. Also, never compare yourself to others because all writing, whether good or not, is your most vulnerable parts because it is unique to you. And also, try not to please everybody—I promise you won't be able to. The same way people pay millions for a piece of artwork, another person wouldn't pay a penny for; it's just simply the human mind, and that's okay. But this also ties into Write for yourself. Nobody else. Just yourself. When you're writing, try not to even think that somebody else is going to view it. It will allow you to write what you really want but also get you to be a lot more vulnerable.

The first draft is shit. I'm so serious, every single one of my first drafts has been shit, and that's okay. You just have to edit your way up to something readable. Like, if you don't like how you wrote something the first time, that's okay. The first draft really is just you telling yourself the story, while the second, third, fourth, fifth draft is you telling others the story lol.

I don't think that there is anything else, but if I think of something, I'll definitely add it!! I hope that this helped you at least a little bit!! Thank you so much for asking me of all people for writing tips; it did wonders for my confidence lol.