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stressfulsloth · 10 months

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I've seen a couple of takes about Disco Elysium being copaganda going around recently, and beyond the fact that DE is relentlessly critical of the police force in general and makes explicit reference to the failures of the system that allow the officers in game to abuse their power, I also think it's important to note that there very literally is an in-world version of copaganda that the writers of the game use to parody that romanticised view of the brutality of policing. The RCM at their inception were structurally inspired by in-world copaganda- their culture, their "fashions, even weapon preferences, borrow heavily from classic Vespertine cop shows." Every investigation is it's own little drama, every officer imagining themselves to be the bad-ass hero of their own crime serial. Detectives name their cases like they're naming episodes of a TV series in a "robust but literary system"; a title that "draws inspiration from snoop fiction and Vespertine cop show staples". They give themselves nicknames to sound like cool, suave fictional officers- Ace, Dick Mullen, etc.- from the cool, suave world of copaganda.

The legend of the RCM's inception, the "point of contention" over its uncertain origins, is even an extention of that; the whole organisation is shrouded in this self-fictionalising mythos that allows for distance that in turn obfuscates much of its violence to the officers that participate in it. They get to convince themselves that they're not abusing their power; they're the hero of the story! The dichotomy of "good guy" taking out the "baddies," a manifestation of the libertarian fantasy of the "good guy with a gun" who does what it takes, just like in Annette's detective novels, and at the same time who rails against oversight bodies like Internal Affairs/'the rat squad' because due process slows down the immediate satisfaction of Swift Justice, despite Internal Affairs existing to protect the citizens from overreach on behalf of the police. "Wanton brutality" from police in their real world is a cold bitter reality but Dick Mullen was "made to crack skulls," "bend the rules and solve cases no one else can," and which version of that story is more comforting to the overworked, underfunded officers of the RCM?

The level of fantasy and detachment required for the cops to still see themselves as the good guys after everything that they do in the line of duty mimics The Pigs and her breakdown too; she parallels Harry so clearly. Both "did right by the kids" in the past, hoping for a better future- Marianne (The Pigs) by looking out for Titus and the Hardy boys when they were young, Harry in his role as a gym teacher. Both abandoned and left behind by the system that the RCM uphold- a brutal capitalist landscape with no safety nets. Both turning the source of their trauma into a costume, a performance, a shield, shaped by "radio waves and cop shows." The Pigs uses RCM items scavenged from the Esperance where they'd been thrown away, while Harry uses the Dick Mullen hat that Annette gives him but both are essentially in costume.

Harry identifies himself with the fictional detective as a kind of wish fulfilment; Dick Mullen is "wicked smart." He doesn't fuck up his cases and when he's sad it's not pathetic; it's effortlessly cool brooding and everyone sympathises. Everyone loves him. His violence- "skull crack[ing]"- is justified because he's a "good guy" enacting that violence against the victims of police brutality sorry "bad guys". He doesn't ever face repercussions; "Dick Mullen won't be sent to the clink for the sake of some legal niceties!" So if Harry is Dick Mullen then his failures, his breakdown, they're all just a part of being a "bad-ass, on-the-edge disco cop." He's not wrong, he's a hero! This idealised fictionalised idea of the police force, this "new, sadly better, reality" that both Harry and The Pigs cling to is "escapist stuff," "receed[ing] into a ludicrous fantasy world," so far removed from the brutal material reality that they're in.

My point is, idk. Disco Elysium is so far from being copaganda. It is a multi-million word long dissection of it, of the purpose of policing, of state sanctioned violence and its interaction with capital and the fallout experienced within the wider community as well as the trauma cycle created for individual officers. A dissection of how copaganda interacts with RCM culture and perception, and by extension how we interact with irl perceptions of police through that lens.

#ouaghhhhhhh disclaimer; i am bad with words and im not sure that i've properly expressed what i'm trying to say but this is getting so long #the cops are not meant to be the good guys #if you think i've missed something here pls let me know!!#disco elysium #harry du bois #DE rambling #marianne leplante #the pigs #actually just one last note- this isnt in response to any one particular thing ive seen but a few different posts comments and articles

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trashogram · 1 month

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He Chose You (Pt. 9)

Lucifer/Reader: Lucifer chooses you to be the mother of his child. Rated Explicit.

Warning: Character Death, and minor details of childbirth.

“You’re glowing!”

You’d scoffed while watching as your body literally began to illuminate from the inside out.

“Well of course.” You’d snickered, looking from your hands to Lucifer. “Every mother does.”

Your hand came up to clasp your mouth shut, but the Freudian slip was already out there. Lucifer stared at you and you stared back.

Your lips wobbled and torso trembled until you could no longer hold it in and burst into laughter. Elation ran its course, and Lucifer joined you — laughing so hard that he slapped his knee.

When you fell into his arms and let yourself be held, you imagined it would only be for a little while. This bizarro pregnancy had you on some kind of high, and all the worries and doubts that had been building up disappeared.

—

You can’t remember for how long you’ve been walking but there’s discomfort in the soles of your feet. The landscape changes as soon as you truly behold it.

The endless field of tall grass and the trees so tall they could touch the sky had been replaced by golden sand. You could feel its gentle heat on the ends of your toes. Beyond the sand is a gently rolling ocean, lilac beneath a honey gold sky as the sun has only just set. The sound of rhythmic, rushing water is so real and so close that you’re immediately calm.

Memories flood your mind like a sneaker wave. You’re a child again, running away from the water as it laps at you. The shock of the cold water goes away quickly and you want to follow the pebbles and seashells that drift back out with the retreating tide.

You look back, away from the sea, and see the blonde woman behind you. You grin.

She’s wistful.

It stamps down on your joy. The air is salty and wet blowing through your hair and inhaled through your nostrils. You want to speak, but you can’t think of a thing to say.

“I wish this was goodbye.” Her voice carries above the waves, muffling them until they’re nothing but a dull roar.

—

You awoke to the sensation of falling and seized in your bed. Lucifer startled beside you. He’d been sleeping wrapped around your belly; a compromise to laying perpendicular to you so that he could continue talking to the soccer-player in your stomach.

He or she had not stopped moving since they decided to make it known that they were, in fact, not dead.

(You’d chided the baby for that, and for doubling in size in less than two week’s time, much to Lou’s amazement:

“Hell isn’t ready to be ruled by two speed demons.” You’d deadpanned.)

“Huh?” He grabbed you without thought. “What—”

Movement erupted from deep down in your core, muscles clenching and unclenching quickly, forcing you to seize again.

“I think I’m — ugh!” You gritted your teeth. “—I’m going into labor.”

Lucifer doesn’t do anything for a long moment.

Then he flew into a panic before you could say ‘Jesus Christ!’.

—

The hallway outside illuminated with the sheer brilliance of your body, literally glowing. It hadn’t stopped since it started, only a few weeks ago. Fortunately, the glow was tied to an almost paralyzing euphoria. It was the kind of delight that turned your blood into gold while racing through your body. The kind that kept you from complaining that you’d become Tinkerbell.

“Steady. I’ve got you!” Lucifer assured whilst trudging over the carpet with you in his arms.

An influx of pain rippled through you for the first time, providing distraction from the mortification you might’ve felt in that position. It hasn’t escaped your notice that the Prince of Darkness was a shortstack. Your brain had a hard time accepting that for as small as he appeared, Lucifer was capable of unimaginable feats of strength and endurance.

So, you didn’t think about it. Instead you focused on breathing in and out deeply as your partner kicked at the front door of your neighbors’ apartment with the toe of his boot.

As if waiting at the door, Warren Farrow appeared from behind the polished wood. His expression was of minute surprise, but within seconds he was turning back and calling for his wife.

Lucifer managed to pivot the two of you into the Farrow home. Warren guided you with an unusual vigor in his step, as though he were a man decades younger.

“We’ve had it set up for weeks now, Sir.” Warren said gravely.

Through the convulsions, you observed the inlet that Lucifer had taken you into. It was like a roomy closet, covered in tapestries and littered with candles of all shapes and colors.

Warren’s wife was flitting about, quickly lighting the pitch-black surroundings until you could see the mere outline of things.

You were drawn to the center of the crowded room, where a humble white cot covered in white towels contrasted everything else.

It occurred to you then that this entire pregnancy had been a shit show, not the least bit because you’d never gone to any OB. You hadn’t checked in with any hospital, or stepped foot in one — how could you?

Therefore, any and all “check-ups” you’d had had come from your creepy neighbors with their tea and their scrutinizing questions and their buzzard-like stares.

You’d consoled yourself throughout with the brief, semi-serious talk with Mrs. Farrow three months into gestation.

“What? Were you a midwife or something?” You asked incredulously.

“Yes, honey.” Cass had patted your hand like you were a simpleton. “I helped deliver babies for over 15 years. I was younger than you were when I first started!”

You had stared. ‘Oh god, how many crazy cultists are actually nurses in disguise?’

“Here we go, all set. You can lay her down here.” Cassie came over brusquely, smoothing over the wrinkles in the cot before Lucifer put you down.

He laid you on the sheets, light as a feather, jarring as you felt your belly weigh you down. The King didn’t go far, reluctant to let go of your hand. You held on like a vice as well, gripping and squeezing with each contraction.

You felt pinches in and around your abdomen, but the pain was… off. It came not from true agony, but the overworking of your internal organs in contrast to the pleasantness that you embodied post-glow stick phase.

Hearing childbirth horror stories all your life, and just the horrors of raising children in general, you expected to be screaming and thrashing.

This wasn’t as bad as some of your past periods had been. What’s worse than that, however, is the unnecessary guilt you feel for how troublesome it isn’t.

—

Lucifer struggled to remain in one spot as the urge to pace up and down the cramped little birthing room ate at him.

He didn’t want to leave you — not that his two hosts would dare make him, regardless of tradition — but old habits die hard. He was fidgeting, putting all his weight on one foot then the other.

You were his exact opposite, laying placid and relaxed on the birthing bed, eyeing the little room. Microexpressions flitted across your face, some of confusion and some of hurt, but aside from your firm grasp on his hand, and the occasional grunt, you may as well have been dozing off.

Eventually you glanced at him.

“Do you wanna sit down?” You asked calmly.

Lucifer tried to laugh but it came out like a strangled wheeze. “Nahhh, this is fine. I’m fine. Are you fine? I mean I know you’re not fine, but can I do something? Whatever you need, I can get it for you!”

His rambling ends with you bopping him between the eyes teasingly. “You’re silly.”

It’s inexplicable, but Lucifer’s mood lightened at your mellow admonishment. He meets your warm, drowsy expression with an adoring smile of his own.

“I am.” He kissed your forehead. “You’re an angel to put up with it.”

A too-loud rasp interrupted the soft moment of nothing but affection and kisses. Cass was standing at the foot of your cot, hands on each of your knees as she kept your legs apart.

“Get ready, honey. You’re on your way.” She hailed.

–

A cry split through the air and it went straight to your heart.

You gulp down air (Lucifer mimicking you without meaning to) with sweat pouring from your hairline. The lack of pain hadn’t meant a lack of effort, and you still felt like you’d run a marathon just to pass the little being currently wailing in Mrs. Farrow’s arms.

“It’s a girl.” Mrs. Farrow declared.

There was no attempt to hide the sidelong glance she gave Mr. Farrow. The lines and grooves on the elderly man’s face deepened until he resembled a gnarled tree trunk.

“Hmm.” Was his reply, deep baritone rolling like thunder in the tiny room.

Vehement indignance blazed to life inside your mind when the old man looked at you, critical and disappointed. You felt like tearing him and the rest of this old, tacky room to shreds. Yet, exhaustion had planted its roots deep inside of you, and all you could do was glare at the old couple from your makeshift bed.

‘Why does it fucking matter?’

“Gimme my kid.” You growled.

As if to piss you off further, Cass ignored you in favor of wiping the baby clean before passing her off to Lucifer. The old bat presented her to the King like she was a fallen bannerman’s sword, even curtsying while doing it.

It was so weird that it brought you out of your anger for a second.

Lucifer was clearly apprehensive, and his insecurity made the grand gesture stranger. He swallowed visibly, making eye contact with you when he couldn’t break away from the internal turmoil he was struggling with.

“Bring her to me.” You demanded. Lucifer nodded vigorously, cocking a head toward you.

It was fucking nonsensical, but at last Cass obeyed and brought you a bundle wrapped in silky black.

The baby’s wailing tapered off as soon as she’d made contact with you. And like a child on Christmas morning, you shifted to sit up as much as you could and pry open the swaddling cloth.

You sniffled.

All at once, the breath caught in your throat and your eyes welled up with tears.

The newborn was as flagrant as her father in terms of skin tone and hair. She hadn’t yet opened her eyes but already you could see none other than a spitting image of Lucifer himself. Right down to the rosy apple cheeks that made up her pudgy little face.

You were a little surprised to see that she had a nose. A little black smudge, puppy-like - anomalous like the little growths on her forehead and the itty bitty spade on the tip of her wagging tail.

She was perfect.

“I think she’s a Charlotte.” You manage to tear your eyes away from the miraculous hellspawn in your arms just long enough to search Lucifer’s golden gaze. “What do you think?”

His Majesty is a whimpering mess beside you. “Y-yeah. That’s perfect.”

Peeling the blanket back just that much more, you lean toward him. It takes a little coaxing, but sure enough Lucifer traces a delicate claw over the child’s tiny brow.

“Hello Charlotte.” He whispered. “We’re so happy you’re here.”

Adoration overwhelmed you, nigh on visible like the air was tinged with its color, its scent, its warmth cocooning the three of you.

Daddy, Mommy and baby. A strange but happy little family.

Lou embraced the two of you, hiding his face, and subsequent weeping, in the side of your neck while your baby cooed.

The background chants of ‘Hail Princess Charlotte’ and ‘Hail King Lucifer’ were, thankfully, not enough to ruin the moment.

Nothing could. Until.

It doesn’t dawn on you that anything is wrong when the glow has faded. It’s only the incidental look at your fingers, with Charlotte’s tail curled around them, that freezes you. Numbness then began to crawl up your body, as if waiting for the moment that you’re brain would connect the dots. The copper scent of blood made your nostrils flare and heart hammer.

Fear clutched at you in an instant. “Take her. Take the baby.”

Your desperate hiss and barely-there shuffle to push Charlotte into Lucifer’s arms fully had his face falling.

“W-wai-wh-What’s happening?” He asked, panic rising.

Mrs. Farrow is prompt, crone’s face scrunched and nose prominent as if she could sniff out the issue. She’s stood at the end of the bed, already lifting the sheets off your body before you can seek her out.

A stiff hand appears over the covers, covered in shiny dark claret. “She’s bleedin’ too much.”

Lucifer’s eyes blazed from where he hovered. “Why?”

The elderly woman was ready to shrug, but she stalled. Perhaps out of fear. “It happens, your Grace. Birthing a baby takes a toll on the mother, sometimes it’s too much.”

“Then why are you just standing there?”Lucifer bared his fangs, ivory in the lowlight. His eyes were a haze of vermillion, so opaque that you couldn’t find his pupils or the soul inside. “Help her!”

The truly demonic scrape of his vocal chords frightened you, as did the sudden appearance of tusk-like horns protruding from his skull and the fire coming to life between them. His beautiful skin marred and stretched and cracked as if his form were a prison barely containing the true beast within.

Energy crackled in the air, heat rising to blow back your hair and dry the air from your lungs like a flung-open kiln. The breath was stolen from your lungs as ivory wings shot out and overtook what little space was left in the alcove.

Reality was literally distorting around Lucifer’s warped rage.

Mr. Farrow, for all his reticence, reached for his wife’s shoulder from within your line of sight.

“Lucifer.” You hissed, bearing the brunt of his inhuman stare when he turned to you. It took real energy to speak. “I need you… the baby…”

It didn’t take anymore prodding for the blond to intercept your daughter once your desperation got through to him. The Devil slowly shifted back, revealing the depth of his fear in the cloudless turn of his gaze. He met you halfway - finally - and pulled Charlotte close to his chest.

A pang of thankfulness made laughter bubble up from your diaphragm. It hurt. Everything hurt again.

“Stop. Wait.” Lucifer begged, voice turned to ice. Fragile, cracking. His natural white glow had dimmed significantly like a cooling star. “This isn’t— I promised you this wouldn’t happen! This can’t happen!”

A shudder ran through you.

“Hey.” You lifted a hand and placed it on his pale cheek, thumb brushing over where white met red. “Nothing… for it now.”

“No, don’t, that’s… No.” His agony was so palpable, as his fury had been.

“You’re gonna be a great dad.” You murmured.

Lucifer bowed over the side of the bed with Charlotte snug against him. You could feel the warmth of his breath, and then the splash of his tears against your cheek as he broke down. You felt it deep in your bones, and the lump in your throat that choked you.

“Not without you.” He said. “I can’t do this without you.”

A pained smile was your response. Vision a-blur. Cotton tongue.

“You… will.”

Lucifer shook his head fiercely. “I promised you. I swore I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. I can’t… I can’t...”

“Please. Please don’t — ” Anguish turned Lucifer’s once melodic voice into broken notes. “Don’t leave us. Please, please, please.”

His sobs intermingled with Charlotte’s whimpering. She fussed as she was woken from her doze by the growing, tangible urgency. You wished you could calm both of them. Take them in your arms and make it all go away, promise that you weren’t going anywhere.

“Please. Please. Please.” The word fell from the Devil’s mouth like a prayer.

You wondered if he really was praying. Praying to his Father.

It broke your heart.

The candlelight around you was getting brighter as the rest of your surroundings grew dark. Lucifer, as brilliant as he was, lingered somewhere in between. You squinted when his features began to fuse together in your mind. It did little to help, as large, dark shadows blotted out the corners of your sight.

Charlotte was bawling and you fought to open your eyes again. You hadn’t realized they’d closed.

You were so tired. The will to rise up and comfort your baby was dwindling. Everything had succumbed to a thin stream of light in a sea of darkness.

With a breath, and another Herculean effort, you opened your eyes again.

White blinded you.

And then you were nothing.

***

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#lucifer x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer morningstar #hazbin lucifer

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ceilidho · 9 months

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prompt: repressed bi ghost who won't admit he wants to fuck his girlfriend and soap so he keeps making soap watch him with reader and thinks he just has an exhibitionism kink. definitely puts on a bit of a performance for soap tho (ns/fw) (ghost/reader/MAYBE soap)

He won’t say it because it’s not true.

He won’t say it because there’s no room for it in his world. He won’t say it because even the threat of it not being reciprocated is enough to make his chest go tight and sharp like a set of claws raking down his front. He won’t say it even though when Soap is assigned to his team, he spends months sitting ramshot straight in the Humvee next to the sergeant, forcing himself to focus on anything aside from the way Soap’s big fingers wrap around the hilt of his knife or the trigger of a gun.

Besides, it’s not like the possibility of love is closed off to him altogether. Ghost knows that from the moment he lays eyes on you; little slip of a thing that works on base, an analyst from a department that doesn’t intersect with his own so there’s no conflict of interest there. It doesn’t take much to get you into his bed and then keep you there—a couple of soft words, arm on the wall next to your head, looming over when he pulls the mask over his lips and he sees the way your eyes go wide at the sight of his mouth and he grins—

Still though, for how deeply entrenched you are in his heart, Ghost can’t shake the feeling that bubbles up in his chest when Soap sneaks up behind him on base or covers him on missions, like they’re a single unit. There's something he needs there, but he can't say it, not even to himself, but it's real and it exists in the fleeting moments when Soap's body is lit by the sun or gunfire or smoke from a cigarette.

Interestingly enough, it’s actually Soap that brings it up the first time. Outside the bar, the landscape is soaked with light in the dusk; there’s a thin trail of smoke from Price’s cigar off in the distance, only the red butt glowing in the dark announcing his presence, far off as it is. They're otherwise alone though, unwinding after a lengthy mission that left the two of them exhausted and aching, but still alive, so good.

They’re standing outside of the bar leaning against the porch railing that wraps around the front, taking turns making little quips between sips of whatever they’re drinking.

Soap makes a comment about you, something offhand about where he can find a little thing like you for himself. Ghost’s face doesn’t so much as twitch, even under the mask, but he doesn’t reply, throat tight. Not jealousy. It’s not jealousy or bitterness because if it was, then that would mean something that he doesn’t want to think about, never mind mull over. Never mind dwell in. Soap can fuck whoever he wants—if there’s a girl somewhere like you for him, that’s none of Ghost’s business.

Doesn’t mean his teeth don’t clench.

“Bonnie lass at home,” he goes on, pausing only to take a deep drink, smacking his lips when he pulls the glass away. “Warming my bed, waiting for me to get back. Gaun yersel' for getting a little thing like tha’.”

Still Ghost doesn’t respond.

“Bet you make her work for it, L.T,” Soap teases with a grin, cockiness belied by the blush that stains his cheeks. He gets shifty once the words leave his mouth, almost like he can’t believe he said it, looking off into the distance instead of up at his superior officer.

Ghost hardly registers the words at first, his brain going staticy, thoughts slipping away fast because he realizes that Soap must have been thinking about—Soap must have been imagining you and him like that to say that.

When he turns to him, his eyes are dark, only a sliver of blue visible around his pupil. “Why? Something you’re interested in?”

Soap goes still and silent, breath rushing out of him. His fingers tighten around the glass and Ghost sees it for a split second. A way in.

He fucks you extra hard that first time. Lays you out and drags your pussy onto his cock again and again, hips bucking back against yours and your screams get hoarse like it hurts a bit. Just on the side of too painful. It’s always on the side of too much for you because he’s near twice your size; even as used to his size as you are, Ghost still had to tuck two fingers into your cunt to stretch you out enough for him. Got his tongue in there too, just to make sure you were nice and wet. His mask and clothes have long since been stripped, laying in a rumpled pile at the foot of the bed.

Soap’s on the other side of the room, big hand around his dick, lube squelching in his hand. Ghost allows himself to glance over once, eyes glazing over when he sees the way Soap’s hand tightens at the sharp whimper you make when he fucks you just right.

“Like you imagined it, Johnny?” he goads. Your soft gasps drag Ghost’s attention back down to you and he says something crooning and delicate in your ear, making your nails dig into the meat of his back.

“Fuck no, Ghost—it’s— fuck, suck her tits, please.” His voice rends Ghost down the middle, makes him hot enough that it’s no trouble at all to duck his head and run his tongue over your berry nipple.

“How’s she takin’ a big yin like you,” Soap grunts, entirely unaware that his words rattle around in Ghost’s head and make him pump between your thighs all the more unhinged. “Tiny thing. Looks fuckin’ tight, Christ. You’d have to drag me offa her—”

He won’t admit that he comes when Soap digs his heels into the carpeted floor and tilts his head back, come striping his belly and tagging across his brown nipples. He watches Soap come and feels something slot in his chest like everything is right for the first time.

Ghost fits a hand around your neck and holds you still, ducking his head into your neck and watching you and Soap through slit eyes. When you come, clenched around his cock, breath coming out in high, tight pants, Ghost knows that he won’t be able to give this up. Neither of you.

#cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #cod simon riley #cod x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #ceil writing #soap mctavish #cod prompts #ghost/soap/reader #simon ghost riley x reader x soap

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f1byjessie · 3 months

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HE LIKES MY AMERICAN SMILE ━━ OP81.

love is a wild ride, and logan sargeant's sister is about to find this out the hard way.

( oscar piastri x sargeant!reader )

━━ part five.

You’ve never actually been to Monaco. It was one of the few Grand Prix you’d had to miss. Logan’s retelling of how it was had been slightly skewed by disappointment and frustration at his less-than-stellar results that weekend, but his descriptions of everything had still painted a picture of lavishness and excitement in your mind, and you’d been dreaming ever since for the chance to experience it yourself.

You’re here now, and even just the view from the plane had lived up to the hype. On the ground, it’s enough to leave you breathless. The deep blue water of the Riviera glitters with the golden glow of the afternoon sun, the mountains stand tall off in the distance, and the grand opulence of the city makes you feel like you’ve stepped foot into a whole new world.

You’re not unfamiliar with the lifestyle of riches and luxury, but Monaco is on another level entirely.

Lando, the reason you’re here in the first place, appears beside you. On the ride back to his place from the airport, he’d caught you marveling at the marina and had pulled off onto the side of the road to let you get out and take a longer look. The boats look like miniature cruise ships, sleek and elegant where they rest in the water, swaying gently with waves. It reminds you, vaguely, of back home.

“Ready to go?” He asks, fiddling with his keys.

You spare the marina one last glance, then nod and turn on your foot with the knowledge that you’ll be here for a week longer still and will have plenty of time later to take in the view as much as you want.

Lando’s house, when you arrive, is just as expensive looking as the rest of Monte Carlo.

The exterior is expertly landscaped and maintained, with hedges perfectly trimmed and flowers flawlessly pruned. It’s slightly lacking in regards to the personality you imagined Lando having. His car is personalized and his wardrobe is a look into who he is, but the outside of his house looks… normal, for lack of a better term. It’s beautiful, nonetheless, but it’s simple all the same.

When he opens the door, you take it all back. The interior screams Lando Norris. It’s extravagant in a way that mirrors what you know of his personality, but it’s comfortable. You’ve been to homes that look more like show houses, where the furniture seemingly exists to be viewed but not used, and all the decorations are vague and impersonal enough to fill blank space and do little else. This is the opposite.

There’s a blanket folded haphazardly over the arm of the couch, and mismatched pillows. On the coffee table is a half-empty bottle of water, a book with a scrap piece of paper hanging out from the middle, and an opened pack of batteries. There are pictures on the walls in mismatched frames— friends and family and achievements from throughout Lando’s career that tell a story of his successes and proudest moments.

It looks like a real home. When you tell him, he laughs.

“With how little time I actually get to spend here, you’d think it’d be the opposite,” he comments.

He helps you bring your bags up to a guest room and then gives you a tour of the rest of the house. Letting you ask questions and answering them sincerely.

When you’re back in your room, unpacking your clothes, it occurs to you just how crazy all of this is. You know Lando, but you haven’t known him for very long. Your friendship has only developed over comments on social media, texts, and the occasional phone call over a few weeks. But you’re here, across the ocean in a country you’ve never been to before, spending a week in his house just because he asked you here and offered to help you with your love life dilemma.

Your life is beginning to feel more and more like a movie, and all you can do is hope it has a happy ending.

INSTAGRAM.

liked by logansargeant, landonorris, and 31,871 others

yourusername a pretty girl with a pretty car in a pretty city

view all 3,832 comments

logansargeant think you might need to get your eyes checked bc all i see is a pretty car sooo

↳ yourusername you have six days. run. hide. i don’t care. but enjoy your time while it lasts

↳ logansargeant i’m telling mom

↳ yourusername she can’t save you now.

user STUNNING STUNNING AND STUNNING 😍😍😍

user all three things i don’t have

user WE NEVER GOT Y/N IN MONACO DURING THE SEASON BUT I AM LIVING FOR IT NOW

landonorris *prettiest

↳ yourusername you’re only saying that cuz it’s your car

↳ user yea we definitely missed smth cuz wTF IS THIS 👀

user lando up in here stealing oscar’s girl

user OSCAR COME GET YOUR GIRL

user is she in monaco??? with lando??? 👀👀

user mclaren boys fighting over the same chick was not on my bingo card

user i need these men to make up their damn minds like bffr first oscar and now lando??? bros get it together pls 😮‍💨😮‍💨

user i think we should stop speculating about the relationships between real ppl bc they’re adults and can do what they want, plus they could just be friends and ppl saying they’re together could make things awkward for them

↳ user nah they’re totally together

“The comments are going crazy,” you tell Lando, staring down at your phone and scrolling the long chain of comments beneath your most recent post.

Some are supportive— people who knew you before your brother got involved with Formula 1 and don’t care about the drama, or they’re other models you’ve become tentative acquaintances with after years of working in the industry. Some are speculative, wanting to know if you’re with Lando, what happened between you and Oscar, theorizing about fights, messy breakups, and revenge rebounds. Some, however, are just mean, calling you a slut for leading on two guys at the same time, or a bitch for ruining their imaginary chances with their favorite driver.

You wouldn’t claim that you’re used to this type of negative attention, but you’re not unused to it either. So much of your job requires a social media presence and with your life in the limelight as a byproduct of both Logan and Dalton’s own very successful careers, you’re no stranger to internet trolls and people who are vicious just because they can be.

That doesn’t make some of the comments hurt any less.

“None of them matter,” Lando answers from beside you, his eyes focused on the road. “It’s just people who don’t know what they’re talking about.” He recites it like it’s something he’s had to say hundreds of times before, and it occurs to you that he probably has, to himself if not anyone else in his line of work.

You’re sat once again in the passenger seat of his car as he drives you back to his place. The streets of Monte Carlo at night are dazzling and even more beautiful than in the day with twinkling lights and a raging nightlife scene, but you’re distracted still by your phone, checking and rechecking to see if there’s any hint of Oscar in your notifications.

There isn’t.

It feels like a dismal ending to what had truly been such a lovely night.

You’re in a gorgeous dress, in a gorgeous car, in a gorgeous city, with a man who’s fun and relaxing to be around, who doesn’t make you feel like a side piece or arm candy, and who is genuinely a friend to you. You went to an amazing restaurant and ate some of the best food in your life with some of the best company, got slightly tipsy off of wine you didn’t have to pretend to enjoy for once, and it’s only the beginning of your time here in Monaco.

But rather than enjoy what you have here in the present, all you can think about is the one thing that would make it that much better— Oscar.

“Maybe I should just give up,” you mutter, finally turning your eyes away from the screen. “He probably kissed me, realized he wasn’t interested, and the reason he hasn’t brought it up is because it was all just a big mistake that he wants to forget.”

Lando makes a sound that you’re not quite sober enough to place. “I think the only way you could know that is if you talked to him.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug, “that’s not likely to happen any time soon.”

He makes another sound, but you’re too disappointed to really pay it much mind, and by the time he’s pulling into the garage you’ve forgotten all about it.

He helps you out, ever the gentleman as you’ve learned tonight, and then you’re following him to the door, trying not to let your bad mood ruin things too much. You’re still incredibly grateful and appreciative to him for helping you so much despite not having known you very well when it all began.

“Seriously, though, Lando.” You speak up suddenly, just as he’s about to open the door. “Thank you for doing all this for me. Even if nothing comes of it, I’ve already had a lot of fun and you’re a good friend.”

All he does is offer you a smile over his shoulder, before pushing the door open.

When you step in through the doorway after him, you’re momentarily confused by the luggage waiting in the entryway. For a split second, you think you must have left some of yours down here, but then you look a bit closer and realize that it definitely isn’t yours.

There's movement from your peripherals as someone in the living room stands from the couch and crosses the distance to the entryway's threshold.

“You’re back earlier than I thought, Lando—” you snap your head up in surprise just as the voice cuts off.

You stare at him in shock. “Oscar…”

━━ tags: @f1-is-lovely-33 @chasing-liberosis @405rry @aquangxl @bellezaycafe @peqch-pie @formulaal

━━ a/n: tada! i have the rest of this fic entirely planned out from here and i am so excited to get to the juicy parts finally! hope you all enjoy!

#formula 1 #formula one #f1 #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula one x reader #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #social media au #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #logan sargeant #alex albon #lando norris

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reasonsforhope · 9 months

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No-paywall version.

"You can never really see the future, only imagine it, then try to make sense of the new world when it arrives.

Just a few years ago, climate projections for this century looked quite apocalyptic, with most scientists warning that continuing “business as usual” would bring the world four or even five degrees Celsius of warming — a change disruptive enough to call forth not only predictions of food crises and heat stress, state conflict and economic strife, but, from some corners, warnings of civilizational collapse and even a sort of human endgame. (Perhaps you’ve had nightmares about each of these and seen premonitions of them in your newsfeed.)

Now, with the world already 1.2 degrees hotter, scientists believe that warming this century will most likely fall between two or three degrees. (A United Nations report released this week ahead of the COP27 climate conference in Sharm el Sheikh, Egypt, confirmed that range.) A little lower is possible, with much more concerted action; a little higher, too, with slower action and bad climate luck. Those numbers may sound abstract, but what they suggest is this: Thanks to astonishing declines in the price of renewables, a truly global political mobilization, a clearer picture of the energy future and serious policy focus from world leaders,

we have cut expected warming almost in half in just five years.

...Conventional wisdom has dictated that meeting the most ambitious goals of the Paris agreement by limiting warming to 1.5 degrees could allow for some continuing normal, but failing to take rapid action on emissions, and allowing warming above three or even four degrees, spelled doom.

Neither of those futures looks all that likely now, with the most terrifying predictions made improbable by decarbonization and the most hopeful ones practically foreclosed by tragic delay. The window of possible climate futures is narrowing, and as a result, we are getting a clearer sense of what’s to come: a new world, full of disruption but also billions of people, well past climate normal and yet mercifully short of true climate apocalypse.

Over the last several months, I’ve had dozens of conversations — with climate scientists and economists and policymakers, advocates and activists and novelists and philosophers — about that new world and the ways we might conceptualize it. Perhaps the most capacious and galvanizing account is one I heard from Kate Marvel of NASA, a lead chapter author on the fifth National Climate Assessment: “The world will be what we make it.” Personally, I find myself returning to three sets of guideposts, which help map the landscape of possibility.

First, worst-case temperature scenarios that recently seemed plausible now look much less so, which is inarguably good news and, in a time of climate panic and despair, a truly underappreciated sign of genuine and world-shaping progress...

[I cut number two for being focused on negatives. This is a reasons for hope blog.]

Third, humanity retains an enormous amount of control — over just how hot it will get and how much we will do to protect one another through those assaults and disruptions. Acknowledging that truly apocalyptic warming now looks considerably less likely than it did just a few years ago pulls the future out of the realm of myth and returns it to the plane of history: contested, combative, combining suffering and flourishing — though not in equal measure for every group...

“We live in a terrible world, and we live in a wonderful world,” Marvel says. “It’s a terrible world that’s more than a degree Celsius warmer. But also a wonderful world in which we have so many ways to generate electricity that are cheaper and more cost-effective and easier to deploy than I would’ve ever imagined. People are writing credible papers in scientific journals making the case that switching rapidly to renewable energy isn’t a net cost; it will be a net financial benefit,” she says with a head-shake of near-disbelief. “If you had told me five years ago that that would be the case, I would’ve thought, wow, that’s a miracle.”"

-via The New York Times Magazine, October 26, 2022

#climate change #global warming #renewable energy #climate anxiety #climate crisis #humanity #green energy #green future #apocalypse #natural disasters #good news #hope #research #hope posting

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blkkizzat · 4 months

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꒰ა 𝘖𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘚𝘶𝘬𝘶𝘯𝘢: 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘴 ໒꒱

a/n: IDK if this will be a series yet but I really wanted to turn the tables on the JJK men and write a drabble on what it would be like returning that alpha feral energy to them lmfao. for now this a one off! I may do more in the future. cw: trueform!Sukuna, canonverse, y/n being feral, dirty talk, fantasizing, intrusive thoughts and, of course, objectifying Sukuna's thighs. crack drabble lol wc: 925 Black fem coded but no descriptors.

You were with Sukuna in his throne room. The one task you were given was to stand next to him, look pretty and be silent while he handled business with the various cursed and sorcerer associates who requested an audience with him.

You fidgeted as you stood to his left, never good at remaining still.

Uruame stood to his right, stoic as ever.

But you did try your best to behave, eyes roaming around the room to find any source of focus.

There.

Your eyes widened before slightly narrowing as you honed in on your target, now perfectly entranced by–

Sukuna’s thighs.

You loved Sukuna’s entire body, but most of all you loved his thighs. No love couldn’t even really quantify your affections –you were obsessed.

Man spread out on his throne, a thick muscular thigh was exposed from Sukuna’s robes as he lounged back looking uninterested in whatever the curses in front of him were speaking of.

Unconsciously you chew your lower lip, letting your mind wander. You easily get lost in your thoughts of Sukuna's thighs.

Your mouth watered at the way the well-defined muscles beneath his skin created a sculpted landscape. It was a feast for your eyes and you didn’t fail to notice each subtle flex of movement they made.

Even the thigh still clothed in the fabric of his robe clung to the Herculean contours of the sinewy curves beneath them, rippling beneath the fabric in a way that made moisture pool in your panties.

The wide breadth of his thighs flaunted his sheer physical prowess, a testament to being The King of Curses.

It would feel oh, so good to relish the way his muscles flexed beneath you. Your hips would spread open near to the point of straining as you imagine vigorously riding his thigh.

Unintentionally you were turning yourself on more than you even realized.

Your thoughts spiral further to picture Sukuna making you get on your knees after. He would look down on you with the most devious grin as he commanded your tongue to clean up the sizable mess your filthy lil’ cunt made on his thigh.

Your stomach tightened at the thought of tracing the prominent vein on his inner thigh all the way up until you reached—-

A small whimper escaped you.

Shit.

Sukuna’s eyes immediately snapped to you, raising a hand to silence his cursed subjects speaking.

“What is it, Y/N?”

Sukuna was annoyed you couldn’t even manage to stay still for a few hours as he had long sensed your restlessness. However, the current level of distress he read on your features had him curious as to what changed.

“It’s nothing, my King.”

Sukuna was unmoved.

“I don't ask questions twice, Y/N.”

“Um, but it’s really nothing much at all… I-I, well…It’s just that uh, I was thinking…”

“Spit it the fuck out woman I don’t have all da—

“—you thicc as fuck Kuna!”

Utter silence.

A pin could drop and it would sound like the acoustics of a concert stadium.

Silence in general has always made you feel awkward and this was really awkward.

Sukuna wasn’t saying anything, likely processing your statement and the fact you interrupted him to make it.

More nervous than ever you couldn’t help what proceeded to spill forth, a dam of words broken as you attempted to explain yourself further.

“I-I mean your thighs daddy, you too thicc! You got the yams, thunder thighs, them wupples, hamhocks, you a real thighrannosaurus rex ,a thunty king even– y-you just thicc as fuck! Like damn daddy, ya know!?”

The reality of what you were saying didn’t hit you until you had finished and you slapped your hands over your mouth, your eyes wider than saucers.

You had been unable to be able to control the word vomit you’ve been oppressing.

Although you did have to admit in finally confessing your obsession you felt like a sinner absolved and a weight lifted from you.

No lies were told though, so who could really blame you?

Sukuna was still silent. His expression unreadable.

The curses in front of Sukuna are frozen. Worried that a single move would cause his ire to explode at them reducing them to mere molecules for even witnessing whatever had just occurred.

Uruame’s face, oddly the most expressive one of the bunch, was clearly questioning what in the ever loving fuck was wrong with you. But more than anything Uruame was puzzled as to why you were still even being allowed to take breaths.

More silence followed.

Yet after what seemed like a millennia to everyone else in the room, Sukuna finally spoke. His tone was calm, yet icier than the frozen temperatures outside his palace.

“You know how easily I can kill you, right Y/N?”

You nearly had to bite your own tongue off as your intrusive thoughts had zero regard for your own life and threatened to bubble up out of your throat again.

Honestly? If we're being real, you wanted nothing more than to drop to your knees and stick your head up his robes.

You would gladly die if it was from his massive thighs suffocating you, busting your skull like a tiny grape.

But then you wouldn’t be able to enjoy riding Sukuna’s thighs anymore and you didn’t want an afterlife where you couldn’t access Sukuna’s thighs.

Reluctantly, yet obediently, you gulped them down, swallowing any more embarrassment you could bring to The Curse King at this moment.

“Yes of course, dadd– my King.”

“Then stand there and shut the fuck up brat.”

© ʙʟᴋᴋɪᴢᴢᴀᴛ 2024. ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜱ ʀᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴛᴇᴀʟ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ, ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴏʀ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇꜱ ꜰɪᴄꜱ, ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇꜱ, & ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ ᴍᴇ ᴜɴʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀᴡɪꜱᴇ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇᴅ. ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ.

a/n: when writing this I thought, what would @ryomens-vixen do? and here we are. lol. next up: still working on lactation kink yakuza!toji fic, ceo!gojo and nerd!geto fics.

tags: @littlemochabunni @biscuitsngravie @halobuns @honeeslust

Reblog to objectify Sukuna's yams but comments and likes are always appreciated!

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yourdyingwish · 5 months

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In fact, I'll go a step further from "MCR are not obligated to be in constant communication with fans, or even explain themselves at all" and will say: you, MCR fan, don't actually want MCR to be in constant communication. If you are always scratching your head wondering why contemporary acts just don't hit the same for you as My Chemical Romance does it's partially because those acts have absolutely zero opportunity to generate real mystique or strike at cultural moments when the iron is hot. They are obligated, just to survive, to pound out PR, videos, behind-the-scenes footage, social media posts, and more, all under the watchful eye of a mass culture that expects people to bend themselves into distinctive labels and categories to be more easily consumed as content. The version of My Chemical Romance you all got to see 24/7 would not be a band you enjoyed. It would not be the same. Full stop! Imagine if something like the Nashville dress reveal had been teased ahead of time on social media, or had a neat & tidy little statement from the band appended to it. How much would that suck ass? It would be so lame. Or how would it feel if they teased something concrete and then, as seems very likely for the personalities in the band, wanted to pivot and change direction, only to be locked into a commitment they didn't want to make? That would also suck ass. You do not actually want constant updates from MCR. If you have anxiety about whether the band is still together, I get that, I've had my own neurosis about it but the conclusion I eventually came to was that they were way cooler and more interesting stressing me out a bit than they were being super accessible all the time. On paper more communication sounds good but communicating in our current cultural landscape just simply sucks ass!

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prythianpages · 4 months

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Wanna Be Yours | Rhysand x Reader

Rhysand x Reader | When the Night Court and Dawn Court strike a deal, healers in exchange for Illyrian training, you rush at the opportunity to leave your home. You plan to keep a low profile but upon meeting the High Lord of night, your efforts are futile. He takes an instant liking to you and is set on being yours.

warnings: angst, mentions of blood and injury

a/n: This can be read as a stand alone imagine :) but there will be a part two. once again, we have another mini series inspired by a song: I wanna be yours by the Arctic Monkeys. I love when the guy falls in love with the girl first and I feel like it suits Rhys. This takes place before the events of ACOTAR.

The world awakens to a gentle warmth–a tender kiss from dawn. The stars are like a fading dream, bidding their silent farewell and the first tendrils of sunlight emerge, painting the sky in hues of soft pinks and purples. The world seems to hold its breath and so do you.

It’s so beautiful. The way night surrenders to day. The way that no matter how dark it gets, the sun will rise again. It makes you miss home but you don’t miss what waits for you there.

“You don’t belong here.”

You startle and the world tilts beneath your feet. The edge of the terrace offers a daunting view of the Court of Nightmares–a harsh landscape of rocky mountains that seems to promise a swift but unforgiving descent. A hand grasps your arm, pulling you back from the brink, the force spinning you around until you find sanctuary in a pair of strong arms.

As you lift your head, the world regains its focus, but your breath hitches at the sight before you.

A man, heartbreakingly handsome, captures your gaze. He has sun-kissed skin and short dark hair, reminiscent of a raven’s feather, that frames features that seem almost too perfect to be real. Yet, it’s his eyes that draw you in–a shade of blue so deep it borders on violet. Flecks of silver dance within those celestial irises, mirroring the stars that had bid their farewell earlier. His gaze is intense, sparkling with an allure that feels both familiar and bewitching.

“Breathe, darling.”

His voice, a velvet symphony, wraps around you like the answer to a question you hadn’t even fathomed to think of yet–a revelation that ignites a feeling you can’t quite discern but it stirs the deepest recesses of your heart.

Suddenly, you’re pushing away from the male with a deep exhale as a delicate pink that reflects the sky above you flushes your cheeks.

“y/n!”

Your eyes widen at the sound of your name being called.

“y/n.” The male in front of you repeats to himself and you never thought your name would sound so beautiful as it does in this very moment. His lips curl into a knowing smirk.

Alette, your guide, comes into your view. She bends over slightly as her chest heaves and she catches up with her breath. She turns to the male, bowing her head in acknowledgment. “My High Lord.”

All blood drains from your face and your heart skips a beat. High Lord. You just met the High Lord of the Night Court and embarrassingly so. You contemplate whether it’s too late to bow your head or not but the thought of Alette scolding you for not doing it sooner stops you.

“I see you’ve met one of our new healers.” Alette inclines her head toward your sorry state. “I do apologize for her entering your palace without prior clearance.”

Cauldron boil you. You caught a glimpse of him pressing his lips together, as if suppressing something. Perhaps a scowl, frown or smile–you don’t know– because you're swiftly averting your gaze. You’re too scared to move, not wanting to draw more attention to yourself than you already have.

“Forgive me,” you’re saying as you drop to your knees and bow your head. “I didn't mean to trespass. I felt a little suffocated down there and I had no idea this was your home.”

“Where are you from?”

Panic steals your voice and it’s Alette who answers for you.

“She’s one of the few healers that came from Dawn, my High Lord.”

You sense the weight of his gaze upon you, an intensity that envelops you with an almost overwhelming power. Your throat tightens.

“And what of her skill?”

“The best of this year’s cohort.” Alette replies with no hesitation. There’s a subtle fondness in her voice that makes your heart swell with pride. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed.

“You may rise.” It takes a while for you to register that the High Lord is addressing you until Alette is awkwardly clearing her throat. You blink and rise to your feet but keep your gaze low.

“You’re coming with me.”

You lift your gaze, gaping at his back. Does he—No, there’s no way he can know. The High Lord pauses.

He turns his head over his shoulder and looks at you in an expectant manner. You look at Alette, who nods her head at you, so hesitantly, you follow after him. Your heart races as you hear him tell Alette to pack your things because you won’t be staying in the Court of Nightmares anymore.

Velaris, the city of Starlight, is a breathtaking haven nestled within the Night Court. It’s often referred to as the Court of Dreams. It’s a place of ethereal beauty and enchantment. The stark contrast it presents in comparison to the haunting Court of Nightmares leaves you in awe.

But what strikes you the most is the High Lord of the Night Court–the master of duality. In Hewn City, where the air is always thick with tension, he wears a cold, stoic mask and every calculated step he takes echoes the weight of his stern authority and great power. This is the High Lord you’ve heard of. So when he told you, you’d be joining him in the city of his private residence, you were terrified.

It was a short lived fear because the High Lord you’ve heard of is not the High Lord you’ve come to know over the past couple of weeks. In Velaris, he sheds the shroud of shadows and reveals a different side to him. A softer side. A leader built from genuine warmth and kindness.

You’ve come to understand he has a complex role as High Lord of the Night Court. He is a blend that is both harsh and dangerous, yet undeniably beautiful and remarkable, constantly navigating through the delicate balance of power and compassion.

There is one unchanging thread that weaves through both cities. A thread of charismatic arrogance. He carries it effortlessly, employing it in a charming grace. One that he directs skillfully, particularly, when he turns the full force of his charm on you. You’d be lying if you said you were immune to it.

Upon your arrival, the High Lord–or Rhysand as he prefers you to call him– introduced you to the city’s healer. Madja. Though you’ve undergone extensive training in your home court, it felt little compared to the years of experience Madja carried with her, leading her to take you under her wing as her apprentice. You were a fast learner and given the nature of Azriel’s–Rhysand’s spymaster– and Cassian’s –Rhysand’s general commander– jobs, you had a lot of practice and challenges to hone your skills.

A tired yawn escapes from you as you navigate the halls of the infirmary to Madja’s study with the intention of wishing her a goodnight before retiring to your room. Your stops falter when your ears pick up on the distinct voices of Cassian and Azriel and suddenly you’re wide awake.

“–was ambushed by dark forces–”

“–never seen so much blood–”

“–I should make haste then–”

“–he only wants y/n–”

Shadows slink out from the corners, momentarily dimming the faelight in your hand in a silent greeting. The voices, once animated, hush and then cease altogether. Madja is the first to emerge from the study, with Azriel and Cassian trailing behind.

"The High Lord requests your presence.”

Not much can unsettle you, given your role as a healer. You’ve tended to a variety of injuries, seen tremendous amounts of spilled blood and have had to navigate through the sorrow of heartbreaking losses. But this. This feels different. This isn’t just anyone. It’s Rhysand. The male, who despite his shameless flirting, has consistently shown nothing but kindness to you. Though the nature of your relationship is uncertain, the mere thought of him being harmed sends a sharp pang through your chest, an ache that transcends the usual clinical detachment you maintain in your profession.

There’s an urgency in your steps as you approach Rhysand’s weak form on the infirmary bed. His body is extremely pale and shivering. A thick layer of sweat clings to his skin. There’s blood everywhere. On the floor, on the bed. It continues to seep out of the wound at his abdomen.

His lids are heavy, laden with exhaustion but he still manages a weary smile when he spots you. “You’re here,” he breathes in surprise, his words carrying a blend of relief and vulnerability.

“I’m here,” you confirm with a reassuring smile as you brush back the dark tendrils of his hair from his face. Though your touch is gentle, the lines on his face seem to deepen.

The air around you begins to shimmer with a soft, golden light. You cast a keen eye over his abdomen, the golden light dancing around you as you assess the full extent of his injury. The wound is deep and not healing as it should and your nose crinkles as the pungent smell of poison drifts up at you.

Rhysand winces as your healing touch meets his wound. Despite his blood staining your hands, you move with practiced grace, drawing upon the healing energies within you. Each movement is deliberate, an intricate crossing between magic and skill as you strive to counteract the effects of the poison.

Rhysand sucks in a sharp breath. He feels like he is dying but he won’t admit that to you. He doesn’t want to scare you. “It hurts.”

“I know,” you respond, your brows furrowing in concentration. The quicker you work, the less pain he’ll have to endure altogether. “It’s the poison.”

His eyes squeeze shut and his face contorts with agony as you press further into the wound. A strangled whimper escapes from his lips.

“I’m sorry,” you frown, halting your movements. You turn your head toward the double doors, where you know Madja waited in her study despite the late hour, in case you required assistance. “Should I go get Madja instead?”

“No,” his hands weakly grasps yours to keep them from leaving him. “I–I’m okay. I only need you.”

You nod and take a deep breath, urging your powers to continue surging through your bones and veins. Charged with vitality, they embody a tender current, eager to breathe life into every fiber of the recipient’s being. You sense the poison recoiling at your touch, prompting another cry from Rhysand. Though you know the poison will put up a painful fight, there’s a sense of relief as you realize it is one you can win.

“It’s going to feel worse before it gets better,” you say, your eyes darting to your makeshift table. “I don’t have anything for you to bite down onto. I’m sorry.”

“Tell me a story,” he pleads, his voice desperate and raspy. “Anything. Please.”

“Anything?” You say in contemplation, falling into a thoughtful pause as you search your mind for a story to tell.

“When I was a little girl and my parents were separating, my uncle would take me to the countryside,” you begin to share, your voice softening with the weight of the fond memory and in the intimate space between you and Rhysand, a subtle shift occurs.

“It was my favorite place in all of Dawn. The flowers were always in bloom and the grass was tall and green. We would wake up early to watch the sunrise together. Those were the moments where the world felt so still yet so gentle.”

“One night, as the moon gracefully surrendered its space to the emerging sun, I cried. The realization of the sun and moon being eternal strangers gripped my little heart. The sun, in its golden glory, would never know the tender glow of the moon, and the moon, adorned in silver brilliance, would remain untouched by the sun's warm embrace. It made me sad.”

“My uncle, at first, laughed. He teased me, which made me cry harder. He realized the genuine depth of my sorrow and that’s when he shared something with me,” you continue, a nostalgic smile plays on your lips as you recall the moment.

Unbeknownst to you, Rhysand’s gaze warms in the gentle embrace of the shared memory. He’s momentarily distracted from the stabbing pain.

"He told me that the moon's glow is but a reflection of the sun's radiance," you explain, the magic of your tale intertwining with the magic of your healing touch. "How beautiful, he said. That the love of the sun for the moon is so pure that he sets down so that people can admire the beauty of her.”

"I was still sad, holding onto that stubborn desire to witness the sun and moon together. That's when my uncle introduced me to the magic of an eclipse—a rare celestial dance where the sun and moon finally come face to face. When the next one arrived, my uncle whisked me back to the countryside to witness it, and for the first time, I felt such overwhelming joy. Tears welled in my eyes but they were tears of happiness. I didn’t know one could cry tears of joy until that moment.”

Still aglow, your hands continue their delicate work. You observe a subtle relaxation manifesting in the features of Rhysand but there’s a weariness that settles over you. You know all traces of the poison are gone because its toxic essence was absorbed by you in your haste to protect him. It takes its toll on you, wearing you down and leaving you feeling slightly unsteady, but all you care about is him.

The gaping wound on his abdomen gradually yields to your skillful touch, and a peaceful serenity settles over his face. His eyes flutter shut, and in the hushed atmosphere, Rhysand's words pierce through, lingering like a delicate whisper in the air.

"I think I might be in love with you."

The confession tugs at the strings of your heart, urging it to soar, but you swiftly quell the rising emotions. You attribute Rhysand's words to the delirium induced by his pain, knowing he’d forget all about it. You wouldn’t be surprised if he forgot your story as well. You swiftly clean him up and use your magic to replace the bloody sheets with clean ones before taking your leave. Exhaustion tears at your bones and you can only muster a meek smile to Azriel and Cassian, who waited anxiously outside the infirmary doors for an update. You head straight to your room after and collapse onto your bed.

The following night, as you retire to your room from another day of endless work and studying, you find a carefully wrapped gift at your door. There’s no name on it but as you read the note attached, you have an intuitive inkling as to who the thoughtful gifter was.

To the Sun, in your golden glory, may you always feel such overwhelming joy.

A beautiful embellished trinket box lays beneath the wrapping engraved with two cosmic entities–the sun and the moon. As you open the small keepsake, you're greeted by a soft, ethereal glow that radiates from within. It casts a warm and gentle light and you watch as a projection of the moon and sun dance around you before finally converging into a mesmerizing eclipse.

Rhysand's POV

Like clockwork, Rhysand wakes at the break of dawn with the tendrils of a persistent dream lingering in his mind. A dream that has possessed his nights for weeks. As sleep releases its grasp on his eyes, he reluctantly rises from the bed and decides to get ready for the day, knowing that if he tried, he would not be able to fall back asleep.

He navigates through the familiar halls of the Moonstone palace, mindlessly making his way toward one of the terraces. His steps falter.

There, amidst the soft hues of the awakening city below, stands a feminine silhouette–a vision bathed in the tender light of dawn. You. A sense of cautious curiosity courses through him, eclipsing the remnants of his restless dreams. His gaze lingers on you. There's a nuance in your presence, a fine radiance that hints that you are not from here and though he should be concerned over an unannounced visitor in his home, he can’t bring himself to do so.

A subtle flutter dances in his chest. He’s speaking before he could even properly think.

“You don’t belong here.”

You startle and lose your footing. You’re about to fall but before gravity claims its toll, he moves with swift determination. He reaches forward and grasps your arm, pulling you from the dangers of the edge of the terrace and into the safety of his arms instead. You lift your head and a gasp escapes your lips. Your eyes widen as they look up into his.

“Breathe, darling.”

His mind is searching yours with a quiet desperation but all you are thinking about is how devastatingly handsome he is. He doesn’t perceive you as a threat. Yet, there’s something hauntingly familiar about you.

He hears a name being called. Yours. And then it hits him like a sudden gust of wind. You’re the girl from his dreams. The one he’s dreamt of nearly every day this week and as he repeats the name, his lips curve up into a smirk.

He found you and realization dawns upon him like the morning sun. You don’t belong here but not because you’re from a different court. It’s because you belong with him.

a/n: this part came out a lot softer than I thought it would. The quote I used about the sun loving the moon so much came from something I saw on pinterest. I am a sucker for the sun and moon and stars lol

#rhysand x reader #rhysand x y/n #rhysand x you #acotar rhysand #rhysand imagine #acotar imagine #acotar x reader #acotar x y/n #acotar fanfiction #rhysand angst #rhysand fluff

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brewed-pangolin · 4 months

Text

There's something so hypnotic about Soap's mouth...

NSFW below the cut

Soap’s mouth is like a force of nature.

He kisses you like you're air and he’s been suffocating for weeks. He’ll hold your face within his hands, keeping your head still as he tilts his just so. Sealing his lips over your mouth as he devours your luscious and life-giving essence.

And he savors the taste of your mouth like a fiend. Soap’s known to have a very enthusiastic tongue, and making out is no exception. And if you tease him by biting his bottom lip, he’ll lose it. He’ll either fuck you right then and there or, if you’ve been successfully riling him up, come right in his pants. So tread lightly.

He trails his mouth over you skin like a pilgrim traversing a fantastical landscape. Delving into every curve, tasting the subtle changes in your flavor, and putting to memory your reactions to the gentle caresses of his lips along your more sensitive areas.

Soap especially enjoys the way you whimper when he trails his mouth over your calf. Lightly dragging his teeth along the sensitive flesh, just below the bend of the knee as he teasingly pumps his cock at a glacial pace into your soaking core.

And he eats you out like a man on death row, and you are his last supper. He savors the taste of your heat, how it changes depending on your diet, and the subtle shifts in acidity in accordance with your changing hormones. He says he prefers you taste right before your cycle. Your flavor is sweeter, more robust. As if your body is preparing him for a feast that only he had been lucky enough to pick up on.

Before Soap, you were reluctant. Shy even, to let a man take advantage of you in such a vulnerable way. But now, you can’t see your life being anything less than pleasurably dull without him.

But it isn’t always what Soap does with his mouth that has you caged like an animal inside his languid prison. It’s what comes out of it.

His voice.

That low, rumbling brogue that echoes from the speaker when he’s halfway across the globe and all he has is a cellphone and fifteen minutes at his disposal. His words generating the most pleasurable and obscene images in your mind, a talent only he can possess.

“Tha’s it, bonnie. Add ‘nother finger fo’me. Stretch tha’ sweet fuckin’ pussy like y’know I do.”

“Steaming hell. Can ‘ere how wet ya are, love. Keep goin.”

“Donnae hol’ back, lass. Got’a ‘ear ya moan fo’me.”

“I cannae…I canne cum…until ya moan…my name, bonnie.”

His deep Scottish accent rolling off his tongue and straight to your pulsing core. Pumping your fingers vigorously, doing your best to mirror his actions. Yet nothing can compare to the reality that is him.

And after his verbal torture he calms your trembling mind, still reeling from your orgasm with the affection of a gentle lover. Using that rumbling purr you’ve grown to adore in the afterglow of a powerful climax.

“Ya so good fo’me, bonnie. So fuckin’ good.”

“Bet ya made a mess, didn’ya? Mhmm. That’s how I want ya, lass. A mess an’ beggin’ for me.”

You didn’t know what your life was like before him, besides unfulfilled in pleasure. He opened you to a world you had only read about in romance novels and seen within the stories on television. You didn’t think it was real. Unachievable. Until the Scottish siren that is John ‘Soap’ MacTavish thrusted himself into your life.

Now, you couldn’t imagine living a life without him.

Addicted to a man and his mouth. Naturally. Like the continuous flow of oxygen deep within your lungs.

Drabbles Masterlist

@deadbranch @sofasoap @d3athtr4psworld @glitterypirateduck @punishmepunisher @homicidal-slvt @jynxmirage @kkaaaagt @mykneeshurt @shotmrmiller @astraluminaaa @obligatoryghoststare @writeforfandoms @haurasha @havoc973 @macravishedbymactavish @ang3lc @luismickydees

#Soap's filthy mouth fills my soul #the Scottish Siren #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #john mactavish #soap mactavish #soap x you #soap x reader #soap x fem reader #cod #call of duty #cod drabble

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