a rare thing indeed

2

What the hell are you doing here? The whole city is looking for you. The Prince wants you put to death. He might force me to marry your Uncle. Hush! Just listen. I’m leaving Verona. We both know I’ll get no justice here. Where are you going? The Friar knows who’s behind all this. He’s left the city, I’m sure to the Abbey a day’s ride from here. I plan to follow him, but what I want - what I want is for you to come with me. Tonight. Now. Come with you? Now? Why on Earth… Because I need you, Capulet. I need you to come with me. I need you to do this. Please. Benvolio… You’re all I have. You know the truth, and you’re all I have. I know you don’t like me. And I know I haven’t done much to change that… besides saving your life and trying to get you out of marrying me. But one thing I’ve learned being stuck with you - what I’ve learned from spending time with you… is that you’re a good person. A good and decent and honest person, which in this city is a rare thing indeed. You say you want to end this war. Then let us end it… not with some fake marriage between Montague and Capulet, not with some lie… but with the truth.

9

You’re all I have. You know the truth, and you’re all I have. I know you don’t like me. And I know I haven’t done much to change that - besides saving your life and trying to get you out of marrying me. But one thing I’ve learned being stuck with you… What I’ve learned from spending time with you is that you’re a good person. A good and decent and honest person, which in this city is a rare thing indeed. You say you want to end this war. Then let us end it not with some fake marriage between Montague and Capulets, not with some lie but with the truth. So will you come with me? Rosaline? Please.
i-ii-iii-iv

2

Because I need you, Capulet. I need you to come with me. I need you to do this. Please. You’re all I have. You know the truth, and you’re all I have. I know – I know you don’t like me. And I know I haven’t done much to change that … besides saving your life and trying to get you out of marrying me. But one thing I’ve learned being stuck with you – What I’ve learned from spending time with you … is that you’re a good person. A good and decent and honest person, which in this city is a rare thing indeed. You say you want to end this war. Then let us end it … not with some fake marriage between Montague and Capulets, not with some lie … but with the truth. So will you come with me? Rosaline? Please.

10

But I want a woman.

5

Bond/Vesper in Casino Royale [insp.]

I just–

You can see the moment during his confession/plea when you can tell Benvolio starts to get uncomfortable with admitting how much he actually likes Rosaline, how much of a good person he thinks she is, because he defaults to sarcasm and jokes.

“One thing I’ve learned from being stuck with you”
And Rosaline rolls her eyes and her entire posture on the balcony changes. She starts to pull away, to close up again, because of course he would make some quip, why had she thought for even a minute that he was taking this seriously, why had she let herself believe that maybe he-

“What I’ve learned from spending time with you”
And her eyes flick back towards him and he takes the hint. He takes it and runs with it, really. He starts to expound on her, on what a good person she is; her decency and her honesty and he keeps it barely skimming the surface because going any deeper might scare her off again, but he can’t help but emphasize it - “which in this city is a rare thing indeed” - and you can hear the emotion and conviction in his voice.

He tells her openly and honestly what a good person he thinks she is, and then offers her a chance to come with him and solve this mystery that is driving their families even further apart; to maybe end this feud once and for all and save more people from suffering the fate that her family did, but most importantly, he leaves the final decision up to her. He makes his case and he’s desperate, but he leaves it at asking her one more time, and the last thing he says to her is her name. and i could make a completely separate ranting post about that  He ends with her name and leaves her free to decide for herself and I’m like 90% sure that’s why Ros agrees to come with him, because his being open and honest and vulnerable made her confront her own feelings towards him, and the freedom to make her own decision made her finally say yes.

7

@chocokidda But, like, actually that’s what happened XD

Keep the ball rollin dude

“Please don’t do this,” Chirrut’s words are a rush, spoken at Baze’s back because he will not turn around to look at his face. 

Everything will stop if he does. He will have no forward momentum; he will simply be transfixed in the bright burn of Chirrut’s eyes and Chirrut’s smile, the line of his jaw, the flush of color across his cheek. Nothing outshines Chirrut in his eyes, and he has to look away in order to manage to do anything else, especially something as dangerous and foolhardy as the mission that he accepted. 

Go into the sands, they said. Go into the sands past the statues. Go to the far away kyber caves and come back, tell us about what you find. We need to know if the guards remain. We need to know why no one has contacted us. We need to know how far the Empire’s hand has reached. We need to know if they have fallen.

Speeders do not cross the sands well. It gets into their gears, slowly winds them down into nothing. Between the sand and the cold, it is a wonder that tech makes a foothold on Jedha at all, but he cannot use it to cross the sands. Nor pack animals. The only things that Baze can employ are his own two feet, his legs, his sturdy, bulky body. It is like he was made for this trip all along. This trip and nothing else in the whole wide universe. The Force, Jedha herself, created him for this journey so how could he say no?

Ah. He can never say no to anything. It is his gift as much as his failing.

“Baze,” Chirrut’s grip on his wrist is sure and tight, fingers steel from all the training and all of his own willpower. Nothing and no one in the universe can topple Chirrut Imwe, can move him if he does not want to be moved, can change his mind when he is set in it. Like the statues in the sands, Chirrut will remain forever, Baze thinks, he will not let the winds of life chip away at him little by little, make him less.

Baze can be made less. Baze is made less with every day that passes, with every injury inflicted by the Empire whether physical or spiritual. He is too soft. He will never stand all on his own, sure to crumble and fade away. “I hold you back,” he told Chirrut once, and the lightning in his lover’s features at those words shook him to the core such that he has never dared to utter it again.

But it is true. What wonder would Chirrut be if he were not so wrapped up in loving him? Baze would like to know. He would like to see him in his crowning glory. Perhaps Chirrut will find it if he leaves for the sands.

“Don’t do this. It’s a fool’s errand. It’s doomed.”

When Baze opens his hand, Chirrut’s fingers slip into it as easily as ever, and they might be flesh wrapped around steel, but they are still warm and comforting to hold. He loves them.

“I have to go, Chirrut.” The words are hollow even to his own ears.

“You don’t have to do anything.”

I have to love you, he thinks but does not say. It is in the meat of my bones, and the tiny sacs in my lungs. I have to love you. Through anything and everything. 

“It’s for the temple.” Which should be enough to make Chirrut understand, but Chirrut never likes it when he does not get his way. 

“Fuck the temple.” The words are so cold, so hard, edged and sharp, spit out like knives to clatter at his feet. Chirrut’s tone is unlike him, no laughter, no teasing, just something solid and sure, as steady as the rock under their feet, as serious as death, as unwavering as the Force.

It is those words, that tone, that finally convince Baze to turn to look at him, to see not flashing eyes, no smile, but tears and a mouth warring with itself and losing to sorrow. He had expected anger and bargaining, but he had not expected this, a look as injured as if he told the other that he never loved him. It is a rare thing, indeed, to see Chirrut cry. “My love,” he starts, fingers reaching to brush the tears away even as Chirrut catches his hand and holds it to his face, so tight as if he never wants to let it go.

“If you go, I go.”

It should topple him to the ground, that look, those words, but Baze is trying to be strong, to do better, for Chirrut, for his sake. So that he will not be hampered by his weight. “Someone needs to stay and take care of the younglings. Remember. Look for the Force and you will always find me.” As close to a goodbye as Baze can manage.

Yet it is not enough to fool Chirrut who presses closer, leans bodily into Baze’s chest, twines fingers into his hair and tucks his face against his neck. “Do not echo my vows back to me and expect me to linger. If the temple can manage without you it can manage without me. I do not want to manage without you.”

Baze is not sure if the declaration breaks his heart or overfills it to bursting, but he cannot deny him now. “It is cold in the sands,” he reminds him.

And Chirrut, who hates the cold, kisses his neck, clenches his hand tighter. “Guess who gets to warm me?”

Perhaps he will never know what sort of wonder Chirrut could be without him. Hopefully the wonder they are together is enough.

bingewatchingmylifegoby  asked:

Imagine The Phantom being your best friend. No romance, no drama, just the two of you being bros.

This was so refreshing to write, so thank you!


You were sat on the Phantom’s piano stool, your back to the grand instrument, as he paced before you. In your hands was a mug of tea, still steaming despite the temperature of the room. 

He had invited you down to his lair, a rare thing indeed, and you suspected that he had given into his want for human company; something other than music to occupy him while he turned over something in his mind.

Silence had reigned for several long moments and you were relaxing, staring at one of the many candles that lit up his luxurious home. The two of you had never neeed words to communicate. Your friendship came from a place of mutual understanding and respect, which was more than either of you could say for anyone else who claimed to know the Opera Ghost in all his glory.

Finally, getting shifty with the silence, you said, “How did you manage to make Carlotta croak like the toad she is?”

That earned you a rare but genuine smirk that slowly spread across his face. He turned to you then and with a mischievous gleam in his eye that really should have scared you but didn’t, he said, “Ah, my friend, haven’t you heard? A magician never reveals his secrets.”


Phantom of the Opera: @liemarce @bingewatchingmylifegoby@sky-the-llama @suddenlyitisntwhatitusedtobe @phangirl-ofthe-operra @phantom-of-the-keurig @oddybutgoodie @starwarsandstufff @shingeki-no-julchen

Let me know if you want to be put on fandom or character taglist!

anonymous asked:

I'd like to start this off with that, I disagree with quite a bit of your view points on certain parts of HQ BUT I honestly really enjoy talking to others with a different point of view from me. It intrigues me a lot. So if you don't mind me asking why do you ship Oikawa and Kageyama, who show a strong dislike to each other though I do see a mutual respect I've never thought of them as an actual pairing. In the midst of this discourse I honestly hope I don't sound rude, thank you for your time.

You don’t sound rude at all, don’t worry ^^ I’m always happy to have a decent conversation (you can probably tell that happens rarely in this fandom LMAO so I’m happy whenever I get the chance)

Now on to oikage. The thing with “negative feelings” is that strong feelings, especially when they involve such idealization they have towards each other, comes out as the exact opposite quite often, which is also called “emotional ambivalence”. The cliché about “there’s a thin line between love and hate” is a cliché for a reason - it’s a pretty common thing IRL. I’m surprised that fandom rejects this honestly? I think the reason for it is that people here are obsessed with friends to lovers trope probably bc it feels safe and validating, which actually is something rarely happens irl bc attraction tends to be instant (esp when it comes to guys lmao) rather than developing over time and it doesn’t end up with people having a “calm” friendship, it makes things tense (and even antagonistic), especially when this sort of idealization occurs, not to mention their existing rivalry complicating things.. That’s actually one of the reasons why i love this ship so much, both of them see each other as “the ultimate” and fixate on each other and their behaviour carries so much frustration towards each other, it’s incredibly easy to read as romantic, especially considering their certain shippy interactions in canon and how reactive they tend to be (which I will mention later). Another thing of note is that they both act pretty different when it comes to each other, Kageyama shows more emotion (a rare thing indeed lol) and Oikawa basically puts on a “charming(!)” appearance and he’s (literally tsundere lmao) defensive towards him which is sort of how you’d act towards someone you like (idealize too). 

I’m gonna direct you to another ask I got back then bc I don’t wanna make this one even bigger with some manga panels..though I only posted the moments that didn’t spoil anything bc the friend who asked hadn’t read the manga so it’s ofc incomplete and somewhat basic. I try not to overdo things. LOL. Here, the “intro”.

Now to overdo things -  I’m pretty sure you didn’t ask for this much detail, just an overview but “hints” have a lot to do with why I’m so taken by this ship so I’m gonna have to share some. Apart from the small and cute things anime glossed over that are supportive rather than indicator (like how Oikawa makes a cute face at Kageyama’s creepy smile in contrast with everyone else or their mutual shock at seeing each other unexpectedly lmao) we have quite obvious things like Oikawa calling Kageyama his “damn cute kouhai” and his “favourite food” in the novel after denying him being his enemy which I also mentioned in the post I linked but honestly, I can’t say these enough bc.. there literally isn’t any other way of interpreting those. >_> Then of course, how he goes to shiratorimatch after angsting over Kageyama whole night (LOL).. he basically decides to do so after hearing girls in some shop talk about “how they shouldn’t put off confessing” and.. he suddenly is like “things weren’t over!”. Then talks about his “all too big eyes” while he expresses desire to crush on him LOL. Also worths mentioning how defensive Oikawa is about Kageyama: denies him being his kouhai, then says the opposite to Ushi and even implies Kage will beat them… says he wants both teams to lose, but openly roots for Kage. This sort of ambivalent behaviour honestly screams romantic feelings. Then there’s apathetic af Kageyama, who basically has Oikawa as his aim, thinks of him during shiratorimatch (with a weird expression too lmao they also have sort of weird expressions about each other, hard to pin down one feeling about those, I wanna make a compilation of them sdgsdhf), stalks his practice, visualizes him as some sort of smooth general of armies (lol talk about having rose colored glasses smh).. These are what comes to mind immediately. They’re really shippy in general, it’s mostly bc fandom has a great bias over it that stuff about them don’t get around much, like how novels are ignored etc and general negative approach towards it affects newcomers too so yeah >_> 

If you disagree with these being shippy, to test it, just reverse those incidents and apply them to mainstream ships and see how your idea about them differs then - if quarter of these happened in another ship’s context, whole fandom would agree on them being literally married. Hah.

#21 - For anonymous

Filling the prompt “hii love could you possibly write one where van and the reader start off as friends and the reader confesses her love for him under the stars xx”


You met Van and Benji in high school. You didn’t know who they were, and when they sat down in the chairs at your table in the library you were a little confused, but mostly uninterested. You looked up over your book at them, then back down. They seemed offended.

“Told ya she doesn’t know who we are,” the fuzzy haired one said. You would have laughed out loud, but you were trying to not engage.

“Hi Y/N,” the other one said. He had a bad haircut and his two front teeth were rabbit-like. You looked back up over your book. “Um, you’re the girl that records the school band and choir and shit, yeah?”

Yes. He was right. Most people stayed pretty clear of you. You were kind of a loner, which would have made you a target, but because the school needed your excellent audio/visual skills they upped the protection. You spent most of your time between the library and the sound lab.

Both boys continued to look at you. You shrugged and raised an eyebrow.

“Cool! So, uh, we’re in a band,” Bad Haircut said. You rolled your eyes. Here we go. “No! Don’t roll ya eyes, love,” Love?! Really. “We want to record a demo to send off to the record companies and stuff, and we were hopin’ you’d help!” He did sound very hopeful. You lowered the book and looked at them.

Keep reading

ZevWarden Week 2017 Day 1

Prompt:  Monday, July 31 - Massage

Yes, I know I’m late. But here, have a bit about Zev thinking about Theron’s scars. It got kinda sad at the end, because something something Zevran and depression. Reblogs encouraged!

  @zevranology @becausedragonage @sasskarian


Zevran’s fingers brushed down the nape of Theron’s neck. They were warm and slightly damp from the sweat gathered there, but he ignored it. His hands had been covered in far worse than sweat before.

Theron lay pliant beneath him, chin rested on his folded arms. Aside from the slow rise and fall of his back as he breathed, he was still as a statue. Zevran let his hands drift further, pressing into the tension he found in Theron’s shoulders.

“Ow,” His lover grunted as his skilled fingers eased a particularly stubborn knot of muscle into submission. It was the first time either of them had spoken in a while.

“That means it is working,” Zevran pointed out.

A companionable silence fell over them again, and Zevran continued his labour of love. He ran his hands over the burn scars that stretched across Theron’s shoulder blades. Once upon a time, back when those scars were fresh, he had always hesitated before touching them. First, because he didn’t want to hinder the healing process of such grim injuries, and then when they had both learned pressure on the healed scars brought pain.

Theron couldn’t feel the light touches on his shoulders anymore, only pressure or temperature. Still, Zevran let his hands linger a few more moments as he remembered the cruelty of Fort Drakon. Remembered the brutality of his own training. They both had a fair collection of scars and bad memories now. The scars were fading and the bad memories were banished to unpleasant nightmares and shadowed corners of the mind. He put those memories behind him once more and continued.

The next scars he encountered were far smaller. The rough circular mark of an arrow’s exit wound perilously close to the large intestine on the right-hand side of Theron’s spine. On the left was a neat little cut right over the kidney. If the blade that had caused it had gone much deeper than skin level, Theron would have bled out. Zevran was familiar with it; he’d been the cause of it, after all. Long ago, when he’d toyed with the idea of finishing the job he’d been assigned to do. He hadn’t expected either of them to survive that night, but fate had intervened in the form of a mabari the size and weight of a grown dwarf, and his blade had been stayed. He brushed a thumb over it as he chased the tension from Theron’s spine, glad of the man who lived and breathed before him.

The last scars he studied were the ones barely visible on Theron’s back. Three jagged lines that stood out from Theron’s skin much like the burn scars. A reminder of that final battle on the roof of Fort Drakon, a gift from the Archdemon. Zevran sighed through his nose. He hadn’t been there to witness it or avenge it, but according to eyewitnesses Theron had been batted across the roof like a cat toy. It had only been his cry of pain that reassured everyone he had not broken his neck on impact with the stone roof and died.

Zevran swallowed, his hands pausing on Theron’s warm, undamaged skin when he realised they were trembling. He knew the shape and feeling of Theron’s scars as well as his own by now. They’d spent many nights silently mapping the assorted scars on each other’s skins, explaining to each other the events or near-death experiences that had left their marks. They were both still alive, and that was all that mattered.

“Zev?”

Zevran looked up to see Theron looking awkwardly at him from over one shoulder.

“Yes, mi amor?”

“You alright?”

Zevran hesitated. His first, Crow-trained instinct was to make some kind of dismissive joke to ease Theron’s worry and then distract him so the topic never came up again tonight. But he was a Crow no longer.

“Not quite,” he admitted as he stopped straddling Theron.

Immediately the other man turned over and sat up. He held his arms out, and Zevran melted eagerly into the embrace even as some bitter part of himself cursed his own weakness.

“Come back to me, Zev,” he heard Theron murmur as a hand ran through his hair. He sniffed, and buried his head against Theron’s shoulder. He focused on the moment. Theron’s warmth against him, the gentle hand in his hair, the murmured nothings that continued even after he’d stopped shaking.

“Y’know, you should teach me how to give massages.”

“Why?” Zevran asked without moving his head.

“I should repay your kindness somehow.”

Zevran chuckled at the notion.

“Kindness from an assassin? A rare thing indeed.”

“Which is why it needs repaying.”

anonymous asked:

Can you do a scenario where Starrk's s/o is softly singing while running her fingers through through his and maybe Lilynette's hair? Bonus if it's because she thinks they're sleeping but they're not? Thank you! ❤️

∪*ゝω・)ノ”

-While Starrk slept more often than he was awake, seeing Lilynette resting with him was a rare thing indeed. 

The two were curled up together, Lilynette pressed up close to Starrk’s chest, and one of his arms keeping her close. They looked peaceful, content, like both halves were delighted to be back so close together. 

You sat down next to them, watching the slow rise and fall of Starrk’s broad chest, and the way Lilynette’s eyes twitched in her sleep. 

This was almost too cute to handle. 

Humming softly, you threaded your fingers through Starrk’s hair, delighting in the purr that instantly started up. 

Lilynette you had to be more careful with. She wasn’t exactly a deep sleeper, but the high, happy whine when you buried your fingers in her fluffy hair made the care very worth it. 

This whole situation was beyond sweet, and there was no way you’d be leaving their side anytime soon, too happy to be taking care of them. 

Fic: nothing lost, that may be found, if sought (ao3)

Fandom: DC’s Legends of Tomorrow, the Flash
Pairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart

Summary: Thanks to the Particle Accelerator explosion, the Rogues have forgotten that they were once rulers of a Fae Court.

But after the Oculus, Len remembers -

- and he’s pretty pissed off about it all.

A/N: for @jq-piccadilly for the coldwave exchange! For her delightful prompt: “Mick, the Snarts, and their Rogues conned a fairy out of its kingdom. When the particle accelerator blew, their memories were wiped out by the raw magic it released—the Rogues even forgot they were the Rogues. But after Len gets swallowed by the Oculus, he’s able to find what he once was, and he’s determined to set things to rights (bonus points for Mick whump).”

————————————————————————————————-

Once upon a time, a halfling child met a sorcerer, and the world changed.

Sorcerers, a seventh son of a seventh daughter, are no longer common, but a halfling child, raised by man, is a very rare thing indeed. A lady of the Sidhe may go and frolic as she will, to send a year and a day in the company of the man of her choosing, but she ought be very careful of him who she chooses, for when the year and a day is almost up he may bind her in iron and slip an iron ring ‘round her finger to keep her as his wife, and she’ll not be able to leave until she’s freed.

She screamed and she threatened and she begged the man for her freedom, but he did not listen - a lady of the Sidhe for a wife was too great a prize for him to forgo.

She quieted and submitted, and he removed her chains, smug that no one would remove the ring upon her finger. She bore him a son and he rejoiced.

When five years and a day had passed from her imprisonment, she knelt before her boy and smiled. “Little one, little one,” said she. “Won’t you take off my ring?”

And she held her hand before him, and the ring flashed in the light.

Keep reading

Everyone’s an Angel Part 1 (Feysand) ACOTAR Fanfic

Like seriously. They’re all angels. 

This honestly just came from me wanting the whole inner circle being able to fly.

Feyre had wings. Not the bright, feathered monstrosities that ninety percent of the population lay claim to, but real, goddamn, black-leather bat wings. The weight at her shoulder-blades was the mark of a Night Angel, but that was ridiculous, considering she’d never even visited Prythian or the Courts. Not when she was safe over here.

“Safe,” she muttered. “In a bar.”

Yes, a bar. Feyre Archeron, the Wild and Free, was sorely lacking in the second half of her title. Her father had left her here to watch the bar, claiming he had business elsewhere. It was clipped words he said before spreading his downy wings, snow-white until the very tips, lined with black.

She’d often thought it strange that her father’s wings were different than hers. “Feathered instead of leathered,” he liked to say. For most of her childhood, her wings had been a curse rather than an asset, so she’d gotten very good at hiding them. Especially when her magic had begun to mature. It was a testament to how shallow the children of her village were, given that all it took was a glamour to get them to forget her “problem.”

Not a good childhood she’d had. But, well, Feyre mused, it was a rare, lucky thing indeed to be blessed with one.

She sighed, glanced around the bar. The walls were aged and cracked, the floor in much the same condition. The circle tables, only three, were all shoved to one side of the room for Feyre’s own convenience. It wasn’t like anyone would be coming anytime soon. Like all the weeks before, the place was blessedly, devastatingly empty.

Leaning her arm on the bar’s counter top and pressing her chin into the cup of her hand, she was just about ready to resign herself to another, long, nap-filled day… When the jangle of the bell at the door’s lintel had her shooting awake.

In stepped five figures, three males in front, and two females in back. The males, they might’ve been brothers. Black hair, sparking eyes… The first female was beautiful, with honey-colored hair that fell to her navel, framing a sharp, clever face and chocolate eyes. The second female was…terrifying. But the thing that really had Feyre standing at attention were their wings. At their backs, at all their backs, were not angel’s wings but—

“‘Leathered instead of feathered,’” she whispered, for this was the first time she’d ever seen someone other than herself host to bat’s wings.

One of the males snorted. He was rougher than his supposed brothers, hair a bit longer, and overall appearance just a bit more disheveled. It suited him, though. “That’s a first,” he said, voice deep and booming, promising a laugh that sounded much the same. “Usually it takes a longer than two minutes before they start muttering nonsense.”

“Hmm,” the male next to him said. “Perhaps she’s flabbergasted by our beauty.”

“Or,” the blonde female said, “maybe she’s delirious after so long without company.” She glanced meaningfully at the neglected room.

Flushing at the attention, Feyre swiped a rag from beneath the counter and began scrubbing furiously.

“Oh, no, Sweetheart.” The first male, smelling of vanilla and something darker, muskier, stepped close. He lifted her chin with a finger and gave her a roguish grin. “Don’t be embarrassed, sweetheart. Not when a pretty face like yours is much better suited to a smile.”

She blushed further, tearing herself away from his touch.

A snarl rippled through the room. The violet-eyed male stalked over to his brother, getting up in his face. “Cassian, I told you—”

Cassian laughed and held up his hands. “Relax, Rhysand.” A wink at Feyre. “She’s all yours.”

He headed back to the others, pulling them to take a seat at one of the tables. None of them seemed to notice that it was tiny and pressed too-close to the wall. Or that there were only three chairs.

The violet-eyed male lingered. Feyre tried to ignore him by washing the counter top, but it obviously wasn’t working very well, judging by how many times she glanced up and met his stare. He made her uncomfortable. Not because he was doing anything wrong—on the contrary, his gaze was curious, if not a bit intense—but because of the pull she felt towards him. A tugging, deep in her gut.

It was this tug that had her working up the courage to ask, “What is it?”

He cocked his head. “What’s what?” His voice, deeper and richer than his friend’s, had her stomach swooping.

“Don’t you feel it?” she blurted. The wrong thing to say, from the way the hushed conversation ceased entirely and all eyes turned to face her.

“Feel what?” Rhysand’s voice was a dangerous, lover’s croon in the quiet.

Feyre swallowed. “Nothing. Nevermi—”

And then he was in front of her, close enough to feel the heat of him, and her breath caught.

“Feel what, Feyre?” he purred, eyes glinting mischievously. She hadn’t noticed before, had been too busy trying to ignore him, to see how handsome he was. His face was smooth and unmarred, lashes long, jaw strong, dark hair framing his eyes quite nicely—

“Have you finished boosting my ego?” he asked, mirth filling his voice.

Feyre recoiled. “What? How did you…?”

He waited, and she took a breath.

“I thought,” she said evenly, “that I was the only one who could read minds.”

A sharp laugh, filled with genuine surprise. “No, darling. Daemati. That’s what we are.” He leaned close enough to whisper in her ear, “And you have a delicious mind, if I do say so myself.”

Heat stained her cheeks, mortification filling her, so much that she ignored the dark power oozing off him in waves. “Prick,” she hissed, giving him a halfhearted shove.

It only made him grin wider. “There you are, darling.”

“Don’t you darling me,” she growled. “Not after poking through my mind like some creep.”

“Creep?” He drew back, dramatically holding his hand to his heart. “I am offended, darling. You’ve got the wrong man.” He nodded to Cassian. “He’s the creep.”

Feyre snapped, “At least he didn’t stare at me for five minutes before talking to me.”

A bark of laughter from the terrifying, otherworldly female. “So she’s got a spine after all.”

And that was how it started.

Rhys ushered her over to the table after that first initial meeting, coaxing her into introducing herself. She learned their names, and the stories behind them. Cassian, the general of the Night Angels’ fleets. Azriel, master of spies and all things dark and mysterious. Mor, the Morrigan, who’d been born with wings of the wrong kind in a Court of hatred and lies. Amren, who was a thing not quite of this world.

And Rhys.

Rhysand, the High Lord, who wore a mask to protect his people, sold his soul to a bitch for fifty years to keep them all safe. Rhysand who was a bastard, with the features of his pure, Dawn Angel father, and the wings of his Night mother. Rhysand, who she found herself inexplicably drawn to, compelled to tell him her secrets, and find safety in his arms.

Feyre watched Cassian and Azriel in the sky, instructing the females on the finer points of flying. They did this every day, Rhys said. She felt out of place, leaning against a tree with Rhysand’s warm weight beside her. They did it so naturally, so easily, like they’d been born of the wind. It made sense, after all, what with them being Angels and all.

“Thought for a thought?” Rhys asked beside her.

Feyre glanced at him. It was the game they played, that had her revealing things to him she’d never imagine revealing to anyone else. And the things he said… Either enough to draw tears to her eyes, or make her blush hard enough to want to slap him.

A smirk played at the corners of his mouth, as if he knew just what she was thinking. And—

She shoved him, and he fell back laughing. “Get out of my head, Prick!”

He continued to laugh, even as she crossed her arms and huffed irritably. “If you’d had your shields up,” he said between gasps, “you wouldn’t have this problem.”

“If you’d mind your own damn business,” Feyre retorted, “you wouldn’t be so much of a damn prick that I want to shove you off a cliff every thirty seconds.”

Rhys looked up at her with baleful eyes. “If you threw me off a cliff, you’d lose this face.”

“Good.”

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

And just when she thought it was over—

And you wouldn’t be able to throw me off a cliff. I’m way bigger than you.

“Rhysand!” This time Feyre did not have any problem sending a bucketful of water over his head. It was one magic of many. Remarkable, Rhys and his friends said, because most were only privy to one kind. She had all seven. She shrugged off the praise and said it was something she was born with. Laughing, Cassian reminded her, they’d all been born possessing only one magic.

Rhysand, for his part, was not moved by the display of power, or even simply getting soaked to the skin. Instead, he sent a challenge down that strange bond between them, and raced in the opposite direction. Inexplicably, Feyre ran after him, a giddy sort of joy going through her. They dodged and chased, throwing little balls of darkness at each other. When finally Rhys managed to land a hit on her, Feyre jerked back. It did not hurt, but tickled. The sheer nerve of him, it had her running with renewed vigor.

And then, laughing, he leapt into the sky. Feyre skidded to a halt. When she did not immediately follow him, Rhysand paused and turned in the air to look down at her. “Well? Are you coming?”

His voice was breathless, his face flushed with joy, hair in a mess from the wind and the sudden flight. Beautiful, Feyre thought. More than attractive in appearance, he was a kindred soul. Like hers. And his hand, stretched out to her, his friends tussling in the sky above…

She shook her head, sorrow filling every pore. She longed, she wished, but…

“I can’t,” she whispered.

The smile faded from his face as she turned around. To go back to the bar. Her wings trailed dejectedly behind her. But Rhys dropped from the sky directly in front of her, concern lining his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” But her words were hurried, and she knew he could feel her shame through the bond.

“Feyre.” He lifted her chin, voice soft and tender. “Look at me.”

She did look at him, me his violet gaze, trying to keep in tears.

“You can’t fly, can you?”

The one thing she never wanted anyone to find out about her.

“No,” she said hoarsely, tearing away from his grip to wrap her arms around herself.

“Why?” The word was flat and tense.

She didn’t answer.

“Feyre.” This time he sounded angry, and she shied from that fury, so hot, only to find… Deep in the bond, she could feel something else. It was kinder, a deep sorrow, directed at her. He wasn’t mad at her. No, he was mad at whoever had done this to her.

So she swallowed and said, still looking at the ground, “My father. He didn’t want me to learn. Because…my wings were different. He said that people would hurt me if they knew I was Night.”

“And did they?”

She dared a glance at him, the source of that midnight voice, and found his wings were half-flared, and his eyes were deep with dark power.

“Yes,” she whispered.

The thudding of wings as four figures joined Rhys on the ground.

“What’s wrong?” Cassian, voice assertive, surveying for danger.

“Feyre says she was hurt because she was different,” Rhysand replied, and his voice was a midnight caress as he said the words.

“By who?” Azriel, iron gaze promising death.

Mor sidled closer to him, half-drawing a blade from the sheath at her thigh.

It made her breath stutter, to see these people who cared for her, getting upset on her behalf. But it was also just a little bit hilarious because—

Surrounded by bristling weaponry, faces set with a rage so deep it made her shudder, stood Amren. And her face was bored, only slightly miffed. Among the angry expressions, she looked like a cat whose dinner had escaped.

So Feyre laughed, even while tears slid down her face, falling into the grass when her legs couldn’t support her.

“Is she alright?”

“Is she crying?”

“Do you think someone poisoned her?”

Assessing hands were poking at her, but it tickled, and it only made her laugh harder.

Finally, Rhys sent a worried, but overwhelmingly relieved, question down the bond.

“I’m,” Feyre gasped, wiping her eyes. “I'm—okay.” Clearer, “I’m okay.”

Five curious faces stared down at her, not nearly so imperious as she’d thought them four months ago. Friends. Family.

It set the tears anew, albeit for a different reason, but there was no embarrassment this time. So Feyre gave them her best, most sincere, watery-eyed smile, and felt a flutter in her chest when they returned it, each and every one of them.

151210~ [TRANS] Aladin Fansign

Q: Just one thing that you want to bring with you to your next life

Seokjin: Appearance

Yoongi: Talent

Hoseok: Talent

Namjoon: Talent + Others

Jimin: Others- the people around him

Taehyung: Knowledge/Wisdom

Jungkook: Appearance, knowledge/wisdom, talent

(cr.)

True Feelings

Author’s Note: This has been just sitting in my drafts unfinished for so long, finally dug it up and finished it! If you don’t like Edward’s flowery speech, avoid XD


Chivalrous, kindhearted to a fault. Prince of the Roses.

Edward was all of these things. It was a rare thing indeed for Charles’ Crown Prince to lose his composure, but he was not infallible. He was, first and foremost, a man.

And ever since she came to work at the castle, he had been reminded of that fact on a daily basis.

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