#As far as the talons are concerned he’s also a talon

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 249

Danny tilts his head. The masked figure across the roof tilts their head back, a gold similar to Tucker’s eyes shimmering, though he knew it wasn’t him. He lets out a curious chirp, inaudible to the living, and the masked figure stills, as silent as a corpse for several moments before letting out two clicks. 

A greeting in turn. 

Danny smiles, letting green bleed into his eyes and scurrying over with a croon from his core. I’m here, I’m here, their own core clatters like metal against bone as his responds with the drone of a blackhole. I see you, I see you. I’m HereHereHere. 

Yet another twitters in turn, clicking echoing across the city from shadow to shadow until it’s as though the city itself has a heartbeat. Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. I’m here, I’m here, not alone, I’m Here. 

[an-idyllic-novelist]

100 Milestone Event - raiden taeemon with mitsuri!reader! short story 🍡

Here it is everyone, the milestone event for reaching +100 followers! This is also part two of another milestone on my yandere blog!

The link will be here, so definitely check it out first before reading this one! Special thanks to @deathmetalunicorn1 for helping me with the sections I was struggling to write. Not gonna lie, Raiden’s dialogue is a bit hard lol. So with that being said: sit back, relax and enjoy! :)

warnings: canon divergence of manga, violence, strong language.

The moment Raiden Taeemon witnessed the strength of a Hashira is a memory he would never forget.

In Valhalla, there were many activities to entertain the masses such as gambling or martial arts tournaments, but sumo matches have been providing just the right amount of spectacle and violence far longer than any known sport. Even gods had become sponsors to certain dojos, providing funds for more equipment and so forth. Raiden was content with his lifestyle, fighting against strong opponents, eating good food and followed by having some fun with a few girls depending on how much alcohol he drank that night.

Then sumo wrestlers began disappearing from the dojos, one by one. Their remains would be discovered the following morning, torn asunder and…half-eaten. The sight frightened the customers so much that they didn’t dare go outside unless they were absolutely certain that the matches would not last beyond the first rays of the sun setting across the hazy blue skies. Even the gods had begun to worry, believing there was a serial killer on the loose…if you can call withdrawing their sponsorships an expression of anxiety. The masters of the dojos even began restricting the fighters to a curfew, forbidding anyone from going out into the night lest they face expulsion.

But Raiden was tough. He had been the strongest sumo wrestler of his time. He could take care of himself. If someone wants to come after him, he’ll return the gesture wholeheartedly.

After an evening of drinking, he took his usual stroll back home when he heard someone call out to him. Confused and half inebriated, Raiden looked over his shoulder and saw a shivering, drooling, decrepit old man with a large lump on his head. At first he thought something was wrong with him…but that concern changed to alarm when the man split his body up into four younger versions of himself with fashionable robes, fangs, and possessed weapons. One of them even had wings and talons like an eagle!

One of them opened his mouth and released a loud screech with enough strength to make Raiden’s head spin and catapulted him into a building. As he stumbled to get out of the debris, the one wearing red robes thrusted his wooden staff into the ground, lightning bolts spitting from it. Raiden screamed, white-hot pain pulsing through his body.

“This is supposed to be the strongest one in this district? How lame!”

“Shut up and finish the job, Karaku! We cannot be seen or else they will come! We cannot go back to that place!”

“Come on, it’s been so long since we’ve played with our food~!”

For the first time in his life, Raiden felt fear. He did not know what these guys…this thing was, but he had to get away. He had to get away or he might die again.

“I’ll finish it. Do not worry, human, your death shall be quick and painless.”

Raiden’s eyes widened as the one dressed in blue charged towards him, wielding a halberd with an apathetic expression. Yet before the weapon could put a hole in his chest, it flew out of his bronze hands with a loud ‘crack’.

“Geez, of all the demons that had to be causing trouble in this place, it’s you guys again?!”

The sumo wrestler whipped his head towards the rooftops of the building, seeing a young woman with braided pink-greenish hair and dressed in black, [Eye Color] orbs narrowed and face pouting as she wielded….a whip? Behind her were two other individuals. A kid in a checkered haori…and a little girl with a piece of bamboo in her mouth?

He watched them leap into the air; the kid unsheathed his sword and went straight towards Red, the girl charged at the green-robed one he assumed was Karaku, and the woman targeted the blue one that was right in front of him.

Neither opponent was giving an inch in their fight, and Raiden had to admit that the kid and muzzled girl were doing remarkably well….yet it wasn’t their unusual sword style or hand-to-hand combat techniques that caught his interest. It was the woman who had torn off her opponent’s arm as soon as she flipped him over her shoulder, knocking him into the ground with a loud ‘crack’.

The blue-eyed demon opened his mouth to scream or release an attack like the yellow one, but she swung her whip across his neck, decapitating the bastard.

Wait, where is the yellow one? Hearing a loud screech, Raiden whipped his head up to the nighttime skies and saw the demon's mouth stretching. The wrestler watched in horror as sparks of electrified air were being collected into a whirling sphere. And the target of the attack was none other than the little lady.

Somehow, he’d been able to force his aching body to move from the debris and bolt towards her, pushing the lady as close to the ground as possible without crushing her, using himself as a shield to absorb most of the attack when it came at them.

The last thing he remembered were his ears feeling wet and the woman’s worried face and… she was saying something to him before he lost consciousness.

He didn’t know what it was, but he hoped it’d been a ‘thank you’. It’s not everyday he got to protect a damsel from a demon, even when she could stand on her own ground.

As Raiden slowly came too, feeling the familiar padding of his futon, he groaned deeply, unable to open his eyes. A headache throbbed painfully through his whole head, making him both dizzy and nauseous.

He couldn't remember the last time he had a hangover this bad as he was slowly able to open his eyes, wincing at the light peeking through his window. His other senses slowly came back to him as the throbbing in his head slowly dulled. Raiden shifted and instantly froze, feeling his whole body seemed to be on fire yet so heavy at the same time.

As the minutes ticked by, Raiden was slowly able to sit up, lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his head, but his movements were stiff, almost like he was restricted, looking down to see bandages all over his body. His mind drew a blank, not remembering getting hurt and like a switch was flipped at that word, hurt, what he could recall from the night before came rushing back to him, making him fall back against his futon as his headache returned full force.

Shit…what the hell even happened? All he remembered was having a good time and then the weird old man…

Raiden’s eyes widened. That’s right. The old man turned into four demons! And then there were those kids…and that woman. The woman with hair that looked like sakura mochi and had the strength of a bear.

Head spinning, heart pounding, his mouth stretched into a grin as the memories from last night came back in full force. He had a preference for the larger ladies, but he’s always been flexible~.

Rengoku had told you countless times that if you ever crossed paths with Hantengu in the Bifrost, never confront him alone. He nearly lost his life against the Upper Moon Demon at the Swordsman’s Village if it hadn’t been for Tanjiro, Muichiro, and Nezuko. In all honesty, he thought the demon would no longer exist once his head had been cut off. But he is still there, in the Bifrost, and he escaped through a tear in the barrier.

He tried to consume as many strong humans as possible to regain his strength, though his efforts drew in unnecessary attention and that’s how he got caught. Tanjiro was able to deliver the final blow to the main body, and everything else went well….although no one had anticipated the damage done to the sumo wrestling district.

Oh goodness, what was going to happen? You knew Tengen and Rengoku loved to go there and watch the matches, especially when Raiden Taeemon was participating, but now it’d take weeks to clean up the mess! Gah, you failed on your second official mission as the Love Hashira! One more strike, and the Master’s gonna be so mad he won’t let you be part of the Demon Slayer Corps anymore!!

You sighed heavily, trudging through the streets with a heavy heart as your crow flew high in the skies above. You had completed another shift in the Bifrost, followed by an investigation in regards to another possible demon sighting in the northern areas of Valhalla.

Although everyone had reassured you that no one was seriously injured that fateful night, it still bothered you tremendously. You had offered to donate the money made from selling honeycombs at the farmer’s market towards the reconstruction of the district, but the Master told you not to fret.

You did what you had to do, and minimized the casualties as much as possible. Rengoku has taught his apprentice very well. The compliment still made your face flush with happiness…though, to your embarrassment, not as much as when you brought that handsome fellow back to his dojo. Raiden Taeemon. You rescued Raiden Taeemon from a demon and treated him in his own room!

Oh, you were such an awful woman~!

Feeling your face redden in embarrassment, you slapped your cheeks together. Pull yourself together, [First Name]! There’s no need to reminisce about the past ‘cause it’ll make delicious food go sour in your mouth! And it’s time for lunch anyway, just think about what you’re gonna order and worry about everything else later unless there’s an urgent message from the Master!

Nodding to yourself, you quickened your pace and found a restaurant with the wisteria symbol stamped just beneath the sign. If a Demon Slayer needed a place to stay or to eat, the establishments that carried the Master’s symbol were trustworthy.

You could relax here without worrying about a demon or paying too much out of your pocket, although you secretly snuck in a hefty tip to the staff for working so hard to accommodate your…quirks. Yeah, quirks, let’s go with that!

Smiling brightly at the familiar faces of the employees, you greeted them enthusiastically and wished they had a good shift as you followed one of them towards the back of the restaurant. This place still catered to other customers, so you always reserved a room for yourself to enjoy your meal in privacy.

Being gawked at for having unusual hair or how much you ate on a daily basis brought back unpleasant memories.

You squealed joyfully at the lacquered oval-shaped table, covered with every single item on the menu plus their best-selling herbal tea! You thanked the staff member profusely for their hard work in the kitchen, promising to enjoy the meal to the fullest!

The employee - a kindly older man with four children and one grandchild - smiled serenely, saying it is the least he and his family can do for the people who saved them long ago, in life and death, from demons. If you need anything, just let him or someone else know.

Upon bowing to each other, he left, closing the door behind him. You wasted no time in giving your thanks to this lovely banquet and began eating to your hearts’ desire. But an hour later, however, a knock came at the door. It was the old man again, but he sounded…worried.

You blinked. Huh? You didn’t remember asking for thirds! You just did that ten minutes ago! Concerned, you allowed him to enter, immediately inquiring what was wrong, what could you do to help.

He swallowed. “That is….there is a man who insists on asking about the ‘cute little lady with hair like sakura mochi’. I told him I knew whom he was speaking about, but politely asked him to leave because you were not to be disturbed. But he is insistent on…sharing this room with you for lunch. What should I do, Lady Hashira?”

You frowned. It wasn’t too unusual to have some rowdy customers walk through these doors, but not to this extent. Perhaps…the person who is giving the owner such a difficult time is because the man has some information he would like to relay to the Demon Slayer Corps? It would make more sense to go directly to a Hashira than pass a message to a kakushi.

You nodded your head to the owner.

“It’s all right, let him come in. Whatever he wants to eat, please add it to my bill.”

The owner’s silver brows pinched beneath his hairline as he frowned. “As you wish, Lady Hashira.” He bowed and quickly left the room, closing the sliding paper door behind him.

Humming softly to yourself, you sat yourself back down in your seat. Some of the employees appeared from behind, quickly and quietly removing the empty plates and rushing back to the kitchens.You thanked each of them for your hard work, smiling softly as you began pouring tea into two earth-brown ceramic cups.

One for yourself, and one for your guest. In your humble opinion, there is no better beverage to have mid-meal than freshly brewed green tea.

Just as you finished pouring the tea into the second cup, the door opened again.

When you looked up to thank the owner for complying with your request, blood drained from your face and your heart somersaulted in your throat. Standing behind the quaking owner was a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in a dark blue yukata and wooden sandals. White highlights stuck out of his dark brown hair, which was tied back in a ponytail. And he was grinning.

This is Raiden. Raiden Taeemon, the man you had saved from Hantengu and patched up his wounds like the lascivious criminal you were. Oh no, did he figure out what you’d done? Wait, did he even remember that night?! His breath smelled strongly of rice wine when you carried him back to his dojo! You thought for certain that he’d been too intoxicated to realize what happened!

“Hey, there.” He purred softly.

You swallowed. “H-Hello.” You said. “I hear that you wished to speak to me. May I inquire why?” You tried to keep your voice neutral and calm so as to not show that you were nervous. Your palms began to sweat as he took a seat at the table. Raiden beamed, his smile revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth.

“I wanted to thank you!”

But you did not hear him. You were still under the assumption he was angry as you quickly backed away from the sumo wrestler, your forehead and hands resting firmly on the wooden floor in the position of the dogeza.

“I’m so sorry!” You blubbered. “I’m sorry you got hurt! I wasn’t strong enough to handle the demon on my own and you got hurt trying to protect me!! And there was so much damage to the b-buildings! What if you can’t have matches?! What have I done?! I’ll pay for all the damages somehow, I swear it in my honor as the Love Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps!”

“W-Wait a sec, little lady -”

“But to make it even worse, I entered your home without your permission, and I even touched your body so I could patch you up! Oh, I should have done more! What was I even thinking about being a capable Hashira when Rengoku recommended me to the Master to take up the mantle! Now all the good vibes from lunch are gone!!”

You squeaked as you were suddenly lifted up from the ground, your face being gently cradled by calloused palms and being pulled towards Raiden’s face, chapped lips being pressed against your mouth. Raiden Taeemon was kissing you.

Heat immediately flooded into your cheeks yet you did not dare move, just staring at this man in disbelief. When he pulled away, he smiled at you, tilting his head to the side. “You okay now?”

Your immediate response had been knocking him back into an adjacent wall and turning away to hide your smiling, flushed face. To think you had your first kiss with a strong, handsome man! He did surprise you with a warm laugh, standing up and brushing the dust off of his yukata.

“Sorry about that! You were rambling and that was the only thing I could think of to calm you down!”

When you informed that he was in fact the first person to kiss you like that, he looked at you, completely stunned at your confession before grinning.

“You’re pulling my leg! There ain’t no way a woman as stunning as you hasn’t been kissed before!”

But you remained silent, unable to form any more words beyond the truth. You were never a very good liar. He then surprised you when he lowered his head to the floor, profusely apologizing for putting you in such an embarrassing position.

You quickly forgave him, saying that he did not know in the first place, and in fairness, you had believed that you would not see each other again after that fateful night. You did, however, emphasize that he did have to take responsibility for his actions.

He laughed warmly, jabbing his thumb against his chest. “I’ll do just that then! I’ll marry ya, if you’re willing to be with someone like me!”

You beamed. “Better yet, how about we have lunch together while we’re here? I did say that whatever my ‘guest’ would like to have would be paid by me! And the food here is absolutely delicious! You simply must try their spicy dishes and sweets, if you have a sweet tooth!”

The rest of the afternoon had been lovely, sharing dishes and sharing stories about each other. Not wanting to repeat your parents’ mistakes, you were upfront with Raiden about being a Hashira…as well as being the eldest daughter of the ocean god Poseidon. There were going to be risks if the two of you moved forward….including the possibility that you might not come back from a mission, or even a routine patrol in the Bifrost might get awry.

But to your surprise, Raiden wanted this. He wanted you, a woman who had once been told by a former suitor that only a wild animal could love someone with odd-colored hair and a big appetite.

He did not care if you were a human or a god; what mattered to him, more than strength and beauty, was honesty and kindness.

And you could not be any happier.

Bonus Content:

The last thread of Hades’ patience snapped when his little brother demanded to have [First Name] removed from the Demon Slayer Corps in his palace, after he’d just told Poseidon that she was doing well under Ubuyashiki’s watchful eye.

When he heard about his niece's promotion, Hades was obligated to tell Poseidon the truth about her whereabouts. Obviously he was not taking it very well.

However, Hades will not tolerate being disrespected in his own domain.

The lord of the underworld glared at the tyrant of the oceans. “She may be your daughter, but she is still the Love Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps. You know damned well I cannot replace skilled soldiers at the flick of a wrist. It doesn’t work like that for this organization. I’m sorry, Poseidon…but you brought this outcome upon yourself. If [First Name] wishes to see you or talk to you, she will do so on her own terms. Do not push yourself into her life again, you’ll only make things worse.”

Hades admired his brother’s kingly qualities, he truly did…but when it came to matters about his eldest daughter, Poseidon was extremely overprotective of her. He could be…irrational.

It was a good thing he’d concealed the wedding invitation moments before Poseidon came here. The god of perfection would never allow his child to marry a human, even if he were the strongest sumo wrestler in history or treated [First Name] just as Hades treated his wife Persephone: with respect, love, and honor.

Poseidon could care less about Amphitrite. Reputation is all that mattered to him; and because he valued that so highly, the price had been paid with his daughter’s ‘disappearance’.

Too little, too late.

Taglist:

@potato-studez-hungryformore

@mallory-a-bond

@hansel-the-pierrot

@bre99-blog

@mortemorii

@myrisan-melodies

@nooneknows8976

@puffy-bangs

@onecantsimply

@nunezs-stuff

@praisethesuuun

@thatstrangesheep

@zodiacs-web

@the-dumber-scaramouche

@themoonisrising

Honorable mentions:

@deathmetalunicorn1

[becauseplot]

i think it could be really fun to write a crowmonster!philza and warrior!etoiles au for the soul purpose of writing their little "sparring" matches where instead of beating each other with sticks it's just etoiles wrestling his big ol dragon-esque monster friend. etoiles clinging onto phil's back/tail feathers as phil tries to buck him off. phil holding etoiles in his beak and shaking him around like a chew toy. etoiles hooking an arm/rope around phil's throat and phil doing this great big dramatic roaring cry as he stumbles and flops onto his back and "dies", talons in the air, twitching, also crushing etoiles in the process. everyone else looking on with bewildered concern as phil seems to be gnawing etoiles' arm off and etoiles is just lying there declaring deadpan, "ohhh no he is too strong, the monster has defeated me, he is killing me, it is so slow and painful, i am dying, ggs bro, ggs." (<-he is perfectly fine, phil is only play-mauling)

other fun points:

phil tossing etoiles around in the air like he weighs literally nothing

etoiles pinning one of phil's wing-arms behind his back like its no big deal

etoiles ripping out some of phil's feathers during one of their play fights and phil freezing mid-thrash just to shoot him the flattest, most offended look to ever come from a non-human creature

phil accidentally going too far and ripping up etoiles' shoulder and phil just becoming the biggest, most whimpery apologetic mass of feathers and spikes as etoiles pats his beak and tells him it's no problem, it doesn't even hurt that bad (and phil just wails louder)

both of them nudging/bugging/poking each other when they're bored to goad the other into a play fight, with varying degrees of success

[brucewaynehater101]

Read a fanfic a while ago where Red Robin gets Surgeoned by (OC? Canon? Idk) the villain The Surgeon to have wings that are hinted to work

Now imagine this; Everybody in the Batfamily has bat and bird wings and bat and bird instincts, minutes the token human Timmy

And Tim suddenly has wings thanks to a villain Playing Doctor + God and the Batfamily's bat/bird brains are going crazy going stupid because one of their flock members has wings now!!

Except Tim got wings, and nothing more.

Tim doesn't have the instincts to act as a bird should, he can act, he can pretend, but it can only go so far

He doesn't have any other traits of a bird person, be it Talons, feather sin his hair, natural chirping, etc

He can register that hey, his wings will need to preened but his subconscious doesn't register the gravity unhealthy wings can have

Furthermore energy and blood flow and more has to go into maintaining those wings like he rest of his body. The Surgeon gave him wings and wings only, no other modifications.

Tim's body is only equipped to maintain a human body not a human body with wings

He has to eat for more body mass and feathers and bird bones than his body is made for and—

Yeah Tim is not having a good time and nor is the rest of the family

There's probably ideas I've missed

Feel free but not pressured to expands/explore/etc with this idea as you wish

Hmm... All of the batfam members? I do think it could be interesting if Alfred was human too. This could be a representation of the emotional disconnect he often displayed throughout Bruce's childhood. Not only does Alfred employ a professional distance between him and his charge, but he doesn't understand the instincts (and overwhelming needs).

Besides that, this is a super interesting concept! I love the idea that the instincts the Bats have support their ability to take care of themselves and their wings. I bet finding flock members is part of that end goal. I'm also curious about the dynamics pre-wing transition.

So Tim, as the token human, has never felt any of the flock needs that the others do. Since he's human, would their instinct be similar to a human's adoption tendencies for cute animals? Would Tim treat it as a cultural difference? Like, Tim gets invited to cuddle in the nest, something he doesn't feel the need for and has never done himself, so he politely declines at first. From what he knows (and has researched about hybrid cultural needs, behaviors, traditions, etc.), this is a ritual done with close loved ones.

When does he get invited to the first one, and who invites him? I don't see Bruce, who is at first pushing Tim away, as the one to invite him. Because it is such an intimate moment, it would take Dick awhile too. Even if he saw Tim as a brother, the difference in species, instincts, the grief of just losing a brother, and living in a different city (meaning less quality time over a period of time) probably combined to Dick needing a while before his bird brain could allow it.

I like to imagine maybe Cass, who has less notions about safe flock connections (aka not imprinting on people immediately), saw Tim and immediately invited him to the nest. It's a small point of contention for Dick cause he's been trying the entire time to work up to it (by combing Tim's hair, offering him small gifts, showing his back [a lot to the point Tim becomes concerned] to the younger one, and offering customary greetings in chirps). Dick has been putting in the effort, and then Cass's instincts immediately grab onto Tim.

Tim being human could also explain some of the tension between him with Damian and Jason. Bruce was already breaking some of the typical hybrid standards of conduct by mixing hybrid of different types (prey birds, bats, predator birds, etc.). Then Bruce just throws in a human and claims he's flock despite him not having the instincts at all.

I also love the symbolism of Tim being considered an outskirts member (as maybe not truly apart of the family) until right before he gets his wings. I think we can tie Jason into this as well (like maybe his death fucked with his wings and/or instincts. As he slowly gets integrated into the flock again, he starts to heal or get those instincts back).

Basically, everything is settling down with the batfam dynamics. Then Tim gets his wings.

It's symbolic of him finally feeling accepted in the family, but it also fucks him over. The others see him as a hybrid, their instincts are desperately reaching out, and they unintentionally feel hurt because Tim doesn't reciprocate. Tim is trying, by the gods is he trying to deal with everything new, but he just doesn't have those instincts.

Thus, the family has to rework through their dynamics as the hybrids battle their instincts and Tim has a mental breakdown about his identity.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Azriel x reader: Teeth and Talons - Part 6[*]

A/N: demon!Azriel just rubs me right. Also I’ve had this idea for this chapter for a little under a month by now so I decided to finally put pen to paper!

Warnings: handjob, a bit of oral (m receiving), smut, fingering, mosterfucking, kind of exhibitionism?, blood-drinking

-Part 5- -Part 7-

Azriel nearly groans when he opens his eyes.

He was gifted a few precious hours of sleep, having found the drop itself quite difficult. To a level that even his meticulous breathing cycles found it tiresome to deal with. And now he’s awake again, and his trouble is right before him.

You’re lying neatly on your stomach, blankets pooled around your waist while your arms hug the plump pillow beneath you. Your eyelids are slightly puffy from sleep, your lips smooth and—

The need thrums beneath his skin, instincts roaring at him to flip you on your back and slam inside, rut into you to relieve the incessant itch beneath his skin. You’re the bane of his existence in that moment. The perfect image of taunting purity, robed in white—he’d found it humorous at the time of giving them to you, knowing how quickly you’d be defiled—features peaceful, breathing even and deep.

He has to steady himself when you shift, sending a wave of your scent over to him. He wonders for a moment what you’re dreaming about; you seem like someone who dreams.

He hadn’t shifted last night. Had worried the need would be too unbearable—his instincts becoming a screaming tangle of curses and pleas inside his head, far too loud for him to manage sleep. Even if he knows you like it when he does. Which is vaguely amusing.

You act so prim and proper in almost every way. Even when he’s been inside of you, drawing those unholy sounds from your throat… And yet you seem to enjoy him the more dæmonic he is. He’ll often wake to find you curled against his side, back pressing into him with a pillow clutched to your front, between your thighs. It’s possibly the most unguarded you’ve been around him.

It’s as if his thoughts summon you awake, eyes peeking open, almost instantly latching onto his own. As if sensing that silent bond between you—even if, as a human, there’s no way for you to know.

“Hungry, Azriel?”

He growls low in his throat as he snaps his talons back in—having protruded while he was thinking about you, about your heat: being inside it, lapping over it, coming on it. He wants your mouth on him.

He needs to feel that pleasure.

You watch him quietly. On edge.

His eyes are fully black, which isn’t usually a good sign. And you would never admit it to him, but the dream you’d had was one of your more…lewd ones. That may or may not have involved him in some manner. Maybe concerning your shared trip to that river about a week ago. How he’d…

His nostrils flare, body stiffening, canines twitching, as if debating sliding out further but being kept in. You force yourself to swallow; calm yourself. “I am. What’s for breakfast today?”

Azriel’s blacked-out eyes stay locked on you as he rolls onto his front with beastly grace, muscles rippling with the smooth movement. This time, it’s you who tenses up. He prowls forward, and you have enough sense to keep still. You feel like any sort of movement will send him into fluid motion—whatever that motion is.

You stiffen, heart rate spiking, as his hand lands on your shoulder, ordering you to roll over. You silently debate disobeying him, pushing to keep still—you shouldn’t allow him to push you around like this. But when he gives another gentle wave of pressure, that’s firm enough you don’t think it wise, you follow him.

His hand goes with you as you’re turned onto your back; you suddenly feel cold on your front.

“Azriel?” You murmur, attempting to keep your voice level.

It’s as if his eyes have somehow become darker. They’re piercing into you, moving to be atop your body and traitorous heat starts gathering in your lower belly. He’s moving with that lethal grace of his, caging you in as he lowers himself to your neck and you’re certain he can hear your heart pounding.

Your breath hitches as he noses at your throat, scenting you. You wring your fingers together across your waist nervously as he takes you in, his heat practically melting into you.

His grip tightens on you, and you inhale sharply as his tongue presses against the side of your neck, dragging upwards slowly—so slowly. It’s lazy—leisurely. He’s taking his time…

No.

He’s savouring you.

When his canines scrape over your throat, your hands twitch, considering the merits of pushing him away. But he nudges your legs apart, and you flush, heart pounding wildly in your chest. “Azriel…” Something like a rough purr sounds, reverberating into you—deep and raw.

“Azriel…” you repeat, setting your hands on his upper arms. “Azriel, stop.” He growls slowly, barely raising his head as he opens his mouth over your neck, canines beginning to press in against the soft skin.

You try to squirm away, hands now pushing against his chest but he doesn’t budge. You begin to panic. You don’t know how dæmons work, whether they truly thrive off sin—maybe he needs this from you? Your teeth find your lower lip and you turn it over in your mind. Maybe if you give him a bit, it’ll help relieve some of the strain. You don’t think the gods will be angry if it’s done out of a will to help.

So you relax, arms snaking over his shoulders, fingers tangling in his hair and he groans, his hips rolling into your own.

“Just a little,” you murmur. “You can have a little…just to help.”

He snarls at the permission, arms wrapping beneath your waist, forcing you to arch into him, head falling back on the bed as you bare your throat—eyes wide at the abrupt movement. Then he’s biting, marking you with the print of his teeth, nipping and sucking. His hips buck against you, and you can feel him pawing at your night robe, shoving it out of the way and—

You gasp as you feel him against your bare heat, the hard length of him rubbing against your slick.

You shove away from him, trying to scramble back, but he snarls, lips curling back from his fangs. “Azriel,” you plead, “stop it. I don’t want this. Please, stop…” He doesn’t.

Instead he pulls back, forcing your legs apart as he slots himself between them, the tip of his cock pressing into the soft dip between your thighs. Fear pours through your blood as he prepares to push in.

You don’t let him, shoving your hand between your bodies, gripping him tightly.

He gasps, eyes widening as he stares at you. You’ve never taken him so tremendously by surprise before. He’s off kilter.

You shuffle away, shoving at his shoulder but keeping your hand wrapped around him, until you’re both on your knees before one another. He growls, beginning to reach for you but you shift your hand and he inhales deeply, gaze remaining on yours.

And suddenly you have power. Suddenly, you’re in control. And it feels good. Is this what he feels like? This heady, crackling undercurrent of untapped energy?

“Show me,” you stammer. “Show me what to do.”

His skin is buzzing with lightening. Thrumming with an incessant pull.

You’ve got your hand around him. You’re touching him. You’re doing the initiating. He wonders if this is what it’s felt like for you whenever he’s started. But you’re still human, so maybe those senses are blocked off.

“I’ve never…”

You’re saying something, but he’s finding it difficult to focus.

“I’ve never really…helped, before. Not like this…”

Your heart is thumping in your chest, arousal coalescing between your thighs. He can scent how wet you are, how easy it would be to slide home. Settle into his nest.

“So tell me what you like,” he hears you stammer, “and I’ll do my best.”

A low growl sounds, and he realises it’s come from him. He hastily tucks his claws away, sealing them beneath the knuckles of his skin as he settles his hand over your smaller one. Much smaller. You struggle to grasp him.

His mind is going blank—relaying over and over that your hand is atop him.

He’s struggling to keep his composure beneath the humming pleasure.

“Azriel?” You manage, nervously.

He might be furious with you for taking such liberties. Maybe you should release him… But then you’d be giving up the power you’ve suddenly found over him.

Hesitantly, you squeeze him tighter, dragging your hand up until you’re grasping below his tip. Something milky looking has beaded at his slit, and you swipe the pad of your thumb over it. The creamy coloured liquid smears, and he hisses, trembling. You repeat the action, lowering your hand before raising up to his head again.

His eyes are still black as pitch, but colour is flushing his cheeks, breathing deeply as he begins guiding you. His gaze remains latched on yours the entire time. Up and down, down and up. Over and over. He squeezes, encouraging you to hold him brutally…what you would have thought was painfully. But he keeps going, and you’re too nervous—enraptured to stop. The twist of his wrist, how his hand fits around the length of him perfectly, the milky sheen at his tip. You wonder what it tastes like.

A heady flush warms your body, a kick of desire so strong that, for a second, you want to push him on the mattress and take him in your mouth. Like he’s done for you. Maybe it’s his own way of showing affection… Making you feel good in a way he knows will satisfy you. The thought hadn’t occurred to you before. You’ll ask about that, later. Maybe.

Azriel growls low in his throat, twitching beneath your soft palm. He’s panting, blood heating steadily as he gets closer and closer. Quicker than he would have liked, quicker than usual, but you feel so good. And you initiated. You wanted him. It would be enough to catalyse any male’s release.

He’s so close now. Just a bit more…

You know he’s near. You don’t know how, but you can sense it. Sense that edge rising up to greet him. His eyes are closed in pleasure, having fluttered shut moments ago. So he can’t see you. The thoughts flashing through your mind as you again peer at that slit in his head, licking your lips. Maybe just a bit. If it really is how he shows affections, then possibly… You don’t let yourself doubt. You lean downward, continuing with the movements.

Parting your lips ever so slightly, you press them just beneath the head of his cock. A strangled sound comes from his throat, and you can feel his eyes on you. But he twitches again, which must mean he likes it. When your tongue flicks out over his slit, he releases a snarl in warning. One that—were you his kind—you would have understood. But you’re painfully human before him, and don’t understand, delivering tentative laps to his head as he releases.

You squeeze your eyes shut, features heating with embarrassment and… You shiver, aching between your legs. You can feel exactly where the creamy liquid has landed, spurting onto you, dripping slowly over the crest of your cheeks. You bite your lip against the urge to moan, tucking the desire deep inside of you.

Pulling away, you manage to slip your hand out from beneath his. He’s still panting. Staring at you. The whites of his eyes visible. You probably look…You won’t finish that thought for him. But as you meet his gaze, you see the familiar hunger, the need to have you, and something flutters deep in your belly.

Your hand raises gingerly to where his come is dampening your cheek, finger catching it on their pads as you pull away to look at it. Slightly shimmery, milky in its colour, still hot. Your eyes flick to his as he watches you keenly, strain evident in his jaw as he hold himself back from…whatever wicked intentions he has. You don’t think about much else, only his release on the pads of your fingertips as you peer at him with stark curiosity.

“Is it…can I eat it?”

His head goes quiet, arousal thrumming like a war drum in his blood, singing at your words. He manages nothing more than a nod. He’s not one to pray to the gods, he knows they don’t listen to creatures like him, but if he were any other being, he thinks he may have fallen to his knees at the nearest temple.

You raise your fingers to your mouth. Tasting him.

He can do nothing besides watch. Totally bewitched. Enraptured and enchanted so thoroughly he questions your mortality. You hesitate, then scoop more from your cheeks, steadily cleansing yourself as you deposit each drop in your mouth, eyes closing shut in concentration, trying to mark his flavour.

It’s only when you lean forward, making to wrap your mouth around him that he’s spurred into action, gripping you gently by the shoulders as you peer up at him nervously. “Can I not…Do you not want me to?”

Gods damn him he wants you to. Wants it badly. So badly, but—

“Rest.” The word is rough, and surprises even him. “Go have breakfast. We’re going out.”

————

Had you done something wrong?

You would have expected him to want more…unless he didn’t enjoy it. For some reason, the thought doesn’t sit well with you. You should ask him, but how would one even go about prying like that…?

You sigh, and instead focus on your surroundings. It would be a waste not to seize the moment, especially when he seems to have actually attempted to do something for you. Something nice.

A cool summer breeze swishes through your hair, playing with the wisps that have escaped their binds, floating on the slow wind. The sun beats down on the rolling grassland, earth warm beneath your thin soled shoes, tempting you to remove them—as unkempt and errant as it would be. Despite your time with him, the experiences he’s served to you whether aware of it or not, you still have a modicum of womanly restraint within, and will not yield to the hedonistic ways of those religious zealots who claim the god’s favour. As much as you wish to run bare-footed, unbind your hair, frolic in the summer’s sun. Even if you’re burning with desire to leap and soar. Even if you know he would have no complaints. It’s not like he’s ever shown appreciation for human customs—quite the opposite. They seem to be nothing more than puerile hindrance.

A surge of wind crests through the knee-high grass, making your light cotton skirts billow in the breeze, whipping at your hair again, tugging more of it free.

In the near-distance you can make out a forrest, trees bedecked with luscious green leaves, ranging from the lightest sea-foam green, to the deepest tyrian purple, to the reddest of burnt paprika. Carried on the breeze is the twittering of bird-song, the tweeting and whistling of those melodic voices that coast along the feathery clouds. Near the tops of the trees you can make out how some of the green leaves are already fading to raw sienna, readily yielding to the crisp touches of autumn.

From the crest of the hillock you peer down the side that’s bathed in buttery sunlight, lush moss coating the outcroppings of rock that would normally be dangerous to bare-footed folk. At the base of the small hill you can spot a splattering of colour—wild blues that border on indigo, blossoms that are too smooth a blend of orange and red, like bursts of vermillion, small buttercups dotting between shoots of pale yellow and purest magenta.

The breath steals from your lungs as you take in the sheer beauty of the scape, noticing the brook that winds its way down the hillside, babbling with the breeze in a flurry of words your human ears can’t yet decipher. The sun has long since seeped into the very marrow of your bones, warming you as if you’re bathing in a heated pool of gilded water.

“This is…” How would you even begin? You’ve never seen a sight like this, too accustomed to the burning sting of dust and the drying-out crust of sand as it whips and nicks at exposed skin. A landscape like this…it makes you breathless. Deprives you of words and thought. Just the billowing clouds dancing over the grassland, temperate and perfectly lovely.

“I couldn’t in my wildest dreams create a place like this…” you manage hoarsely. You turn to look up at him, “are we even in the human realm, or is this place blessed with divinity?” His eyes narrow at you, “if you’re asking whether or not we’re permitted to be here…” Your throat closes up. “I was not asking that. I did not think even one of you would dare set foot on holy grounds.” He rolls his eyes, and you stiffen. “Would you…?”

This time he snorts, descending the slope of the hill, moving toward its base.

“Azriel?” You ask, but he keeps to his fluid movement. “Azriel!” You repeat shakily, stumbling after him until you reach his side and step in front of him—not your wisest choice. But all he gives you is a rueful little smile, and vanishes—to appear behind you. He continues walking even as you twirl on your feet. You’re rooted to the spot. You can’t be here. You’re mortal, and if these truly are the holy grounds, then…

“Take me back.”

He smiles to himself internally before turning, features neutral as he takes in your stand of defiance. “Take me back right now.” Again, he offers that smarmy, little grin, “I didn’t say we were in your so-called holy lands.”

“Azriel,” you murmur, eyes wide with sincere fear, voice lowering, “tell me you would not.”

You sound desperate, as if it would be such an awful thing for a mortal to enter the ‘blessed lands’ of the gods, he thinks. “Your soul will not be forsaken, despite what your tampered-with scriptures proclaim,” he replies smoothly, watching keenly. You pause, then “that’s not what I asked.” He bites back a smile at your misplaced terror. Oh, how he would delight in taunting you further! How many ways could he deceive you with your limited and mostly incorrect knowledge of the gods? How he will laugh when you begin to discover their truths.

Instead he speaks calmly, if a bit coldly, “you are indeed in the mortal-labeled holy lands. But as I have already said, your soul will not be forsaken nor damned, nor will you rot alongside the Underking. As much as your liar- priests and priestess’ love to profess it as truth.” Your eyes widen at his bold claims, the brazen statements he’s making. “You understand the severity of heathenism, don’t you? To make claims such as yours…to make assertions like that will damn you to hell.”

He doesn’t remind you of your belief that he’s forced you to reside with him in hell. That would cause too many questions, and he quite likes knowing you won’t try to escape, if only for fear of what lies beyond the castle floor which he holds you in.

So he simply laughs at your fear-spurred actions. How many joys have you refused because of your misplaced faith? Never mind that, you’ll have plenty of time to live out whatever joys you wish to indulge in. You have a long life with him. He doesn’t dare consider potential complications with the Ritual.

“Your false scriptures claim that should a mortal man set foot on sacred lands, he will be struck down where he stands.” His eyes flick to the clear skies, not a thunder cloud in sight, “I see you’re still standing. By logic, they must be untruths.”

Your lips purse, but you remain rooted to the ground, refusing to take another step. Good.

His lips lift in a feral grin as he stalks toward you until you’re cast in shadow, wings flaring, “you refuse to move forward?” He asks, eyes gleaming with sinister promise. Just aching to rip into you, you think. But he is his own kind, and has been designed to lure humans like you to break the laws of your religion, to seduce you into failure and destruction, brought about by the hubristic nature of mankind. The kind you refuse to bow to. Even if he can shred you apart, you will trust in your gods—they have never failed you.

They’d never failed you until that night you’d been dumped in the forrest, bound and left for the beasts to fight over.

Then again when you’d been stolen.

Then again when you’d been dumped in that frozen wasteland, a new side of Hell.

Maybe they have abandoned you. Maybe you were supposed to die that night, yet he’d come swiftly in their place to fill the void the holy creatures had left when they deemed your time to be up.

But those are sweeping assumptions you’re jumping to. Maybe this is their way of testing you, to see if you’re worthy of those Elysian Fields, where only the bravest and noblest of souls may rest. A step above Heaven.

There must be a step below Hell, too.

The thought doesn’t sit well with you.

“I will not be coerced into failing my gods,” you reply firmly, planting yourself stably into the grassland, “I trust in their power, and their words. If they told me to leave my homeland and travel, I would follow obediently, without question or hesitation.”

“And what if one told you to obey me?” He asks mildly, teeth flashing in an animalistic grin that sets your hairs raising. He’s pleased when you falter on your self-righteous proclamations. “They wouldn’t do that.”

“Humour me.”

Your brows narrow as you peer up at him, arms folding over the front of your creamy coloured dress. What trick is he up to now? “I don’t think you know the meaning of the word,” you shoot back instead. Unsettlingly, you think his lips twitch in a smile. Unsettling indeed.

He looks down on you in that judgemental way of his—like he knows every thought that passes through your mind. It doesn’t make you laugh as you had expected. Instead, a strange sense of unease floats across your chest. You wouldn’t like if he could just peer inside of you. But you know so little about his kind’s powers.

“So you would disobey your oh-so-dear gods if their requests did not align with your own sense of right and wrong?” He asks, amusement dancing in his charcoal gaze. Charcoal—not hazel. “They wouldn’t do that,” you repeat again.

He merely shakes his head, “you are blinded by your misguided faith.”

“That misguided faith as you so brazenly call it is what will separate us in the afterlife, Azriel.”

He laughs. It’s cold and heartless. “And what have I done to make you believe I deserve those silver flames? What makes you believe death will claim me—or any of my kind?” He questions, something honed and merciless glittering in his eyes. “You are what you are. Death will claim all of us. Only the Mother is beyond its cold clutches. Even gods yield before that carver’s scythe.”

Darkness writhes around him, a stain marring the beautiful landscape. A smudge of evil amongst this sacred nest of divinity. A wolf in a children’s nursery.

“Careful,” he warns, smiling vaguely, “you’re starting to sound like one of those heathens you so despise.”

“My words are not an affront to the deities. I recite what is written in our holy books,” you defend, even if a shiver spider walks down your spine at his accusation. Men had been turned to candle-wicks for less. “You speak of the death of a god. Such a thing is not taken lightly.”

“Is that a drop of reverence I detect? I thought you had a particular distain for those divine beings,” you reply, staring up a him with half-wild eyes. You will not be pushed from your faith. You will not waiver or tremble.

“I find myself quite close with one of those divine beings,” he drawls, watching as you flinch, trying to sort whether he’s telling a truth or attempting to deceive you, “and I do not think he would be pleased to hear someone—a mortal, no less—discussing his eventual ending.”

Your blood runs cold beneath the blazing sun, leaving a sense of nothingness in the absence of your life’s heat. “I don’t believe you.” But even to your ears it lacks the bite it needs. The unyielding conviction you had spoken with before.

But instead of pouncing on the obvious soft spot, he takes a different approach, returning to the conversation that had started the heated debate. “Your belief aside, you think I would put you in a position of danger? You seem to be in possession of a somewhat sound mind. You should understand I do not wish to have a corpse for a bride. Or a wife. Even I could not reach you once you passed over. I believe you would make a rather dull accomplice.”

The chill deepens, but you raise your chin, staring him down. “I will not take another step. These are sacred lands not yet meant for me.”

It seems to be the answer he was waiting for.

He grins, an animalistic flash of teeth and fangs and then he—vanishes.

You feel the shift deep within your bones. Somehow the veil between your beings has thinned—maybe the holy grounds play a hand in it. Either way, you’re caught off guard as his snout shoves beneath your legs, making them buckle as you’re tossed high into the summer’s air, enough to make you breathless.

And then you’re plummeting back down, landing atop a powerful back, corded with beastly muscle that shifts and ripples with languid grace as his wings snap open, flaring as he moves to shoot high into the heavens, you still seated atop him.

“Azriel!” You gasp, enough sense about you to dig your hands into the thick fur at the meeting point of the tip of his spine with the slope of his nape with the broad width of his shoulders. And the very breath whooshes from your lungs as you’re launched high into the blue as those great wings snap downward, capturing the wind beneath them as you soar to the clouds.

You grip tight, hauling your body flat against him as the wind beats at you, accompanied by the thunderous booming of his wings as they propel him higher and higher—

Those are clouds he’s coasting. Clouds he’s surfing up and over and around. He reaches the base of one, spiralling upward in a tight circle, cutting at its edge as he flies, soars further and further and then he’s at its peak. A wide expanse of pale blue lies before you and your stomach lurches as he begins the deadly plummet.

“Azriel!” You scream, words snatched away by the wind as his wings tuck in. Your heart rate spikes, thundering like an echo of the leathery beat that had pulled you so far from the safety of land and earth. Blood rushes in your ears, pounding through your body with wild intent and he plunges.

The earth is so small beneath you, and you’re unable to pick out the hill you came from as he dives—mostly because you refuse to look. Your eyes would probably tear up anyway. Then you become aware of the weakness of the wind, how the cold is no longer biting at the skin of your calves, catching in the pools of your dress. But he’s dropping—you can feel it in the spasming of your thighs as the end rushes up to greet you.

You clutch tighter to him, nestling into the heat of his silky fur and you pray. Pray to every god you know. To the Mother, to your parents, to the king, to every force you have comprehension of that he’ll pull up.

Blood pounds and you feel yourself losing grip. Silver lines your eyes as you’re dragged down through the atmosphere—a millstone dropped into the ocean of skies, plummeting, sinking, dragging you to its depths. You’ll splatter. Faced with your own mortality.

“Pull up,” you mutter under your breath, not even a whisper. Your stomach spasms with the plunge, the effort of keeping yourself intact. “Pull up,” you beg quietly, hands trembling as you fall, the hill coming into sight—the mossy outcroppings, the splatter of wildflowers, the babble of the brook. “PULL UP!” You scream at him, tugging at his fur because one more second and it’ll be too late.

His wings snap open, catching the wind beneath them, leathery skin going taut but holding. You’re jerked on his back, grip being shaken free, and you lurch, as if about to be sent careening from his back to plummet the rest of the way. But shadows snake over your thighs, hug your waist, fastening you to him as he evens out, shooting across the grassy flatlands as he coasts the green sea.

He’s so close to the ground; you’re certain should he wish it, his talons could till the earth. He’s going so fast, hurtling through the open fields, moving with lethal motion, propelled forward by the powerful, beating muscle that binds his wings. Colour blurs by as you pass over dotted patches of wildflowers, leaving only gusts of wind in your wake, crystal-like water spraying to a fine mist as he shoots across a stream.

A laugh—young and wild and reckless—bursts from your throat. His shadows wrap slightly tighter as your grip loosens on him, allowing you to sit upright—that shield that he’s put in place blocking you from the air that would surely knock you clean from his back.

The caged woman inside of you breaks free, tasting the wind and the air and seeing the vivid whirls of colour, smelling the freshness of green grass, the crispness to the summer breeze, edged with the floral sweetness of wildflowers and the earthy tones of the forrest. Everything around you is alive, humming with unspoken life, moving to that unheard melody that keeps the harmony in nature.

You want to bathe in it. To unbind your hair, tear your shoes from your feet and throw your arms to the wind. You want to dance through the clouds as he does, want to shred the dress from your body if only so the essence of the world can fill you up, to shower your senses in the force of nature. Feel the heated grass between your toes, rinse your skin in the crisp and clear water from the spring, roll down the grassy slopes and sleep in the wildflowers.

You sit upright, and raise your hands from his fur, letting the weightless spiralling feeling grip your soul, feeling the billowing air breezing by. Joyous laughter spills from your lips, bright and sun-filled as you allow yourself to forget—just for a moment—about the world you come from. Forget about being a proper woman, forget about duties of piety, of obligations to honour your household. Instead, you exist. You are. You be. It’s wondrous.

More, more, more—

His wings flare, pulling him to a glide downwards, flapping as he lands smoothly on the grassland, not too far from your take-off point.

What?

“What are you doing?” You ask breathlessly. “Why are you stopping? Go again,” you push, but he remains grounded. “Azriel?” You question pleadingly. You want to go again. To soar higher and higher until the air is stolen from your lungs. To make the drop again and again. To feel the lurch of the world beneath you. To have the earth ripped from your feet.

But he shakes his shoulders in a gesture you take to mean get off.

“Just once more,” you breathe, fingers tightening in his fur as you lean closer to him, “one more ride. Please.” His head cocks, tilting to the side, eye curving round to see you on his back. What will you do for me?

Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline thumping in your blood. So many bargains, so many deals. Always one thing in return for another. But you need that high again. He’s given you a taste of the summer winds, how pure the air can be, how the world can tip as you dive and you need it again. Need to feel that insignificance—the unity with something greater.

So you make a reckless decision.

Your lips pull back from your teeth in a feral smile—one he’s given you before—then you’re swinging your leg over his shoulder, sliding down his silky fur as you drop to the mossy grass: spongey and soft. You turn to look at him, almost trembling with energy, sparking at the seems with inherent need and vivacious life.

As soon as your feet touch the ground he’s shifted, and you don’t allow yourself to fear him—only think of the skies and the clouds and that drop. You grab him by the hand, grin still splitting your lips as the sun shimmers in your eyes. You turn, tugging him along, moving as quick as you can as you drag him over to one of those patches of splattered colour, a section of wildflowers.

“You want me, don’t you?” You breathe, peering up into his dark eyes, writhing with darkness and malevolence and—hunger.

No second guessing, no room for doubt, you turn and step into him, hands snaking up his chest as you press against his body. He leans into you, arms wrapping around your waist as he pulls you tight against him, taking in your scent as he growls—half beast. “You’ll let me bed you in a field?” He asks, a taunting undertone to his low drawl.

You don’t let his words summon that flicker of shame as you shake your head. You look him in the eyes, peering up at him as his heat seeps into you—warm despite the chilly upper airs. “Lie down.”

His pulse stumbles at your words. Your command. The feral wildness reflected in your gaze. He can hear the thrumming of your heart against your ribs, how it’s pounding in your chest with a need to be free. “Lie down, Azriel,” you repeat, hands tightening on him with need. Barely hiding his reluctance, he settles in the grass, watching you silently for your next move.

That melody is still living inside of you, strumming your heartstrings; playing on your ribs, but it’s fading. You need to hear its symphony again, that cluster of chords that will make you feel the fire of life. You straddle his thighs, fingers working deftly on his ties to set him free and you hear his breath catch at your intent. Then a rough laugh sounds in the back of his throat, wetness gathering between your thighs in response. “You want to have it here?” He growls lowly, eyes piercing into you.

“Yes,” you breathe, gripping him in your hands.

He doesn’t get much warning as your mouth descends on him, tongue lapping over his head as you had wanted to do this morning, wet heat encasing him. He hisses an inhale at the sudden sensation, taloned hands fisting at his side as he feels blood drain from his head with such dizzying speed.

You’re tempted to keep licking at him, but you’re aching, and want to feel the wind on your skin as you ride him. It feels good, like there’s a greater current tugging you toward him, urging you on in your movements. It feels right.

So you scramble up his body, mouth opening over his own as you slant your lips against him. A sound rumbles in his chest as his hands grip your hips brutally. Your own hands drop to the hem of his leathers, pushing and pawing in attempts to remove his top as you moan against him, letting your heart-beat guide you to what you want.

“Azriel,” you pant between the flashes of teeth and the flicker of his tongue. You again grope at his shirt, pushing it up and he finally follows, removing it and you take him in, mouth practically watering as you actually take him in. Every scar, every swirl of ink, whorls of shadow decorating his skin with ancient marks that beckon and call to be licked and inspected.

“You’re look at me as if you haven’t eaten in days,” he purrs darkly and you can feel him against your thigh. Something fractures inside of you, splitting down your spine and lashing at the inside of your skin, flaying you raw with need so great it threatens to obliterate you.

He senses it, the war drums inside, sitting upright as he grabs you roughly, your arms snaking over his shoulders. You moan when he kisses you, a deep, wanton sound. Your hips roll, pressing against him and he groans at your desperation—for him. Thoughts begin to eddy from his mind as primal need slowly seeps through him, weakening his restraint.

To his surprise, you lift your dress, pushing aside your underwear as your fingers find your pleasure-centre. The loudest moan yet spills into his mouth and he swallows it greedily, hand tangling in your hair as the wind whips around you, sun still high in the sky. Two fingers press inside, and you curl them. You know you need to prepare yourself for him. He was gentle before—or you were ready for him. But this time you’re taking him of your own accord, and you need to be fully equipped to deal with him.

Your breath catches when one of his hands slides possessively down the curve of your back, squeezing your ass before slipping beneath your dress. Talons scrape menacingly against the soft skin of your inner thighs and you whimper with pleasure. His claws retract and the air is pushed from your lungs as you feel one of his fingers join your own. “Azriel…”

He growls over your mouth, tongue flicking your roof as his grip tightens in your hair, drawing more pleasing sounds from you for him to devour. “Is this why you prefer your dresses? For ease of access?” He manages between breaths. “Yes,” you pant, his fingers curling inside of you. He doesn’t believe for a second you’re actually paying attention to what he’s saying, but it sends an overpowering wave of fire lighting his spine regardless.

“Yeah?” He chuckles as you roll your hips against him, getting wetter by the second—he can feel it. Feel you. “You want me to start taking you whenever I want?” He growls, mouth leaving yours as his teeth graze your neck. Your breath catches, one hand tangling in his hair as you tilt your head to the side with primal need, “bite me.”

He snarls, pupils dilating at the whispered command. He follows obediently, fangs scraping over the scars, before sinking down. You whimper, gripping him tighter as he laps at your life that spills on his tongue, drinking down every damned drop he can before his saliva seals you away again. He’s tempted to take another bite.

But you’re tugging at him, and your mouth opens over his, the metallic flavour coating your tongue as you taste him. Then you’re pulling back, taking your fingers from between your legs, too—more room for his own that he presses inside. A groan drags from his throat as you push your fingers between his lips, whimpering as his tongue laps at your flavour, heat raising to his skin as he stares you down, the wet muscle in his mouth flicking and twining over and between your digits as he sucks that taste from them.

“Do it,” he growls, retracting his hand from between your thighs, guiding his tip to your entrance. You pant breathlessly, settling your weight over his head and you know you can just sink down and have him inside of you filling you up making you spill—

“Azriel,” you cry, burying your face in his neck, teeth pushing at his skin desperately, “Azriel…” You repeat his name again and again, chanting it as if it were an ancient spell to relieve you of pain and bless you with unending joy and life. Over and over you say his name as a scared mantra, whimpering and whispering it against his skin with aching reverence. Lower and lower, inch by inch, until you’re sat in his lap and the world spins.

You remain still, basking in the fullness, bursting with energy. Your hips wind softly over his, and you hiss at the pleasure, white spots dancing in your vision like feathers or blossoms on the breeze. Your nails press again his tough skin, raking at his back as you lift, then slide down.

More. You need more. You need that symphony to sing to your bones, need to melt into him, break under him, yield and reforge into molten pleasure until your screams turn to song.

Your hands find the hem of your cotton dress as you pull away. Then you’re tugging it up over your hips, over your stomach, over your breasts, throwing it to the grassy floor. Press against him, bare skin on skin, heat and life and beauty flowing freely between you but you need more.

You guide his hands to your hips, hooking his fingers beneath the cream fabric. His talons slice without you having to ask, and you pull it away, kicking off your shoes and toeing off your socks until you’re completely bare.

Tears brim at your lashes at the feeling, of being utterly naked to the world. You can feel the heated grass beneath your shins, the wildflowers caressing your skin, the sun beating down on your form, the summer air—crisp and clean—filling your lungs. And him. Him filling you from within, filling you until you’re about to burst, laying upon you gift after gift of experiences. So many you would never have touched had he not stolen you away.

You manage to raise yourself from his lap—then sink down, settling yourself on his cock. You moan, loud and unrestrained. One hand raises from your hip to cup your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your lashes, pushing away the dampness. You’re not sure if you’re anymore capable of movement. Of breath, of thought, of anything other than being entirely with him. Of being entirely his. With every bone, every breath, every thought. If it’s all his, will it ever be enough?

His hips buck and a silent moan spills from your lips, cock touching a sensitive spot that has you finally spurring into action because you want more and more and more and it isn’t enough. You raise up, and drop down, pushing him deeper inside of you, so deep you’re winded from the fullness.

“Azriel,” you whisper over his lips, tipping your head upward as you wind over him, finding your pleasure in his body, “Azriel, please.” You need him in that way of his, need him to obliterate you. Your nails claw at him, grazing the base of his wings and he hisses. Repeat it, gentler. He groans. More pleasure.

“Azriel,” you beg again.

He pulls back to look at you, something raw in his eyes, “what?”

“Shift.”

His head goes quiet, almost silent, and there’s nothing left in him to resist your request. His features sharpen, fangs protruding beneath his lips, eyes slitting to slivers of darkness then his iris’ turn black, swallowing the whites. Talons push from his knuckles, thick fur dusting his abdomen and then—

Your back arches, curving up into him as you cling on desperately. His cock shifts, expanding below the head to rub against that spot inside of you, to drag against it whenever he—yeah. That’s it. Your eyes have gone wide and glazed, winding over him with fluid ease, as if you’re following some innate rhythm inside of you that’s perfectly synchronised with his roar of harmonies.

“A little more,” you breathe, staring up at him, “just a bit more, Azriel.” He shifts further, fur raising to his stomach, finger merging to form three-toed paws, accented with razor sharp claws. His cock grows inside of you, swelling, and you think you could die. Right there. You could be peaceful. So happy and content.

He grips your hips, urging you to move, to find your pleasure. To give him his own, too. But you can hardly move with the sheer size of him, one shift of your body will likely send you— He lifts you up and slams you down. You scream, gripping onto him as your hips buck wildly, and he’s pounding into you, canines scraping and nipping to deliver that edge of pain that has stars and moons colliding in sprays of silver and gold inside of you.

He keeps going, raising your hips and slamming you down and the breath is knocked from your body as you free-fall through ecstasy.

And you shatter.

He feels you fluttering around him, clamping down and he can’t help himself—his teeth sink again into your skin. Bursts of lightening buzz beneath your skin as pleasure sings to your blood, sparking and fracturing and welding and reforming. Heaven spills on his tongue, finest ambrosia put to shame as he’s swallowed by his senses. Indulging in your divine decadence until he’s lost what he is.

It takes minutes for the both of you to come back down from the highs you’d flown to. To glide back down and fully settle takes longer, and when you’re finally able to crack your eyes open, and push up from his body to meet his gaze, you’re not quite sure what to do.

Something changed. You’d been working in tandem, flowing from the same beginning to the same end, blending at some point as you blurred and melted.

You barely manage the energy to pull back a little, to put some space between your bodies so you can peer down. You’re startled by the sight of the bump in your lower abdomen. He just watches quietly as you lower your palm to it and press curiously. Both of you hiss as you press his cock against you through your skin. He’s so big. So big you can see his mark from the outside. How full did he make you?

“I…” You rasp, but don’t know what to say. Instead his eyes gleam, though there’s still something raw in those dark hazel depths, “still want that ride?”

Both of suck in a sharp breath as you tighten around him at the kick of need in response to his double-edged question.

It takes a while before you’re able to ease off him, and you feel empty once you’ve slid out of his lap. Empty enough you’re tempted to scrap the ride through the skies and instead hop back on top of him.

He probably wouldn’t mind.

But instead you manage to make it to a stream, both of you bathing in the waters. You dry off quickly in the sun—even if small blades of grass litter your body. With a little reluctance, you re-adorn yourself in your crumpled cotton dress, though your underwear is done for. You attempt to tie the sliced pieces together over your hips, but Azriel only re-slices them once you’ve managed. You can’t tell whether it was accidental or intentional on his part.

The ride isn’t as intense as the first, both of you seemingly in need of something soothing and calming to replenish yourselves with after the frenzied coupling.

The winds are still pleasant, the weather delightfully temperate, and he flies until your stomach growls in protest. You would have asked him to fly more, if you hadn’t thought maybe he might be in need of food as well.

So you spend the afternoon lazing in dappled shade, gorging on berries and weaving wildflowers—you haven’t done so since you were a child, and take great joy in seeking out the colours and stems you want.

Azriel lazes at your back, shifted into a four-pawed form to settle at the base of a towering oak. He keeps his eyes shut, but you get the feeling he’s watching silently as he always seems to do for you.

It’s only when you approach him gingerly from the front that he cracks his eyes open. His large head raises from the sun-warmed earth, peering down at you with a blacked-out gaze. His attention runs over you, going from the crown of your head—where a corona of flowers sits woven into your hair—to your still-bare feet.

Hesitantly, you hold up the circlet of wildflowers, beginning to approach. He growls lowly when you set it on his snout—unable to reach his brow. With a heavy huff of air, he blows the small crown up high, letting his shadows guide it lower to rest atop your own wreathed head.

You blink, touching the crown inquisitively. He waits for you to kick up a fuss, to start crying or to stomp away, but you stay where you are for a moment, watching him warily—as you should. Then walk away.

His eyes close, settling his large maw down atop his paws until he feels a small weight press into his side. Shadows swirl to find you dosing against him, the sinking sun bathing you in orange light as you press into his side with a yawn. The second crown tilts slightly as your eyes close, head tipping to the side. You continue slumping until you’re laying flat against the ground, still nestled to his side as you usually do when sleeping.

It’s somehow good to know that behaviour isn’t limited to when you think he’s unaware. It’s good to know you’re settling into some more animalistic habits. Hopefully when the Ceremony comes, it won’t be too demanding of a change.

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020

[bubblybloob]

I hope this is the final part of this weird thing I’ve made. Originally based on this art post and then expanded in this short write and followed up by another art post

Edit: I linked them incorrectly, shit. I’m not fixing it, deal with it

Now we’re here

It would be incorrect to say Hero was angry, because he wasn’t, he was furious.

It took only a few hours for Cheated to sound the alarm when he couldn’t find Paranoid. Then Contrarian pointed out that Broken wasn’t around either and everyone’s concern doubled.

Paranoid being missing was one thing, at worst he passed out from exhaustion somewhere they hadn’t thought to check, now Broken being missing meant he might be trying to hurt himself.

Everyone was rushing around, Hero remembered hearing the utter storm of swears from Cheated as Smitten tried to calm him. Stubborn irately stomped about as he called out for their two missing members, and Skeptic was pulling an indifferent Cold to his feet to get him moving. Contrarian muttered words of encouragement to Hero, who had placed his face in his hands, stressed.

Weirdly enough, Opportunist hung back, rubbing his talons together in a repeated, nervous motion. He only sprung to action once Cheated snapped at him a loud “Get moving!”

At one point they saw Hunted, who looked out of his element with the chaos surrounding him, he clutched a few bowls of food in his arms, feathers puffed out in mild alarm.

Contrarian perked up. “Hunted! I know you said you’d get all loopy during winter, and all of this usually makes you…” he gestured vaguely to the discord of avians running about. “…queasy, but do you think you could lend us a hand? You’ve got a strong sense of smell, yeah? Think you can sniff those voices out?”

Hunted curled in on himself, instead of responding he scuttled backward into the dim hallway where their rooms were.

“Strange, generally he’s pretty protective of us all, I thought he’d be the most active in this. The cold weather must really be getting to the guy.” Contrarian scratched the back of his neck, Hero hummed in agreement.

The search eventually expanded outwards of their home once they realized there was nowhere left for Broken or Paranoid to be inside, and then further out when they couldn’t find them in the front or backyard.

They eventually had to call it quits, as their energy left them, made quickly evident once Smitten conked out the second he hit the couch. They’d all have to give in and rest before continuing.

By then it was morning, Hero was rubbing his eyes, bloodshot and tired from the day spent running around, but too drowned in worry to rest. A twitchy Opportunist was wide awake, the bags under his eyes made it apparent he had also failed to find sleep. He was still twiddling his fingers away with hiked shoulders. Both sat against one of the couches in the lounge, where the others were strewn about, snoring away their sleepiness.

“Got knots in your neck?” Hero mumbled out, unconsciously pressing into the sore spots on his back, sighing with minor relief.

Opportunist jumped, ears pinned as he looked up at Hero. He was uncharacteristically anxious, or at least being more obvious about it, less able to put on his mask when wrung so thin.

“I- well yes, but no. That’s not why I’m so…”

“Tense?” Hero provided.

Opportunist sighed, “Yes, tense.”

“What’s up then? You can be honest with me.” For once, the bitter part of Hero’s mind thought. He waved it away.

“Oh! Well um-“ Opportunist looked back and forth, as if waiting for something to pounce on him. “I may have… kept something from everyone.”

Hero squinted, trying to see more than just the blurry shape of his fellow bird folk through his groggy vision. “Go on.”

Opportunist pursed his lip, looking nearly as jumpy as Paranoid, a far cry from his relaxed form. “Look I wanted to tell you guys, but Hunted caught me every time he left his room and glared so harshly I near convinced myself that beastly form of the princess was in front of me, it was like-“

“Hey, calm down!” Hero scooted forward, placing a reassuring hand on Opportunist’s shoulder. “She went with Quiet, remember? Now what’s this about Hunted?”

Opportunist forced himself to breathe in, Hero wondered if this is how he prepared himself to put his false act on. “You remember how Hunted said he was going to sleep most of the cold away?”

“Mmhm. What about it?”

“Well earlier today he started a rampage in the lounge, I asked him what he was looking for and he didn’t respond. I was about to go grab Stubborn or Smitten or maybe even you! To, you know, wrangle the guy under control. Obviously something was up and he wasn’t making a peep! Plus, I wasn’t really one for him tearing apart all of our furniture. However, I didn’t get the chance to before he lifts up the couch, and what do you know, there behind it is Paranoid!”

Hero blinks, brows slowly furrowing. “Say that again?”

“Paranoid was hiding behind the couch, from Hunted himself it seemed. Hunted throws the poor guy over his shoulder and scurries out of lounge, sending me the most chilling look when I tried to intervene.”

Hero blinks, slowly, vision clouding with red.

“But that’s not all! I go in his room to see what’s up, and Hunted’s… uh… nest thing, has two of the guys in it. I didn’t get to see all of their body behind his wings, and he basically pushes me out with his voice alone, but I think it’s them! I just uh- uh…” Opportunist slowly shrank under Hero’s gaze, never before, not even at the Narrator, had Hero been so vexed.

“Why didn’t you say anything?!” The sheer pointlessness of their search crashed onto him like the weight of a thousand bricks. All of the concern and confusion and cursing could’ve been so easily avoided if Opportunist had just said something, but the one time he doesn’t run his mouth is when-!

“Hey- hey! Look- I thought he’d go all creature like and start- well I don’t know, doing whatever creatures do. Like hissing or climbing on the ceiling!”

Hero resisted the urge to bury his fist in the frazzled bird’s beak and instead took a sharp breath. “You know what, no. I’m not going to be mad at you. I’m angry at you often enough as it is, I need to channel this newfound rage at the real problem here.”

Opportunist flinched as Hero stood up, before scrambling to his feet. “Yes! Do that! I’ll even come with you. I’m good at picking locks you see.” Hero didn’t even question it.

And all of that led to now. They came to Hunted’s door, Opportunist got on one of his knees and stuck a clawed talon into the keyhole. The second Opportunist was done, Hero burst through the door, glaring holes into the puffed up form of- “Hunted!”

The avian shot to his feet, his ire fixated on Hero’s. From the mound of what looked like randomly placed pillows and blankets out popped the heads of Paranoid and Broken. Hero couldn’t prevent the small wave of relief that hit him; after searching for hours and hours and assuming the worst, seeing the two alright made it feel like he could finally breathe again. They looked well preened, a sight Hero thought he’d never see on the two, yet somehow they looked more tired than Hero was. Paranoid squinted through the darkness and dazedly looked upon Hero and Opportunist.

“Guys…? That you?” He slurred, looking like he was about to fall over immediately after he sat up. Broken wasn’t fairing much better, his blinks slow and fluttering.

Hero turned his gaze back to the prickly, instinctual bird, who looked near ready to pounce.

“We’ve been worried sick looking for Paranoid and Broken for the past day and a half, only to learn from this one-!” he pointed and accusing finger at Opportunist, who let out a timid “Eheh, hey…”, at the attention, “-you’ve had them holed up in here!”

“Day and a half…?” Broken croaked out, voice layered in sleep.

“It can’t have been that long… right? All I remember is being led to and from the bathroom, like a… a royal and his guard.” Paranoid provides, trying and failing to rub the drowsiness from his eyes.

“I remember Hunted bringing us food, but it’s all vague and fuzzy.” Broken adds, running a hand through the feathers on his head, letting out a deep hum of surprise when he found them soft and straightened out.

The hell was wrong with them? “You’ve turned their brains to mush,” Hero gawked, turning to Hunted once more, “you little shit.”

“It’s called hibernation and it’s perfectly natural.” Hunted proclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Hero.

“Don’t try me right now, I’m utterly livid over being worried for nothing.” Hero returned the pointing gesture.

“Okay! While you two argue this out, I’ll go grab the others to help solve this, yeah?” Opportunist says, clapping his hands together. “We’re all agreeing I’m being incredibly useful right now, hah… right?”

No one answers him.

“Right, right…” Opportunist sucks in a breath, “I’ll be back.”

—

It took the combined strength of Stubborn, Smitten, and Contrarian to hold Hunted down. He had stopped thrashing at some point, but Hero could still hear the foam hissing out of his mouth as he laid prone on the soft lounge carpet they had to drag him onto.

“What’s wrong with you two? None of us got a full eight hours and yet you’re the only ones that can barely keep their eyes open.” Skeptic prods, staring with obvious concern at the two other voices, who had to be held up by Cold and Cheated so they wouldn’t fall over.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it? Usually yours is out seeking attention in the dead of night.” Cold says in a wispy voice, looking at Cheated and Broken. “And this one is too fearful to get any sleep.” He continues, looking down at Paranoid, who was mostly limp in his grasp.

“It’s coming back to me now, slowly. Still I can’t remember why… why we were in there.” Paranoid speaks out, struggling to stand to his full height. Cold eventually adjusted his grip to where Paranoid couldn’t move as easily, so he’d stop squirming.

“He wanted us to hibernate with him I think.” Broken mumbles, not even trying to stand, instead allowing Cheated to hold him however he pleased.

“Hibernate? I thought birds didn’t do that?” Cheated’s ears pin to the back of his head as he pulls Broken further up, inching himself and the dozing avian slightly away from Hunted, despite his less than mobile state.

“They don’t.” Stubborn grunts out.

“One species does I think, but as far as I know, birds won’t if they don’t have to. Oh give him to me Cold, you’ll hurt him like that.” Opportunist rounds the corner, taking his ponytail out. He reaches for Paranoid, who is given to him by Cold without fuss.

Skeptic snaps his fingers. “Ah, I get it. Hunted is most of our survival instinct. When winter was coming and we weren’t migrating somewhere more warm, he dug in. His instincts probably told him our weaker members couldn’t stand the cold, so he brought them to his room. If I had to guess, he’d eventually have us all in there as winter progressed.”

“But we’re not that much like wild animals, we can’t actually hibernate, right?” Contrarian said, looking at the others in the room with an unsure smile on his face.

“I’m not so sure about that. Our friends seem quite out of sorts.” Smitten counters, looking at the two troubled avians with a gentle, worried frown. “They’ve done nothing but sleep and yet can hardly stand!”

“Might be because hibernation isn’t truly sleep, even if it seems similar. I’d say Hunted succeeded, he somehow got them to start hibernation.” Skeptic says, putting a contemplative hand under his chin.

“How though? How is that possible?” Hero says, looking at the two main subjects of their conversation.

Skeptic shrugged. “Beats me, you’ll have to ask him, and he doesn’t seem up for a nice chat at the moment.” He jutted a thumb in Hunted’s direction, the feral bird was still growling beneath the dog pile holding him down.

“Huh, didn’t know he could make that noise. How agitated do you think he’ll get if we tease him with his charges?” Cold remarks, reaching over and plucking a feather from Broken, making him let out a surprised chirp that transitioned into a pained keen. Hunted froze at Broken’s faint cry, before resuming his struggle with double the effort, snarling at Cold like a bear that just had its cub taken away. Smitten and Stubborn are quick to up the pressure, while Contrarian flails to quickly get Hunted’s legs back under control.

Hero pushes Cold back. “Nope, bad, bad idea. You’ve lost speaking and doing privileges this discussion.”

Cold sits down on one of the chairs. “Pity.”

“Now what?” Stubborn huffs.

“What do you mean ‘now what?’” Hero questions.

Stubborn snorts impatiently. “Exactly what I said, now what? What are we going to do with him-“ he looks down at Hunted, “-and them?” then Broken and Paranoid.

Hero brings a hand to his eyes and drags it down his face, his head was killing him, and the adrenaline from the fight with Hunted was wearing off.

“Just-! Okay. Stubborn, Smitten, and Contrarian, you three are on Hunted watch duty. Lock him in his room and don’t let him out, he’s slippery so keep your eyes peeled. Skeptic and Cheated, you two are going to try waking Paranoid and Broken up some, until they’re back to normal if you can, they can’t stay like that. Cold, warm up the house, gather more wood for the fireplace and make sure the windows are closed, we need Hunted’s instincts to calm down.”

“What about me?” Opportunist says as Paranoid is passed off once more, this time to Skeptic.

“Me and you haven’t slept, so we’re going the fuck to bed.” Hero finishes, whipping around and trudging to his room. He’ll tell Opportunist and Hunted off later, right now, he needed some shut eye.

[itshiiiiiiiiightide]

Hi there, I was wondering if you saw any picture of Doomfist and Reyes in the Declassified book? Also, does it mention anything new about Cassidy's recruitment into Blackwatch re: Reyes/Amari? Thank you in advance!

Yes! When Doomfist is arrested we are given this image of Reyes interrogating Doomfist.

In the book it says that Reyes interrogated him often in order to get something he could use against Talon, but these never resulted in anything of use.

Now, as far as Cassidy, he wasn't so much recruited as he was already there when Blackwatch was formed. When he was arrested, the deal Reyes gave him was to join Overwatch proper, as Blackwatch wasn't a full operation yet. At that time, it was basically just Gabe and Gerade doing some shady shit sometimes, and after Cassidy signed on, he ended up joining them on their shady missions since he was already in Reyes' orbit and I guess Reyes' thought he was trustworthy enough for such missions.

As far as Ana is concerned, it's heavily implied that Ana was involved in training Cassidy from the beginning, which is backed up by the Cassidy-Pharah interaction where Cassidy says Ana taught him how to shoot. And we're given the lovely image that I posted here.

And we know that Ana and Cassidy were close, as it's been said that the only times Cassidy has spoken of his family, he was referring to Ana and Fareeha Amari.

[adore-laur]

FAÇADE

— a lustful enemies to lovers au set in the 1880’s 📖

I

Blair Lancaster unabashedly loathes Mr. Styles. 

He always licks his slender index finger before flipping the weathered pages of a romance novel. She internally sympathizes with whoever is doomed to take home the book that had been in his filthy grasp. 

He loudly clears his throat in the hushed space of the library far too often for her liking. She is beginning to wonder if he caught the fatal consumption disease and has a secret scheme to spread it across the city. 

He viciously studies her and the other women like a predatory bird hunting its unguarded prey. She compares his calloused hands to the talons of a hawk and his blatant staring to their beady little eyes. 

Perhaps Blair does not entirely loathe him. The feeling is more akin to a deep-rooted dislike for the man who supervises the alcove filled with women crammed around a small, oval table. No seats are provided, leaving them to stand on their aching feet for an unsuitable number of hours. 

At the public library in Boston, New York, women are strictly required to segregate themselves from the men by sitting in the alcove if they wish to read books or write letters. Reading, however, proves rather bland when they are all given books about how a lady should properly act or ones that revoltingly mock their intellect. 

Yet there is a more covert reason why they are confined to the alcove. 

Library loafers is the coined term. Women have only recently been allowed access to the library, and there is a concern that they may be in danger from the men who lurk and loiter around the bookshelves and desks, leering at young ladies who just want the freedom of absorbing printed imagination. 

The hickory walls are decorated with paintings of foreground femininity, yet the intended purpose is a façade. 

See, the nook is still visible to other sections of the library. It resembles a shadowbox for the male gaze or a stage of sorts so they can observe the moral spectacle of well-behaved women. That is why Blair Lancaster detests the man sitting on his chair, more like a throne, flicking through pages of a far more exciting story than the one she holds. Mr. Styles is the one who polices their behavior, making sure no one is stepping out of line or provocatively reading something they are not supposed to. 

Well, Blair enjoys pushing that limit every once in a while out of sheer apathy. 

Whenever the book she reads starts to bore her to death, she ponders ways to aggravate him. In the past, she sighed dramatically after turning each page for ten whole minutes until he had to snap his fingers, warning her to stop. She has also pretended to fall asleep with her head on the table, purposely reaching her arm out to knock the book onto the floor with a loud thump, resulting in him huffing and picking it up for her. In one instance, she purposely gave herself a paper cut and dripped blood onto the first page of the book she was given so it would have to be thrown out. She could tell by the look on Mr. Styles' face that he knew she had only done it to be a pain in the neck. 

Today, she decides to clear her throat every time he does. Only four other women are in the room, and Blair knows they like it when she breaks the quietness to bring entertainment to the dull atmosphere. 

"Enough," Mr. Styles commands after her third act of mimicry. 

She smirks and continues reading the same sentence repeatedly until she becomes bored. After a few minutes pass, he clears his throat again, and she does the same. 

"Ms. Lancaster, may I have a word with you?" 

Blair subtly rolls her eyes. She hates it when he treats her like a schoolgirl in detention, lecturing and speaking down to her as if she is inferior. 

"What is it, Mr. Styles?" she asks as she walks over to him, feigning innocence to pester him even more. 

He stares at her intensely. "Do you fancy being expelled from this library?" 

"I think there is something in my throat," she says with a dramatic pout. "The book I was given is quite dusty." 

He hums monotonously. "I must say, that was a terrible fib. I expected a better excuse from you." 

Blair's lips twitch as she fixes the collar of her dress. "I do not fib, Mr. Styles. Allergies are dreadful this time of year, have you not heard? Or maybe you and I have caught…” She leans forward to theatrically whisper, “The consumption disease." 

"Your hands fidget when you lie." With an unimpressed look, he jerks his chin toward the table. "Behave. Otherwise, you will be kicked out." 

The conversation, if it could even be called that, dies quickly as Blair returns to her spot. Her remaining time in the alcove causes drooping eyes and raw, bitten nails. There is nothing she could possibly do to make time pass any faster, so she watches the grandfather clock until it chimes when the small hand ticks to the number twelve. Blair promised her father she would be home for lunchtime, so she sets the book she only read two pages of in the wooden bin, then gives Mr. Styles an icy glare before leaving the library. 

On her stroll home, she reminisces about every encounter with him today. Every facial expression and unspoken word that was told with each glimpse. She buries the invasive thoughts that dangerously cross the streets of her mind. However, at dusk, he creeps in her brain's crevices like noxious venom. When her satin curtains are drawn, and the burning sun says its farewell, Blair cannot help but think about him after she blows out the candles beside her bed. 

His eyes of marjoram green that cast her discreet glances only she noticed. She wonders if she will ever get close enough to find specks of gold in them or if they crinkle when he laughs, lighting up with radiance that has never been revealed to her. There is a chance they soften when he reads a particularly romantic line in a novel, perhaps of a private touch or confession of love. 

His long fingers that flip through the worn pages of said novels. Blair wonders how they would feel slowly trailing along her arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, or how they would feel in her mouth, the pad of his thumb erotically settled between her teeth. There is a possibility they would stretch inside another part of her body so deeply that her entire soul would ache with pleasure. 

His pink lips that pout and glisten in the sunlight filtered through the clerestory windows of the library. She wonders how they would form around certain words or if they feel as soft as they look, pillowy and sweet if she were to taste them. She will not taste them, but it is nice to dream about the flawless physicality of a man such as himself. 

Mr. Styles may be unbearable and shrouded with arrogance, but that does not dismiss his obvious allure. He is nothing but a pretty face that haunts her at nightfall, hung high in the gallery of her mind like the moon in the starlit sky. 

He is a complicated façade. 

                                                II 

A spring thunderstorm has blown over the newspaper stands and matted down Blair's curls as she traverses up the slippery brick steps of the library again. Violent rain hits the cobblestone streets, which are filled with umbrellas over heads and coats over the less fortunate as they all maneuver to the closest shelter. 

Blair has forgone any protection from the storm, so she passes through the familiar threshold with a saturated dress and dripping strands of blonde hair that appear a shade darker due to their wetted state. As she looks around, she finds the library completely barren of townsfolk except for a stout man who bustles up to her and huffs a displeased breath when he sees the puddle of rainwater forming by her feet. She hopes he overlooks the trail of muddy footprints she left behind. 

"Good evening, Ms. Lancaster," he greets with a formal cap tip. "The unfortunate weather has sprung a leak in the alcove ceiling, so you will be relocated to the main room for the day." 

Blair nods, attempting to hide the eager smile that threatens to pull at her freckled cheeks. It will be alleviating to not have to tolerate being confined in a stodgy room with Mr. Styles. She prays she will have the whole room to herself so she can conceive a plan to sneakily grab a horror fiction book while the thunder rumbles outside. 

She follows the man who, if she remembers correctly, is the chimney sweeper usually found by the stone fireplace, soot dusting his forehead and coughing up a storm stronger than the one currently shaking the bookshelves. Speaking of which, the first thing Blair notices when she enters the candlelit room is that the bookshelves are all locked up with hexagonal metal cages. The flickering flames dance off them menacingly.

She furrows her eyebrows when the man's presence is no longer felt beside her. Then, she feels someone else's burning gaze. A sudden flash of lightning conducts her attention to the other side of the room, and simmering rage immediately courses through her veins. 

Mr. Styles is sitting on the windowsill with his legs crossed over one another. His jeweled fingers delicately hold a book as relentless rain pelts the windowpane behind him. He wears a silk shirt with small, puffed sleeves the color of ballet slippers—or perhaps the shade of the blush that spreads across his cheeks when Blair catches his not-so-subtle glance at her pebbled nipples under her soaked dress. 

Blair's first step toward him creates an echoing creak on the wooden floor. "What business do you have being here?" she asks bitterly. 

He smirks before licking his index finger and flipping the page of his book. "Have you forgotten that this is my place of work?" 

She swallows down disgust. "I would rather sit in the alcove and let the leakage slowly drown me than be here with you." 

He looks up amusedly, running his eyes across her figure. "From how you look like a sopping mess, it seems as though you already have." 

"A bit preposterous coming from a man with puffy princess sleeves." 

A hummed and humorless laugh sounds from his closed lips. A cup of tea is steaming on a porcelain saucer next to his thighs. The sight of the brown liquid coats her throat with warmth. 

Blair is quiet as she treads closer and walks her fingers along the top of the leather couch. The popping and hissing of the nearby fireplace fill the dead silence, its blazes of orange releasing glowing embers that beautifully fizzle out on the kindling. 

"I presumed you would be the only one here today," Mr. Styles mentions after an elongated and intimidating pause. 

Blair stands next to the fire, hoping it dries her dripping dress. "Yes, well, a thunderstorm is quintessential weather for reading. Is it not?" 

"I will not argue with you there." He stands, replacing his book with the saucer. "This tea is for you. I figured since you will be stuck with me in this room, I shall attempt to make it as pleasant as possible." 

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "You made tea for me?" 

His throat bobs. "Walking here in the rain is the quickest way to become ill, Ms. Lancaster. You should know better." 

"Is it poisoned?" 

The click of Mr. Styles' boots becomes muffled once he steps on the oriental rug she stands on. "No. I am not as cynical as you make me out to be in your head." 

She pushes her wet bangs away from her forehead. "Do you know what is cynical?" 

"Divertis-moi, ange de la pluie."

Blair ignores his French, which she does not understand. She has heard him use the language countless times before if any immigrant women are misbehaving in the alcove. His fluency and intelligence spark envy, but she will never admit it to his face.

"It is cynical that I come here every day and do not have the freedom to read what I desire," she says firmly. "Some days, I do not want to read in my dreary bedroom, so I seek serenity in a library that does not even respect me. How cruel, yet I still come here for a view other than my pathetic lawn!"

All Mr. Styles does is clear his throat while setting the tea down on the fireplace mantel. Blair wants to pour the scalding liquid down the back of his neck. 

"What am I supposed to read if all the books I yearn for are locked away?" she adds defeatedly. 

He twists his rings and bobs his head to a red book on the couch. "I was instructed to provide The Scarlet Letter." 

Blair examines the chipped spine and faded cover. "I have not read that one yet."

"Veiled misogyny is what fills the pages. I find Hawthorne to be glorified as an author to a ridiculous degree." 

"How promising," she mutters. "I suppose it is better than reading about everything I should do for my dutiful husband when he returns from war." 

Mr. Styles looks at the floor and scrunches his nose before asking, "You have heard of Jane Austen, yes?" 

"What?" Blair blurts confusedly. "Of course, I have. No one captures blooming romance quite like her." 

"And did you see anyone else in the library when you arrived?" he questions further while taking a step closer. 

"N-no," she stutters, scanning the empty room. "Only the chimney sweeper." 

"Then follow me." 

In the blink of an eye, Mr. Styles is halfway up the spiral staircase in the corner that leads to a place Blair has never been allowed to discover. She carefully grabs the tea and a stray candelabra, then catches up to his long strides. Eventually, she is led to the top and down a dark, narrow aisle where books upon books line the walls. Some are even stacked high on the floor. 

Mr. Styles takes a silver key from his trouser pocket and unlocks a shelf on the left. He briefly peeks at her. "It will be our little secret, hmm?"

Blair marvels at the various romance and gothic titles that reveal themselves when she raises the flame. Wuthering Heights, Little Women, and Vanity Fair appear to have been gracefully worn over time and through use. 

"I was once told by the owner that there was nothing important up here," she tells him as her fingertips trace the spine of Persuasion. "I never quite believed him." 

Mr. Styles stands behind her. She can feel his steady breaths on her neck. "I apologize on behalf of him. He is not a charming man, that one." 

Clark Bennett is his name. A tall, middle-aged rich man who set the misogynistic rules in place. She sees him roam past the alcove on rare occasions, silently inspecting the women through his monocle. Never one to initiate conversation, yet always the one to give disapproving glances. It angers Blair how someone could be so despicable. The other women are too afraid to speak out about the abhorrent environment he has created. 

So, Blair turns around and looks at the man she despises but is the only one who seems to care about what she has to say. 

"Mr. Styles," she begins, lifting the candelabra to light his face, "I feel unbearably suffocated in a place meant for comfort. As a woman, I cannot even read in this library without arbitrary rules that bring me unfathomable misery and rage. Having to sit and read sentences with no emotional attachment to me is torturous. Surely, I do not sound ludicrous."

"You can call me Harry," he responds. 

She scoffs at his blatant disregard. "Did you listen to a word I said?" 

He nods. "Yes, Blair. I realize this world hinders your ability to prosper as a woman, but I cannot change the rules. I do not have the authority, so please accept my offer of letting you read something other than shameful, discriminatory novels. Is that all right with you?" 

She takes a sip of the herbal tea, now lukewarm, before saying, "Is this a trick to get me in trouble? I will not be fooled, Mr. Styles." 

"Harry," he corrects. "And no, I am not a scoundrel. There is no reason for me to con you." 

"There are plenty of reasons. Money and praise can make a man do evil things." 

"Do you take me for a man who would do evil things?" 

"Yes." She takes another sip. "I take every man for a schmuck. You are no exception." 

He leans his head against the bookshelf and smiles handsomely. "A schmuck?" he repeats humorously.

"A cretin," she continues, enjoying herself very much. "A muttonhead. Personally, I like to call men ratbags." 

Harry's eyes crinkle when he lets out a loud cackle. So they do crinkle. What a sight to behold! 

Blair blows a strand of hair out of her eye. "This is not a laughing matter." 

"Oh, but it is." He pushes his body off the shelf and towers over her. "You fascinate me with your unwavering temerity." 

"Is that why you stare at me in the alcove so often?" she daringly inquires. "Because I fascinate you?" 

Harry inhales slowly and deeply. In French, he says, "I stare at you because of your ethereal beauty. I cannot help but count the freckles on your cheeks or watch your eyelashes flutter as you flip through the pages of those terrible books. Does this answer your question, beloved blue eyes?"

Blair blinks twice, shaking her head. "You are speaking nonsense to me. I do not know any French." 

"I spoke the truth. That is all you need to know." 

She sets the tea and candelabra on the floor before smoothing her dress. "Anyway, I would very much like to read Jane Austen. There is only so much time in the day, yes?" 

"Of course," he whispers. "You seem particularly interested in Persuasion." 

"Is it good? I have not gotten around to reading it yet." 

Harry takes the book and offers it to her. "You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope," he quotes from memory. "That alone should convince you." 

Blair absentmindedly nods, becoming distracted by the gold necklace he wears. The pendant is a cross symbol, one relating to Christ. Her curiosity grows as it glimmers from the quivering candle flame beside her feet. 

She lays the cross on her open palm and asks, "Are you religious?" 

His sloped nose almost touches hers from close proximity. "Moderately. I sin, but I see no redemption in asking for forgiveness. I suppose you can interpret my level of religion however you may." 

She stares at his lips a second too long before meeting his eyes. "What sins do you commit?" 

He covers her hand with his own. Blair feels his calloused thumb brush over her knuckle. "My sins are sensuellement privé." 

"What does that mean?" 

"It means they are done in private, curious girl." 

Her skin grows warm. "Very well, then. I will not ask further questions." 

He removes his hand and locks the shelf as Blair picks up her tea and sets it on the flat surface of her new book. He clears his throat, but it does not bother her as much this time. 

"Let us read, shall we?" 

                                              III

The field of jasmine flowers is in full bloom, as is the month of May. 

Budding dogwood trees sway under the cloudy sky as Blair walks to her favorite open patch of land to sit against the tree trunk and read a book like she does every Friday afternoon. The bottom of her white dress skims the dirt path weaving throughout the flourishing meadow. Her lace parasol shields the top of her head in case the sun peeks out. 

She has been coming to the serene area for months, sometimes needing an escape from the four walls of her bedroom. She can bring the books she has received on her birthdays. Although she prefers to read in the library, she is slightly more fond of nature's quiet atmosphere. 

Once she arrives at her signature spot, where the line of dogwood trees provides the perfect amount of coverage over the jasmine bushes, she stops when she sees someone already there. 

Her blood boils. Mr. Styles, now known as Harry, is sitting against the gnarled trunk of her favorite tree with his ankles casually crossed while he reads from the book in his lap. He wears a ruffled, cream-colored blouse with a black vest over the silk fabric, and his matching flared trousers are provocatively tight against his muscular legs. 

His eyes shoot up from his book when a twig snaps underneath her feet. He then raises it to block his face, and Blair almost laughs at the childish action. She is seething with rage because how dare he invade the only place she can get much-needed peace and quiet? 

"What are you doing here?" she interrogates, a slight growl in the back of her throat. 

"Reading," Harry replies flatly, still not showing his face. 

"Yes, but why here? This is my spot." 

"I usually only come here on Wednesdays when I do not work, but I was told my help was not needed at the library today. So, here I am." 

Blair grinds her teeth. "Can you go elsewhere?" 

He sets his book down and glances behind each of his shoulders. "Did I miss a sign on my way here that said: Blair Lancaster's Designated Reading Spot?" 

She gives up arguing and sits against the prickly bush across from him. She is thankful he is not talkative, so finishing her book in his presence should not be a problem. 

After a few minutes of unpleasant silence, she feels his gaze on her, but when she looks up, his eyes dart back to the pages before him. She subtly tries to read the title, but his attractively large hand envelops the front. 

"The Portrait of a Lady," Harry murmurs as he noisily turns a page. 

Blair quirks an eyebrow. "Pardon me?" 

"The book in my hands," he says, finally showing her the cover. "It is the new novel written by Henry James." 

"I did not ask." 

He exhales a laugh through his nose. "Well, you keep looking at the cover, so I thought it would be gentlemanly to save you from straining your eyes so much. Getting cataracts at a young age would be no fun." 

Blair brushes off his sarcasm and opens her own book. Harry immediately leans forward and snatches it straight from her loose grip. 

"Give me that back!" she exclaims, her mouth parted in shock. 

He lifts it above his head and opens it. "What does the brash Blair Lancaster read when she is not provided chauvinist books in the alcove?" 

She stands and puts her hand on her hips. "That is nothing of concern to you." 

"Venus in Furs," he reads from the spine with a drawl and growing smirk. "This is quite an erotic choice, chérie." 

Her cheeks redden as he flips through the pages filled with risqué words of desire and submission. "Give me my book back, or I will scream until the flowers wilt." 

Harry ignores her as he dramatically reads, "And every man — I know this very well — as soon as he falls in love becomes weak, pliable, ridiculous. He puts himself into the woman's hands, kneels down before her. The only man whom I could love permanently would be he before whom I should have to kneel."

Blair takes the opportunity to yank her book from him while he is distracted by his immature ways. "I truly pity your wife and children for having to live with your irritating nature," she says exasperatedly. 

"I do not have a wife nor children, so you are wasting your time pitying the foolish illusion you have created in your head." 

"Well," she says with a bitter laugh, "it is no surprise that you are not married. I think I would burn myself alive if I had to share a life with you." 

"For someone who speaks so ignoble of me, you think about what it would be like to be around me quite often," he responds smugly. 

"You are an insufferable man, that is all." 

"Menteuse."

Blair draws her lips back in a snarl. "It is a terrible shame you have a handsome face that is nothing but a façade for who you actually are." 

Harry slowly stands and shoves his hands in his pockets. "And who am I, Blair?" 

She exhales and looks up at the wispy sky. "A lonely man who sits in the alcove and makes sure the women there are miserable. A boring man who does nothing but be a nuisance to everyone around him." 

Harry steps forward and jerks his chin up like he's desperate for a challenge. "Go on." 

"I detest you." She leans in close so he hears every word. "Every dratted thing you do or say gets under my skin." 

He quickly glances at her mouth. "Do you use such foul language around your mother, Ms. Lancaster?" 

She clenches her jaw and turns around, beginning to walk down the path she came from. "You make me furious!" 

His footsteps in the weeds get closer, so she speeds up. Even the sound of his boots stomping on the plush grass aggravates her. The way he can never let her have the last word, or how his eyes tell a different story than what comes out of his pretty mouth, will be the death of her. 

Blair thinks she is far enough away from him, but suddenly, two large hands clasp onto her hips and stop her in her tracks. Her book falls to the ground, and she is left breathless. 

"If I make you furious," Harry murmurs deeply in her ear, "then you make me a fucking madman." 

His chest is pressed against her back as they inhale and exhale heavily, butterflies flying around the flowers and hidden cicadas chirping in the meadow. 

"You test my patience, and I pretend it provokes me," he continues, flexing his hands. "It does the opposite, Blair. It makes me lust for you." 

She lets Harry's confession seep into her skin like pleasurable poison. "I... you are reprehensible. I cannot stand it when you tell such insolent lies." 

He presses his nose into her neck. "You render me weak. I think about you until I ache." 

Blair swallows roughly when his damp lips trail along her pulse point. "Every word that leaves your mouth is concocted to debilitate me." 

"Your blue eyes are an ocean I would gladly drown in." 

Her knees almost give out, but she persists. "I will stuff my book down your throat if you do not stop blathering." 

"You would like that, I reckon."

"Jesus wept, I hate you!" she shouts as she releases herself from his spell and continues walking. 

He grips her wrist and spins her around. "Look at me when you say you hate me." 

"I hate" — Blair points her finger at his chest — "you." 

Harry takes three of her fingers and brings them up to her bottom lip. "These," he whispers, eyes locked onto her mouth. "I could write endless poetry about them." 

"Stop it this instant." 

He moves one of her fingers to trace the freckles dotting the apples of her cheeks. "The most marvelous constellations should be envious of these." 

Her eyes soften, much to her distaste. "Please," she says, not knowing how she intends the word to come across. 

"Tell me what you want, mon rêve céleste." 

"I want you to shut your mouth." 

His knuckles brush her collarbone. "Do you? Or do you want me to use my mouth for something else?" 

Blair steps away from him. "How dare you assume that!" 

"Quit looking at my lips, then." 

"I am not! Quit analyzing me!" 

"Your cheeks are pink. Why is that?" 

She feels like fire is encompassing her. "Because..."

Harry bends down slightly to be at eye level with her. "Look at me, Blair." 

Her walls crumble at that moment when she sees nothing but lustful hunger in his eyes. She gives in because if she goes down, let it be in a blaze of flaming desire. She cannot bear the thought of not touching him at least once in her lifetime, as much as she hates to admit the fact. 

Blair unclasps the button by her cleavage, never breaking eye contact with him as his posture straightens and his prurient gaze gradually lowers. She maneuvers the dress over and down her shoulders, letting the loose garment pool at her feet. Harry drops to his knees before her, pulling down her chemise and gently removing her ivory-colored slippers. 

"Lie down," he commands gruffly.

She obeys, the budding flowers surrounding her naked body as her blonde hair fans out on the grass. 

Harry spreads her legs open and places his forearms next to them. "How do you need me, Blair?"

"Your fingers," she responds. "Please. I need them inside of me." 

He tuts mockingly. "Not even a minute ago, you were telling me I was reprehensible, but now you beg like a whore." 

She should slap him for his degrading language, but it only fuels her internal fire. Her hips desperately lift to meet his knuckle running along her inner thigh, and he moves it up even further until it reaches the coarse hair growing around her pelvis. She is already dripping with arousal. His fingers are so close to where she needs them most.

"Harry," she says breathlessly, her body writhing when his mouth brushes her clit. "God, just touch me. I beg of you." 

"Say my name like that again, and I will do whatever you ask of me, darling." 

"Harry," she moans while arching her back. 

His fingers finally stretch her open, two knuckles deep in her pulsating walls, creating a burning sensation throughout her body. She had dreamed about how deep they would go, curling and thrusting to bring her inconceivable pleasure. It feels better than she imagined, and she sees stars as his thumb applies pressure to her clit. 

"Blair." Harry uses his free hand to grasp her jaw. She opens her eyes and gets lost in his fervent gaze. "Who else has touched you? Hmm? Tell me." 

He hits a particularly deep spot that has her whining like a pleading idiot. "M-many others, however, they all left me empty and unsatisfied." 

"Did they make you wet?" He presses his warm hand against her lower stomach. "Did they leave you with a lingering ache right here?" 

"No, but do you know why?" she responds, the pressure of his hand unraveling the knot of her forthcoming orgasm. 

"Tell me all your secrets, flower." 

"They never used their mouths," she admits. Harry looks up with impure eyes and runs his tongue over his bottom lip. "Fingers can only provide so much pleasure, but a pair of pink lips like yours could make me fall apart completely." 

"Is that right?" he breathes out. 

She bites her lip with a blissful smile. "There is only one way to find out, yes?" 

"I suppose so." 

He takes his fingers out and spreads her thighs further open, her arousal sticking to her sweaty skin. The second his tongue licks a long stripe from her opening to her clit, Blair cries out for all the birds and bugs to hear. He laps up her wetness like sweet syrup on a delectable dessert. He kisses and nips in all the right places like he has known her body for ages, latching and sucking her most sensitive areas until she is clenching around nothing. Low, guttural groans and whimpers leave him when she grants him a raspy moan and hooks her legs around his body. 

"I need— I have to release, Harry. It aches." 

He hovers over her and rubs slow circles onto her lower stomach. "Let me see your eyes while you fall apart from underneath me." 

Blair looks at him as his words push her off the edge. She releases, her body trembling and twitching from the strength of it. Harry sits back on his knees, untying the frilly bow from his blouse and using it to clean the remaining arousal around her inner thighs. After that, Blair stands on shaky legs, panting with tingling skin as Harry grabs her chemise and dress and helps her put them on. 

"Do you still hate me?" he whispers in her ear, clasping her buttons gently. Blair can hear the smug smile in his voice. 

"Maybe a bit less than yesterday." 

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. "What if I did this?" She is taken aback when he kisses her deeply, holding the sides of her neck and making her stumble a bit from the forceful passion. "Blair?" he says as he pulls away. "How do you feel now?" 

"I dislike you." Another kiss, one that sends heat spreading across her entire body as butterflies go wild in her stomach. She pulls away this time and tries not to show how fond she is of him. "All right, I tolerate you." 

One more long kiss, ending in several pecks until she lets a smile take over her flushed face. "Je changerai d'avis un jour." (I will change your mind one day.)

Blair groans. "Will you ever tell me what you are saying?" 

"No need." His thumb strokes her cheekbone. "I can always teach you." 

"Pardon?"

"At the library," Harry elaborates softly. "I give French lessons every Monday in the study room. There should be some time slots open if that is of any interest to you." 

She contemplates briefly before saying, "I think it would be an adequate way to spend my day rather than in the alcove." 

Harry whistles and looks around incredulously. "Is Blair Lancaster admitting she would not mind spending time with me? Am I dreaming? Have I lost my bloody mind in this meadow?" 

"Enough," she mutters. Her protest ends in a squeal when Harry slightly nips at her neck. "Stop it! That tickles!" 

He grins like a fool and bends down to pluck a jasmine flower from the cluster surrounding her feet. He then grabs Venus in Furs and flips through it for a minute until he stops at a specific page toward the end. Blair watches him lay the flower horizontally, the thin stem acting as an underline for a quote. 

~ 

You have corrupted my imagination

and inflamed my blood.

~

[nomsfaultau]

Hybrid AU in exile week where avian instincts can take over to a degree that is almost horrific, erasing someone’s personality and rationality when they’re panicking. First part here.

Philza groans a little bit as he hears the distressed chirping start up again. He’s yet to find who it’s coming from, and keeps falling into his instincts and snapping back in the middle of nowhere. But he sighs and starts flying over of his own volition since at least then he’ll know how to get back home. It’s far away, but he’s hardwired to hear the pitch of a scared chick, so the land blurs by as he soars over.

Unlike usual, the chirping doesn’t cease. Philza flies after it, making it further than ever before to land so far from Techno’s cabin he doesn’t recognize it at all. He caws out loudly, but at once the chick is forced silent, mistaking him for a predator. Well, it was a coin flip for if that would help. That’ll make the search harder. In all likeliness, Philza would have missed the hatchling if it weren’t for the tall tower. It’s a haphazard mixture of cobblestone and dirt, clearly just constructed. He lights upon the top, peering at a tuft of down caught on the dirt. They can’t be far. 

The hatchling is a bloodied mess at the bottom, staring at him with wide dilated eyes. Philza’s own pupils grow to match. The shrill shrieks of terrified chirps tear out of the hatchling as he swoops for them, though they calm as he tucks over, hiding the vulnerable chick beneath his wings and cooing warmly.

Blearily, Tommy breaks out of his panic wrapped in the arms of his abuser. He nuzzles in, till it registers that he’s wrong. His sharp confusion is met only with coos from a guy he barely recognizes as Phil. Questions like how did you get here and why didn’t you come sooner and do you have any healing potions? are all met by wide blank eyes and more cooing. Philza is completely incapable of responding with actual words, at most seeming frustrated Tommy has no idea what his tweets are supposed to mean. What little escape he can manage in his condition is thwarted by the large crow wings wrapped gently around him. Like, it’s kinda nice? But also Tommy is dying, and instead of helping the guy is just peering at him and cooing. Maybe that’s fair, though. What did Tommy ever do to deserve saving? Everything hurts so, so much, the world blurry with pain. His talons grow cold as his blood seeps out and coats the both of them. 

Soon, Philza breaks out of it, since while Tommy is incredibly hurt he isn’t actually Philza’s chick. His potions were left at home, but he crafts makeshift bandages out of ripped up fabric and some spider string he had on him. Tommy’s getting worse by the minute though, and for some reason he doesn’t have any potions on him.

As best Philza can tell, the chick was trying to learn to fly, but that’s usually a bonding activity. Where’s the guardian? And…and isn’t Tommy far too old to be having flying accidents? At the very least he should be an adept glider by now… 

Pure horror overtakes Philza as he registers what’s wrong. Someone has clipped Tommy’s wings.

Tommy doesn’t have any clue what he’s talking about, though, doesn’t know enough about flying to understand why he’s upset. Mostly Tommy is off-put by his reaction, and far more concerned with his immediate agony. Philza’s agitation grows since he can’t imagine a more horrid crime against an avian, but he holds back his protective instincts because the vengeance to fall on whoever did this is an honor reserved for Tommy’s guardian to enact. Tommy isn’t Philza’s chick, after all.

Tommy brightens as he hears the hiss of the Nether portal, his sweet notes the familiar trills reserved for greeting one’s guardian. But when the masked man that walks out is donned in Tommy’s clipped primaries like some sick trophy, Philza’s blood runs cold.

And somewhere in his brain, Tommy goes from being a chick to his chick.

And Philza’s eyes dilate to nearly pure black as he steps between Tommy and the threat to his brood. Philza attacks in a feral state, powerful and swift and seething. Any bargains or threats the abuser makes are met only with vehement cawing. The abuser tries to enderpearl away, only to be flown after, Philza unrelenting in his fury as he claws through the vile monster that hurt his hatchling.

A trident boosted pearl gets the abuser far away enough that Philza blitzes back to his chick to shelter him from other threats. Tommy is panicking, demanding to know why his friend was attacked, only to be met with incomprehensible cawing.

But he calms when he spots his abuser coming back over the horizon, geared up this time and not about to be taken off guard again. And then suddenly Tommy is seized in a vice grip and launched up into the air, and his abuser is getting smaller and smaller beneath them, and Tommy is shrieking, his distressed chirps ear-piercing as he reaches for his abuser, begging to be rescued. But his abuser can’t fly, and Tommy is dragged away until the world is a blur. His talons dig into Philza, terrified he’s going to plummet again. Thrashing only makes everything hurt so much more, but Tommy does so anyway, desperate to escape. But he's already so weak from blood loss, and can do nothing as he's flown away.

Warm coos hum in the chest of the avian kidnapping him, trying to suppress his resistance. Yet Tommy’s shrill, terrified chirps never cease, ring out through the chill arctic air, startling the horses and dogs as they land and Philza carries him indoors, filling the home as Tommy is forced into a nest he doesn't recognize.

Never once does Tommy stop crying to his abuser for salvation.

Next>

[yanderes-galore]

Can you do a concept for yandere Sigma from Overwatch?

He's so underrated... I love him....

Be warned none that I talk about a very real mental health issue in this due to Sigma's lore. (DID - Dissociative Identity Disorder, for Sigma it is caused by the Blackhole splitting his mind and the trauma Talon caused, I speak of this to keep his character close to canon as the wiki mentions it as a possibility. Not all cases are the same.)

Yandere Sigma Alphabet

Yandere! Sigma/Siebren de Kuiper Concept

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, DID due to trauma, Delusional behavior, Manipulation, Mental health issues, Oblivious yandere, Violence/Murder/Death, Kidnapping mention, Stalking, Overprotective/Possessive behavior, Dubious companionship.

Sigma is a broken man but can be sweet despite the personalities he swaps around due to his blackhole accident.

He treats the affection he has for you as another curiosity he must explore, it's all like an experiment!

Regardless on if he's platonic or romantic with you he treats his feelings as something to be studied.

He wouldn't hurt you as two of his personalities are harmless, the more violent persona is typically triggered if he feels you could be in danger.

Blame Talon for that one.

At times Sigma is oblivious to the fact his affection for you is wrong.

Another continues to treat his adoration and the compatibility between you as another experiment to soothe his broken mind.

So for the most part he's harmless, if not oblivious to the crimes he's committed not only for you but for Talon.

Sigma often shows his affection by rambling to you.

Most of the time it's hypothetical nonsense questions that you answer to humor him with.

Sigma often acts as a kind friend and old scientist who seems harmless.

However, in the past he has been wired to be a weapon.

He is a man who has killed before and could do it again.

Despite this... he holds you with such care and laughs when he speaks to you.

You manage to make the melody in his head silence itself to a buzz for just a little while.

He looks to you for comfort.

Sombra, a close friend of his, even appreciates how you soothe her tormented friend's mind.

The most he may hurt you is holding you in place with hia powers.

Even then when you remain calm he'll snap out of it and act confused.

As I've said before he never recalls the criminal things he does.

Doesn't make it right though.

Sigma shows possessive behavior at times as he's never far from you.

He even asks Sombra to watch you to keep you safe.

He's gone through a lot himself and would be devastated if someone did the same to you.

Sombra grows concerned about Sigma's behavior over time, but still keeps an eye on you.

She doesn't entirely enable him but also doesn't discourage him in his obsession.

She knows you help him remain sane enough to function.

Sombra will prevent harm from coming to you... as long as you help Sigma.

If Sigma lost you, he may never be the same.

He's an unstable man already, an obsession may make things worse.

He just gets so curious about you which is why he enjoys all of your chats.

He acts like nothing's wrong.

Even after all the murder... and your kidnapping.

As a result his obsession makes you have mixed feelings.

Sigma clearly needs help... but people only ever want to use and abuse his mind.

Be it for information or... well... a weapon.

Really, you and Sombra are the only people he can turn to.

Maybe that's why he clings to you so closely.

[danwhobrowses]

One Piece Chapter 1103 - Initial Thoughts

Break? What Break?

The internet works in mysterious ways, and as it turns out there is another One Piece chapter left in the year

Maybe Oda was leading us astray after being a sobbing mess from last chapter, but let's see it

Spoilers for the Chapter, Support the Official Release

In conjunction with Monsters it seems, color spread of the crew, Momo and Yamato, appreciate Franky having the dragon hair too

We flash back to after Bonney saw the memory paw, met by Vegapunk outside the room

Reverting to her actual age, Bonney hugs Vegapunk and apologizes

Turns out that Kuma even gave Bonney a gift, a sapphire necklace shaped like the sun

A protective charm apparently, not sure if that's metaphorical or actual

Bonney also asks about Luffy, as they think about the serendipity of them appearing at the same time

Knowing that Vegapunk didn't have a choice it further explains why Bonney targeted Saturn immediately

We are finally back in the present now, with Saturn reiterating that Kuma is dead

Luffy is hungry, but the aura of Saturn has kept everyone pinned still, including Atlas, Franky and Sanji

Sentomaru has been captured too

Misinformation spreads about the Emperor's barricade and capture of Vegapunk, which leads to public concern

Dragon ponders on Kuma's departure and where he would go, Iva thinks if it were them it'd be Marejois (which technically he did but it felt more in the way) but also knows Kuma better than that

Maybe Vegapunk did build the switch but it needs to be added in? And he was programmed to seek it when all commands are gone?

What if the protective charm is that switch?

Speaking of though, she tries to hit Saturn with a Nika-esque punch

It doesn't do much, and Bonney's power continues to drain

Seems that Bonney's powers are not fully tied to it though

However as Saturn laments, Luffy is dining!

The navy go down to try and immobilize him, but it's clear it wasn't Kizaru

Did Caribou come in clutch again with the food? I swear

Bonney can't even manipulate her own age around Saturn, as he reveals that he gave Bonney her powers

Bonney didn't even eat a fruit, she was experimented on to have the Devil Fruit

Which makes the whole production and trade of SMILE even more unnecessary

They believe it to be an unnecessary fruit too, since while it can transform however they want determined on the future, the power decrease when their knowledge of the future is too far from reality

Kuma is charging in though as Saturn continues his villain monologue, and Bonney realises a world where Kuma is dead and unable to show him Nika weakened her tether to that potential future

See? You did fucking remember him at God Valley you cretinous fuck

Oh My God and he even experimented on Ginny, the Sapphire Scales were a result of those experimentations

Kuma lands on Egghead, as Bonney continues to be shaken and Vegapunk violently accuses of Saturn being the root of all Kuma's hardship

And his justification 'why should I understand the feelings of an insect?'

Kuma is here and he is charging through the island, alerting navy soldiers and Saturn

Kuma continues to be razed and swarmed with bullets and cannonfire, continuing his run, as Bonney unable to speak mulls over how Kuma is still mindlessly charging into his death

Bonney wonders if it'd have been easier if she had died, which means we need to make sure she knows she wants to live

Just as the navy go to shoot Bonney, they're blown away by explosions

So Saturn throws Bonney down and readies to impale her

But Kuma blocks it with his back

This is not an Ace moment though, Because Kuma gets up, his hand gripping that damned talon out of his back and his other clenched in a fist

Saturn finally has fear in his eyes, for this is a man who will not stand down any longer, there is nothing left to control, Bartholomew Kuma is raging and you will feel his rage

The punch needs to hit, even if it doesn't do much we need to give Kuma a lifetime of catharsis by smacking the taste out of Jay Garcia Saturn.

We've just got one of the Gorosei here and yet we've made him into some of the most reviled creatures in this story, which is saying a lot given what we've had before.

I mean, Luffy getting back up for Gear Fifth does still make sense, knowing that Kuma and Bonney need to see Nika in order to believe, and there's still the matter of the Self-Destruct switch, but we can let Kuma have a little bit.

I dunno if this chapter was planned for this year, but it was still a good one to end the year on, roll into 2024 for Luffy to flourish in his Yonko title, let Zoro dispatch Lucci swiftly too and maybe give Kizaru something to redeem himself with.

But for a lifetime of things Bartholomew Kuma has not deserved to have done to him, he deserves to punch Saturn in the face

[lukielu56]

Trapped within the nest.

For the 200 (Really late) follower special master list!

Type-Smut

Warnings- heat, mating press, breeding, obsessive behaviors, and marking.

A/n sorry this took so long to come out and I’m also experimenting with some new things.

————

It’s been a few months since you’ve been trapped within here, in his castle, as his muse.

The day you met him was your last day to yourself. After that day he would always come to see you, he would always have a different reason why. A new thing of food for you to try or a new topic to chat about.

But one day your concerns began when you saw him snooping around your room and rummaging through some of your clothes, sniffing and huffing them before putting them back.

Soon enough you began to notice the little things he did each time he was at your house. Taking some of your things, looking at you with a look you couldn’t decipher, or mumbling random things under his breath.

You reached your breaking point when you spotted him taking a pair of your underwear. You forced him out of your home as he stammered an explanation before you pushed him out.

For the next few weeks he tried to come back to you with apology and after apology, getting you gifts and trinkets only to rejected and told to get away from you and soon wouldn’t get a response from the door.

As you slept one night you heard the sound of glass shattering and falling to the ground as loud and heavy footsteps grew closer as you sat up in bed, dazed and half-lidded eyes. You tried to reach for anything to use as a weapon as your door creaked open as reddish-orange eyes pierced through the darkness. They looked around until they meet your eyes in the darkness.

You heard the sound of loud and heavy approach you before a gloved hand grabbed your cheek. You then heard him start heavily breathing before he spoke up.

“Y-y/n…”

You immediately recognized his voice and you tried to push away and make distance between him and you only for him to climb onto the bed quickly and pin you down to the bed as you squirmed in his hold.

“D-Dream! W-what are you doing-“

He quickly quieted you with a deep kiss as his talons tore away your clothes before he grabbed your bare thighs and used them to lift your legs above your shoulders as you continued to struggle before your eyes widened as you saw his glowing yellow member with a large knot at its base twitching quickly with need.

“Y-y/n… I need you… y-your mine… mine…”

You could only whimper as he quickly positioned himself to your entrance before he slammed into you as he growled into your neck while you screamed out in pain.

He didn’t even bother to wait for you to adjust and began to slam into you with reckless abandon as your cries of pain went ignored. The knot of his member threatening to push past your entrance as he bit down on your neck, marking it constantly.

Your cries soon turned to be filled by pleasure, unable to resist the growing pleasure as you climaxed making him growled loudly into your neck.

“Mine… your mine… s-songbird… mine…”

After a few more moments of relentless pounding he finally pushed his knot inside and shoved it as deep as he could before he climaxed and pumped you full, a searing hot white coating your insides and mind before you passed out.

When you came to he was still going at it with you and your now flush and exhausted body, keeping you in the same position as your stomach now bulging with his seed and presumably eggs inside you.

After his final climax he kept his knot and member in you as he picked you up, wrapping your scratched and marked legs around his waist before quickly leaving your house and flying away with you to his castle and putting the both of you onto his bed, his knot and member still inside before you returned to unconscious.

When you reawakened he was with you in bed, clothed while you weren’t but a large bulge glowed yellow through pants signaling the fact he was far from done.

“Good morning songbird… I hope you didn’t mind me bringing you home… your new home…”

He gently wrapped his arms around and covered the both of you in his large wings, shielding the both of you from the sun.

you weakly struggled against him all he did was chuckle softly before pulling you into his chest more.

“D-Dream… w-why-“

He cut you off with a deep chuckle before speaking.

“You’re the most perfect and intelligent person in this entire multiverse… I need you… and soon you’ll need me… now rest… I’ve got more in store for you…”

With that you passed out again. That day forward you were stuck with him in his castle.

[kimbap-r0ll]

Hello! I see you open your ask box, can you do headcanon for Chrollo and Phantom Troupe? Like what if the Chrollo's s/o missing and it was related to Chimera Ant (assuming they traveled the southern region and caught by Camera ants?)? Thank you very much!!

Omg, wait, this is really cool? Canonly at this time Chrollo was being chased around by Hisoka while the troupe went back to Meteor City (or at least a fraction of them did) to see what was going on. We'll follow the same storyline, thank you for the ask! This was super fun to write, but it turned out a bit angsty. I wanna write a part 2, if it gets enough interest maybe I'll do it!

Phantom Troupe react to Chrollo's missing s/o

First of all, Chrollo was not in contact with you for a long time because you were part of the troupe and Kurapika's chains stopped him. After the curse was lifted however, he had his hands busy with a certain magician

So the troupe stayed with you. You were close to Machi so you ended going wherever she went, which meant abandoning Shizuku, Feitan, Bonolenov, Phinks, Shalnark, Kalluto (a new member at that time) for following Nobunaga and Machi who were on a different mission

Everyone knew that there was something called Chimera Ants going around because of the news that was being shown in different parts of the world, specifically near the Gorteau countries. But, Machi disregarded the issue and said that they needed to focus on finding Chrollo first

You agreed, worried for the safety of your boyfriend but also about Hisoka's antics. You didn't trust the magician in the first place, and you were upset to find out he was more or less behind the demise of your close friends Pakunoda and Uvogin.

One night however, you broke the promise that Nobunaga, you, and Machi made about staying together at all times. You left into the forest because you wanted to get some fresh air, something valuable for a Meteorite (Meteor City citizen) like yourself. But, you didn't know there would be an ant waiting to capture humans

What happened next was a blur of actions. You were able to fight the soldier ant easily with your nen, yet you were hurt. Your leg was torn by its sharp talons, and the more you looked at the ant through the lights passing through the leaves you noticed the strange features on it. The ant wasn't...ant-like. It had features of a horse, but also a fish. It was strange, and it seemed to be talking to itself about a missing king.

Machi and Nobunaga went looking for you after you didn't show for an hour, but no matter how much Machi and Nobunaga called out, used En, they couldn't find you. After hours of searching, they eventually called the group headed for Meteor City to see if you were there

"No, why? We just finished off a few ants here," Phinks said as Nobunaga called. "Well, Y/n's missing! What if...what if they got caught with the ant things?" Nobu countered, clear worry in his voice. Machi could tell that Nobu was concerned, and she couldn't brush off the unease herself. Who knew what those ants could do anyways?

Though the focus was on the head of the spider, they also knew how important you were. Perhaps you were still safe, but how come they couldn't feel your presence?

Far away, Chrollo was resting at the top of an abandoned tower. Hisoka couldn't catch up to him here, and it was perfect for someone who only had access. He had to call Shalnark and ask for his and Kortopi's nen abilities, just to beat the magician once and for all. But he felt something off...like a piece of him was in urgent need of safety. Was it you? No, you could fend yourself, he knew this when he first saw you take down the mafia that tried to kidnap you in Meteor City. But something was wrong in the air.

Meanwhile with you, you were falling in and out of consciousness. The ant was beaten up, but it was alive, you could see it moving towards you. Were you going to get eaten? But the next thing that happened was it picking you up and dragging you somewhere. Who knew where you would end up, but maybe the palace he was murmuring about would be of some safety to you.

[quinloki]

YESSSS

Obvi Marco after hours PLEASE ❤️❤️

Marco the Phoenix

After Hours Role: Escort/Dancer

After Hours Attire: Comfort is often the name of the game as far as Marco is concerned, but he’s also pretty business savvy. He’ll wear open, loose clothing that show off and highlight some of his more alluring attributes. When he’s on stage he plays up the exotic bird vibe, often donning light colored sheer clothes that glow in the stage lights, and dangling chains and jewelry he’s able to flutter and enhance with his movements.

After Hours Vibe: Smooth as silk during business hours, after hours Marco lets his passion and amorous side shine through far more strongly. His easy demeanor will leave you comfortable, and the soft nips at your neck and ear will be so natural all you’ll have in you in the occasional delighted moan. No stranger to being watched, he’ll bring you over the edge in the common area if that’s what you want, but he’ll just as easily whisk you into more private accommodations.

Tag Line: “My talons at your throat will hardly be the end of our evening together, yoi.”

Dom/Sub/Top/Bottom: Almost evenly split between all four, Marco leans a little more Dom than anything else – whether he’s topping or bottoming won’t ruffle his feathers.

Kink Preferences: Marco doesn’t really have preferences, he doesn’t really have objections either. He’ll be professionally into whatever you want to do, within the guidelines of the club, but getting to know him on a personal level is a completely different matter:

He adapts well to his partner, filling in the spaces as they need them. He's far more playful than you might expect, handsy and passionate - but only at the pace he's sure you're ready for. He's as sharp-eyed as any other bird of prey, so it's okay if you have a hard time communicating clearly, he'll pick up most unspoken cues.

Host Club AU Head Canon Event

[rachelbethhines]

60 Years of Doctor Who Anniversary Marathon - C. Baker 1st Review

The Two Doctors - TV Story

I was so disappointed when this was the story that the randomizer chose.

Unlike most fans, I genuinely enjoy Colin Baker's time as the Doctor on tv. I would have gladly watched any other story, yes even The Twin Dilemma or The Mysterious Planet. Heck, I personally think Timelash is loads of fun.

But this....

Not only is The Two Doctors my least favorite C. Baker episode, it is perhaps my most disliked episode of the classic era. And quite possibly in the bottom ten stories out of the show's history.

However, fair is fair. This is what the randomizer picked and I haven't given the story an honest shot since my first viewing of it.

So is it as bad as I remember?

Yes.

It really is that bad.

Granted there are moments in the story that are entertaining, but these are few and far between and don't do enough to save the serial.

The first and foremost problem is that the story suddenly turns the Doctor into a racist!

These are Androgums. They're an enslaved race, born into servitude because they are deemed to be "less intelligent" then more "civilized" races.

The main villain has been experimented on by a mad scientist, used as a sentient lab rat, and has gained genius intellect and knowledge through her forced upon mutations.

She uses her brains to manipulate people, framing the time lords for crimes they, lets be honest, would have committed themselves anyways, and kidnaps the doctor to force him to teach her time travel so that she may free her people and conquer those that had enslaved her.

You would have thought that the Doctor would be at least sympathetic to her motives, if not her methods, but no!

The Doctor constantly repeats through out the story that Androgums are inherently evil. That it's "in their nature" to destroy everything. That they can never become better people no matter what, and constantly dismisses their plight.

Worse, the story goes on to prove this outlook as correct when the Doctor is forced to become an Androgum himself through genetic experimentation and briefly becomes "evil."

Like why the fuck would you write that into your story!?

Did you not stop to think at all that this might not be the best way to write your hero, nor the most appropriate message to put forth in your narrative?

Then again, this is the written by the same man who wrote The Talons of Weng-Chiang because he unironically loved Fu Manchu movies.

I don't place Robert Homes on any kind of pedestal unlike the rest of fandom and bullshit like this story is why.

Oh but there's more offenses to find here.

See, Homes is not only racist, he's also that smug fake leftist that pretends he's better than you because he doesn't eat meat.

His preachy, holier than thou, anti-meat arguments have popped up a couple of times on the show, but here is where it's at it's most overbearing and obnoxious.

See, there are plenty of legitimate reasons to adopt a vegetarian/vegan diet... from religious beliefs, to health and safety concerns in commercial processing, to personal dietary needs... but Homes never makes this argument.

No Homes believes that people who eat meat are no better then murdering cannibals!

Man what I wouldn't pay to see Robert Holmes in a debate with the current writers of the Poison Ivy comics.

But to add injury to insult, Holmes then decides that the Doctor and Peri must become vegans like him at the end of the story.... You know the two characters who are not his creations and have no previously established reasons to adopt his personal belief systems.

Peri has since been retconed into having always been a vegetarian in the expanded universe, and that works okay as there's nothing in previous episodes to contradict it. It also nicely ties into her being revealed as a botanist in the next story.

But the Doctor not only has never held this practice before, the story makes a point to establish that he does enjoy eating meat and has him fishing for fun at the beginning.

So this is essentially the writer forcing his personal beliefs on to the main hero of a long established running series that he himself has only been a part of for a brief amount of time.

Trying to morph a character that isn't yours into just another version of yourself, ignoring anything that came before to do so, is bad writing. Plain and simple.

It's not only disrespectful to the character and their creator, it's also just flat out boring.

If you can't write anyone but yourself and can't present anyone else's view other than your own, then why the fuck are you even writing to begin with?

This a personal pet peeve of mine in professional media, writing characters that aren't yours out of character cause of ego, and I truly think it's a waste of everyone's time.

What else...

Oh the pacing is poor, the direction is flat, and I truly despise the scene where Oscar dies with the passion of a thousand suns!!!

It is the most tone deaf, poorly directed, poorly acted, poorly written scene in the entire story with perhaps the stupidest dialogue in the entirety of the classic era.

I hate it!

At least we can only go up from here.

[minweber]

“As with most members of the Ten Thousand, both the full name and the specifics of tribune Felis Silvestris Juvenilis’ service remain shrouded in mystery, known only to his fellow Custodians. What is known, however, paints him not just as a mighty warrior and a wise leader - both characteristics inseparable from the image of the Emperor’s own guardians - but also as a great administrator and diplomat - traits no less inherent to Custodians, but far less known beyond the walls of the Imperial Palace.

What meager records are available on the history of Adeptus Custodes suggest tribune to be one of the most senior serving members of the organization, the length of his vigil rivaling that of the most ancient of the Moritoi. It is said that amidst tribunes he is the one who manages the often overlooked supply and logistics aspects of Adeptus Custodes operations. While appearing somewhat unglamourous to an outside observer, these tasks are held in great respect by Custodians themselves, not in the least because they include the duty to oversee the process of selection, creation and training of new Custodians.

It is in duties of such caliber that tribune Felis is said to have excelled for aeons, and excelled to such a degree that, according to some, he is viewed as something of a father figure by many of relatively younger Custodians. Though extremely unverified, such rumors are somewhat supported by the fact that the latest election for the position of Captain-General saw tribune Felis as a popular candidate, beaten narrowly - rumors say by as little as three votes - by Trajan Valoris.

At the same time, it is evident that tribune’s service was not limited to internal matters of Adeptus Custodes throughout the eras. Several records name him as the custodian who brought Alicia Dominica before the Emperor to put an end to Goge Van Dire’s reign of terror during the Age of Apostacy. He also appears in much more recent imperial history, leading a delegation of Emissaries Imperatus to help negotiate peace after the disastrous events of the Damocles Crusade.

His most well-documented exploits, however, come at the break of the current era, as the Noctis Aeterna fell upon the Emperor’s domain. According to fresh tomes within the Imperial Archive, not long before the outbreak of Cicatrix Maledictum, it was tribune Felis who came to Captain-General with concerns about how the decline and near extinction of their sister order, the dreaded Anathema Psykana, left Adeptus Custodes weakened against immaterial foes, their ability to carry out their duty compromised by millenia of passivity. The two held council, and Captain-General ordered tribune to begin the process of restoring the second Talon of the Emperor to its former glory. Subsequent events, culminating in the Battle of the Lion’s Gate, would prove both the wisdom of this decision, and the near-lateness of it.

Though begun in advance, the process of gathering and rebuilding strength of the Silent Sisterhood was nowhere near complete when the eighty-eight cohorts of Khorne struck at the Imperial palace. But it was due to this process that enough sisters were gathered at the orbit of Luna to intervene in another, no less critical battle. For it was then that an ancient aeldari webway gate, dormant for many millennia, awakened on the surface of Terra’s moon to let out none other than primarch Roboute Guilliman - miraculously resurrected and returned - and his companions, fighting a desperate retreating battle against pursuing forces of the Crimson King himself - the treacherous daemon primarch Magnus the Red. And it was just as primarch and his forces were about to be overwhelmed that tribune Felis Silvestris Juvenilis led Talons of the Emperor - fighting together for the first time in living memory - to the aid of the Avenging Son. His malignant spells weakend, and his body cut by Guardian Spear and Executioner Blade, the treacherous primarch was driven back and his warriors slain, with tribune himself cutting off three feathers from the wing of the daemon, which he now bears upon his armour as a reminder that no foe, however great, can step within the system Solar.

Thus the life of the primarch was saved, and through that, the defenders of the Lion’s Gate relieved, legions of Khorne crushed, and foundation laid for the beginning of the Era Indomitus itself.

At the time of this record’s creation tribune Felis is thought to be primarily operating on Terra, assisting with continuing restoration of the Anathema Psykana and representing Adeptus Custodes within Senatorum Imperialis in Captain-General’s absence. A singular navigational record, however, documents his visit to Nocturne for an unknown purpose, while another report speaks of him leading an embassy to the Fabricator-General of Mars…”

- an excerpt from “Lives of the Noble Souls of the Dark Millenium” by Lucian Ploutarkos, historitor of the Logos Historica Verita