#menagerie guards

[negotiumcrucis]

Menagerie

Joe/Nicky, Werewolf AU, Explicit (wip)

Nicky patiently waits in line just outside the Menagerie, the decadent red neon letters a constant, eerie presence in the moonless night. The name is a little on the nose, he thinks, but it does get the point across. It is the same one in the app he allowed Nile to install on his phone when he got drunk after his exams and confessed all about his secret desire to be fucked by a werewolf. Nicky knew that Nile, of all people, wouldn’t judge him for it. She had a weak spot for vampire ladies with a firm hand and had used the app herself a few times before. The next day, while nursing a headache, Nicky didn’t pay attention to any of his classes, too busy messaging a werewolf who matched with him in the app. They hit it off, and after exchanging a couple of pictures, Nicky was ready to kiss Nile in gratitude. That was Wednesday; today is Friday, and he feels like he has been waiting his whole life for this. Even now, a shiver runs down Nicky’s spine as he sneaks a glance at the picture on his phone for what must be the hundredth time today. Though he’s quite sure “Joe” is just some fake name, he can’t bring himself to care much about it. Because Joe is without a doubt one of the most gorgeous creatures he has ever laid his eyes on, and, more importantly, he has agreed to meet Nicky and see if they still like each other in person. And maybe, maybe they will fuck then.

continue reading @ao3

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a little something I'm writing for @topjoediscord's Monster Fucking Event! =)

[preqwells]

♡︎♡︎ SWEET.

simon riley x reader synopsis: you and your fiancé were settling in for the night, ready to go to bed until you insisted on doing a little skincare with him— he didn't know it'd bring about old memories. tags: fluff, slight angst/lots of comfort, mentions of blood word count: 1.8k

There you were again— another night of standing in front of the mirror, your menagerie of face products messily lined upon the white-marbled sink, the hum of a low fan serving as white noise as you got ready for bed. The bathroom’s humidity welcomed you, having just gotten out of a well-deserved shower. A white towel wrapped snugly around you as you reached your hand out to press it against the fogged glass, rubbing the condensation away in short and swift motions. You leaned over the sink in a feeble attempt to get closer to it, the edge of the sink poking at your stomach as your eyes squinted in concentration. An exasperated sigh left your lips, eyes daring to roll back into the back of your head out of sheer annoyance from the inconvenience. A sudden hand snaked around your waist, pulling you into its warmth as you jolted up out of surprise, your shoulders loosening once you put two and two together.

“Boo.” The gruff voice whispered, his voice reverberating from his chest into your frame. A huff of amusement escaped through his nose, seeming quite pleased with his ability to still catch you off guard doing such mundane things as taking care of yourself. He was met with a gentle elbow to his hardened abdomen, your elbow seeming to take more of the blow than him. “Rude, Simon.. I was busy!” You griped, reprimanding your fiancé for sneaking up on you when he was aware of how much you hated that. Years of military training seemed to only hone his stealth rather than diminish it, his tendency to loom in hallways and corners out of pure habit by now. “Uh-huh. Bet you were, love. Quite a shame.” Simon supplied simply, unphased by words that lacked any venom in them. He slipped past you with ease, extending his arm out towards the lid of the toilet seat, letting it fall as he took a seat atop it, legs spreading as he drank in your figure. Simon did this often, almost following you around like a lost puppy— dark eyes simply fixated on you and enamored with your movements. “I was! I was about to put on a face mask.” You said as your hand reached for a nearby packet, the small gray packet crinkling with each movement. Simon’s eyes narrowed in examination of the product, brows slightly furrowed as he took it from you without further hesitation, his eyes scanning it, practically burning holes into it. “Charcoal... paper mask. What s’all this for?” He asked with a hint of interest in his tone, his brows knitted in skepticism. He was aware of your interest in skincare, yet the topic remained foreign to him for the most part. He had no need for it although his skin was beyond needing care. A couple of ingrown hairs from messily shaving in the wrong direction, and purple under eyes that did anything and everything but blend into his skin. Skincare— what the hell does anyone need skincare for? Are soap and water not enough these days?

“It’s supposed to reduce oil by pulling blackheads out or something, I think.”

“Your skin’s oily?”

“Isn’t yours too?”

“Dunno. Just usually scrub the shit out of it and roll out of bed good as new...” He mused, rotating the packet between his index finger and middle, offering it back to you after he was done. Being in the military left little room to worry about the condition of his skin, the only liquid meeting his skin being water, sweat, and blood— his own... most of the time. It was a folly thought to think you believed he was informed about the condition of his skin, stifling a small laughter caught in his throat. You gently took it from him, attempting to rip the top of the plastic packaging off and absentmindedly setting it aside before an idea crossed your mind. Simon sensed this, his eyebrows slightly raised as interest peeked through his poker face.

“Si…” You began sweetly, your voice comically raising an octave in an attempt to persuade him. As predicted, Simon’s resolve slowly crumbled at the sweetness in your voice, mentally cursing himself for being such a sucker for you. “What is it?” He softly inquired, his head cocked slightly to the side as he awaited your words. “Would you want to try this with me?”

"Try what?"

"A face mask— don't act stupid."

"If I wanted to act stupid, I'd take notes from you, lovie."

"Oh, ha-ha." You stuck your tongue out at him, eliciting a huff of amusement from him. He remained quiet as he gently took ahold of your hand, getting your fingers to loosen their grip on the packet. His eyes scanned the foreign piece of plastic, reading the ingredients it contained. You caught his attention, moving closer to him as you pointed out the ingredients.

"These are just all the things it's mixed with. Niacinamide is supposed to help with oil reduction, the aloe is for calming inflamed skin..." You trailed off as you gestured for him to read the rest. He gave you a look that practically screamed, 'You don't need any of this', but he obliged in the directions you gave him anyway. Everything checked out with what you said, not that he'd doubt your knowledge. You always knew about little facts, odds and ends here and there-- maybe that's why you kept wiping the floor with him whenever you two would watch Jeopardy.

He inhaled deeply for a moment before letting the puff of air out through parted lips, finally giving you a nod of acknowledgment at your earlier offer. "Yeah, sure." He agreed, shrugging it off as if it were no big deal. The corners of your lips tugged to form a huge grin as he handed the packet back to you to rip open. You took a step forward between his legs, his dark brown eyes watching you with rapt attention. Pale eyelashes flicked up to trail your features as you struggled to open the packet, much to his delight. The shape of your lips, the way strands of your hair would fall into your face and catch against your long lashes that dropped over your eyes— Simon was by no means a saint, but God, did he want to be one for you. His hand found its way to your clothed hip, his thumb rubbing small circles over the fabric.

"Aha! Got it!" You threw your hands up in the air, fists clenched as you celebrated your small victory of getting the packet opened. "Ready?" You eagerly asked, practically teeming with joy. He stiffened slightly at your words, his eyes straying from yours for a moment. He didn't know what came over him— you had seen his face a thousand times, hell, it wasn't like he was wearing a mask now. Maybe it was the way that all these face products served as a reminder that he didn't have perfect skin. Better yet, it served as a reminder he was far from perfect himself. Scars littered his body, some from even when he hadn't been in the military— each scar on his body told a story, some nastier than others. "Yeah." He responded bluntly, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. You were his fiancé and accepted him wholeheartedly— he knew that. Your relationship had been through hell and back to get to where you are now. Countless missions he had gone on that you were convinced he wasn't going to come back from, dreading the day that you'd only have his dog tag to remember him by. You were the only person he had left and gave a promise of coming back to— everything be damned if he didn't claw his way back to you every time.

You fished the paper mask out of the packaging that was soaked in product, his eyebrow twitching in curiosity about how it was going to be applied. "Close your eyes." You cooed as he stared at you for a moment before his eyelashes fluttered shut. Your expression softened as you straightened the mask before placing it over his face, the coolness of the mask sending a chill up his spine. You began smoothing out the mask with your thumb, delicately mapping out his features. His nose was crooked from the time he told you he broke his nose at age 18 for getting into some barfight at a local pub, which served as no surprise since you were well aware of his temper when it was directed towards others. Craters of acne scarring embedded into his cheeks from his nails digging at the painful hormonal acne he had suffered from until the ripe age of 22. The scar on his chin from when he had scraped it on a rock as a rookie in training for the military. All of what made Simon, Simon.

"You're handsome." You said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I know it." He replied, his voice mirroring yours. You gave him a weak smile as you shook your head, your thumb still smoothing down the edges of the mask. He always hid behind his cocky demeanor, vulnerability masked by his dry humor. "No, I mean it." You mumbled as a moment of silence fell between you two, filled by the low hum of the bathroom fan. His hand was still resting on your hip, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh blanketed by polyester. He didn't say anything in response, opting to say nothing as he blinked a few times, his gaze falling on a nearby bath towel that was strung up to dry. Even though his words failed him, you could've sworn you saw a hint of a smile threatening to grace his features.

The rest of the evening continued with him learning more about skincare, letting you ramble on about which products you were looking forward to getting in the future. Night fell as quickly as the evening ended, landing you two in the comfort of your shared bed. You fell asleep before he did, practically swallowed whole by the cotton blanket you two had picked out a week ago. Maybe it's too big, he thought to himself. His eyes landed on your sleeping form, watching as your chest rose and fell rhythmically. Your hair was sprawled across the pillow as moonlight filtered in through the curtains, almost giving an illusion of an aureole of light surrounding you— he could've mistaken you for an angel itself if he were half-asleep, honestly. He reached out for your hand, gingerly taking it in his as he admired the ring he had proposed to you with. His index finger grazed across the band of gold, the reality that you were his pulling at his heartstrings.

He fell asleep with you in his arms that night, peppering kisses to your temple before bringing his face down to rest in the crook of your neck with him tucked at your side. He wasn’t burdened by nightmares for the first time in a while— he dreamed.

banner credit: @/saradika

[fanaticsnail]

Play Stupid Games, Win Stupid Prizes (1/2)

Masterlist Here, Pollen Masterlist Here

Part 2 Here

Word count: 7,500+

Synopsis: Doffy is attempting to gain the upper hand against you. He's longed for you, yearned for you - in his own unique way. Considering you never give in to his flirtatious advances, he takes matters into his own hands and attempts to spike your drink. The problem? Your quick wit and nimble fingers switch whisky glasses with him, causing unforeseen problems that he has no cure for…

Warnings: Doflamingo x f!reader, NSFW, 18+, Mdni, smut, pollen fic, Pollen!Doffy x Unaffected!reader, dubcon, size difference (Doffy is 10’, reader is 5’+), degradation - Doffy receiving, yandere Doffy, Doffy is a brat, mentions of drugging, mention of poison, Doflamingo is a conniving bastard, swearing, choking - Doffy receiving, Doflamingo is his own warning, Doffy begs, toxic relationship, Doffy is infatuated, love confession, marriage proposal. ‘Mi amor,’ ‘Mami,’ femme titles used for reader.

Notes: this may not be everyone's cuppa, and it was absolutely something different I decided to try for pollen. Please read the warnings before reading the fic.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @gingernut1314 @feral-artistry @nerium-lil @writingmysanity

Sitting at the lengthy dining table, Donquixote Doflamingo extended his glass out towards the gathering of eclectic individuals. Each person present had an array of wealth, titles and reputation; all represented with their names embroidered into their napkins and painted into their drinking glasses.  

Doflamingo had planned everything perfectly. He had plotted each element of the meal to have everyone relax into the welcoming environment: keeping the air light and merry. There was not a fork out of place, nor a knife unaccounted for. He wanted the mood light enough to have you not suspecting a thing to go wrong.

And everything was going exceptionally well, all according to his plan. 

“To a long and healthy relationship between us all,” Doflamingo's smirk grew on his face, him turning to you with a small wink, “And to casting aside differences in the face of humility. Salud.”

“Salud,” you and the crowd repeated in unison, all arms extended with beverages in hand. 

Your glasses all contained gold letters depicting your names and titles on the rim. The servers ensured the liquid was all topped up with your chosen beverage for the night. Your choice? Whisky, neat with no frills nor ice to taint the liquid. Just like your host, Donquixote Doflamingo. 

All according to your plan. 

As soon as you received an invitation to attend this dinner party, you knew Doflamingo was planning something sinister for you. His silly little mind games he used to attempt to get the better of you were always centric to his plans. To embarrass you, to humiliate you, to harm you, to ridicule you: this was always the aim. And you had had just about enough of this torment. 

Getting information out of his menagerie of guards and house staff was simple enough. Offer them enough Berry, and their lips would never stop moving. Hearing Doflamingo’s disappearance in the town square, halting over a small shop stocked with pills and powders, had you mortified at his cruel fate he had in store for the evening. 

You expected poison to meet with your lips the moment you raised your glass to meet them. Your little game would rise to the greatest crescendo yet, you clutching at your rapidly closing throat and pleading for reprieve. Considering Doflamingo was the one to purchase the powdered poison, he would likely only offer you the antidote if you begged for it. 

In lieu of following through with the action of swallowing a heaping gulp of poisoned whiskey, you decided to give the pink-feathered bastard a taste of his own medicine. You reap what you sow, was how you figured it. 

“Fuck around and find out,” you chanted internally. Your soft, knowing smile drew over your features; watching Doflamingo drain the contents from the glass in his hand with gusto. You mirrored his action, downing the liquid in a single gulp. 

Doflamingo shot you a smirk, watching your face for any immediate changes to your body. A flush of your cheeks, a dilation of your pupils, your lips parting and becoming both drier and filling with saliva in unison. He was shocked when you returned his smile: only warmth being offered to him from your place across the dining table before turning to the woman beside you. 

He initially thought drugging you with a form of poison would be a hilarious sight: watching you claw at your neck and beg for the antidote in front of a room of his wealthy guests gave him a sick sense of satisfaction. But to give you an incredibly potent aphrodisiac with no known cure aside from giving into your cravings? Why, the thought alone made his cock twitch in eager anticipation.

He wanted nothing more than to have you shed your fine clothes of their place on your body, tearing them at the seams and beg for him to finally fuck you. He wanted you so desperate for him, you'd care not of the fact the room was full with those in your same league of formal standing. 

As you had always turned down his prior advances of you; he wanted to claim you publically, and leave no room for misinterpretation for his ownership of you. He wanted you to want him, to yearn for him, to plead for his cock with lust oozing from your body in rapid waves. 

He wanted you to want him in the same way he chased his release into his palm every night since your first introduction together. He wanted you the same way he would pay concubines to pretend to be you: copying your mannerisms, immigrating your vocal cadence, wearing similar attire. 

It was never enough for him. He wanted the real thing, and he hoped this final push would have you want him back. 

His craving to have you on your knees and begging for his cock to fill you to the brink with his cum, your neediness flushing your face, the whines and whimpers you'd elicit was too much for his mind to catch up with. He was already feeling aroused by the thought alone, confused at how alite his body felt with just the simple flash of erotic imagery. 

Suddenly the room was hot. Too hot. His clothes were too tight, the lights were too bright; causing him to wince behind his rosy glasses. His cheeks tinted with a soft pink, his body immediately becoming ignited with the hot beads of glistening sweat. 

He attempted to process the feeling, the stiffness of his erection brushing painfully against his striped, leather pants. Eyes widening and teeth clenching, he hissed out a winced breath as the sensitive buds of his nipples grazed against the open jacket firmly clutched against his chest. 

Looking down at the glass in his hands, his lips parted with horror. 

Your name was intricately painted in perfect cursive on the rim, each letter sparkling in the light illuminating the room. He snapped his face over to you, watching as your smile climbed up at the corners of your lips. 

Remaining blissfully unaware of how much torture you narrowly avoided, you asked the waiter for another glass of whiskey for yourself and your companion beside you.  

The glass in your hand had his name “Donquixote Doflamingo” in coiled lettering on the rim. As the waiter filled it, you held your eyes firmly against your conversation partner before you slowly sipped at the contents within. 

The cruel reality of his situation now dawned on him. 

He had unintentionally spiked himself with the incurable aphrodisiac, in public, instead of you. And now his body was desperate to see his lust satisfied by any means necessary. 

“And what did he say, Maria?” you asked the woman beside you, your attention fully fixed on her eyes as she relayed her tale. 

“He said: ‘a goddess as radiant as you should have men falling to their knees in adoration’,” Maria mocked in a lower, masculine tone. You bit back your smirk, eyeing her dangerously. 

“And what did you do in response to that?” you urged her with an excitement in your knowing tone. 

“I let him worship,” she smirked at you. Both of you became overcome with a fit of giggles, laughing at the sheer audacity of her promiscuous nature. You tapped her forearm with your hand playfully, enjoying a soft shove in return from her shoulder. 

Of the guests amongst you: Maria and you had known each other the longest. Both of you felt out of place here, being two of the few women present. You were roughly of similar ages, both unmarried and unspoken for. She had a soft-spot for the marines, her latest conquest being the right-hand man of Vice-Admiral Garp. 

“You are incorrigible,” you tease her, with a soft, “Atta girl,” added, nudging her with your shoulder before elevating your drinking glass up to take a sip. 

“Speaking of,” she returned your gentle nudge with one of her own, “Doflamingo’s glass? How'd you manage that?” She gestured to the cup in your hand. 

“Bribed the server,” you smirked, clinking the rim of the cup with the one in her own hand, “Had a feeling a game was afoot. And you know what they say,” you leant against her shoulder, both fixing your eyes on the blonde man at the head of the table. 

“Play stupid games,” you both uttered in unison, “Win stupid prizes," concluding with a sinister chuckle,

Your host for the night was hunched over the table, his teeth clenched firmly shut and soft beads of sweat were rapidly now gathering at his temple. This only solidified your suspicions, noticing the silence he was presenting in lieu of his usual conversation. 

Raising your brow, you remained focussed on him as the grip his hands perched against the table made his knuckles flash white. Curiosity plagued you, unsure as to why he was not asking his staff for the antidote to cure him. He was obviously under the effects of some kind of poison, his heavy breathing and indicator of such a plight. 

Why would he not ask for help? 

His eyes meet with yours, his frown deep and teeth grimacing. Quietly raising your eyebrows at him, you gently extend his glass in the air to add further sting to the ridicule. His eyes drew up to glare beneath his pink glasses. His pupils were focussed on your body, noticing every exposed area of flesh remaining unshrouded on the neckline of your button-up shirt. His eyes attempted to undress you, his gaze scorching you beneath his rose-tinted glasses. 

Noticing his gaze, you hum in deep thought. Shrugging your shoulders back, you turn to Maria beside you and give her a short nudge. Upon finishing her final bite of dessert, she turned towards you. 

“I’m going to go and gloat for a minute at my quick swipe,” you smirk at the woman to your side, “I'll be back once I'm satisfied he's ‘faced his humility’.” 

“Be safe!” she giggled, ushering you on with two quickened waves of her hands. 

“I'll be so safe,” you mocked her in return. Rising to your feet, you tucked your chair beneath the table and watched as several others did the same. All mingling amongst one another, you made yourself comfortable in a now vacant seat beside Doflamingo. 

“Doflamingo,” you nodded your acknowledgement, crossing your knees beneath the table and nudging his calf with your foot, “You've been awfully quiet tonight.” Trailing your toes over his calf, you noticed the hitch of his breath as he balled his knuckles into clenched fists. 

“Something amiss?” You asked him, placing down your drinking glass for the night while circling the rim with your index finger, “Something not quite going according to plan, perhaps?” Your smile grew as you noticed his shoulders tense, his breath hitch and his legs began to shake beneath your foot.

Gently trailing your toes higher, you eyed his reaction cautiously. His body was as hard as polished marble, his hair now slightly damp with a small amount of sweat gathering on his forehead. 

“Oh, Doffy,” you hissed a small whisper, your foot now tracing the outer edge of his thigh, “What the fuck were you attempting to poison me with this time?” You clicked your tongue at him, pouting through pursed lips, “Doesn't look like it's quite agreeing with you.”

“Out,” he whispered in a gruff bark. 

The quiet growl cut through the air like a steel knife carving through tough flesh. All guests immediately drew their eyes over to the pink-feathered host with a snap of their chins towards him. 

“I said out,” he snarled, his eyes frantically darting between each member attending the dinner party, “Everyone out. Out now.” 

You flinched at his change of tone, jumping back in your seat but refusing to hede to his dictation. Doflamingo felt his blood ignite with a passionate lust he had never experienced. He needed the cure, and he needed it now. 

Each guest rose to their feet, murmuring amongst themselves as they hastily fled the space with caution. Against your better judgment to follow suit, you remained behind and rose the glass marked ‘Donquixote Doflamingo’ to your lips and finished the remaining liquid within. 

Whiskey burned its way down your throat, the honey-sweet notes lingering on your palate as you placed the glass down once more. You rose to your feet and grasped for the water jug in front of Doflamingo and poured your emptied glasses with the icy water. 

“You don't look so good, sweetheart,” you cooed in a mocking gloat, placing the water glass with your name in front of him, “Have a drink, you'll feel better.” Doffy remained unmoving, clenching his eyes tightly shut as his body fought against itself. 

He tried to convince himself he'll manage this. He'll get through it without asking for your aid. He'll be able to withstand the potency of the aphrodisiac without becoming a whimpering mess in front of you.  

But then you spoke. 

And you kept speaking. 

Your sweet voice cut into his resolve with expert precision. Haunting him, cursing him with the ridicule that you should've been experiencing. He attempted to control his urges by gulping back a dry mouthful of saliva and concentrating on slowing his breathing. 

“Oh, come now,” you scolded the tall, blonde, “Nothing to say for yourself, huh?” You leaned your hips back on the table and eyed him cautiously, “Not even going to order the staff to get the oral antidote for whatever you've-.”

“-There is no oral antidote,” he spat through gritted teeth. He tried to ignore the twitch of his cock at the mention of ‘come’ and ‘oral’ from your lips. The swelling blood pooling in his cock had the shiny tip brushing against his leather pants. He mewled at the small twitch of his oversensitive knob, attempting to disguise his whimper with a soft cough. 

The air grew thick and tense; silence swelling in an uncomfortable dance of fluttering heartbeats. After taking a moment to hone in on your thoughts, you slowly inhaled and exhaled alongside externally verbally processing. 

“You were going to have me drink a poison tonight that had no cure?” you uttered darkly, “And watch me convulse as I took my last breaths?” Down turning your snarl and drawing up your heckles, you placed your foot on Doflamingo's bare chest and kicked hard. You glared into his shrouded eyes. 

“You were going to publicly execute me in front of your guests?” you continued, “My friends, my colleagues, my potential clients? Doflamingo,” you continued, leaning down and pressing your chest into your knee, “You deserve your cruel fate. Suffer, asshole.”

A shaky, large hand slowly drew itself up and softly cupped your ankle. He cautiously lifted your foot off his chest and pressed his lips against the ball of your foot. As soon as that kiss ended, another was placed slightly higher up into your inner calf. 

He removed your shoe, casting it to the side of him as he groped at you with his large hands. Hastily drawing his hands down to collect your other foot, he rid the presence of your shoe from you before placing your toes down on his thigh. 

Shock wrote itself on your face as a flurry of several more kisses were pressed into you. Each kiss was accompanied by a strangled whimper falling from Doflamingo's lips: breath hitched, brows furrowed and throat humming out the calls of desperation. 

“It h-has a cure, mi amor,” he softly whined into your leg, “Just not a manufactured one.” His lips could barely part with your skin, each soft kiss growing hungrier the further up your legs he drew. Humming through several more of his kisses, you were too terrified to truly correlate his affectionate advances to any known experience prior. 

Donquixote Doflamingo had always been intrigued by you. Always finding some way to bully, vex and torture you. This was something you never anticipated. His desperation in need for you was now depicted as his tongue raked up your thighs: his moist organ dampening your pants with a long and lustful streak of saliva. 

“Absolutely not,” you spat, forcing Doflamingo back into his seat by pressing your foot against his chest once again. “What the fuck, Doflamingo?” He mewled as your heel grazed his right nipple, his body crying out in relief and arousing itself further. 

From this angle, you hastily drew your eyes down to the large polearm hoisting up his pants in a perfect peaked tent. His large cock left very little to the imagination beneath the shroud of his leathery pants. 

He whispered your name, the last syllable calling out in a soft sob. His breaths were both deep and shallow, his body hot and cold, his mind clear and cloudy - he had no idea how to process these emotions. All he knew is he needed you. He wanted you. He craved you. 

Disgust was now openly displayed on your features at his desperation, watching the mighty King of Dressrosa sob and cry for you like a child that had a favorite toy hovering just out of reach. His hands began opening and closing, the strings of his devil-fruit power beginning to hover in his fingertips; only to fizzle away as soon as they formed. 

“What were you attempting to spike me with tonight?” you hissed at the blonde king, adding an emphatic kick to his chest to regain his attention. 

“An aphrodisiac,” he admitted, choking on his confession as he attempted to withhold it, “One so potent, the only cure for it is s-sex.” He moaned with his hissed admission, throwing his head back and whimpering. 

You sucked in a horrified gasp, recoiling as you understood exactly what he was admitting to you. You took a moment to collect your thoughts and mull over your next actions. Hardening your resolve, you shook it off and removed your foot from his chest, before straightening up your clothes. 

“Fuck you, Doflamingo,” you spat, beginning to walk away from him and collect your discarded shoes. He spun in his chair, almost knocking the seat over with the haste he followed you with. 

“Where are you going?” he whispered your name, falling onto his knees and needily following you with desperate longing. You growled, pairing your shoes and beginning to attempt to exit the dining room. 

“Getting you your concubines,” you spat over your shoulder, “Only cure for this is sex, and there is no way you're getting that from me,” Your hand hovered the doorknob, halting as a large hand drew down onto your knuckles and held your hand firmly away from it. 

“Don’t,” he huffed a gruff growl, his body leaning unconsciously towards you. 

“You want the cure? I'm getting it for you,” you whispered, rage bubbling within your chest, “It's likely better than the fate you had in store for me.”

Silence was once again uncomfortable between you, your confirmation solidified in the quiet of his response. 

“You would've had me beg for it, wouldn't you?” you uttered darkly, “Have me grovel and plead for release in front of the entire dinner party.” His hand tightened over yours, bordering on painful. 

“Yes,” he admitted in an icy tone. He sucked in his bottom lip, clenching his teeth over them and moaned while inhaling your scented perfume. 

“And who was going to be the likely cure for this tonight?” you shot over your shoulder, noticing his face was hovering closely against your shoulder, “You?”

“Yes,” he whined, hovering his body behind yours and caging it against the door. 

“You bastard,” you spat, turning around to face him and breaking your hand away from his, “You don't deserve a cure for this-.”

“-I know,” he sobbed, dropping to his knees in front of you, “I know, I know. I just-...” 

“Just what, Doffy?” you growled at him, “What now? After all this, what-?”

“-I just wanted you to want me how desperately I want you,” he confessed in a single breath, his words fleeing from him with unbridled gusto, “I wanted you to want me so badly, your body couldn't stand another moment without me. And now that I've taken the fucking drug instead of you,” he lunged towards you, clutching at your thighs, “I can barely keep up with how much I want you.”

“Doffy, what are you-?” you began, your breath hitching in a shriek as he ripped off your pants in a quick swipe. “Doflamingo!” you yelped as he buried his nose against your clothed cunt. 

“Let me taste you,” he whined, nuzzling against your panties with his nose and greedily lapping at the cotton with his lengthy tongue, “Please, let me have you cry for me. I n-need you.”

“Doffy,” you uttered sharply, nudging his shoulders away from you - which did nothing to halt his enthusiastic advance. He instead circled his arms around your thighs and hooked them over his shoulders. 

Shrieking, your back was now placed against the door: Doflamingo's head buried deep between your thighs as he clasped his hands around your ass to hold you in place. Greedily bobbing his head, he began lapping at your cunt with his slippery tongue, paying no mind at all to the fact what he wanted most was shrouded by the fabric of your panties.

With each cruel swipe, a single word was chanted in a penance-like prayer. The word was music to your ears, your resolve crumbling with each whimpered petition. The song of his desperate pleading beckoned you to let go and give into him. 

“Please.” He hooked his lengthy tongue beneath the fabric, clenching his teeth on the elastic and noseying it aside with his chin. “Please.” Flattening his tongue, he gasped as he tasted your sweet nectar and swirled his organ over your clit. “Please.” 

The ache in his pants was so strong, he could barely take another moment not being buried to the hilt within you. He continued to make an effort to withhold his cravings, to ensure you were ready to take him, as he was twice your size in every way. 

Being the giver was not his strength. Doflamingo would take, take, take until there was nothing left to take from his bedmates. He wanted to chase his release, no matter the consequences his large cock would indent while sheathed within a partner. He simply didn’t care about them, but he did care about you. He wanted you to want him so badly, desperate to earn your approval and love. He needed you to know how far he was willing to go to ensure this was as good for you as it was going to be for him. 

You barely had a moment to adjust to what was happening to you. Replaying the events of the evening perplexed you with even more confusion. 

Doflamingo invited you to dinner with the intention of poisoning you. A poison that was an incurable aphrodisiac that made you desperate for sex with any willing partner. The reason he wanted to poison you with this was because he liked you, and wanted to pursue you romantically. And instead of asking to formally court you, he decided spiking your drink in public was the answer. 

You had every right to push him away, to tell him “no,” and to halt his advances. But at each skillful swipe of his tongue, you felt more of yourself melting away beneath his humility. His apology dictated to you with each intentional swirl of his lengthy tongue.

“Doffy,” you mewled to him, feeling his tongue dip into your slick entrance. His nose circled your clit, his skillful organ greedily flicking in and out of your cunt while hooking up within you to climb deeper into your body. Your walls clenched around his tongue, his chin spiriting you towards bliss as he ground your pussy against his face. 

“Please,” he muffled into your core, desperately lapping up your arousal like a dog parched for water, “Please, please.” You felt your stomach tighten, his aggressive chase of your high with his lips wrapping around your sensitive bud ushering you to your unravel. 

“Doffy, wh-what are you-oh!” your breathy gasp had his hands pawing at your ass, grinding your core against his face harder to urge you closer to your high. Your hands pawed at the wall behind you to brace yourself against it. You found the pit of your stomach wind tighter and shoot sparks down your legs. He moaned into you, expressing his gratitude at your body beginning to give into him and release your inhibitions onto his face. 

“Please cum,” he begged, slurping messily and lapping up your juices, “Cum on my tongue. I n-need it.”

Your hands shot down to his hair, clutching at the strands in heaped fistfuls. As the coil inside you snapped, your lips formed a perfect ‘O’ as he channeled his desperation into meeting your needy thrusts and grinds against his head. “Let go, let go,” he begged you, his face becoming coated by your gushing slick. 

“D-Doffy! Oh, f-fuck. Oh fuck, I'm cumming. You fucking prick, Doffy!” You mewled his name, crying for him with your eyes clenched tightly shut. 

His hair began to burn within your fists, but he truly didn’t care. His tongue lapped up your gushing cunt over emphatically while grinding you skillfully against his nose, lips, tongue and chin. Riding your high, Doflamingo continued to hold you against his face as your soul fell back inside your body. 

“So good,” the older Donquixote brother complimented you, looking up at you through his glasses, “Now let me fuck you.” He withdrew your hips from his head, attempting to wrap your legs around his waist and shepherd you over the waistband of his pants. 

He pawed at the front button, his cock immediately springing forth and glistening in the light. Eyes spread wide with worry, you shook your head after feeling yourself recover from your high. Your underwear once again shrouded your glistening core, protecting you from a small twitch of interest from Doflamingo’s aching and incredibly large cock. 

“No, Doffy,” you firmly commanded, wriggling yourself away from his hold over you. As you side stepped, his hands extended in longing with outstretched, splayed fingers. He whimpered, his body leaning down and shaking with desire. 

“B-But I-...” he didn't get a chance to speak, as you growled over his pleas. 

“-You pinned me to the wall, and forced me cum on your face after you attempted to poison me,” you barked at him, “And now you expect me to help you by what? What, Doffy?” you snarled intp his face, baring your teeth at him, “You want me to sit on your cock and ride you until you cum? Tsk, pathetic.”

A sound you were not expecting to exhale through Doflamingo's lips at this moment. He sobbed, his lips quivering as his hands shuddered. His lengthy digits hovered over his cock, desperately wanting to chase his high into his fist: only withholding it because he knew it would make his situation all the more severe. He knew he couldn’t cum without external, other bodily stimuli. He needed you to help him, and he bit back a soft sob as his eyes grew glossy behind his pink glasses. 

“I need you,” he whimpered, “I need you so badly. I needed you when you were first introduced to me, and I have needed you ever since.”

“I simply do not care, Doflamingo,” you spat in return, his soft sob doing nothing to break you away from your resolve, “The only thing I’ll do for you is get you a concubine to sleeve your cock in, but otherwise I am done.”

“I don’t want them, I want you,” he whimpered, shaky hands balling into his covered thighs. His cock twitched in the air, the veiny underside throbbing with pulsating longing. You fold your arms over your chest, looking down on the taller man with absolute disgust. He held your gaze with his shrouded eyes, disguising his longing behind their tinted hue. 

“You repulse me,” you snarled, walking over to his kneeling position on the floor.

“I adore you,” he mewled through his confession, gasping as you grasped his girthy shaft. 

“You don’t deserve this,” you began pumping his shaft, flicking your thumb over his glistening knob. 

“You deserve the world,” he confessed, a small release of tears began expelling from his eyes. You halted your fisting of his cock, focussing your unrelenting grasp over his tip and squeezing it. 

“I despise you,” you spat, using your unoccupied hand to pry his glasses away from his face; throwing them on the table beside you. As soon as your attention returned to his now unconcealed eyes, your breath was stolen from your lungs. 

“I desire you,” he whispered, blinking slowly with his lengthy blonde eyelashes. You understood now why he concealed them behind his sinister glasses. His irises were a pastel pink, eyes expressive now they were unshrouded by the coloured glass. There was no lie presented within his eyes, honesty being the only inhabitant lying within. He was a very pretty man, especially with his whole face now presented to the light. 

“You make me sick,” you lied through gritted teeth as you rolled your neck, stepping out of your panties and straddling his lap, “You are foul,” you anchored your knees against his hips, placing your heels firmly on the floor beside him, “Obnoxious and detestable.”

“Mami, stop teasing me with your horrible words,” he moaned, “I’ll cum.”

“You’ll cum when I allow you to cum,” you retorted firmly. The bob of his adams apple did not escape your notice, nor did the soft roll of his glassy pastel eyes. You clicked your tongue, lining up your slit with the tip of his cock. 

“Don’t you fucking move, Doflamingo,” you barked your orders at him, “You’re a great deal larger than I am, and I am no mere whore you paid to fuck yourself stupid in.” He sucked in a soft whimper as he felt your prior release coat his knob, “I don’t particularly enjoy taking partners twice my size, and I don’t want to get hurt because you decided you wanted to buck up suddenly.”

“I-I won’t, mi amor,” he stuttered, crying out a little with his lips parted, “I’ll be a good boy, I swear. So good for you.” 

“Pathetic prick,” you mewled at him, eyes wincing as your body adjusted to taking his tip inside you, “It hurts,” you cried out a little as your body began to sink onto him. Your slow descent atop his cock, impaling yourself on his thick shaft, had your breath hitch and a soft whimper leave you, “And you were going to rail me with it, weren’t you?”

He stooped low, covering his eyes by burying his head against your clavicle. He huffed out his restraint, his voice shuddering as he felt your walls stretch to accommodate him. Wrapping his arms around your back, his fingertips ghosted around your body to trace gentle encouraging circles against your skin. 

“Answer me, asshole,” you sobbed, slowly sinking down as you felt the blunt, mushroomed tip begin to kiss your cervix, “You owe me that much.” Anchoring your hands against his shoulders, you braced yourself as you continued to inch your way down his lance of a cock. The girth was almost the width of your forearm, your glistening walls struggling to stretch to accommodate him. 

His shoulders shook, his lips finding your collar bone and pressing gentle kisses against it. He winced as he disciplined his body to wait for you to adjust to him, sniffing back a small cry.

“Th-The pollen makes you-... nnnmpph-... Makes your arousal heighten,” he winced at his resolve, bracing you within his arms and snaking his large hand up your back, “You would’ve b-been too far gone to care.” 

“Is that what you are, Doflamingo?” you snarled at him, sinking yourself past your limit to suck more of his full length inside your body, “Too far gone to care?”

“I want you, mi amor,” he murmured into your shoulder, nose rubbing against your neck and brushing your blouse away from covering your chest, “Although, I a-am reaching my l-limit for tolerance. I need to fuck you. I need t-to cum inside you.”

“Don’t you fucking dare move,” you whimpered at him, “You’re too f-fucking b-big.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he exclaimed, tearing his face away from you to look into your eyes, “I am so sorry.” His expressive eyes pleaded for you to understand how hard he was trying to hold himself back. His pink irises were eclipsed by his blown pupils, his lips open and panting, his temple bleeding with drops of heavy sweat. He couldn’t help a soft rock of his hips, testing how your body adjusted to him. 

“Stop!” you barked at him, “Stop that right now or I’ll leave.” Doffy whined, prying open your shirt with one quick rip, tearing the buttons from the seams and revealing your bare chest to him. The buttons flew over the room, your nipples perking up now revealed to the cool of the air. Your sleeves fell down your shoulders and each inch of revealed skin was immediately replaced by Doflamingo’s lips. 

“I’m r-reaching the e-end of my resolve, mi amor,” he confessed, “I-I’m c-close, and I need you to bounce a little on me. Please ride me as you are now, you d-don’t need to take any more of my length. Please just bounce on what you can take. I’ll be so good.”

“Close just from me taking your partial length? You’re so fucking pathetic,” you degraded him, your voice solid and unwavering. You felt the twitch of his cock, his body revealing more to you than he would ever audibly inform you, “Oh, you like that, don’t you?” Doffy whimpered.

“S-Stop degrading me,” he attempted to growl, his voice breaking and turning more into a breathy pant, “Stop it or I’ll cum, mi amor. I’ll cum so fucking hard for you.” His whispered confession had you elevate a sinister smirk up your lips.

“Stop calling me ‘mi amor’,” you wrapped your right hand around his throat, your left perched on his shoulder as you sunk yourself down on him, “I’m not your love. You're a conniving and devious bastard, and I despise you.”

“Just like that, Mami,” he whimpered, hands falling to your hips as you began to bounce on his cock, “I know you hate me. I adore that about you. I wanted you for so long, and you’re so, so good.”

“At least your ears work, you arrogant prick,” you released your firm hold on his throat, glaring into his eyes as you continued to take more of him into you. You became more confident in riding his swollen cock, bouncing, writhing and grinding your slick cunt against his pelvis, “Maybe there is hope for you after all-.”

“-No, no,” he begged, pressing his throat against your palm, “No: I’m nauseating, I’m disgusting, I’m pathetic. Please, please choke me. Tell me how much you hate me. Ride my cock while you tell me you find me repulsive.” 

“Oh fuck, Doffy,” you bit back your moan, feeling the rapid approach of your second orgasm stampeed within your abdomen. You choked him harder, forcing his eyes to meet yours as you circled your hips on his cock. His eyes held firm to yours, feeling the tangible dislike against him from you. He fought back the urge to roll his eyes back in bliss, his balls sucked deep within his stomach the longer you rode him. 

“I abhor you,” you whined, feeling him hold back meeting your bobbed movements. You finally began encouraging him to thrust up into you, your motions now rhythmic and in perfect synchrony. 

“I adore you,” he whispered in return, placing his lips against your jaw and tenderly kissing you. 

“I f-fucking loathe you,” you felt the familiar sparks indicating the eruption of an impending orgasm. Your pussy began contracting around him, your walls beckoning him with rhythmic throbbing. 

Whimpering, your world came crashing like waves breaking down cinder blocks. You threw your head back, keening more so at the fact Doflamingo made you cum for a second time tonight. The first one was against your will, this one you ensured you were in control of. 

“I fucking l-love you,” he held his eyes against yours, his orbs glassy as they filled with tears, “I love you so fucking much,” he mewled in bliss as spurts of his hot cum splashed deep within you, “I-I-... I’m cumming, oh fuck. Oh fuck. I’m c-cumming. You’re s-so good. I love you s-so fucking much. I love you.” 

He cried, hot tears of relief spilling down his cheeks as he sobbed through his accentuated release. His lip quivered, his highly emotive eyes looking almost innocent the longer he rocked his hips up into yours. You squeezed his throat, choking him as your pussy milked him of his large load. 

The spill of his seed dripped down your legs and onto his patterned leather pants. The blunt tip of his velvety cock continued to kiss your cervix, propelling you into a longer release. Your walls could barely contract around his cock due to the stretch, but each time Doffy’s cock released a squirt of his cum, it twitched back enough for your cunt to wring his shaft. 

The twin highs seemed to last an eternity. Spurts of his load continued mixing with your slick and Doflamingo’s prior saliva. You were not sure when exactly it happened, but you found yourself within an almost loving embrace within Doflamingo’s arms. His cock was sleeved completely within you to the hilt, your arms circling his shoulders as you both hid your faces in each other’s necks. His hands gripped your waist, his blonde eyelashes ticking your shoulder as he buried himself deeper within you. 

Sunk to the hilt, you remained that way until your thighs began to burn from holding your body up over his thighs. Your pussy began to ache, coming down from your high with his full length still buried within you. Unhooking your arms from his shoulders, you attempted to remove yourself from his embrace to no avail. He held you firmly, not enough to bruise, but not allowing any room for you to wriggle away from him. 

“Doflamingo, release me,” you barked at him, shoving his shoulders away in an attempt to reveal his eyes to you. 

He held you tighter. 

“Doflamingo, let me go,” you spat, trying again to flee from his steely grip. He gripped his elbows behind your back, holding you firmer. 

Your panic grew more frantic, your heart beating faster than it did when you rode through your bliss. 

“Doflamingo, you will break away from me this instant,” you pushed and shoved him with all your might, only managing to have your abdomen ache at being so full for so long. 

He refused. 

“Doflamingo, if you don’t free me from your grip right now; I’ll-,” Doflamingo murmured against your chest, halting your wriggling and frantic movements. 

“-But if I let you go, you’ll flee,” his voice whimpered, his chin anchoring against your chest and staring his blush-coloured orbs up at you. You felt yourself become breathless beneath the spell of his loving look, feeling all emotion pouring from his eyes onto you. 

“Yeah, that’s the point,” you attempted to break from his embrace, only causing Doflamingo to grip you tighter. 

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing,” he massaged down your back, pressing on your hips firmly enough to lock you against him, “I meant every word I said. I love-.”

“-And I meant every word I said, Donquixote,” you winced against him, attempting to pry his hands off you by gripping his wrists. He was far stronger than you were, causing panic to rise within your chest, “I hate you.”

“Marry me.” 

Those words shocked you, causing you to snap your eyes up to meet his. Again, those ruby orbs held you captive. You couldn’t believe how expressive they were. 

His soul was raw behind those twin lanterns, illuminating his face with the innocence you were certain had long-since left him. Still, you remained firm - the softening of Doflamingo’s cock within you brought you crashing back to reality. 

“Never.” 

“Consider it,” he sighed, releasing your left thigh and cupping your cheek with his left hand, “Consider it, and you will want for nothing. That’s all I ask,” he rose from his stoop and pressed his forehead against yours, “That’s all I want. All I’ve only ever wanted.” 

Using this opportunity: you hastily rose to your feet, the crude squelch of Doflamingo’s flaccid cock exiting your slit prompting you to cringe more than the embarrassment you felt at his profession of love. You felt the mix of fluids seep out of your core, dripping down your legs and onto the floor. He called your name, wincing now he felt empty and unfulfilled without you wrapped around him. 

“No,” you retorted, bending down to recover your panties and pants. You wrapped your top around your chest to shield your body away from his eyes. 

“You would be my queen,” he tried again, leaning forward on his knees and looking up at you, “Queen of Dressrosa. Queen of my heart. I would have you rule beside me as an equal, mi amor-.”

“-I said ‘no’, Donquixote.” Your buttons from your shirt lay scattered on the floor, your eyes darting around while arguing whether they're worth collecting. 

“Please,” he whispered his soft beg, his palms finding the floor as he began to crawl towards you, “Please, I need you. I want you. I crave you. I would bleed for you, die for you, kill for you - just say you'll be mine.”

“Look,” you turned on your heel, glaring at him with enough animosity to halt his low stalking prowl, “The next time you attempt to drug me over dinner and accidentally drug yourself in my place,” you snarled, prompting Doffy’s eyes to fall half-lidded in adoration, “Do not call on me for aid, you won't find any empathy from me.”

You hurriedly thrust your panties and pants back over your sticky legs, tucking your shirt into them as Doflamingo sat back on his knees, kneeling in stunned silence. Without a further word, you made your way towards the large exit, only stopping your withdrawal when Doflamingo tried one final time to woo you. 

“You didn't even let me kiss you,” he whispered in a voice so soft, you halted in place to hear him. You turned your chin, glancing at him over your shoulder as he sat in somber silence. 

“If you think you're getting a kiss from me after all that-...” you began, fully turning to face him as his head lay hanging low to avoid your eyes. You sighed, finally in pity for a man who resorted to great lengths to gain your attention, “...you get one to show me your gratuity.”

Doflamingo perked up, his ruby eyes meeting with yours with the hope of a child being promised their greatest coveted prize. 

In a few hasty strides, you made your way back over to Doflamingo. He continued to kneel beneath you, cock still hanging limply over the waistband of his pants. You grimaced at the flaccid cock, noticing that its limp length was still well above the average size of the cocks you'd seen prior. 

You shook your head, taking Doflamingo's cheek in your palm and elevating his face to meet yours. Lips closing in a soft purse, you collected his plump lips beneath yours in a soft and tender kiss. Parting your lips, you gently grazed his mouth with a soft swirl of your tongue. He moaned against your lips, large hands perching on your hips and holding you firmly against him. 

Tilting your head, you bumped Doflamingo's chin with your own to deepen it. He sighed into your mouth, allowing you to initiate how much emotion you were willing to press into him. His lips felt warm, encumbering and loving, something you were not expecting to experience from any encounter with the King of Dressrosa. 

Even though he had confessed his love for you, the softness he was presenting you with was foreign in comparison to his harsh dictatorship. You swirled your hands behind his head, massaging his scalp in soothing circles. A happy chirp fled from his lips to yours, his smile evident as his tongue collided with yours. 

Breaking away from his embrace, your hands raked through his blonde hair affectionately. He hummed up at you, his blonde eyelashes fluttering beneath his half-hooded eyes. 

“I'll cherish the gift of your lips always, mi amor,” he sighed up, the sparkle in his ruby gaze. That title snapped you away from your daze, shaking your head and once again grimacing. 

“Never call me ‘mi amor’ again, asshole,” you spat hastily, refusing to allow him a semblance of your heart, “I'm not your love, I'll never be your love. You're fucking pathetic, and I hate you.”

“Stop being mean to me,” he licked his lips, his gaze growing dark, “I’m already starting to get hard.”

[teecupangel]

Hi Teacup! Sorry for the long post in advance. This idea has been plaguing me for ages, so now everyone else gets to suffer too.

I would like to add to the Desmond menagerie with the biggest badass of the avails to ever live: The Hasst Eagle. The Hasst Eagle was around 15kgs with a 3m wingspan and hunted prey 13 times its own size. No one in any time period could think Desmond is an ordinary eagle.

Ratonhnhaké:ton's village would take one look at Desmond the toddler sized bird and go definitely a spirit.

I also have the wonderful image of Desmond saving Petruccio by just picking him up and flying off in my head (I might be overestimating Desmonds strength and underestimating Petruccio's size, but I found funny imagining the guards faces). And then I remembered the story of Zeus and Ganymede; which made me imagine Ezio chasing down Desmond and threatening to pluck him if he even thinks about taking Petruccio's purity.

It’s really huge, that’s for sure.

Giovanni knew of the Desmond.

The large eagle of legends, the guardian of the Brotherhood.

He had grown up listening to his father tell stories of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad and his great eagle. How the large bird’s shadow brought fear to the Templars who see it. How fast it was even when it was bigger than any other birds.

How intelligent it was, using gestures to communicate with his chosen one.

How it had served as the guardian and godfather of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad’s children.

It had seemed like a tall tale but Giovanni never doubted it.

How could he?

When the great eagle was painted over the ceiling of the Sanctuary below Monteriggioni.

He had no reasons to doubt its existence.

But he never talked about the eagle of legends to his children. The Templars would know about the Desmond.

It was too much of a risk, telling the stories to children who could just as easily talk about it to others.

Unintentionally catch the ears of the wrong people.

But now he deeply regretted it.

“Ezio, stop!” Giovanni shouted, unable to keep the panic out of his voice.

How could he?

His second son, a cheerful boy of the age of six, was trying to beat the eagle of legend with a stick, shouting at the eagle loudly, “Go away! Shoo! Shoo!”

“Ezio!” Giovanni shouted, grabbing Ezio’s wrist before he could smack the eagle once more.

Not that he was able to.

Any time the stick was even close to hitting the bird, the Desmond simply flicked one of its wing, parrying the strike and causing Ezio to stagger backwards.

Ezio was a stubborn child though and he would continue to try and hit the bird even as it simply parried all his strikes.

Once it was clear that Ezio couldn’t whack the bird, he turned to his father as he shouted, “Petruccio!”

Giovanni was about to ask what he meant by that but the Desmond lifted its wings, showing his youngest son softly giggling as he tried to crawl away from the bird. One of the bird’s talons was gripping Petruccio’s clothes, keeping the boy still.

Giovanni’s eyes widened as he realized that they were in the second floor balcony that Petruccio’s room had. It was always meant to be locked considering Petruccio was a curious child.

And the railings had enough distance between each pillar that Petruccio could slip through.

The Desmond stared at Giovanni expectantly as it slowly lifted its talon and Giovanni used his other hand to scoop his youngest son into his arms while the baby tried to crawl to the railings.

“Thank you.” Giovanni said as he bowed deeply at the bird, earning a confused frown from Ezio.

The bird simply shook its body, reminding Giovanni of a man stretchering before the bird turned to stare at Ezio. It lifted one of its wings and Giovanni’s blood ran cold, worried about how much Ezio had offended the bird.

The bird did not try to hurt Ezio though. Instead, it used its wing to pat Ezio’s head three times before hopping away. It flapped its wings and flew out of the balcony.

And Giovanni finally let out a relieved sigh.

[badass-queer-couples-battle]

Sword gays showdown, round 1, bracket two

Propaganda:

For Demoman:

Demo occasionally fights with a talking haunted sword called Eyelander who loves cutting heads off, they're also sort of frenemies, it's a really fun dynamic since Demo seems a lot more energetic when fighting with him.

First, although the main focus of the character is on bombs, he has a menagerie of various swords that are equipable items, with a Demoknight being a popular "subclass". He isn't canonically lgbtq+ but no one in tf2 is cishet and have you heard the voicelines.

For Andy:

she is master of weapons, and also just a queen in general. also also, she’s highkey the pinnacle of gay pining (girlfriend trapped in a cycle of death/rebirth at the bottom of the ocean, and andy spent centuries looking for her to rescue her)

Has been a sword (or more commonly a labrys, or improvised weapon) gay for thousands of years

She's an unknowably old immortal and unspeakably skilled in any/all forms of combat. She typically uses her signature axe but per the other characters, "she's forgotten more ways to kill than entire armies will ever learn." Until recently, an unkillable gay (at least not permanently). She's bitter, she's badass, she's even bisexual. Peace and love on planet Earth.

Andromache is super tough, strong, and can beat anyone in a fight. She can also beat the bury the gays allegations as she can die but does not stay dead. She has been alive since est. 4700 BCE and has been protecting humanity with her blade skills for over 6000 years. She has been the leaders of various communities and worshiped as a goddess in several cultures. Andy is the founding member of the Old Guard, where she fights side-by-side with her life long love Quyuh (or Noriko as she is known in the comics, who is also a badass warrior and archer). Andy knows countless languages and is an expert in all weapons but her main weapon of choice is her labrys (a very lesbian blade weapon, so I hope it can be excused that it is not a sword). She has forgotten more ways to kill a man than any person/army will ever know in their lives. And yet even with this ferocious and tough skill-set, she is still so kindhearted, caring, passionate, selfless and protective of her found family and will do anything for them and for her love (even during the present complicated situation which i will not outline bc spoilers for The Old Guard). Please vote for Andy, she is a lesbian and wlw icon <3

[thuskindlyshescatters]

I swear to god, a member of the CRWBY just unleashed their folder of weapon models for that scene. I spotted a machete from Raven's tribe and a spear from the Menagerie guards in the background.

[qvrcll]

fluff, inclined towards book coryo + possessive themes

unsuspecting, is how your jostling romance with coriolanus snow would start. how anything would start. romantic relationships weren’t prohibited per se, but were frowned upon. peacekeeper training was for strengthening the nation and the arms that would carry it across the years, not to dilly dally between the stretches of grins and a swipe of a kiss. and knowing the stickler for rules that coriolanus was, he would stop at nothing to keep it that way.

foolish, foolish coriolanus. for who could have thought that the newest recruit could be up for debate. that you would be a change of heart? sure - unarguably so. he sees you first in the night, sidling into the cabin when everything else falls hush. and he’d been having nightmares, more so than usual, of doctor gaul and her endless menageries of sickly bright snakes, their sweeping tongues of venom, so it isn’t funny that he’d been awake for a smidge of the night. when he swipes a glance from atop his bunk, it’s not the crack of another boring recruit that he makes out in the cold nighttude. no, you’re sweet faced and hurling a duffle-bag against your share of the bunk. right beneath his. strange. he’s never seen you before. late enrolment? a stirred-up schedule? something other?

and why should he care? as enticing as you are, he is far from accustomed to this place. a boring sort of repulsion has begun to haunt his role in his own life and he’s grown hateful of almost everything in a manner that is almost pathetic. but, hey, you’re going to rip off your arm trying to sling that thing over your bed at this rate. and you’re making a racket, something so loud that he may as well lay in the ambience of your failures. plus, you have piqued his interest. with a swift whorl of his ankles, he lands on two wobbly knees and wordlessly grabs the duffle strap you’re wrestling with, “need help with that?”

when you let out an embarrassed smile, and agree, it’s a polite scattering that you commit to when he helps you - a mere stranger - unpack. keep your belongings in stationed lockers. make the bed and fist the sheets between the corners. between the humiliating exchange (more-so on your end) you exchange names. explain that you’d been freshly relieved from your life in the districts and sent here as a way to harbour cash for folk back home. not necessarily family, but known folk. people you hold dear. and coriolanus cannot despise the reasoning, with his own reason of keeping the snows afloat back in the capitol. so, a mutual understanding perches from there on and he tests the syllables of your name with sticky interest when you put your bodies to rest.

and that’s it, right? except, it’s not. he seeks you out more. prideful as he is, coriolanus is a lonely man. even more, now that he’d been tossed apart from a life he knew best, like a fawn in the wild. at lunch, he sits ahead of you and makes conversation despite the slobber on his plate. at training, he offers incentive when your knees buck during drills. because this is just a simple friendship and he enjoys you like the sun. a friendship that doesn’t feel so forced and guarded as the ones he has loathed.

“quick,” you whisper all too loudly at him once, when you’d lingered outside of your parameter of patrol, bound to be in trouble with the head peacekeeper, “if we’re lucky, we’ll sneak in through some window?”

the thing had been phrased as a question and it only made coriolanus more antsy. what’s worse to handle, a snow strewn to the edges of peacekeeper training as an alternative to expulsion or being caught within in, slacking and spending too much of a time with his fellow bunkmate? his fingers are messy, slippery, against his sides when the two of you are hounded and hoarded into the office of the said headpeacekeeper. is this it, he thinks, my brilliant plan of return just squeezing into a failure? until, he hears your voice boiling at his side.

“it was my fault,” your voice trembles, but is forthright in your admission, “it was my idea. i should have known better.”

even as the two of you are equally subject to the same punishment (kitchen work and twice the normal borders) in the flimsy heat, he cannot brush the thought of you taking the fall for him in his head. it should’ve hit as an insult, especially as it was accustomed in his nature to see it as such, but none of it comes. just a funny feeling as he bumps his shoulder into yours with a burst of shared laughter.

soon, he begins to feel important. wanted. a thing close to your heart when your friendship grows with his days as a new peacekeeper. a new occupation, a new change of heart. and you have long since stuck your hand into his chest and held his beating heart with ten curling fingers. a real friend. someone to accompany him on long, riveting walks. share silences with. fondle the mutual knowing of caring for people back at home with no shame strung with it. and so, it continues, this funny feeling.

“here,” you let up one day, passing a bag of ice cubes his way, swathed in a plastic bag, “keeps the skin cool.”

coriolanus accepts it with open hands - the heat has began to batter ruthlessly on everything he has ever known and something cool to stow away the burn it brings only sounds natural. as he slathers the cool thing all over himself, he spots you watching him. softly, not like the way a hawk does. less imposing and almost comical. sweet. god, when had he burned all his edges into soft corners?

“i’d say that staring is rude, but you’re making me laugh,” he chuckles between his palm, when he folds the bag back towards you. when you flush toward to grab it, your fingers brush softly. but he feels the wake of it in his belly. like bile but pleasant. eating away at his own organs like a bloody parasite. but he ignores it. classic. he cocks his head and minds the sun, “are you going to join us and head down to the hob this week?”

he eyes the drip of water as it curls into your neck and trails beneath your clothes, and when you glance back around him, he breaks his sight away to the rock beneath his boot. shit, why was he staring?

“probably will. i need it. you’ll be there, right?” and coriolanus feels airy, mushy, when you call for his presence to be the impressionable factor to bring you along. he doesn’t understand it, this feeling - he merely sits with it in his hands, much like the ice cubes. assumes that he’s never had this much pleasure within a friendship, yes, that must be it. so, he nods, like it was a brilliant thing to be half burnt and swelling under the sun with you, “of course.”

and then, it spirals, as it always does. he begins to grow jealous of the bunk mates who seek you out like he does. who don his place at the dinner table as theirs. who manage to claw a laugh from you the way he does. and he doesn’t understand. doesn’t understand the ugly, tilting feeling of his heart kissing the skin of his chest whenever you choose him above all things else, spot him in the mess of a crowd. never does, but will.

and that happens at the hob. when all of your cabin mates have gathered around the make-shift stools and chairs you’ve managed to grab, the trip blends in with alcohol. white liquor, they call it. and things will begin to build from thereon. it builds when coriolanus watches you over the rim of his cup when you cough after your shot, all hot cheeks and laughs when someone pats your back. it builds when you’re one too many bodies away from him, smashed between people you don’t even know, people that are not him. it builds when he can’t tell if it’s the glow from the dingy lights or if you’ve grown a halo, or exuding brighter than anything here.

and then it hits him. he’s fallen in love, so hard that he cannot stop to breathe or swallow the thick saliva that builds. this can’t be happening to him. to stupid and dumb-struck coriolanus snow, peacekeeper in training that has just broken code and gone awry with a romance he has been chasing with no sense.

he needs to squash it. this feeling. but how can he? when you cross across the space and reach him with inviting arms, hailing a smile in his direction like the world will tear with your gratitude stitched within it? when you’re pressing the side of your face into his with unmitigated glee? when you’re so close that he can smell you, feel you, wring your friendship so tight that your warmness is all that will come to greet him? no, no, he must—

and when he rips away from you, tells you he needs to catch some air because he cannot stomach the liquor in such heat, he curses when you follow in your confusion. even when he assures you he’s fine, just needs a minute, you’re tight on his heels. and when he throws a look over his shoulder, you’re wordlessly trailing still, like it is a thing to be stuck at the hip with him. and it gets to the point of bursting - he’s trying, is he not? to keep the two of you in the game. as modest peacekeepers. to run by the rules you’ve gotten by. so, he shuts your shoulders into the smash of a rock wall behind you, which wakes you up efficiently, keeps you in place. confusion still riddled in your eyes, but no harm. no repulsion. he almost hates you for it.

and he bursts — “i like you. okay? no, not like, love you. have for a while. and it’s gotten bad. i know you’ll hate me for it,” he breathes, a broken sound mixing with it, “please, please, do not make this hard. i’m trying. just—“ and… and you’re kissing him?

the kiss is not harsh or insulting. not something intruding. but he inhales sharply when you do it anyway, breathing you in like a drug, trying to commit the little noises you make to memory. try to remember you, in all the little pushes you allow and the plush of your lips, in case this is all an illusion. he kisses you in such a way that his lips run hot and his body shakes, rattles, in its frame, takes a minute to gather you all up in his arms.

“in what world do you think i don’t think the same, coryo?” you smile, fiddling with his biceps as you kiss the edge of his mouth till its twitching with a soft grin of his own.

“but the base… our duty—“

“between you and duty, you think i give a shit?,” his heart throbs at his importance and his hands tighten along your hip line, “a secret is a secret. if you want it to be.”

and when you move you mouth, grow heavy and hot in his hands as his tongue swipes into the little crack of the lips he’s grown to taste, there it is again. that very funny feeling. a thing he’s made peace between all his scuffle; love, undecidedly.

© 2023 qvrcll. do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[ell0ra-br3kk3r-writes]

The Phoenix and the Crow

pairing: (future)kaz brekker x fem!reader

genre: neutural

el's thoughts: this is part three in the series and... yeah haha this picks up at the very start of s2 ep1 so here you go! thank you for all the love on the last two parts! comments and reblogs are much appreciated :)

masterlist

“Home sweet home,” Jesper spoke as he walked beside Y/N whose nose was wrinkled between her eyes as she took in the dirty streets of the Barrel. “Straight off the boat from Ravka and no one was waiting to kill us as soon as we arrived. That’s a good sign. I might go off to celebrate.”

“If you do, you must show me around-”

“No.” Kaz’s voice was stern but not loud over the voices of the people around them. “No celebrating, we have stops to make.”

Inej followed him a bit more earnestly, “Where first? Tante Heleen?” 

“We get the Crow Club.”

Y/N furrowed her eyebrows as she tried to keep up with the conversation based on the quick rundown Inej and Jesper gave her on the boat. Crow Club. The gambling den was owned by Per Haskel but run by Kaz. Tante Heleen. The woman who owned the Menagerie and held captive girls like her new Suli friend. Just hearing the name made chills run down the inferni’s spine. 

Once the club came into view the trio stopped abruptly causing Y/N to run into Jesper’s back, muttering apologies as she moved to stand by his side staring ahead in confusion. 

“Where’s our sign?”

“It’s been replaced.”

“The Kaelish Prince?”

“What kind of name is that?” Y/N rolled her eyes at Kaz’s harsh glare, “Sorry.”

“Dime Lions.” Kaz’s shoulders grew tenser with each passing second as the other’s caught up to his realization. “Pekka Rollins owns the Crow Club?” Inej finally spoke, her eyes wide as she looked back at the club in front of them. “Where does that leave us? Are you saying we have no home?” Jesper’s voice was slightly deeper than normal as Y/N assumed the shock of the situation took over his own body.

Kaz ignored Jesper’s complaints about his clothing and told them to split up. Y/N stood frozen for a second before the tallest of the group grabbed her hand and pulled her after him, but they didn’t make it far. Whistles were heard behind them, “Oi! You three!” Four men stood there dressed in officer uniforms, two of which held guns pointed at the other four.

“Kaz Brekker. Jesper Fahey. And Inej Ghafa.”

Y/N stepped out from behind the sharpshooter causing the officer to look at her with slight confusion. “And you are?” She tilted her head slightly, “Y/N.” He rolled his eyes in irritation after waiting a moment for her to continue, “Last name?” 

“Sorry, it’s classified.”

“Are you with them?”

“Yes.” “No.”

Y/N shot Kaz a glare, “Yes, I’m with them.”

“Is there a problem?” Kaz continued and held his tone as if he was talking business.

“For you there is. You three are wanted for murder.” His eyes trained back to Y/N, “Along with you now, for the association.”

Jesper sighed, “What? We just got back.” As he spoke his hands lowered slightly, and the officer with a gun shoved it forward making him raise his hands up again.

“Now hand over those shooters. And you, the cane. And you spy-” 

Y/N only then realized Inej had gone missing. The officers looked around franticly for the well-known Wraith, muttering their surprise and concern. Jesper just shrugged and smiled, “Yeah she does that.” 

“Well… Two’s enough for now.  Come on.” He pointed at the officer behind him, “You check her for any weapons.” 

Y/N rolled her eyes as she was patted down briefly in search of any weapon on her. The guard called back, “No weapons, Sir.” She smiled sarcastically and clenched her fist when she felt a spark escape her finger. 

“Then bring her along. Quickly!”

~

The shuffling of feet and the guard's voices filled the room as Y/N tried to pull away from their tight grips. “Let go of me.” She grunted when they shoved her down into a chair. She looked around the beautiful room lit by warm candlelight. 

“What’s all this, then?”

“Someone paid good kruge to get a moment alone with you.”

The heavy wooden doors swung open and an old man with graying hair and a mustache walked in with his own personal guards behind him. “Criminals.”

Kaz looked down and let out a heavy sigh, “Dreesen.”

Dreesen quickly paid the officers off and told them to leave. Kaz and the older man went back and forth on the topic of the new-found sun summoner with Jesper chiming in every so often. Y/N paid no mind to the conversation and instead continued to look around the room, taking into mind the bodyguards that stood around them. She looked over them all except one. She recognized him within seconds and felt her heartbeat speed up. Sturmhond. The celebrity privateer of Ravka. Only a handful of people knew his true identity and since being so close to the red-headed tailor who gave the prince his other face, Y/N knew that Nikolai Lantsov stood in the corner of the room. 

“It wasn’t your money, Dreesen.” Kaz’s voice caught her attention. “You were brought in as an intermediary. Someone to hire the likes of us. This operation wasn’t yours.” He looked over to the guard with an emerald pinned to his sleeve, “It was yours, wasn’t it?” 

Y/N watched Kaz beside her with wide eyes. How did he figure it out?

Dreesen stuttered out objections before Sturmhond walked forward. “Oh yes yes. Totally convincing. Thank you, Dreesen, but I’ll take it from here.” 

A moment of silence settled in the room before he turned to the older man and leaned closer, “That was me politely telling you to get out.” He nodded to the door, “So go on.”

The gray-haired man scoffed and nodded to his guards to follow him out. The wooden doors closed behind him.

“Well, this is much easier.” Sturmhond took off his hat and placed it on a table behind him. “Tell me, what gave it away?”

“You dress too well for a bodyguard. And you were hanging on every word like it was your money on the table. You wanted to hear our story, but we don’t know you.” Kaz turned his head toward Jesper, just slightly. “We know him.” 

The strawberry-blonde walked forward, astonishment painted on his face as he listened to the criminal speak.

“So you kept up the charade until now. My question is… Who are you?”

“What? You don’t know me? Maybe in profile.” He turned to give them a proper view of his right profile making Y/N struggle to hide her laugh. Jesper and Kaz shared a look of confusion. “Still no? Very well. The name’s Sturmhond.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of you,” Jesper said in amazement. 

“Yeah, I sure hope so.” He leaned on a table and placed his hand on his waist.

“He’s a very rich pirate.” The gunslinger explained.

“A privateer, actually. It’s an important distinction.”

Kaz grew frustrated, “The question remains, why is the Sun Summoner so important to a privateer?”

“You may not be aware, but half the world is looking for her. Or even just confirmation of death.” Sturmhond pulled out a folded piece of parchment, “And the reward’s gone up. Twenty million to hand her over to Fjerda. Turns out they weren’t particularly pleased with Kirigan and the Sun summoner’s plans to weaponize the Fold.” 

Jesper laughed, “Alina never had such…” Kaz glared at him and he cleared his throat. “You were saying.”

“You’re on first-name terms,” Sturmhond said with amusement in his tone. “Where is she now?”

Jesper groaned, “We don’t know where Alina is. She’s gone.”

A scoff left the privateer’s throat. “Escaped?” He trained his eyes back on Kaz, glancing down at his cuffed wrists. “I know you’ve gotten out of those cuffs. If I had more time, I’d insist you tell me how.” 

Kaz watched him in suspicion as he dropped his metal cuffs to the floor. 

“My intel informs me the Sun Summoner was wearing this,” He pulled out the diamond and blue gem necklace from a rucksack that sat on a table. “When she entered the fold. It’s part of the Queen’s collection. A well-known piece, the fabled garnets of Ivets. So, either she used this to pay you off to keep quiet about where she was going, or you found her bloody corpse and stole it off her neck like vultures.”

Kaz’s eyebrows furrowed and Y/N could see the wheels turning in his mind again. ‘Kaz wasn’t the only mastermind in the world…’ She thought to herself, ‘But he was still probably the best.’

“How dare you? How even-” Jesper cut himself off in utter offense. “We are not vultures, we are crows.” Sturmhond chuckled as the Zemmini continued. “And that makes more sense with context.” Kaz looked down in what Y/N made out to be embarrassment. Jesper looked around, “My point is, we’re not grave robbers.” 

“Which means it was a payoff. So you know where she went. Now if you tell me, I’ll give you twenty seconds alone here before the Stadwatch comes back in.”

Jesper chuckled in disbelief, “You can’t bribe us.”

“Leave the necklace. Give us twenty seconds and I’ll tell you.”

“Kaz?” Confusion overtook Jesper’s facial expression. 

Sturmhond scoffed in amusement, “The bribe she paid you to keep quiet about her next move, in exchange for her next move. I like it. Still, there is the mess of having to fence Royal jewels.” He pulled out a large stack of kruge from his coat pocket. 

“Kaz.” Jesper’s tone was a warning. 

The two in the bargain ignored him. “You stepped off the Edam tonight. Was she with you then? Is she in town somewhere?”

Kaz looked down in quick thought before he spoke, “She stayed on the ship to Novyi Zem.”

Sturmhond hummed with a smile while Jesper shook his head in disappointment. “Good luck. Gentleman.” He nodded to the inferni whose hands were still cuffed, “Y/N. Always a pleasure to see you again.” She rolled her eyes, “The same here, pirate.”

~*~*~*~

tagging: @rachelcarroll1819 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @khaleesihavilliard @simrah1012 @foulkryptonitepeanut @astridyoo15 @queenofshinigamis @peakyispunk @jahayla-parker @maliciousbrekker @writingmysanity

[mysticmiav]

I wanna talk about Inej cuz GOD I love her so much. Her intro scene is one that I think goes not talked about enough which I think is a crime against humanity and I WILL be making my case your honour so buckle up.

This concerns scenes from SoC as well as CK, so be warned, a load of spoilers ahead.

So in that first chapter of SoC we are introduced to this absolute badass of a girl. She walks silently, steals secrets and defies gravity. The name they call her? The Wraith. How badass is that? God spared yall (and maybe even me but especially my parents) cuz if I was still doing gymnastics I would've broken my ankle trying to be a fraction of as cool as she is cuz fuck you Newton and fuck your gravity laws.

She is smart and quick witted; the whole scene at the exchange, Kaz counting on her to take care of the second guard, knowing she'll figure it out and manage, and her indeed making it on time.

But no, not only that. This deadly storm of a girl not only holds this guard at knifepoint, saving Kaz's ass from an embarrassing plan gone awry, being shot and possibly even death. She goes on and says, and I quote, "I like it when men beg, but this isn't the time for it."

????? Weird way of asking for my hand in marriage but all the same, yes.

We get to see that deadly, fear-worthy side of her, we see how she's an actual threat people take into account, cue the slippery edges so as to make her climbs harder (fools really, as if some grease and oil would stop her of all things)

But as if that wasn't enough, we also learn of the beliefs she holds dear and her kindness. The way she hesitates about leaving Big Bol alone after everyone else leaves, torn on saving him, getting him help or putting him out of his misery, and ends up sparing him a parting prayer.

She's someone who's been through unimaginably lot of shit, never seemed to catch a break, from being literally ripped away from her family, sent across the ocean and sold to the menagerie, a never ending stream of painful and shameful experiences in her life as an indenture there, and then trading that life for one of killing and stealing, and despite it all, despite all she's gone through and all she's seen, she holds dearly to her faith, to her memories and her hopes of better days, of a world free from this kind of pain. Arguably even more so because of her experiences.

She wonders if her Saints would forgive her if she took Van Eck's life not out of necessity, but out of revenge. Either way, she was willing to spend a lifetime of repenting and take that chance.

But even beyond that, she's faithful beyond belief. Jan-if I ever commit a hate crime it'd be against this miserable excuse of a man-van Eck, while not having actually broken her legs (although his only reason for stopping being Inej's words) it was evident he was willing to, he was going to, and he made it clear he still might on the next day if she doesn't talk by then.

Fast forward to the one and only "I would have come for you, and if I couldn't walk, I'd crawl to you," scene (am combusting as well I know).

I find it to be heavily implied which lengths Inej was willing to go before Jan managed to draw a word out of her; her asking Kaz if he would have come for her when she couldn't scale walls or steal secrets for him anymore implies, in my opinion, what she already saw as the outcome of her captivity at Van Eck's hands. She already was thinking of that future, not just because of that growing, nagging doubt of her role in Kaz's life (whether she really was only an investment or if he'd cared in any way more than that about her), but also because no matter what, she wouldn't have given her crew away like that. She already made up her mind; she'd give that icky bastard some locations that had nothing to do with this, and Jan could break every bone in her body but will find no words of hers helpful, and I just worry of and for that girl.

She made that six-story high climb up a burning chimney with a tight time span, she climbed silos that are twenty storys high with an even tighter window of time, she walked a wire on that height and would've walked many more had things gone according to plan (thanks, Dunyasha), she climbed up shipping containers with a knife stabbed at her side, more or less to ensure she did her best for the crew that was counting on her. She would rather end it herself than find herself captive in those enemy's hands, this playing both into her loyalty as well as her history with captivity and what it meant for her.

She is the Wraith, with a reputation that proceeds her, and she also knows how crucial her skills are, how much her crew depends on her, how many of the plans center on and are weaved around her abilities, but she is also fully aware of her limits, fully acknowledging of her betters (Dunyasha you scare me, genuinely). She is religious and holds her faith very dear, but has made peace with the lives she's taken and will continue to take.

Many people see her as Dirtyhand's Wraith and fear her for her association with him, for his uses of her and the things she does at his bidding, but she is scary in her own light and I don't think people should fuck with that.

When she came for Pekka that night, carved in knife right above his heart, promised him a second slash if he thinks of coming back to Ketterdam, she made the once-proclaimed king of the barrel remember pain and fear.

And as if that didn't shake the man enough, she also made sure to replace his son's lion stuffed doll with a fucking crow, so that he'd see it when he inevitably ran to check in on his kid amidst his blood and panic. She gave this man enough mental damage to warrant endless psychiatric help and a lifetime of cowering, fear and paranoia (totally warranted am 100% in support)

She wears her heart on her sleeve; not in the sense of being naive, but in the sense of not being scared of displaying her emotions and thoughts. Her sentiments aren't random, because she always made it clear she cares for the people around her, she will go out of her way to protect them at her own expense and she will nurture those friendships she's built. Her suli subverbs and beliefs don't come off as a surprise, not to anyone around her and not to us as readers because she proudly displays her faith.

Many times, it felt like people, even Kaz, saw her faith as her weakness, something to be exploited, her sentiments something to poke fun at and use to taunt her with, but it's what makes her stronger. It's these thoughts and feelings that keep her going and keep her fighting. It's these friendships and heartfelt moments that she pushes herself over the edge for, and it's that dream just out of reach that rekindles her spirits even brighter than ever, and there's something so beautiful and heartwarming in it and about her that I can honestly spend this new year dissecting and talking about because am insufferable with a rotting hyperfixation. Why are you still here? Jkjk thankyou for reading this brain vomit of thoughts see you in my next tedtalk maybe. Btw if it wasn't glaringly clear I love SoC and Inej lol

[climbthemountain2020]

Your Eyes Whisper Have We Met

Part 1/? | Ao3

I was momentarily and violently possessed by the spirit of Taylor Swift to write this Feysand

Biggest thanks to @witch-and-her-witcher @cauldronblssd and @rosanna-writer for the best betas a gal could ask for!

[In a world where the Archerons never lost their fortune, fate finds Feyre on the night of a masquerade ball.]

The sun was setting low and bright over the horizon of the lake while Feyre brushed out her hair, her hips leaned casually against the side of the stone railing of the balcony to keep her balance. Before too long, the nights would begin to bring a chill into the air and it wouldn’t be as easy to stand out here and marvel at the colors in the sky. But here at the end of September, the breeze was still balmy enough to skirt over her exposed shoulders like a soft blanket.

The upper register of the sky was turning a deep navy, the stars already sparkling like diamonds. They felt familiar and comforting to her, as they always did. Lower, the blues bled into a menagerie of lavenders, periwinkles, and the lightest, brightest pinks. She wanted to paint the colors so badly, lay them one by one onto a canvas until they merged together seamlessly. The colors reminded her of the smooth interior of a seashell her father had brought home once from a trip. Feyre kept it on her dresser, touching the glossy bridge of it every so often, holding it up to her ear to hear the sounds of the waves lapping the shore, though she’d never actually been to a beach herself.

She sighed, letting the arm with the brush fall to her side and flipping her hair back over a freckled shoulder.

The moon was going to be large in the sky tonight–a good omen for the masquerade in honor of Elain’s twenty-first birthday. If Feyre leaned far enough over the edge of the balcony, she could see the twinkling lights that spread across the entryway to the estate, glowing brightly and welcoming the already-surging crowds of nobles. Though she couldn’t see them from where she was standing, she knew from careful preparation how magical the lights looked, reaching criss-crossed over the main pathway up to the massive oak front doors, though Feyre couldn’t see them from here.

Despite all the shining luster, she felt her elation ebbing like the tide in her chest.

These hosted events were nothing new, but Feyre had trouble getting excited for them anymore. Something about them felt so shallow and empty–forced laughter, fake smiles–it was always the same. The same people, the same conversations, and the same…nothingness that followed.

Elain and Nesta enjoyed them well enough, though you might not know it by Nesta’s face or attitude. The two were born and bred for high society. In theory, Feyre had been too, but something had always been different. She’d taken the same lessons, been born of the same bloodline, suffered the same teachers, and fumbled through the same etiquette courses. But, still, something felt different about her.

A half-wild beast.

Nesta’s favorite insult. Yet, in the quiet privacy of her room, Feyre wore it like a badge of honor.

She would sit on her balcony often, long after the manor was asleep, and stare up at those same smiling stars, dreaming about the stories in her books, and wondering if, in some other lifetime, she was the one slaying dragons, riding horses, and falling in love. She dreamed of wielding the weapons that the guards tossed around so effortlessly in the yard, her fists clenching and unclenching with the want to hold them in her hand. She dreamed of the bow and arrows so vividly that sometimes she woke up feeling as though her arm had been drawn back at the ready, the golden eyes of some animal in the snow flashing brightly in her mind.

But, at the end of the day, Feyre understood her role. She knew her place here, even if she hated it. She’d have gone down swinging and fighting if it weren’t for her sisters, but she knew she’d never forgive herself if she ruined their chances at a life they wanted for her own selfish wants.

So, she allowed the soft dress to be pulled up her body, the corset laced so tightly she could barely breathe. She let the long, golden tresses of her hair be pulled into a braid–nothing efficient or practical, but wispy and loose and lovely. She let them apply powder and blush to her cheekbones, only to roll her eyes to herself knowing she’d be wearing a mask anyway.

Her mask was a glittering mass of crystals inlaid on the softest navy fabric, the tops of the gems twinkling brightly as she turned it in the light. She’d seen the mask in a shop in town and couldn’t take her eyes off of it. It had reminded her of the silent nights spent outside, and she hadn’t been able to leave without it. She may have hated getting dressed and paraded for these events, but at least she’d have chosen one aspect of her presence this evening.

She slipped into the satin shoes, and she listened to them click, click, click down the stone and marble of the halls on her way to the foyer.

The manor smelled magical, the air filled with sweet, sharp, and savory spices from across the world. Her father always returned from his expeditions with barrels of the best foods, cans of spices, and wooden boxes of the loveliest, most exotic teas. Their house regularly smelled of some beautiful delicacy or another, but on nights where events like this took place, the whole manor was awash in the smells, and Feyre always liked that best.

The loud rise of voices became nearly deafening as she reached the massive set of stairs in the entryway.

As she looked down, she could see Elain and Nesta already socializing and doing their duty. Elain was floating like a butterfly around the room, twirling her skirts without even meaning to and catching the wandering eyes of every eligible–and ineligible–man in the room. Elain was effortlessly beautiful and charming–a perfect fit in this life–all soft, rounded edges and sweet sighs. Her mask was a soft, brushed suede in a light brown, the gems rounded up and shaped to mimic the face of a doe. Fitting, for every bit of Elain was that beautiful, gentle, cushioned etiquette that high society expected of her.

If Elain was the cushion, though, Nesta was the pin.

Nesta had dressed in black and red tonight, the ruby gemstones of her mask catching the light and reaching out like the wings of a great creature around her face. Her silver eyes cut across the room, daring any man to come closer. She looked as though she was ready for war, and in truth, she might be. The expectation weighed heavily on Nesta to marry, and soon.

Even Nesta’s calculated coldness couldn’t combat the pressures of society for much longer. She may be cold, but with money and a noble name came the burden of responsibility. Even with her reputation, the men had been lining up for her for nearly two years already. The time she had left was running out. While Feyre knew Nesta did not care one bit for the implications of being an unmarried noble, Nesta knew the consequences for her family and her name were she to be labeled as unmarriageable, and she wouldn’t dare harm Elain’s reputation in such a way. And, in addition, Elain had been breathing down her neck, anxious for her turn and knowing that she could not step forward for a marriage offer until Nesta had accepted one herself.

Feyre sighed as she reached the bottom of the steps, turning immediately to the back walls behind the circle of pillars surrounding the foyer and leading out into the main ballroom. The estate was absurdly large–so large, in fact, that as a child, Feyre had spent years discovering rooms she’d never even seen before. It was a gross misuse of money, from her point of view, but it’s not exactly like they could give rooms to the needy. She had suggested it once as a child, and her mother had their governess strike her for it. Their mother might be long dead, but her lessons lingered into their lives.

As Feyre passed the great doors, the strung-up lights again caught her eye, glowing against the backdrop of the now deep-black sky with the woods behind them. Something stirred within her.

Go. Go see.

But she’d long felt that pull to the woods. She’d also long learned to ignore it for the sake of propriety.

She ribbed at Nesta and Elain often for their expectations, but she knew someday they would fall to her, too. She was nineteen now, and once her sisters had been paired off, it would be her turn to find a nobleman who she’d be handed off to and expected to run his home and birth his children until she died.

The thought was almost enough to send her running to the woods.

Feyre could barely hold a conversation with any of the insufferable, pompous pricks for more than five minutes; she wasn’t sure how she would ever be able to warm one’s bed long term. But she saw her life for what it was: a gilded prison where her options had been predestined, planned, and chosen for her the minute she was placed as a squealing babe in her mother’s arms and declared a girl.

Feyre grabbed a drink from a passing server, sipping it delicately and letting the bubbles settle on her tongue and in her spirit, calming her as she walked into the wide open ballroom and began to skirt around the walls. She’d need to limit it to just the one–she had a tendency to drink too much at these events, and she notoriously could not handle her drink well.

If Feyre was honest with herself, she had wondered more than once what it might be like to meet a handsome young man who was more than the surface-level idiots of the rich families. Not that she was one for a vulnerable moment, but as beautiful as these parties were, they were just the same, old, tired faces again and again. In her bed in the dark, she’d thought more than once what it might be like for a handsome prince like the ones in the books she’d hid away from her governess by shoving them in her mattress to come and whisk her away for something more–something wonderful. Not just for the love story, but for the adventure, too. They’d run off arm in arm, him setting her on a horse by his side to roam the wide world beside him, never behind.

She continued along the curved wall, watching the crowd of twirling bodies embellished in jewels and brightly embroidered threads. She could be in her room, painting the colors swirling together across a canvas, instead of being here and watching it all pass her by.

Abruptly, Feyre stopped in her tracks, the air stolen from her lungs as though by force. She’d been hiding in the near-shadows as the others danced in the light. But across the room, almost entirely encased in shadows of his own, a pair of violet eyes met hers.

Feyre felt as though she’d been punched in the chest, her entire world narrowing in on the singular raised brow attached to those beautiful eyes, staring directly into her soul as though asking have we met? He seemed to hesitate, to recognize her almost, his hand raising nearly imperceptibly as though to wave.

Had she imagined it?

She could almost hear the voice now as she took a tentative step in that direction, closing the gap as she made her way around the room.

Come. Come see.

Silky and smooth and low, like warm honey in a cup of tea, like the burn of whiskey in the swigs she’d stolen in her father’s office. He pushed off the wall and walked towards her, looking quickly to the sides as though to check if anyone else was watching. His approach caused her heart to thunder wildly in her chest.

Come see.

As they approached each other, the gap closing with each step, she was taken aback by his overwhelming beauty. His hair was the color of raven’s wings, softly catching the light of the chandeliers above. The rest of him that wasn’t covered by his mask appeared to be carved out of stone, his chiseled features sharp, but kind. Those beautiful violet eyes up close sparked like they held a galaxy within them, the glittering reminding her of the patterns of the gems in her mask.

This is the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.

His lips arched up at the corners as though he’d heard her.

Impossible.

He looked familiar as he passed behind each of the marble pillars lining the room, the swirling and twirling of dancers in her periphery not breaking her focus for even a moment. She was a woman possessed, all her energy focused entirely on this beautiful stranger, only steps away. She felt a strangely familiar comfort as they closed the last few feet between them. She was sure she’d have remembered someone like him.

“Hello, darling.” His voice nearly knocked her breathless again as he took her hand in his, sketching a bow as he pressed his lips to her knuckles delicately. The touch of his skin to hers was electric, the currents coursing through her veins like lightning and fire and shooting straight to her chest where they swarmed and tore like bees in a nest.

She must have gasped, her body reacting before her mind could catch up, because his lovely twilight eyes locked on hers, a brow quirking up again as he stared at her. There was something unidentifiable in his expression–something so wide open and unguarded and vulnerable that didn’t match his raised brows or rakish smirk at all.

Underneath all that, there was something like wonder.

Every so often, his carefully curated expression would tic just the tiniest bit, a strain of his jaw, a twitch of his brow, and Feyre could see something different hiding beneath. Something almost nervous.

“Hello.” Her voice was a curious whisper, full of awe and jittery trepidation, but the smile she was granted in return was as bright as the full moon over the lake outside the manor, and it felt especially reserved for her.

“What’s your name?” His voice was deep and rumbling, the timbre of it shooting to her ribs and tugging briefly, so visceral and real that she nearly stepped forward with the ghost of it.

“Feyre.” There was no use playing coy. She wanted to hear her name off his lips–had never wanted anything more than she wanted it.

She swore she could hear his thoughts twirling the name around in his mind, likening it to the tolling of bells. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

“Feyre,” he murmured, eyes still full of stars and staring at her. “Fey-ruh,” he mouthed wordlessly this time, as though tasting it on his tongue and savoring it. She shivered to the tips of her toes, her eyes tracking the shape of his plush lips as they moved around the syllables.

“Yes,” she said, embarrassingly breathless. “What’s yours? I don’t recognize you.” The corners of his mouth turned up in amusement. Feyre had never been good at the rules of high society, failing even the most basic points of etiquette repeatedly and fantastically. But he seemed delighted, and the thrill of it all kept her heart threatening to pound out of her chest.

“Rhysand. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Feyre.” She loved the way he said her name; she loved the way it fit with hers. Feyre and Rhysand.

Rhysand. Rhysand. Rhysand.

He still held her hand in his.

“Would you honor me with a dance, Feyre darling?” She nodded mutely, still struggling to find words in the wake of meeting this familiar stranger, but she couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

He took her hand in his, his midnight black suit with silver embroidery glinting in the light and catching the reflections like beams of light. Rhysand. She tried the name in her mind over and over again until it felt like home on her tongue.

I could see myself calling him Rhys, warm on a couch, his lips on mine.

The thought came out of nowhere, startling her and making a blush race across her cheeks and up her ears. She must have physically flinched, because she could feel Rhysand almost shudder beneath her hand.

At long last, they reached the dance floor right as a new song queued up from the musicians, a light and sturdy waltz that would allow for space to talk between them. She placed her hands on his shoulder and arms, beginning the steps that she knew by heart. He kept time immediately, almost as though the dance was something he’d also grown up knowing.

“You’re not from around here.” Not a question.

“No, I am not.” He offered nothing more. She scrunched her nose, studying him, and he grinned down at her, his hair tumbling down across his forehead.

“Where are you from?”

“Somewhere further north of here. I’m here for business.” She wasn’t one to ask family names, lest she seem like she was throwing herself at his feet. But his words were so vague she couldn’t help but cock a brow at him. He smiled, a laugh on his lips.

“Hmm, family business. Sounds very serious.” The mocking in her voice was not lost on him, and his smile widened.

“It’s all a bit dicey right now. I’m a little out of my element.” She could surely understand what that felt like, nodding almost imperceptibly in agreement.

“Well, what part of business requires you attending a masquerade in the forest?” She couldn’t help but tease him. the words flit off her tongue before she could bite them down, but she relished his surprise. He seemed to enjoy the teasing.

“Just an errant invite to a nobleman passing through. I make it a habit to know the people in the important families when I travel. You never know what you may find.”

“Or whom.” The words were coy, and his eyes flashed momentarily with something akin to hunger before it cleared.

“This is your manor, is it not?” Perhaps he cared more for propriety than her.

“Yes. I’m Feyre, the youngest. The ball is for my sister, Elain. She just turned twenty-one.”

“Ah, and you?”

“Nineteen. Yourself?”

“A bit older, not in spirit, though.” His grin was heart-stopping, her breath catching in her chest at the sight of it. He was stunningly gorgeous, a work of art. Her fingers itched to paint his face embraced by the night sky, the stars humming and shooting past behind him as though they were alive…

Her thoughts were interrupted by his hands on her waist lifting her into the air as though she weighed nothing, her small yelp bringing yet another flush to her face. She’d lost her place in the dance while her thoughts had wandered, but he just chuckled lightly as he set her back down and they resumed. The music slowed to a quieter number and they readjusted their holds on each other to fit the new tempo, stepping close enough to feel his breath flit across her neck.

“You’re not at all how I imagined you’d be.”

“How you imagined?”

“Just the daughter of a noble family. You don’t act like them.”

She scoffed, then raised herself up a bit on her toes, arching her neck to place her lips closer to his ear, never breaking the slow rhythm of the dance. “Can I tell you a secret, Rhysand?” He shuddered lightly beneath her touch as they swayed.

“Anything.”

“I hate it here.” He laughed, something warm and welcoming blooming in her at the sound.

“I can see you somewhere different,” he said, voice still filled with amusement.

“Hmm, where?”

He pulled back a bit and pretended to think about it while she took in his face again, the mask doing nothing to hide the lovely strong jaw and high cheekbones, his dark golden skin nearly glowing beneath the chandelier lights. He looked like he belonged in the galaxies above them, flying through the night sky like some sort of Angel of Darkness in a painting. The thought brought a thrill to Feyre’s lower stomach that she’d only ever felt in the dark of her bedroom alone at night.

“I can see you outside, somewhere beneath the stars with a clear view of the sky.” Feyre could hear her own sharp intake of breath as she felt it, so she was sure he could too. Perhaps, it should be strange that someone she didn’t know at all could guess something so easily about her, something so intimate.

But instead of fear, the only feeling she could summon was comfort. Had anyone ever really known her? It was nice to be seen. It was nice to be known.

“I’d like that.”

The song came to an abrupt end, spooling immediately into another, more fast-paced dance. Feyre let the mischief flare to life behind her eyes as she grabbed his hand in hers.

“Can you keep up?”

His smile could rival the sun, and suddenly it was all she cared to see again.

He grabbed her hand, his skin warm and comforting against hers, and they launched into the steps for the dance, holding each other–perhaps a bit closer than was expected.

Song after song, dance after dance, the two twirled around the room. Feyre could sense time was passing, but she couldn’t find it in herself to track it or care, the world and people an inconsequential blur around them. They weren’t speaking with words, but it all felt like a conversation in and of itself, their bodies and minds somehow in step with each other, learning one another as his starry, violet eyes met blue. His smile crinkled around his lips, and left the smallest, almost unnoticeable dimples in its wake. Feyre grinned to behold it, and something told her it wasn’t a smile most were lucky enough to see.

She felt breathless, bubbly, intoxicated–and she knew that it was unrealistic to fall for someone so suddenly. It was something she expected of Elain, ever the romantic, but for the first time in her entire life, she imagined what it would be like if someone did make a bid for her hand.

For the first time, she thought about what it might be like to accept.

Please don’t be in love with someone else.

After what could have been hours, the songs began to slow again as the night began to wind down, the lights lower and the people quieter. Their hands regrettably dropped off the other, but Feyre wasn’t ready to let this go, not just yet. She leaned in almost imperceptibly, her whisper just barely a breath on her lips.

“Meet me in the garden? The back side of the house with the lake view.” Then, before she could view his expression or regret her actions, she walked off, very audibly complaining to her sisters that her feet hurt and she was off to bed.

Feyre sprinted down the halls, cutting corners so closely she almost slammed into the walls. She rushed across the marble floors, crashed into her bedroom doors, and flung them open and back shut with an intensity of which she didn’t believe herself capable. She shut and locked them behind her, kicking off her uncomfortable heels, ripping off the beautiful mask, and pushing her loose hair off her face as she strode to the balcony. She’d gone out this way in the night so many times it was like second nature to her now, the light breeze smelling of flowers and earth. She crept down the trellis, feet expertly catching on all the holds until she jumped the last few feet. Feyre skittered to the large stone wall to the garden, avoiding the gate in favor of scaling up the thick, twisted vines, swinging a leg over, and dropping wildly down to the other side.

Nesta’s words once again rang in her head, but if she could see Rhys again, even for a moment, then propriety be damned.

She turned to run but pulled up short with a gasp when she found him already there, nearly running into his chest.

“Hi.” The word was a breathy exhale on her tongue.

“I’ve been looking for you.” His words were soft and quiet in the night, a kind smile already on his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners in what appeared to be delight. Without his mask, she could see his lovely face in full, somehow even more beautiful than before.

“Would you like to walk? I can show you the lake.” It was one of her favorite places on the property. Elain favored the gardens, Nesta the copse of old oak trees that were older than the manor itself, but Feyre had always loved the lake. More times than she could count, as a child and even older, she’d had to be dragged from its murky depths. She loved to play in it, the time slipping away as she swam around, played with the fish, and even laid on her back just watching the clouds. Nesta called her a swamp monster, but she hadn’t minded.

Under the light of the moon, she led Rhysand to her favorite lakeside view, a small stone bench beneath the curtain of a weeping willow. Here, she couldn’t be seen from the house, and it was often she’d come here to paint, or relax, or just be left alone.

“Is this your favorite spot then?” He asked coyly, almost as though he’d heard her think it, as she grabbed her skirts up and sat down.

“I like to be alone, more often than not, and it’s easy to come here and buy some time unseen.”

“Unseen, hmm.” He sat beside her, the warmth of his thigh brushing against her own. “Did you take me here to kill me then, Feyre?” A laugh burst out of Feyre before she could stop it, loud and unrestrained as she raised a hand to her mouth. He was so funny; men were never funny. She should have been embarrassed that she’d guffawed like a goat in front of him, but when she looked up, his face was lit with an intangible sense of joy that stopped her short.

“You have a beautiful laugh.” The words weighed heavy in the air around them, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “I hope to hear it again.”

“You could.” She wasn’t sure what had come over her, the words out of her mouth before she could stop them with any sense.

“If I make you laugh too often, I think they require a proposal in these parts.” A grin split his face, but something about his tone felt serious to Feyre.

“Would that be so terrible?” His responding smile was sad, almost pained, as he grabbed her hand in his.

“Please believe me, Feyre, when I tell you nothing would please me more than to ask for your hand in marriage this very second. If I was able, I would have already asked your father.” The words froze and ached in her chest, making it hard to swallow, but she couldn’t look away.

“I wouldn’t say no.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, seeming to fight with himself over something. “In my current home, I am unable to make any propositions, and it would kill me to make you a promise I couldn’t fulfill. You deserve more than that. More than me.” It was the first true crack she’d seen in his mask, the first real show of that vulnerability that she’d sensed immediately. He huffed a mirthless laugh.

“What if I waited?” His eyes shot back to hers. “My sisters are not yet wed, and I cannot go before them anyway. What if we waited until your circumstances changed? We have time.” The hope and awe and wonder in his eyes was almost enough to unseat her entirely. His hand came to touch her jaw delicately, softly, as though she was something precious in his hands.

“I can’t ask you to–”

“I want to. Rhysand, I want to. This is crazy, I’m never this way. Truly, Nesta likens me to a beast more often than anything else. I don’t get along with others, but…” When she looked up again, he was staring at her like she’d hung the stars and moon. “You see me. I don’t know how I know, but I can tell. You see all that I am, here, now.” He nodded, brows deeply furrowed, as though thinking before he spoke.

“You would wait?”

“I would, unfailingly.” Something cracked wide open in her chest at the admission she hadn’t quite even felt herself deciding to make. Who was this man who had enthralled her so completely and utterly? And why did it feel more right than anything ever had before?

His eyes searched her face, as if looking for any reason to say no and failing.

“Would it be wildly improper of me to ask to kiss you?” His voice was as breathless as hers, as though they were speaking on sacred ground. She’d tipped forward a bit, leaning her face into his hand.

“It would, but do it anyway.”

“Can I kiss–” She didn’t let him finish as she surged up, pressing her lips to his.

The effect was immediate, sparks shooting off in her mind like a cracking piece of firewood. The tug in her chest became overwhelming as she wrapped her arms around his neck, his tongue moving against the seam of her lips as though asking for permission. She let him in, the smooth caress of his tongue against her own drawing a sound out of her that she’d never heard before. He smelled like jasmine and lilac as she ran her hands through his silky, inky hair, the motion drawing him closer as he ran his hands down her sides to hold her waist. It felt monumental, world-shifting, right.

The kiss deepened as he shifted her into his lap, his hands pulling, gripping, grabbing at every inch of her as they slid up her thighs to cup her ass. She ground down against him, feeling him against her and losing the fight against tipping her head back as his mouth left hers to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw and neck. She gasped as she felt his teeth, feeling sharper and more dangerous than they were, skirting lightly over her pulse point, something deep and primal thrumming within her at the action.

He murmured against her, “Feyre, you’re my–” And she would have given him anything he asked of her in that moment. A kiss, herself, the entire world.

But, abruptly, the sound of laughter and shattering glass broke them apart. Someone at the party had dropped something on their way out, but Feyre and Rhysand stared at each other, eyes wide and wild, chests heaving for air as they broke free of the spell.

“Feyre.” The word was a prayer on his lips as he licked them, as though he were tasting her one more time.

She pressed another, more chaste, kiss to the corner of his mouth, smiling as he sighed against her.

“Will you write to me, when your circumstances change?” She asked. His face was full of such wide, open hope. She would wait, and she’d do so happily if there was even a chance of this being the future that awaited her.

“Yes, of course. I’ll call on you when all is settled. I will see you again.” It sounded like a promise, an oath. She believed him as she felt the surge of joy and anticipation welling within her, the feelings stronger and more potent than she had ever felt before.

They stood, so unwilling to untangle their limbs and let go. He walked her back to the stone wall, offering to give her a hand and help her up. She sat atop it, gazing upon him a final time.

“I am very glad to have met you tonight, Rhysand.”

“Rhys.” He sketched a bow. “Call me Rhys. I was enchanted to meet you, Feyre.”

“Goodnight, Rhys.” He smiled, and as she turned to quietly dismount the other side, she looked back a final time to find him already gone.

+++

Rhys stood on the stone wall surrounding the manor as the moon dipped low in the sky. The colors of the sun on the horizon would be coming soon, but he hadn’t been quite ready to go yet. Instead, he stood, shrouded in the dark, hands in his pockets and the entirety of his focus on a single balcony. The wall was large and sturdy, at least two feet across and spanning the entire estate.

Good, Rhys thought. There are predators here.

Through the balcony window, the gossamer curtains flowed in the breeze, the low, golden light inside highlighting the fuzzy shapes within. He could see movement, the motion he’d been waiting for since she left the lakeside bench. His breath caught in his chest as she appeared, her hair down from her braid, loosely flowing over her shoulders and back as she spun around the room in her nightgown.

Dancing. She was dancing.

For the first time in decades, Rhys felt something like tears burning behind his eyes. She was so incredibly beautiful there in the window, holding her arms out and mimicking the moves that they had completed together only hours before. He’d have stayed a lifetime if only to see her dance again, to see that beautiful smile light up her face when she looked at him.

He’d been a fool to accept her offer, but it had been so long since Rhys had felt hope. He’d been an idiot to come here in the first place, considering the circumstances, but he had to see her, touch her, know that there was something worth fighting for. If he was going to make it out alive, he needed hope.

Mate. My mate.

He’d heard her thoughts all night long, so open and honest and forthright, not even second guessing herself. She fit him so thoroughly, her thoughts often matching his as they flitted through his own mind.

She was perfect.

It had been years since the first time he’d seen her in his dreams, just snips and flashes of her running through the woods, sloshing through the lake, then more detailed pictures of her pranking her sisters and governess, painting the undersides of furniture and the trees of the forest so no one would see. It had been a particularly horrible day when he’d finally broken and gone to see her, the lights of the ball providing a convenient ruse.

He’d told himself to be aloof, just a visiting guest, only there to observe.

Then he saw her. The pull nearly painful and he was pushing off the walls to look for her the second their eyes met.

If he had suspected the mating bond before, he was certain now, the tether alive and glowing in his chest, though unsnapped. He wondered how it felt to her, a human, but they’d been sharing thoughts and emotions all night, to his great joy.

Please don’t be in love with someone else. Please don’t have somebody waiting on you.

Half of that promise he could fulfill–he would never love anyone but her, his mate, the female from his dreams. He would always belong to her, the visual of her pressed against his chest as they danced, her smile bright and warm and eyes happy to see him. There would never be anyone else for him but the human girl who was a dreamer, who wanted more for herself in this life than the pretentious, materialistic world of a nobleman’s daughter. He watched as she threw herself back onto her fluffy bed with a sigh, kicking her feet against it as he smiled.

It was time for him to go, to flee back beneath the mountain before Amarantha looked too closely into his absence. He wouldn’t risk Feyre, no matter how much his heart ached to be near her. Just this glimpse would get him through, get him one step closer, one move further into a future where he might fulfill his promise, might be able to come to her again. Might even be able to bring her back home with him. Home, to his family.

He gave her a final look, smelling that pear and lilac scent on the breeze and filling his lungs with it.

“I’ll come back for you. I promise.” And then he was gone.

[bestworstcase]

anyway its time for our irregularly scheduled reminder that destruction in rwby has always, with remarkable consistency, been associated with change and want, culminating in v9 with the entirely predictable revelation that the primordial cosmic force of destruction is… [checks notes] hunger.

so when the narrative says that salem is destruction incarnate or the writers reiterate that the pool of grimm imbued her with a destructive nature, Something That Has Been Stated In The Story so i don’t really know why we’re acting like this is new information, you do need to take that into context with

what

destruction

means

in this story. likewise the reality that salem is grimm must be considered in context with how grimm are described and shown to behave. (hint: they feel pain, have a survival instinct, learn from experience, live in packs, and die in captivity.)

salem’s affect is blunted (because she grew up in near-total isolation with an angry, violent father, and then spent most of her millions of years of existence completely alone; of course she struggles to express emotion) but she is an intensely emotional character; if her delivery in soliloquy didn’t make that clear then her abrupt mood swings—which start happening in volume four—should have gotten the point across. it didn’t, because fandom and because if you don’t perform emotion correctly nobody fucking believes you have them, but it should have.

the point is, salem has always been emotional—distraught outbursts at the gods, and everything—AND THEN she spent a few hundred million years going insane in isolation AND THEN she remade herself in the pool of grimm… grimm are drawn to, respond to, emotion. when a person becomes grimm, the grimm influence—such as it is—is not to corrupt, it’s to amplify. the mirror becomes a magnifying glass.

salem is the way she is because her feelings are SO BIG ALL THE TIME and she has no way to regulate or cope with them because she’s a flayed screaming bundle of trauma who kept getting brutally punished every time she shows emotion or lets her guard down so she just doesn’t anymore.

back someone into a corner and flay them alive for long enough and yeah, they’ll decide that Killing You is the answer. obviously. being grimm doesn’t -make her- violent or cruel or apathetic to the collateral damage, it intensifies the pain and desperation she is feeling all the time. possibly, it also absorbs the hatred and fear that others feel toward her. and that’s where the violence and the cruelty and the singleminded ruthlessness arises from.

the way to stop salem from Doing This is to help her. it’s the same, in principle, as the solution to the grimm problem in general; culling them while sweeping societal problems under the rug to fester forever does not in fact fix anything, and it is at best putting a bandaid on a hemorrhage. grimm attacks are just a symptom of deeply-entrenched suffering—hence, menagerie. the kingdom built by civil rights activists. doesn’t have a huntsmen academy and also doesn’t have a grimm problem. lol.

[invested-in-your-future]

What was it exactly that ruined RWBY after volume 3? Was it the death of the author or the creators simply lost touch with their work?

I think I talked about the changes and issues within the narrative before, so I'll just stick to the overall problems with the shift from V3 to V4.

Honestly? The author's passing might have an impact, but it shouldn't have this level of impact.

It's easy to attribute all the success to Monty and just pretend the show was doomed without him. Then why did V3 still come out extremely good? Clearly, there was still talent here - Dillon Goo carried V3 fights on his back, and the story continued - nothing instantly fell apart.

And yet the show did fall apart.

So, what happened?

Were they blindsided by Monty's passing? Were they too inexperienced? Did the hard shift in direction destroy the show's setting? How about the employee burnout?

In reality, I think it's a combination of all of those and more.

They were caught off-guard.

No matter how big Monty's actual role was, people at RT are still human beings.

Death of a friend can turn one's life upside down and fast - understandably, the company would struggle to continue after losing someone so integral to their identity back then.

The way Volume 4 is structured instantly shows that the rest of the staff got blindsided by having to continue the show - V4 is designed to spin its wheels, buying them time while they try to figure out what to do. It's averse to any characterization for the lead four or any change in status quo, and even the lore bits we DO get during V4 are very vague (because the showrunners have no idea what to do).

You can literally imagine them all running around behind the scenes frantically trying to see how they can pick up from where v3 left off and delaying, delaying, delaying.

The issue, however, is that at some point, that kind of stalling becomes their whole MO rather than a temporary thing.

The show effectively stalls any sort of payoff for anything from the first three volumes, shying away from addressing anything within its original identity.

After a while, it's not like they didn't have time to figure things out or turn things around yet - it's that they decided this stalling issue works fine as-is - even as far as V9.

The relationships never quite progress - Blake and Yang have been in limbo since V3, for example.

The characters never progress or regress - how many times did the show "hint" at Ruby's distress for years, promise Blake's growth, or have Yang on the verge of some big moment of self-reflection?

It's not even JUST that it shifted away from its original identity as a contemporary tech-fantasy show - while it absolutely DID do that, the issue is that the showrunners have no idea what shape the show's identity OR aesthetic should take OR how to do it.

The show just stalls because it works even if viewers start to dwindle, and they don't have to do anything that would "alienate" people (Like, let's say, addressing the elephant in the room that is Yang and Blake).

A staggering amount of effort is made to NOT progress things and to have characters go through all these locations without really changing at all.

Things happen but not really.

What did Ruby's journey from Patch to Mistral accomplish for her as a character? What did Blake's journey to Menagerie accomplish? How about Yang's journey to find her offscreen bandit mother? How about Weiss getting taken back by her father?

Nothing.

What did the conflict in Atlas accomplish? Were characters affected or changed in any way? Did Weiss finally have her story arc? Did Ruby face herself?

Nothing.

You could literally change up the end of V3 with them dropping into the future of Vacuo and you wouldn't miss a single story beat.

We don't know MORE about the world OR the characters, really - the dumb Brother Gods plotline revelations can be summed up in half an episode.

Mistral's fate, Vale's fate, Atlas falling? That can be done offscreen - it's not like the show hasn't already offscreened far more important things

Of course, the show DIDN'T just skip that padding so it still has to get the major story beats in as everyone moves through locations.

But those story beats happen in the weirdest way possible.

Why?

There is ego involved, yes.

Miles didn't have to add up the brother gods subplot he had dreamt up one day.

Miles didn't have to keep pushing Jaune into the front of the show at the cost of the actual leads.

It's no secret that the show would always work this way where one of the people involved would posit an idea of how they think something could be cool if it happened - Monty was pretty notable for wanting to have Raven fight Team JNPR in the Fall of Beacon for example, and he refused to elaborate.

Is it so surprising someone like Miles or Kerry would want to "add their own touch"? So what if those ideas clashed with literally everything in the setting before - be it narratively or aesthetically?

But there was something else that changed.

Before V4 the people involved would come up with something and then work it into the plot. While imperfect, there was a possibility of a somewhat healthy dynamic where, with, likely, actual pushback between those involved - Monty never did get his "Raven fights everyone" scene after all, no matter how cool it could have been.

After V3 that dynamic was gone, obviously.

The creative element of the show fell apart, but Miles and co seemed to keep going like nothing happened - and at some point rather than a bunch of people discussing possible paths for the show, it turned into a situation where Miles or someone else would propose an idea and then it would happen.

As the show grew in scope so did the necessity for actually making those desired elements fit into the story. It was no longer about "hey we can't really justify Raven randomly showing up and fighting team JNPR" - there were Kingdoms and multiple locations and dozens of characters involved now.

They just lost their friend who proposed the show in the first place, they struggled to make the show continue and they were clearly inexperienced running something as big as this.

Yet instead of growing, learning, or hiring people, they seem to have been content with just dumping what Miles wanted into the show without worrying about narrative structure, set-ups, payoffs, characterization, and so on.

The weird medieval aesthetic of various locations no longer fits the contemporary modern setting of the first three Volumes? So what.

The magicky ridiculous cheese of brother gods was the polar opposite of a more grounded setting before it? So what.

The decision to not show actual character progression and growth that could be Yang's recovery arc because "it was boring"? This would make any writer or college professor scream because that's now how you characterization, that's not how you do pay off or ANYTHING, but yet again -so what?

Why?

They were unwilling to learn and to accept critique.

Listening to staff commentary for the show (even before Monty's passing) there's one thought that would persist - "Wow, they sure sound content and prideful with not knowing their things and just going with the flow."

RT drank their own Kool-Aid - "Oh we are just a small indie group of friends - look how scuffed our production and decision-making is."

It was impossible not to notice back then - people would point that out all the time.

Yet instead of improving and changing and learning and, honestly, growing up, Miles or someone else would just throw some backhanded remark and continue.

A group of amateur film-makers can grow and develop, but RT were so proud of their status as being this industry underdog where it's just a group of friends(despite that not being the case for YEARS at that point), that they were unwilling to make necessary changes in their work culture, approach or, well, anything.

I keep coming back to Miles watching Land of Lustrous and going "Oh, I don't get it." and that's it - there's no self-betterment or willingness to "get it" showcased and that's emblematic of RT culture as a whole.

Whether there was talent in the company (there was), it wouldn't matter if people at the top would stomp their feet and refuse to learn or improve. Even V9 staff had quite a few talented animators involved - did not help.

They were too caught up in the "youtube machinima bro culture" RT's size had long since grown out of.

They were "a bunch of friends, just a bunch of indie amateur people creating content", and they were proud of it and of how scuffed everything was.

So what if at that scale of the company, the culture would end up creating genuine issues with power dynamics, harassment, over-work, inefficient production, employee burnout, resource wasting, and so on?

The working conditions drove away most of the talent they had left over the course of next few years.

(Un)Surprisingly being stuck in a frathouse mentality lasting decades is a really good motivator for actual talented people within the company to quit and work elsewhere. Who would have thought?

One logical path forward would be to hire actual industry professionals, right? They could have created a writer's room, hired management experts, a proper HR department, hired sensitivity readers, outsourced researching various topics, etc, right? Miles and Co could keep pretending to be auteurs while competent people would get paid to do what needs to be done and course-correct them.

Easy, right?

Well.

They were unwilling to hire professionals.

Reminder that it took RT till around Atlas arc to have anything resembling a writers' room, they still refused to hire actual sensitivity readers to ensure they don't end up writing something blatantly ableist or just outright all-around problematic.

In the cases where professionals were involved, the people in charge just ignored all suggestions (otherwise Volume 8 and 9 would have been stopped at brainstorming phase and changed - I refuse to believe no one took a look at it and said "this will crash harder than Genlock Season Two")

I have no doubts people at the core of RT wanted to honor their friend's legacy and make right by them, but...

If "everything was fine" and who they were was fine and no critique mattered then why change anything or listen to outside voices?

And thus they continued.

Overall

It's a mix of variety of issues, really. It's actually kind of fascinating RT managed to have so many things go wrong.

[waffleuvs]

Y/n squares her shoulders, facing the shopfront as the (a little tacky for her taste and sometimes annoying) bell on the door chimed. The familiar face she'd spotted in her periphery is even clearer under the golden lights of the cafè. Quickly pocketing her phone, she braces herself against the counter to ground her erratic heart, plastering a servilely smile on her face.

"Hi, welcome," she trails her eyes from the leather jacket covered in pins towards the face framed by dyed auburn hair. "What can I get for you?"

It's a familiar face, one she'd seen around campus, in the Row and even frequently in few of Sungchan's early morning soccer practices that Minjeong managed to drag her to. And despite her reservations, she couldn't help thinking he was cute. A good few inches taller than her with a softer face than most but his eyes were piercing. Like he was always two steps ahead. Right now, a languid grin played on his lips and she quickly forced that train of thoughts far, far away.

"An iced americano with sugar, please," he requests politely and his voice positively catches her off guard.

Who the fuck sounds like so damn sweet at eight on a Friday night?!

She focuses on typing down his order in the register, instead. It's an odd one, especially considering the late hour but who was she to judge, having downed more than five cups a night during finals week.

"What's the name on the order?" she asks.

"Haechan is fine. Thanks," he replies distractedly, the buzzing of his phone keeping him occupied. A deeper frown creases his face.

Clearing her throat, she nods at him, "Anything else?"

His eyes scan the display shelves after turning off the ringer on the device, raking over overly cutesy pastries, donuts and cookies. But before he replies, he's staring at her again. "What would you recommend?"

"Erm... depends on what you're craving, I guess," Y/n answers, moving towards the coffee station to work on his rather simple drink.

"I'll take savory over sweet any day," he shrugs.

Giggling at his simple take, she looks over her shoulder, pouring ice into a to-go cup. "Well, most of our savory stuff is already sold out but see those sandwiches over there?"

He follows her lead to glance at the bear shaped bread encasing a simple ham and cheese combo. "So, not only do you have cat shaped cookies but a whole menagerie, too?" He asks with a chuckle, arms crossing over his chest.

"Hey, the students love them! How else do you think we get such rave reviews?" She fires playfully.

"The way to a sleep-deprived zombie's heart is through animal-shaped food, noted," he teases. "Sure, I'll take one of those."

"Don't question it before you try it," she feigns disappointment, grabbing one of the sandwiches to wrap in paper. "And I'll have you know these are truly magical. They can make your whole day better with just one bite!"

He shakes his head, smiling still. It suits him a lot, she notes. "Like fortune cookies?"

"Well, yeah... kind of? But there are bad fortune cookies, too. These will only give you good luck," she assures him, the realization that rambling was only digging deeper into her own grave settling in a little too late. "Anyway, here is your order. Your total is five thousand and eight hundred won."

He swipes his card to pay, picking up his food and turning around to leave. Just before walking out, he turns on his heel. "Y/n, right? Thanks the recommendation. And the coffee tastes amazing."

She can feel the fire creeping up her neck and towards her cheeks. Leaning on the counter, she tucks her blazing face between folded arms, "It's just watered down espresso shots."

But he's already walking down the street by then.

YOUNG DUMB & BROKE - one: good luck sandwiches

intro | masterlist | next

🍰. tag list ; @aek1ra @odxrilove (only comment under masterlist to be added ! )

[razorblade180]

Dragonslayer Week Day8: Pregnancy

[Lasting Embers Au]

After a daunting journey and calm boat ride home, Yang walked down the familiar dirt roads of Patch with a duffel bag hanging off her body. Her feet hurt a little but not as much as her head from mentally constructing the conversation she’d be having in a couple minutes.

When she finally made it home, a feeling of relief hit to see that Jaune wasn’t in the living room. It was still kinda early after all. Yang carefully tipped toed a few steps inside before the loving husband came sliding down the stair rail, landing in front of her to give a warm hug.

Jaune:Welcome back! You’re home early!

Yang:H-Hey! Since when are you an early bird? *kisses him* I thought you’d be sleeping?

Jaune:I went on a run with your parents.

Yang:(Damn, I forgot they like him!)

Jaune was quick to notice his ray of sunshine was looking a little dim. Not by much, but noticeable.

Jaune:You okay? Don’t tell me the reunion went terribly?

Yang:No- well….it started good, but then got fairly bad, but then it got good again!

Jaune:…So are you Blake on better terms?

Yang:*nods* Somehow we ended in a net positive.

Jaune:Soooo why do you look a little exhausted? Like this isn’t the “party hard” exhausted. It’s “well that just happened.”

Yang:….*teary eyed*

Jaune:!? *cuffs face* Hey hey hey, what’s wrong?

Yang:I wish it was “party hard” that trip! Can you promise me you won’t be upset?

Jaune:O..Okay? I’m all ears.

The blonde bruiser began to recount her unexpected adventure as the two of them sat on the couch.

Jaune:So instead of a simple visit to Menagerie, you and Blake went on an adventure across two different deserts to find kidnapped faunus? Can’t say that’s exactly out of the ordinary.

Yang:Yeah but it daunting. I may or may not have almost…got caught in a fiery explosion that destroyed a house.

Jaune:Who’s house exploded!?

Yang:Hehe, so that’s the kicker. This entire thing started with the Winter Maiden looking for….Adam. Who was one of the abducted.

Jaune:Ah…oh…so when you said things got fairly bad-

Yang:Old wounds and sore spots opened between Blake and I. I’m a little ashamed to say part of me didn’t want to deal with this at all but I wasn’t about to leave Blake alone in that situation.

Jaune:No one would’ve expected you to. It’s you. I get why you said it was daunting. Why didn’t you call for help?

Yang:We were on a time crunch. Things were happening so fast and…I saw some stuff i rather not talk about. We got a lot of people out but not all of them.

Jaune:Adam?

Yang:Man is too stubborn to die. For Blake and Jacquelyn’s sake, that’s a good thing. As for me…I’ll never be upset I saved a life. I just can’t believe I saved his. Imagine saving Cinder’s life.

Jaune:See, this is how I know you’re a better person than me; because I wouldn’t have done that. To be fair though, none of friends would want me to. No wonder the trip ended early, but why’d you tell me to not get upset?

Yang:….It was really dangerous throughout. I was reckless; and I even got caught up in dangerous situations when my guard was up. I should’ve asked for your input.

Jaune:I mean a call would’ve been nice but it kinda sounds no different from any of our other insane missions. You’re Yang Xiao Long, The Blazing Huntress. Strong, capable, clever, caring, and-

Yang:Pregnant. I’m…pregnant.

Her hands began fiddling with themselves as her eyes got watery, their gaze fixated on Jaune’s growing shock.

Yang:Blake didn’t know at first but after she learned I pushed to stay. I know that was so…so stupid. Even if I didn’t know what exactly I was getting into I should’ve said no, but I felt stuck between worlds! I never got hurt but….*crying* I don’t know. The more I think about it the more I realize how much I could’ve ruined us. How badly I could end up hurting you-

His arms wrapped around faster than she could blink. Yang felt her body press against his, receiving a gentle warmth that secure and yet so fragile. His fingers stroked her hair while the warmth of his tears fell on the crook of her neck.

Jaune:We’re gonna be family.

No malice or resentment. Not a drop of anxiety in the words that didn’t ponder what could’ve been. Just the sound of happy disbelief that spoke in what was going to be. It was as if a haze disappeared from Yang’s eyes that turned her tears of guilt into comfort. Jaune pulled himself away just enough for her to see the same shimmering gleam in his eyes as they begged her to speak. Yang began nodding her head again as her breath hitched through a growing smile of relief. It felt like the news finally felt real.

Yang:Yeah; we’re gonna have a baby.

[countesspetofi]

Today in the Department of Before They Were Star Trek Stars, Part 2 of a double feature! This episode had so many good shots of the Star Trek star, and so many Trek connections, that trying to put it all in one post would have made it way too image heavy.

James Doohan guest stars in "Expanding Human," episode 4 of the second season of The Outer Limits (original air date October 10, 1964).

Jimmy plays a hardboiled police detective investigating a series of crimes linked to a university science lab where the faculty and students have been experiencing with mind-expanding drugs. One of the professors has been using himself as a guinea pig and ends up in a Jekyll-and-Hyde situation where he gains superpowers but loses his moral compass. The drugs wear off at an inopportune moment during a hostage situation that turns into a fatal shootout with Doohan's police colleagues.

Other Trek connections:

Jason Wingreen, who plays the police coroner here, can be seen as the doomed scientist Dr. Linke in the Star Trek episode “The Empath.” He was also the original voice of Boba Fett in The Empire Strikes Back, before his lines were redubbed in 2004.

Peter Duryea, who played navigator José Tyler in the Star Trek pilot The Cage" and its repackaged version “The Menagerie,” appears in “Expanding Human” as one of Dr. Clinton's inner circle of students.

Doohan's assistant, Detective Sgt. Alger, is portrayed by Troy Melton. He did stunt work on several episodes of Star Trek, and also played an unnamed Eminian guard in "A Taste of Armageddon."

The narrator of The Outer Limits, known as "Control Voice," was prolific voice actor Vic Perrin. He provided voices in three episodes of Star Trek, including that of Nomad in "The Changeling," and appeared in a fourth as the leader of the Halkans in "Mirror, Mirror." He was also the original narrator of Spaceship Earth when it opened in EPCOT Center in 1982.

[deusvervewrites]

Menagerie: Himiko managed to successfully hide that she needs someone's blood to transform into them. With her looks, no one sees anything unusual about biting being a big part of her fighting style.

Yeah that's fair. Especially considering the special course, she's probably not even the only one. I bet they've got teeth guards too, to keep them from damaging their teeth in combat