#'i heard he even deals with the Crows and light have had a hand in the assassinations of their leaders...'

[saltlordofold]

I think the vision for post!origins Warden-Commander Aedan is that he's going to get in trouble with Weisshaupt and the First Warden for being too involved in politics during his post-Blight tenure and his quest for the cure?

Like of course my boy would leverage his Hero status and openly make use of all of his diplomatic training (he already did during the events of Origins), and there's something cool in replaying some of the Dryden/Cousland drama like yess... Kind of repeating the mistakes of his ancestor despite his best intentions... Also it's a mark of him resolutely doing things his way, separating himself from Duncan's methods in some aspects yet getting closer to him posthumously in having to navigate the burdens of the Commander's position...

Delicious delicious drama and intrigue yes yes!! "Holy shit is that the Warden-Commander waltzing in Halamshiral?? Scandalous!! I heard he guested in the courts and high places of Antiva, Rivain and the Free Marches as well... News from the Anderfels is that they DON'T approve of him at all... What's his game??"

[etfrin]

— ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛɪᴇꜱᴛ ɢɪʀʟ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ | ꜱᴘᴇɴᴄᴇʀ ʀᴇɪᴅ

✧— ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: NSFW | midsize/plus size! reader, reader is insecure about her body, reader has brown strech marks around her hips and breasts, cunnilingus and Spencer being sweet as fuck, oh and uhh mirror sex, fem! reader | lmk if I forgot anything

✧— ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: you feel insecure about your body and Spencer isn't having it

✧— ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1395 words

✧— ᴀ/ɴ: sooo my first plus size/mid size fic! i hope i did writing my own body type justice, i have been getting a lot of comments about my weight irl lately so this is me basically projecting <33

「ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ | ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ | ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ」

“You’re the prettiest girl I already know,” Spencer whispered gently to you, making you see yourself in the full-body mirror in the bedroom.

You bite your lower lip, feeling inferior despite his sweet words. Recently, everyone around you has been bringing up your weight. Typically you didn't care, you knew you were pretty, but society didn't allow you to feel that way. A recent snide comment made by your family during family dinner had you crying tonight.

Of course, when Spencer comes for work, he sees you. Runny nose and red eyes. You're hiccuping as you explain yourself and you apologize for crying for something so silly. Spencer berates you for apologizing, telling you it's fine to feel insecure sometimes.

“Let me make you feel good,” he said as he cleaned you up and slowly made you stand in front of the mirror. He was right behind you, his head on your shoulder. “You know I love you for your mind, but I also love your body the same way.”

“It's my fault for not letting you know that often.”

You open your mouth to protest but a look from Spencer shuts you up. His hand caresses the curves of your body, stopping to grip the plush of your hips. “I love this,” he whispered, his fingers digging into the fat of your flesh. “I love how pretty your hips look bruised from my hold.”

One of his hands snakes up on your body, his fingers wrapping themselves around your neck. His fingertips rest on your pulse. His eyes meet yours in the mirror. “I love giving you marks here,” he said, his fingers tightening around your neck, making you hitch your breath.

His hand now set your throat free to unbutton the shirt you were wearing. The fabric falls to the ground. It reveals your body to him. The tummy you recently started to hide with overly sized clothes, the stretch marks around your hips and breasts. You weren't wearing a bra.

You close your eyes, unable to look at yourself.

“My favorite are your eyes, I love the way they look at me. I love the way they light up when you see me. Even as you were crying, as soon as you saw me your eyes had brightened. Technically, it is probably a reference to contraction of the orbicularis oculi muscle, which constricts the eyes, raises the cheeks, and produces ‘crow's feet’ wrinkles at the outer eye corners.”

You giggled as you heard him, your eyes opening and you turned your head to look at him. “Spencer,” you breathe out, “You don't have to do this-”

“I love your lips as well. I love how soft they are. It's chapped sometimes, but it's fine. I love kissing you either way. I love the way you say my name. It sounds softer and gentle, it's perfect. It's impossible for something to be perfect.”

“You're perfect,” he said firmly as his hands now began to caress the stretch marks on your hips. He traces the dark brown cracks on your skin. “I love tracing them with my fingers… or my tongue. It's calming to me,” he admits.

“They're mesmerizing.”

Your eyes water as you hear him talk about you with such wonder. What seals the deal is when he softly presses his hand onto your tummy. “It's only recently that society considered skinny to be attractive. In several cultures, overweight bodies are considered to be the beauty standard. Overweight bodies are associated with fertility, kindness, happiness, vitality, and social harmony.”

“So in reality, you're beautiful, honey. If not in your eyes, then you're in mine.”

You turn to him, throwing your hands around him. Tears fell from your eyes as you pressed yourself against him. He was semi-hard. You pepper his face with kisses before you catch his lips. “I love you,” you gasp, as you messily kiss him.

He kissed you back, both of your tongues caressing each other. Spencer moans into your mouth as he gently leads you to the edge of the bed. You sit down, and Spencer presses you onto the mattress.

“Now, let me prove it to you,” Spencer said as he pulled his shirt over his head.

He starts by taking your hand, Spencer kisses all five fingers of yours. Then he pressed his lip to the veins of your wrist, his tongue came out to lick your pulse. You moan, your eyes getting blurry with pleasure as he sucks a mark onto your skin.

He continues to give you kisses until he reaches your shoulder blade. Spencer lets his teeth dig into your flesh, making you gasp. Your hand weaving into his hair. You pull at his strands, making him release a whine.

After he finishes his painting of love bites on your neck, he drags his lips down to your chest. His mouth finds your nipple, he makes sure to lick the bud, giving it the attention it deserves.

Meanwhile, you run your hand through his hair, encouraging him on. You keep releasing sounds of pleasure as Reid sucks a tad harder. It makes you gasp, your back arching. Spencer does the same treatment to your other bud. He then let his tongue trace the stretch marks around your chest.

He then goes further down your body. He reached down your tummy, making sure to kiss the path. Spencer slowly pulls your panties down, his knees on the floor. He licked his lips, swallowing down the headiness as he looked at your pretty cunt.

“Sit up,” he whispered, “Look at the mirror as I worship you, sweetheart.”

You do as he says. You sit up, seeing yourself bare with his head buried between your thighs. “Fuck,” you whispered as you see yourself in a new light. You were sexy, you were pretty. And Spencer always goes above and beyond for you. Your fingers find themselves weaving into his brown locks. You slowly pushed his head deeper within you, watching him getting buried beyond your legs. His lips touch your cunt. He lets out a whine, as you moan.

His tongue begins to lick your pussy with several broad strokes, coating his taste buds with your juices. Spencer groans as he continues to use his tongue to please you. But, it was more for him than you truly. He devoured you as his tongue got faster with focused, quick flicks across your clit.

Spencer wraps his lips around the pearl. You moan in ecstasy. You begin to grind your hips, his hands digging into your thick thighs. You fuck his face with your pussy, making his face a mess with your juices. He fucks you with his tongue, the invasion of his wet muscle inside of your hole makes your eyes roll back.

He continues to push his tongue further down your walls. He uses his thumb to draw fast circles on your clit. You cry out his name. You feel the heat build up in your lower stomach. Your pussy begins to spasm around his tongue.

You were so close.

Spencer pulls back to take a deep breath before he dives in again to have his meal. He goes even faster, his pace never faltering. He's desperate to make you cum on his face. The way you're pulling at his hair spurs him on.

“Baby,” he whines, the vibration of his sound sending jolts of pleasure down your body. He lets his fingers join in, his tongue focusing on your clit again as his digits begin to push into your walls. He finds your g-spot, and he never pulls out his fingers completely as he thrusts them back in to keep pressing at the sensitive spongy spot.

“I'm so close!” You cry out.

Spencer nips at your clit. The mixture of pain and pleasure is enough to push you over the edge. You begin to paint Spencer’s face with your juices, the lower half of his face covered in your arousal. Your pussy cums around his fingers and he keeps thrusting them throughout your orgasm.

He finally stops the delicious torture when you pull at his hair to get him away from your oversensitive pussy. Spencer wipes his face, before licking his lips to get remnants of your taste.

“Delicious and so pretty,” he whispered to you, looking straight into your eyes.

He looks hungry for more.

[diejager]

More crow! Reader please for 141. I just love the idea of an eldritch being choosing and staying deliberately with a pack of monsters below their caliber for the sake of fondness

Crow Pt. 2

Pairing: Monster COD x Eldritch horror!reader

Cw: cannibalism, human meat, weird Eldritch horror thing, hive mind, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 3.7k Note: I wrote this over a few months, and I haven’t proofread it so a few parts might not connect.

With the knowledge they now held in their hands, they didn’t know how to react. You were, for all they knew, an ancient being, primordial even, and you were dangerous, much more than the unpredictability of König’s ire or the wildness of Ghost’s darkness. They didn’t know how to deal with the weight on their shoulder when your eyes landed on them, or how to react when they heard you speak to them with that low and raspy voice that you so rarely used. 

After that day in Russia, the saw you more often, rather than finding you at night around your murder of crows, in the darkness of your room or standing beside Price, they would find you in their rec room, sitting beside the open window while petting the body of a bird; you’d meet them in the gym, watching them train and sometimes join them; or you would occasionally sit beside them. You opened up to them, letting the men see what laid under your mask. Price encouraged them to reach out, to ask you questions and to quell their curiosity by speaking to you.

Soap and Gaz were the first to jump to the occasion, their wide eyes gleaming with innocent curiosity threatening to spill over the edge. In the privacy of their personal space, they swarmed you with enthusiasm, Gaz standing to your left and Soap to your right. Ghost was fortunate to be in the room that day, drinking tea from the table while Alejandro and Rudy shared the couch. König and Horangi were deployed off to some remote village to help another company detain their target, and Price was slaving off in his office signing off paperwork. 

While the two threw question after question at you, Soap being oblivious of his wagging tail and Gaz literally glowing with how much you spoke, the three men listened in, as interested in you as the two were. They learned a lot, their minds filled with everything they were given, clinging onto the sound of your voice, that soft rasp from under your mask.

When Soap, the ever-hungry pup he was, asked what you ate, a question that clouded everyone’s mind. They never saw you eat nor had they seen you at the mess hall. Your answer was soft and blunt, empty of fear and hesitance.

“Meat, human.”

You weren’t so different from Ghost and König after all, consuming humans as your means of subsistence. Yet none of them had ever caught a whiff of human blood or meat from your scent, only the strange and sterile musk from your body. Perhaps that explained why you sometimes went dark during deployments, Price only sent you out alone, believing you invulnerable (you somewhat were, old and powerful), you closed off all and any signal to gorge on human flesh. 

What did your mouth look like? Could your mouth open up like those alien-like creatures, where your lower jaw was separated in the middle, breaking open into a terrifying maw filled with rows of teeth? Or were you more human looking, with a small mouth like theirs and sharp teeth like the shifters of their TF? It was a nagging thought that one would have to ask one day, or see if they were fortunate enough to catch you eating. 

Gaz was mostly interested about the birds that swarmed you, the hundreds of corvid that followed you whether it knew you or not, from country to country you always had a feathery companion by your side. Mostly crows and ravens, the black feathers glistening under the light and squawking at him, a hybrid of the same genus as it. 

“I can feel and see through their eyes.”

It was similar to a hive mind, a connection between you and every bird from the same family as crows. You closed your eyes and had the magpie in your hand fly around, its eye moving from one hybrid to the other with an intelligent gleam, a dark and monstrous haze that came from you. You were looking at them from the magpie’s dark orbs. It landed on Gazwho - with a joyful grin - brushed its luscious feathers. You could reach out to corvidae birds, seeking help from them through their sight and ears, using their senses to navigate the world. 

“I can see, hear and feel every bird,” you drawled, hand reaching out of the window for a landing rook. “I feel them as much as they feel me.”

“An extension of ye, aye?”

“An extension of my being.”

Alejandro and Rudy would sometimes chime in, throwing a question from their seat, mostly about your hobbies and preferences. What did you do when you were free? You just sat outside, admiring the weather with a few cooing birds being fed from the seeds in your hands, little round pebbles that you offered from your palm. You also liked reading, dabbing into human and hybrid literature in an attempt to familiarise yourself with their culture and behaviours or watching people conduct themselves through the eyes of your little companions. 

That’s how you came to join the army, the odd behaviour and unusual attitude of most soldiers were excused by their harrowing experience and near-death meetings. You could blend in easier while keeping a slight uncanniness to your being, not necessarily perfect or impossibly broken. You were knowledgeable of military tactics and human suspicion, you were - essentially - a being of madness and chaos, you could sense the swirling tornadoes of malicious suspicion and the violent storms that promised a chaotic end. 

“What did you do then?” This was Ghost’s first question, his slow, yet intrigued tone rising in tone as was his want to know you won over his contained curiosity. 

Faking your deaths every time and laying low for the next decade or so had assured your safety from human cults and pagenistic beliefs who wanted to believe in something greater and deranged. Under different names - none were your true name - you enrolled in the British military and other countries, rotating between the Navy, the Army and the Air Force. Your last enrolment was the British Air Force, under another alias for the past decade until the UN made it mandatory to accept any demands from hybrids and monsters to join their ranks.

When Soap asked how you met Price, you grew pensive, blinking at the question he shot. Then you stared at him, telling him that you couldn’t tell him that story without Price’s consent. You only mentioned him working under you before without divulging to the five men any more information. They’d have to bring it up with the dragon if they wanted to know anything. Gaz and Soap groaned, pouting and whining at the limit you put down on the amount of information they could get from you. 

Then they wanted to know if you dreamed, if Eldritch creatures dreamed in their slumber. If you did, would your dreams be stalked by madness? That dark and dangerous madness that loomed over any person. A creation of human and hybrid minds when they couldn’t understand anything, when reality was outside of their reach. Or, if you did, would they be filled with memories? As often as people re-lived their memories in their sleep, replaying the what ifs that the mind concocted during stressful moments in their lives.

You shook your head, you could neither dream, nor need sleep. Although it wasn’t a need like mortal beings, you enjoyed sleeping from time to time, on days where the night seemed to stretch so far into time that it seemed unending from your seat on the roof. When you slept, you confessed to them that you couldn’t see, feel or ear, it was an endless plane of darkness who reached into the farthest point of your long life, the watery floor reflected back your human - or sometimes monstrous - appearance and the place would be eerily silent except for the echoing drip from an unknown source; perhaps the ticking seconds of your eternity. 

They’d all seen the good and bad in humanity, the horrors that greed and corruption could lead to, but they had less than half a century of experience while you had a millennia of living. Rather than seeing the disgust of their current time, you’d seen the world rise as fast as it crumbled, burned to ash by greed, corruption and selfishness. How could you even stand living around humans? How could you stay so patient towards humans? How could you work and dedicate your last century to them?

“It was easier,” you hummed, staring off at the setting sun, the warm caress of the sun smoothing the darkness in your eyes. “Time changed, it made humans less susceptible to hysteria and superstition. Eating, hunting and catching became harder, scientific advancement made them less… naive, so I adapted. Inherently, I am a creation of humanity’s fear of death and madness. I cannot die without the other disappearing.”

Soap managed to coax you into joining them, sitting between him and Horangi while Ghost and König sparred, their strength and prowess usually better suited to fight something of similar capabilities. Ghost was deadly if he let himself go too far, his vitriol taking away his ability to see and think clearly, making his powers lash out. It could eat and corrode, break things down to the bones without consuming anything, it felt like a curse at times and a blessing at others. It was a reason why he kept himself covered, from letting a piece of himself wander too far, to let himself grow too comfortable that he might suddenly crack and hurt the people he cared for. 

Ghost guessed it was the same for König, married to his sniper veil - or a big t-shirt at times - and his form-covering clothes, it stopped him from doing something irreparable. He had anxiety, a product of his life-long social reclusivenessfrom bullying. Maybe he would’ve turned worse if his mother hadn’t been so supportive of him, a caring and loving figure in his life when his father was never in the picture. König was a lumbering beast in humans clothes, but an impulsive and instinctual monster when shifted, following his needs and instincts. 

Rare monsters on their own, they spared together only, afraid of accidentally hurting one of theirs. You’d seen them fight, the bloodlust-leading adrenaline that coursed through their bodies while they terre through the field, not only these two but the whole Task Force, beasts within beasts. The power, the accuracy, the teamwork and the trust between them was mesmerising, even to you, a creature who lived to seam discord into the world; it was breathtaking. 

You watched them exchange blows, König pouncing on Ghost, pressing his whole weight on the block the wraith had built up against him. König was tall and broad, but Ghost was broader, his body in a shape of undying and unchanging physique, at its peak with human strength. He could withstand the force of König’s hits, blocking them with his forearms and palms, and returning them with a hit when he broke the Austrian’s stand. 

Horangi was counting their matches, voicing the scores when one of them tapped three times, forfeiting the match. Soap piped up left, right and centre, a flurry of words in Scottish that others would usually ignore or not understand, but with you, he liked going off in Scott. Thank the lucky star you understood him, he practically beamed the day he swore at the sky with jargons that everyone but you asked for a translation. 

It was comfortable, Soap spoke enough for the three of you, Horangi was purring softly beside you and you were simply taking everything in, finding comfort between two of your teammates. You nod and shake your head at most questions, words slipping through your lips on rare occasions where Soap asked something that simple motions couldn’t answer. You liked listening to them talk, it filled the silence you were used to with joyful laughter. You were content with simply listening without talking, yet Soap was an enthusiastic wolf, eyes narrowing with a sly gleam.

“Ye spar, Crow?”

You shook your head, gazing at him from the corner of your eyes, blinking owlishly. You had your reservations as well, more so for the safety of others than yours. Granted, you had a milenia to learn and draw a limit for yourself, to restrain your powers to a tenth of your strength to protect those you grew to care about.

“Aw, why naw?”

“Too dangerous, Soap.”

That caught Horangi’s attention, his eyes and ears straying from the spar to listen to your conversation, not that it bothered you. 

“Can’t be that bad, can it?”

At this point, König and Ghost were brought out of their haze, shoulders raising and skin coated in a sheen of sweat, they breathed heavily as they strained an ear to Soap’s encouragement. Limbs untangling from one another, they leaned on the flexible cords of the ring, amused eyes staring at you three. 

“It can be.”

“Why not give it a shot, yeah?” Ghost piped up, head tilted with his nose pointing up, an amusingly smug grin stretching his scarred lips.

“If not Soap, Ghost or I could fight you, nh?” König continued, who - unlike Ghost - had his head down, blinking lazily at you with squinted eyes, a smile hidden under the shirt he used as a veil.

You were hesitant, staring at them while you mulled over your choices: to either fold and appease their curiosity or to hold strong and reject the offer. But where was the fun in that? They looked giddy and excited, like pups finding out that they were getting treats. Soap was riddled with enthusiasm, leg jumping as fast as his wagging tail, the repetitive soft thuds from his tail hitting against the bench showed how much he expected you to say yes, how much he wanted to see you fight one of theirs. 

You truly wanted to decline, to tell them that you wouldn’t want to accidentally hurt them, knowing that your restraint was practised with ease, but they didn’t know that. You truly did, but with Horangi’s swaying and thrilled tail, König’swide and happy eyes, and Ghost’s soft rumble, groundingly affirmative, adding to Soap’s eagerness, you found it difficult to brush off by their wishes. 

Soap burst with joy when you nodded, pushing himself and Horangi closer to the ring. You jumped over the big cables and into the ring as Ghost moved out, it seemed that the two decided the order even before you agreed. You shrugged off your jacket, you tight shirt riding up your stomach, the soft fabric the same shade as your dark blue jacket. Hanging it on a pole, you turned to face a thrilled König, his body vibrating as he peered down at you. 

It was almost ridiculous how different you were to him. You were neither board nor tall as König and Ghost, you weren’t insanely big and buff like any of them either. You were normal, an average person surrounded with big hybrids. You wouldn’t fault anyone for believing that you were the weakest out of the bunch, seemingly too small and human like to be the strongest, but they knew, most monsters and hybrids had this instinctual fear - ingrained into them for as long as they existed - for monsters that looked too human. 

Horangi was once again nominated as the referee, he repeated the rules, anything went as long as the opposite party’s aware of the three taps for yielding. Hybrids were tougher and more resilient than human bodies, so most restrictions put in place for humans were lifted in hybrid spars, especially in this Task Force. 

At the end of the count, König charged you, his big body pouncing on your smaller and nimbler one. You moved and bowed when he lunged, feet dancing around his loud stomps. He growled, jabbing at you with his right hand and lunging with a left hook when you blocked his hit with your forearm. It was a back and forth motion, he took the offensive position while you stayed on the defensive, taking hits leg and right. After a right hook, you expected a jab, but Königbowed down and kicked out his leg, aiming at sweeping you off your feet. It was a great change in tactic, surprising you with his quick movement. 

You kicked up, hands firmly placed on his shoulder as you flipped over him. Soap whooped at your acrobatic move, moving and jumping around like a dancer - a gymnastic chorus - while König rushed frenziedly, strong hits and wide kicks, his body giving him a wider range than your shorter one. König growled, twisting in a crouch to tackle you down, his body was a weapon by itself. You landed with a grunt, wrapping your legs around him, one under his arm and the other around his neck. His hand latched to the arm you used to guard your throat while wrestling with his other one. 

He cackled in your guard, voice rumbling out his chest as you choked him, lean legs hooking by the ankle to hold his chest down. His legs kicked, kneeling down uncomfortably, choking down a loud snarl. König tried breaking your hold, but you held strongly, using your monstrous strength to keep him down. He tapped your thigh, three soft taps that made you loosen your lock. König rose first, panting loudly with a satisfied purr as he sat, arched forward. Standing before him, you waved your hand to him, giving him help to stand on his feet. 

Ghost had already joined you when you pulled König up, patting the giant’s back as he chuckled lowly, eyes squinted in amazement. 

“Yer awright, König?” Soap asked, still standing beside a clapping Horangi, both tails moving excitedly. 

“Yes, I’m all right.”

Unlike König, you were as winded or tired as he was, your metabolism working slowly and efficiently to survive for so long. It was a good show of power for König, to see what fought on his side rather than against him, but he doubted that you were the only Eldritch being working in the forefront, killing, consuming and hide in plain sight of other human and hybrids. 

“That was Brazilian Jiu-jitsus, wasn’t it,” it was more of an affirmation than a question, Horangi knew well the technique you used against König. 

He’d mentioned it in passing within the few drunken nights where you joined them at the bar, spewing his history of gambling on boxer in the ring, betting who would win for a few pennies to fill his pockets. You rarely used your hive mind on them i their leisure time, respecting their need for privacy and secrecy when you were away —they’d won your trust after a few Ops and proud and boisterous praises from Price. You shook away any lingering thoughts as you watched Ghost slip under the highest cord, entering the ring with tight fists and a mean stare, determined to get you once before he forfeited. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad that Soap forced you to watch with both him and Horangi, you - despite your tendency for your quiet corner and solace in darkness - enjoyed this team activity. 

You were regretting letting Gaz and Rudy pull you to the Mess Hall, insisting that you’d be left alone in their corner of the cafeteria. People rarely engaged them when they all sat together, whispers of them being too menacing, too dangerous, or too scary for human minds. You weren’t fond of cold and stored meat, the cold destroying any semblance of freshness that recently killed meat brought. It tasted stagnant, blank of any fulfilling aspect your kills had : from the lack of warm blood still leaking from every veins and arteries, to the suppleness of the flesh, it’s soft and flexible texture cutting easily under your teeth. 

You nearly gagged at the first whiff of it, locked under expectant eyes of both your teammates and curious eyes of others who’ve never seen you step a foot in the room. Your first bite was horrendous, your mouth washed with the revolting flavour of cold and stale meat. It was levels under your usual meal —not that you needed to eat, you’d recently eaten a few days ago on a shorter run in Argentina, but where was the harm in tasting military-provided meat when König and Ghost ate it without a second thought. Or so you thought, they’d simply gone numb, not having the luxury to be picky with the taste of their meal. Unlike you, they hadn’t spent centuries hunting for themselves, born into a restrictive world when monsters and creatures ran wild but hidden. 

But you still hunted, it was a ritual that even the world’s government couldn’t stop you, no one would fight one of the personalisation of chaos and madness, many having decided to abide by your word simply out of fear while very few respected your history and culture. 

“How is it?” Alejandro finally join your table, sweat still glistening from his brows as he cut into his steak with gentle and skillful slices.

“Stale,” you blinked, tongue lolling out of your mouth to lick the red stains on your face, long and serpentine, another aspect of your more reptilian body.

They snickered, knowing full well how repulsive it was, sharing their little quips and jabs about the quality of food everyone on base got. A few lines about the chefs being lazy, others of them being awful and some about them being talentless, followed by shared laughter around you, shaking shoulders and bright smiles before the table exploded in chatter, guilefully ignoring the world outside the safety of their bubble. 

Maybe… just maybe sitting - you’d never lay a single finger on these provided meals - with them when they ate would lighten up your world slightly, bring some flavourful warmth if it made them happy that you joined them. You refrained from saying anything, simply nodding at them and giving a small smile that seemed to brighten up their faces, restraining your interaction to a few gesture to stop yourself from feeling overwhelmed with the suddenness of emotions. Th last one who’d stirred your hearts so vividly was years ago, watching over a still learning John Price.

Taglist: @warenai @capricorn-anon @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @haven-1307 @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @mxblobby @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce

[musouie]

੭ simon loves to play cat-and-mouse with the lovely little publican | suggestive language, 1.0k wc, angst if you squint, fem!reader

It’s at a dingy hole-in-the-wall pub where Simon found he spent most his time. In a dodgy part of the city, one that perpetually smelled of tobacco and car-exhaust; nestled between a boarded-up shopfront and a seedy hotel that any out-of-towner wouldn’t give a second glance.

There was no sign, no windows — just a lone, flickering porchlight glowing above a decrepit old door, looking so worn and dilapidated that it could fall off its hinges at any moment. It all seemed more like the cover to a bando than an actual pub with scarcely decent ale, but he minded that little.

It meant not too many people frequented it — that he saw the same lot everyday — faces so familiar they blurred and meshed together most nights —

— which was just the way that Simon liked it. Inconspicuous. Subdued.

No one here batted an eye at him, the boulder at the end of the bar, who nursed his drink between a huge paw and sat by his lonesome. Who would? No one here was quite the saint. Otherwise, they’d have long left, made for the hills when they heard half the conversations that went on:

Of rogue smuggling. Gun trades. Dirty deals. Attempted hits.

It was only a plus, Simon mused solemnly, eyes lidded and trained on the bird before him, that you were here. The pretty little publican, as sweet as a fig in the midst of summer, plump and dangling from the vine.

(He wanted to sink his teeth into you, peel your flesh back, savour you to your core.)

Your hands were nimble, fingers rolling around bottles and skimming against ice as you poured a golden light ale into a chipped, glass mug. A flick of your hand and a fizz bloomed atop the drink, foam ebbing at the sides, flirting with the rim before settling. A fair pour, he reckoned, no ounce wasted. It was one of your virtues, really. An eye for a measure and a patient pour.

Simon caught you in his periphery, saw your head was tilted to the side and his lips pursed. Had you said something?

He cocked his brows up at you, inquisitive, glancing away from his drink. (It was only you he’d do this for. A sacrifice of the greatest kind, he’d wager.)

“Havin’ a night?” you hummed, leaning against the counter. You were close enough that he could see down your shirt, your dainty, little breasts outlined with the help of your nude brasserie.

No, yes.

Maybe. Could you see the weariness in his eyes? The lilt of the bags underneath them? His posture was slouched, but with an undercurrent of tenseness, the type of rigidity that clung until it was instinct — ran clear down to the sinew, blood…marrow.

You were perceptive. Maybe a bit too much so.

What could you glean from him now?

He shifted in his seat, drumming his thick, misshapen knuckles against the countertop. “Wha’ would make you say tha’, dove?” Simon hummed, low and sonorous.

A pause. Fingertips danced on the glass bar top, tapping in a cadence that suggested you were deep in thought.

“You haven’t flirted with me all night.”

He smiled behind his mask, crow’s feet crinkling as his mouth twisted peculiarly, mirth so foreign his lips couldn’t even lift without a fight.

“Tha’ makes it seem like all I think about is fuckin’ you.”

He ignored how his chest thrummed, pulsated, rumbled, alive and aflame. (A rare occurrence, a rare fusion.)

“Don’t you?” You glanced over, furtive — shy almost, if it weren’t for the coy little smile across your lips. Smug, self-satisfied, beguiling, bewitching; your mouth, your mouth, your mouth.

“May be a lad, but I think ‘bout other things.”

(The odious squelch of blood. Explosions that shook his ribcage and rattled his teeth — strained his maw. Gristle and flesh and innards and brimstone, the stench of them rife when they were raw and unburnt, prodding at his feet.)

“Oh, really?” You leaned further, breasts pressed against the lip of the counter and met his hooded eyes with your sceptical ones. Curiosity danced in your irises, untamed and bursting at the seams. “Like what?”

His gaze briefly flitted down to your cleavage, the supple skin of your breasts plumped between your arms, rising and falling with the jagged rhythm of your breaths. “Brews, birds,” — this, punctuated with a shrug of his broad shoulders — “bike engines. Bein’ of good company.”

“Bloke like you? Company?”

“‘m sure there’s good blokes even in the bowels of hell,” Simon huffs, lightly chagrined.

“Yeah? Like who?”

“Napoleon,” he provided with a crude grin, amused and impious. “Lucky fuck could nab a cunt like Josephine.”

“A dead cunt’s nuthin’, yeah?” Simon snorted; it’s low and gruff, but his eyes gleamed — danced with humour and the unbridled joy of provocation, dark and bottomless, obsidian pits that pulled and pulled and pulled, further and further. “Only you would think he’s good, bein’ a military bloke like yourself.”

Simon smirked, loosened his grip about his glass. “You ask me wha’s wrong just to insult me, dove?”

“But you offer yourself up so willingly, Si.”

He tried not to dwell on how sweet his name sounded tumbling off your tongue, like honey. Sugary sweet nectar that caused a swell in his veins. “Bugger off, bird.” Simon thumbed the edge of his glass. “Shitty service and rude staff. Remind me why I keep comin’ back?”

It was the little quirk of your lips that got him every time.

“‘Cos you love the ale.”

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐢𝐞 © 2024 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. it is prohibited to reproduce, distribute, or transmit my works in any form or by any means! ﾉ masterlist

[oonajaeadira]

I'll Leave a Light On For You

Fandom: Bloodsucking Bastards / Max Phillips

Pairing: Max Phillips x f!reader

Reader: Adult female. No other physical descriptors; no use of y/n. (There is a little description, but it’s still you. Believe me, it will make sense. We’re dealing with the supernatural here.)

Rating: T. 

Warnings: Angst. Character death. Allusions to the atrocities of war and its lasting effects. Max is a vampire. Traumatic soul memory. Me assuming I know anything about French culture of the 1930s.

Summary: Max has reservations when it comes to love, and for very good reasons.

A/N: This is my entry for the @pedrostories Secret Santa event. While I played one selfish card in my hand and wrote something of a companion to Light Only Shows You Where the Shadows Are, this can still be read as a standalone.

To my giftee, the amazing and wonderful @artemiseamoon : First of all, I admire you so much and I was really nervous to write for you. But I looked among your generous prompt choices (omgs thank you for so many good choices) and was surprised to find Max as an option. I wasn’t going to choose him at first but then my eye caught “past lives” and something in me zinged. Soul mates, angsty romance, second chance at love… and I’ve been itching to write an angsty Max. I know you are a fan of soft and whump, so all those elements had a party in my heart and here we are. I really hope you’re having a nice holiday and a good time off. Happy Secret Santa, Arte. <3

What we’ve been told is that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes.

That’s almost correct.

The truth is…it’s not just your current life.

It’s all of them.

Max hardly remembers the fear, the pain, the cold of his draining. Even though he knew what was coming, bought into the cult, the human instinct of fight or flight is hard to dismiss no matter how well they’ve been prepped and it was to be expected. But it was a flash in the pan and once he came around to the undead side of things, those pesky human responses were all quickly forgotten.

For a time. Until he saw your light and–

Anyway. Human instincts. Pffft. Adorable. Trading the constant possibility of fear for that of glee, of rapture, of delight? Human instincts are trash. Not to mention their senses, poor suckers. The things they can’t see can’t hear can’t smell can’t taste? Tragic.

If only the feelings weren’t heightened too. It makes some things–some people–hard to ignore–

Feelings were something he could also have done without in his human life–the latest one anyway–and did whatever he could do to avoid.

It wasn’t until he died that he understood why.

As the life drained out of him and the delirium set in, there was a rushing sound, a pull through his soul like the drag of blood from his body, and he was laying, feeble, wailing, bloody and naked among the limbs of his mother.

But not the mother he so recently remembered, the one that showed her approval only when he provided her with some accomplishment worthy of crowing about to her society friends. No, this one was gentle, kind, held him and sang to him, lived her life for him until she died of fever when he was only five years old.

Max saw it all, from within himself and without, remembered the pull of his heart and watched the tears fall down his little face as they nailed his mother’s body in a pine box and put it in a hole at the top of a hill under a tree.

He always imagined he heard her singing to him in the grasses after that.

The world welcomed a new century, and not long afterward, he was a young man, looking to take over his father’s wine fields. But the chance was stolen when an archduke was shot. Max–Pierre, as he was called then–and all of the close friends and cousins he had were thrust into a great war. 

He was the only one to walk out of the fray. And when he came home, he found his father’s fields had been burned and that nothing remained.

That was a dark time. Ten years of looking back rather than looking forward. Ten years–it went by so fast–while he watched the world around him try to repair itself and find its footing again, not realizing that the roots of evil still grew beneath the soil.

He kept his head down and his hands working wherever he could.

But then he met a woman.

And she was Pierre’s life. Max’s life. Before he was Max.

It happened in the winter, just before Noël. And her name was Yaëlle.

Max remembered that before she even told him as he watched the story of this strange old life.

Yaëlle. It means “beautiful one.”

“It also means ‘goat,’” she’d said. “That seems more fitting.” She never thought of herself pretty, and perhaps she wasn’t fashionable and maybe she was stronger than she was dainty, with a weak chin and curly dark hair she couldn’t control. But the light in her eyes when she laughed–and what a laugh, like a little bird–the sway of her hips and the confidence in her carriage, her air of easy care and comfort caught his heart like a surly bear in the prettiest trap.

She’d simply been passing through the marché de Noēl, looking but not stopping, taking the kerchief off her head so the snow could land in her curls, when a child approached her selling buns in the shape of a cross and she gave the child a franc before sitting down at the statue of some cardinal or other in the center of the square.

She could have sat on any of the other benches, but she chose to plonk down next to Max. Next to Pierre.

“You want this?” she asked, offering the bun. “Not really my thing.”

How could she have known he was hungry? That he was lonely? That he was facing the market rather than the river because he was trying not to succumb to his inclinations, a pull to walk out onto the thin ice and let himself be taken by the stream?

He was instantly entranced by her. He felt himself smiling. Something shifted within. A destiny.

“You sure?” he asked.

She peered at him, scrutinized his whole self like she could see a glow around him and was looking for its source.

She found it in his eyes.

“Absolutely. I already ate three hand pies today. The last thing I need is more bread.”

He laughed for the first time in a long while. They talked. He ate.

On Christmas Eve when everyone was at the evening’s mass, she was there again, sitting alone, and this time it was he who had hot food and came to join her on the bench while the night was silent and cold and the stars were twinkling.

It was then that he learned why she was not in church–her folk did not observe Noēl. And she learned why he was not in church–he had lost his faith, that everyone he had ever loved was taken and there were not enough candles in the sanctuary to light for all of them.

“What if I lit one?” she’d asked.

“Who would you light it for?”

“For you. So you don’t have to sit in the dark.” When he was only silent, she said, “You fought in the Great War, didn’t you.” And when he looked away–when he shut her out–she continued. “My husband fought in that war. And he never could find his heart again. He said he loved me, but I don’t think he ever really did, not all the way. But I loved him all the way and when he put an end to his own life I thought I would have to do it too. Instead, I sat in the dark for a long time. It’s something I can see in a person. I can see you’re sitting in the dark.”

They stayed quiet for a time on the bench under the statue of the cardinal and when the church bells started to toll–signaling the magic of the empty square would soon be disrupted by the mass emptying into its streets–she stood and pulled her coat around her.

“My home is down that street, a little one with a red roof. It’s warm and I’ve plenty of hand pies--I made too many. I’ll leave a candle in the window until I’m asleep. You’re always welcome there, Max.”

And then she smiled and turned down the avenue where she’d pointed.

He blinked. Just before she reached the edge of the square he called out, “My name isn’t Max. It’s Pierre.”

She turned and gave a sly wink. “Good to know. I think once you get a belly full of my pies, you’ll let me call you whatever I want.”

He only sat long enough to watch the churchgoers file out of the holy service, many of them with people they loved, humming, happy, cheeks glowing in that way when one steps into a fresh cold world after being an hour or two soaking in the warmth. And once the square was empty again, he stood, gave only a fleeting look to the river, and then walked resolutely down Yaëlle’s street.

A little house with a red roof and a candle in the window.

He stayed for supper and came back many nights after.

And then one night he never left.

Max recalled the rest of that life with a lurking despair. While he couldn’t quite remember how it went, something in him carried it through to the life he’d just left…and he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was yet.

A few years of joy, of the greatest love he’d felt since his childhood. Like the mother he’d lost, another woman who was gentle, kind, held him and sang to him, lived her life for him until she couldn’t anymore.

They never celebrated Noël as the others did, but in their own way. For a handful of years they would go sit on the bench in the square and hand out pies to their neighbors and anyone who came to join them where they sat. They would listen to the singing in the church and watch the stars scintillate overhead. They would leave their shoes by the fireplace and wake up to find gifts they’d bought for each other with the little francs that they had. And they would never talk about what they would do in the future, because they knew it would be this and that’s all they aspired to and it would be a happy life.

And Max watched Pierre forget about the rot that still ran its roots through the soil.

And one day soldiers came to town when he was out in the fields and they took Yaëlle and some of the other dark-haired, joyful, bird-laughing folk about town and murdered them. By the time he returned for the evening, the soldiers had gone and left him nothing but a ravaged house and a body to bury.

There’s nothing he could have done, the mourning neighbors told him, the tide was rising. If he had fought them, they would have shot him too.

Pierre said that it would have been better that way.

Pierre stopped working in the fields when he started to hear his mother’s voice singing among the grasses again…now joined by Yaëlle’s sweet alto.

He had one more Noël in that life. He drank as much as he could take without falling over and stumbled out to sit on the bench in the square, weeping once the churchgoers had gone. He didn’t say a word, but Max remembered what Pierre was thinking then.

Love hurts too much. It is always taken. It’s not worth the trouble.

And then Pierre fell asleep on that bench and never woke up again.

There wasn’t much time between that first life and this one, maybe a few decades in the dark. Just long enough for a voice to reach him in the void–a voice he knew well and loved with his whole heart for only a short time–to say,

“That was a good first try, Max. Let’s give it another go, okay? Another place, another time, when it’s not so hard. I’ll leave a light on for you.”

____

Max’s life had been shorter this time. But he’d learned a thing or two and kept love at arm’s length. Sex was good and companionship was fine, but he wouldn’t invest in anything that could drain him in an instant and leave him destitute. 

Now power, that could fill the void. 

So when fortune smiled and he was given the choice, he swallowed hard and put his neck to the teeth, traded in his humanity for power that nobody could take away from him…and a heart that had no need for warmth.

He was wrong about that last point though.

And he didn’t even know it until he saw something that humans couldn’t see.

Heard something they couldn’t hear, a long ago and far away voice singing.

Smelled you on the wind.

Followed it to you–a woman, just another human woman–walking out of a bar along some street in the city.

And he saw a light glowing from within you.

You wore another face, another body, but all he saw was you.

Yaëlle.

Beautiful one.

He followed you that night, and several nights after. He was the reason that car swerved before it hit you, the reason you weren’t approached by that seedy guy at the club. He was the reason you kept looking behind you now and then and when you finally saw him–having dinner at the same restaurant, totally by coincidence, you on a friendly outing, him trying to charm a client into a contract���it broke his heart that you did not know him instantly.

He found he was surprised that he still had a heart to break. He’d been so fucking careful.

Max almost gave into the anger, the disappointment. Replayed the pathetic way Pierre let himself be brought down and tried to remind himself not to let himself be broken again.

But then he heard your voice in a way only those who walk in death can.

Let’s give it another go. I’ll leave a light on for you.

____

Heightened feeling is the one drawback of all this power. It’s one thing to latch onto a target, to fixate on some middle manager or accountant or IT specialist until there’s a good time to finally strike. That is an itch that can be satisfied with a well-timed, fear-seasoned, adrenaline-soaked kill.

But love sinks its fangs in and doesn’t let go. It sucks at something that can’t be drained, has no end, can never get enough. It can drive an immortal--a never-ending being of heightened existence--to madness.

There will come a day in the future when you’ll trust him for no good reason, when you’ll understand the monster he is and whisper under your breath against your better judgment, when you’ll invite him in. For dinner.

And he’ll come around again and again.

And then one day, he’ll stay.

And you’ll yawn ask him on the edge of sleep, “Why me? Of all these humans that you could easily enthrall and have without question, why choose this?”

Max will look at you in the darkness and see nothing but your light.

You won’t understand when he puts on a show of an irritated sigh and tells you, “You gave me another chance, sweetmeats,” but you’ll doze in his cold arms, absolutely confident as he is that nothing will ever hurt you again. Including himself.

And that night he’ll stay until you wake.

He won’t have you sit in the darkness alone.

_____

MASTERLIST

CHARACTER MASTERLIST

[pregnant-piggy]

The Trap

part one of THWARTED

Six of Crows x fem!reader

word count: 3.2k

summary: Someone keeps outsmarting Kaz Brekker, snatching his jobs right from under his nose, and he will not sit idly by and watch it happen. He sets a trap, but what he finds almost seems like too much trouble for its worth.

warnings: being knocked out, light panic, reader has killed someone (this series deals with quite a lot so let me know if i’ve missed anything!)

The doors of the Slat slammed open, but the anger was sizzling in Kaz’ ears and he didn’t even hear it. His leg was throbbing and he was leaning on his cane more than he liked but there was no time to dwell on it. There were bigger issues that needed to be taken care of. 

His eyes found the lanky sharpshooter he was looking for easily. “Jesper. Upstairs. Now.” 

Maybe Jesper was in the mood to obey or maybe he heard the barely contained anger behind Kaz’ voice, but he got up and followed without a word. 

Kaz limped up the three flights of stairs, his body protesting against every move. He’d barely slept in three nights while preparing for this job. He had taken care of everything—the plan had been faultless. And yet… 

Up in his office, Inej was already waiting, leaning against the wall. She shared a glance with Kaz, as if asking if she should stay. He gave a single nod. 

“Not that I don’t appreciate you calling me up here,” Jesper said as he stepped inside, “but I’m guessing it’s not to have a nice cup of tea?” 

Kaz sank down in his desk-chair. An almost imperceptible sigh slipped from his lips as he stretched his leg out and he caught Inej sending him a worried glance from the side but ignored her. This wasn’t the time for pity. 

“It happened again.” 

The vault had been empty. Nothing. Not even a trace of someone else having been there, but all that Kaz had wanted had been gone. 

Jesper whistled through his teeth. “What’s that now? The third time?” 

“How?” Inej asked. 

Kaz folded his hand together. That was the thing—he didn’t know how. Someone had been thwarting his plans and he could not for the life of him figure out how they did it. Or why. Why they only picked some of the hardest jobs while there were easier and more profitable undertakings they could have chosen. 

There was a pattern, Kaz was sure, but clouded by his vexation he couldn’t see it. The gambling den on East Stave. The store in the Exchange. The vault in the councilman’s office. Something was connecting those three workings but he didn’t know what. 

“We have to take different measures,” he said, ignoring Inej’ question. “Somehow, someone is aware of our plans and keeps beating us to them.” 

Jesper frowned. “Any idea who? That’d make shooting them a little easier.” 

“No one will be shooting anyone.” But at Jesper’s pout Kaz added, “Yet.” 

Hands already resting on his guns, Jesper flashed a smile. Then he turned grave. “Do you think it’s Rollins?” 

Kaz bit back the red haze of anger. “No,” he said. “No one would do this so silently unless they had something to hide. If Rollins had done this, the whole Barrel would’ve known. Besides, the Exchange job would be stealing from his own pocket. A whole lot of trouble for nothing.” 

“He’s too lazy for that,” Inej added. 

“So who then?” Jesper asked. 

“Yes, who then?” Kaz pulled out a map and let his finger wander down the streets of Ketterdam. “That’s what we’ll find out.” 

No one outsmarted the Bastard of Barrel, and they sure as hell wouldn’t attempt it from the shadows. If whoever was hindering him didn’t want to show their face, he’d put the spotlight on them himself. 

Inej and Jesper shared a glance. 

“Scheming face?” 

Inej nodded, stepping closer to the desk. “Most definitely.” 

Kaz gave his bad leg a stretch and rolled his shoulders. There’d be time to rest later. “Let’s set a trap, shall we?” 

-o-o-o-o-o-

You hid your face in the collar of your coat as a group of workers passed you. One of the men laughed loudly and you shrunk together even more, pulling your hat closer over your face. The men walked past you without taking notice, but you didn’t dare to breathe out until you’d turned the corner.

Between the constant stadwatch patrols and the dark, solid storehouses, the Warehouse District wasn’t exactly one of your favourite parts of the city. That it was the best secured place in Ketterdam also didn’t work in its favour. Not when you were there to steal something. 

At exactly eleven bells you turned into the street that served your destination. You glanced around, but there was only silent nighttime around you, and took your hat off. Keeping your hands in your pockets, feeling the lockpicks in one hand and the small handgun in the other, you walked until you reached the door under the third street light. 

Everything had almost been ridiculously easy. The man that had boasted about the cheque he’d gotten from his latest shipment had almost been too loud. When you’d checked whether the shipment was real it had almost gone too smoothly. And the street was almost too empty, too silent, too dark. 

But you needed the money and with the way you figured the man had earned it, it wouldn’t be too much of a loss if he never got to spend it. Honest work didn’t exist in Ketterdam and you really did not want to go back to living on the street. 

At the door, you dropped to your knees and let the lockpicks slip into your hands. If anyone were to walk by you could pretend the ties of your shoes had come loose, but the lock clicked before you’d seen anyone. After one last glance at the dark street, you slipped inside. 

The storehouse was no different from any of the other ones in the Warehouse District. You entered an entrance hall that was shielded from the vast space of the warehouse by wooden panels. On your left there was a table and some benches for the workers and in the darkness you could make out a discarded coat and a stack of newspapers. 

The silence of the warehouse gave you chills, but you shook them off. You were here for a simple thing and you’d be out quickly. It was easy, just like stealing those authenticity papers on the jurda shipment at the Exchange had been. 

But all sense of confidence left you as you saw the faint light coming from the office up in the corner of the storehouse. In a single move you had pulled the gun from your pocket and felt the dagger slip from your sleeve to your palm. 

You should turn around and leave—that was the sensible thing. But when had you ever been sensible?

Slowly you walked through the stockpiles, keeping your footsteps as soundless as possible. You could hear nothing, no voices, no movement, but the light shouldn’t be burning. The most fortuitous explanation would be that someone had left it on, but you’d learned the hard way that luck was only for those who could afford it. And, considering you were here to steal money, you clearly weren’t one of those.

At the bottom of the stairwell up to the office you halted and listened. There still was no sound. You crept up the stairs, glancing over your shoulder once you were halfway. From up there you could see the entire hall of the storehouse, but it was empty. 

You went on and at the top, you nudged open the door with your elbow, keeping both the gun and knife ready in your hands. The door opened with a squeak. 

There, on the desk in the middle of the office, stood a single lantern, illuminating the entire room. The rest was empty. With a relieved sigh, you stepped inside, lowering your weapons. 

“Wrong choice, darling.” 

The door closed. 

You spun around. 

There was a flash of silver before something hard hit your head and you went down. 

-o-o-o-o-o-

It was a trap. 

Of course it was. You should have realised that, but you’d been on a winning streak lately and you’d overestimated your own abilities. A little confidence had never hurt anyone, but this shouldn’t have happened. You couldn’t afford missteps. 

Your head hurt so much that you couldn’t open your eyes just yet. The pain spread from your left temple and it came in waves. 

Upon trying to move you found your wrist stuck in ropes and you tried not to panic. Apart from the pain in your head, you seemed unharmed and you tried to take relief from the fact that whoever had bound you at least hadn’t killed you. Yet. 

What if they had found you? Had they come for you like they had all those years ago?

Your breaths grew ragged and your chest felt like it was the part of your body bound with ropes. There was something acidic in the back of your throat, the sense burning behind your eyes. Your heart was pounding, sending the blood through your veins in wavering shocks. 

You needed to open your eyes. You needed to breathe. You needed to get loose. You needed out. 

Between your fits of panic you heard a door open and behind your eyelids you noticed the faint hue of light. In a reflex you opened your eyes and then quickly turned your head away. 

The room you were in was dark, but in the weak light you could see a stone floor and heaps of what you presumed was cotton. You told yourself to breathe. 

One step at a time. Eyes, breath, wrists. 

Once you had gathered your breath, your panic stilled. Instead, resolve filled you. You had seen worse situations, had lived through more danger—you could get out of this. And perhaps, you thought as you slightly lifted your gaze and caught two pairs of feet and the tip of a cane, there was even something to gain. 

It was time people paid their debts.

Eyes, breath, wrists. You took one final deep breath and looked up. The pain in your head was distracting but you bit it back. There was no time for weakness. As soon as your eyes landed on the person standing in front of you, you grinned. 

“Well, well, well. Kaz Brekker, as I live and breathe. To what do I owe the pleasure of being kidnapped by the Barrel’s bastard?” 

Kaz Brekker didn’t move a muscle as he stared at you. “Councilman Frederiksen recently lost his opal-inlaid family crest. It has disappeared from his vault, along with documents proclaiming his investment in the business of another esteemed councilman. Slootmaekers, I believe his name is.” He blinked. “Whoever has stolen the crest seems to have disappeared with it. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?” 

Brekker’s dark glare was piercing and you felt a shiver run down your spine. Out of all people that could have come for you, he was the last one you’d expected. But it did bring forth a fortunate opportunity. 

Maybe luck hadn’t given up on you after all.

“I’m afraid not.” 

“No, of course not. Let me try again. Maybe this will ring a bell: A week ago, a shipment of jurda came in from Novyi Zem. Quality stuff, rumoured to have been handpicked and to last longer than any other kind on the market right now.” 

You pursed your lips. “Sounds like a pricey investment.” 

“It was one. You can imagine the investor’s fury when he found out someone had stolen the papers declaring the jurda’s authenticity. Without those, not only did the jurda lose its value, so did the investor his credibility. Almost as if the thief had wanted that to happen. You do not, by any chance, know something of it, do you?” 

“Can’t say I do. But it sounds like an impressive job.” 

“I must admit that it was.” He flexed his gloved fingers on the head of his cane and you saw he was narrowing the edge of his composure. “Allow me to try one more time. Mr. Jim Albert. Ever heard that name before?” 

You froze. “What about him?” 

“Hm.” A ghost of a smile passed Kaz Brekker’s face. “He disappeared three weeks ago, right before he was supposed to meet new investors. I’d know, because I was one of them. We waited two hours but he never showed. The next day his body was found in his gambling den’s backalley.” 

The game was over and you had lost. You knew and so did Brekker. He tilted his head to the side and looked at you. “I suppose you don’t know anything about that either?” 

You started to laugh, simply because you didn’t know what else to do. 

“Very clever. The crest and jurda I would have left unclaimed easily, but” —you let your laugh die out— “Albert’s death is mine. And if you want an apology for your failed investment, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.” 

Kaz raised an eyebrow. “I never expected it to pay off anyway, but I admit it would have liked some power after his bankruptcy. No, keep your apologies to yourself—I was curious as to why.” 

“I was trying to find a new hobby. Spice things up?” 

The person next to Brekker barked a laugh and you moved your gaze. “You’ve brought your loyal companion, I see.” You flashed a smile. “Jesper Fahey. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, although the circumstances under which would not have been my first choice.” 

“You know me?” Jesper asked. 

“I do my homework.” You looked around, silently noticing that you hadn’t left the Warehouse District, judging by the cotton storehouse around you. “So, now you know I stole the crest and documents, and I killed Albert. What do you want?” 

“I want to know why.” Brekker took one step closer. “You have cost me time and money, so you better make it worth it. Who do you work for?” 

“Work for?” you scoffed. 

“The Razorgulls? Black Tips? Did Geels hire you? Or is it Rollins?” 

The anger got to you before you could stop it. You surged forward with a snarl. If your hands hadn’t been bound, you were sure Brekker would have been a heap against the wall now. 

“How dare you? How dare you suggest I work for that lowlife asshole?” You heard the soft click of a gun being loaded and when you looked aside you found Jesper’s gun pointed at your face. You turned back to Kaz. “Choose your words better next time, Brekker, or even that poor cane of yours won’t be able to help you walk anymore.” 

You sunk back in the chair, fingers clutched around the rope on your wrists. Jesper lowered his gun. 

“So not Rollins,” he said. “Noted. Kaz?” 

This one was staring down at you with a strange, dark expression on his face. It lasted for a second, then it cleared and he was back.

“I work for no one,” you said, trying to keep your voice from trembling. “It’s just me.” 

“Why those jobs? Where did you get the information?” 

“Word is all around, you just have to listen to the right things.” You gestured around with your head. “Of course, not everything pays off.” 

“That doesn’t answer the question.” 

“You asked two questions at the same time, that makes it rather hard to answer.” 

Kaz squeezed his eyes. “Why did you kill Albert before the meeting?” 

“Albert gambled off children in his club,” you said. Upon seeing Jesper’s shocked face and even Kaz’ shadow of disgust, you added, “Yes, quite the secret, isn’t it? He deserved the ending he got. They say death is like falling asleep, but I made sure Albert got haunted by some nightmares first.” You shook your head. “If I had known there’d be money to be earned with his death, I would’ve chosen a different time, but I do not regret killing him.” 

In the back of your head you could still hear his screams and your own hysterical laughter. Cruel, but you weren’t lying. Albert had thrown you into this life so it was only fair he got what he deserved. 

“I see. And the jurda job?” 

“It was an easy one,” you shrugged. “Anyone in their right mind would have done it. You tried too, but I suppose you don’t care to tell me why?” 

Brekker stroked a hand over the lapel of his coat. “Same reason as you, no doubt. What about Frederiksen?”

You huffed. “Do you expect me to reveal all my secrets, Brekker?” When he said nothing and just kept watching expectantly, you turned to Jesper. “Is he always this relentless?” 

“You learn to deal with it,” Jesper said, giving you a light grin. 

“I doubt that.” You looked at Kaz. “The crest is worth a lot. Of course there are easier ways to get money, but where’s the fun in that? Getting into the mansion wasn’t the problem but the vault was a puzzle. Took me three nights to figure it out, but I guess there are worse ways to spend your evenings.” You felt the rope in your hands. “Like being bound to a chair.” 

“And the documents?” 

“They were… a lucky surprise.” You thought of the papers under your mattress, the effort they had cost you to get to them, and the rage which with you had almost torn them apart. Even after all those years, that name still did that to you. “A nice way to stir things up.” 

Jesper laughed. “I like her, Kaz.” 

You smiled at him. That was one. But with just Jesper’s support you wouldn’t get far. 

“So,” you said, tilting your chair back. “What more do you want to know?”

Brekker stared at you for a minute and you had the strange feeling he could see through your act. “One more thing.” 

“Let me guess: Why tonight?” You shrugged. “A girl’s gotta eat, not? I hate to admit that you had me fooled so easily, but you did.” 

“No.” Kaz pointed with his cane to you. “I want to know why you are still here when you have freed yourself from the rope minutes ago.” 

Eyes, breath, wrists. You held out your unbound hands in front of you. Then you looked up; Jesper was staring at you with an impressed look on his face but Kaz seemed unfazed. 

“The same reason you haven’t killed me yet, if I judge correctly.” You crossed your arms and leaned back. “You’re interested. So am I. We could work together.” 

Brekker said nothing but you could see on his face that you’d guessed right. You truly hadn’t wanted to ruin his jobs, it had been a coincidence. And now he knew, perhaps there was a chance here. An opportunity to finally get your revenge. 

“We could still kill you,” Jesper offered, but there was a smirk on his face. 

Brekker wasn’t so merry. “One wrong move and it’s over,” he said. Then he nodded, “What do you have?” 

You straightened, the excitement of a new job filling you with that familiar tingle, and grinned. Time to get to work. “Oh, it’s got it all. Money. Danger. Fun.” 

Revenge. 

Once, you had vowed to bring them all down, to never rest until you saw their bodies lowered into the ground. For years you had been nurturing your rage, preparing for this moment, when you would see them fall one by one. 

You would come for them as they had come for you. 

- - - - - - -

six of crows taglist:  @xxinvisiblexx​ @awritingtree​​

MASTERLIST

[bullyingfictionalmen]

Crow’s Lullaby

Summary: The year: 1925. The place: Linkon City. ‘Evol’ as a concept is only just being studied. A young singer with a sordid past and an infamous criminal with a penchant for jazz cross paths, perhaps not for the first time. She’s chasing her dreams, he might be the only person in the city with the sway to keep her safe. But will teaming up bring mysteries to light, or will it seal their doom?

Read on AO3

Word Count: 1.9k

CW: violence, main story/anecdote spoilers, fem!MC, eventual smut

1: A Siren Sings in an Empty Room

When you got the job at Sour Note, it was just waiting tables. You knew the jazz club held secrets that its meager stage belied, but the owner, Luke, had nearly laughed you out of the interview when you proposed a steady singing gig.

“Listen, doll, you’ve got guts, but moxie don’t pay the bills. You think a waif like you with no name recognition could draw a crowd, much less keep ‘em hooked ‘til the fifth cocktail?”

“You haven’t even heard me sing! What if—” but your plea fell on deaf ears. It was all you could do to convince him to let you wash dishes in the back.

But everything changes one slow, rainy night. Fall is fading fast, succumbing to winter’s biting chill. The club is nearly empty after the dinner rush dies, save a few regulars in the back having a hushed conversation. Their faces are obscured by cigar smoke, nowhere near needing assistance. Bored, you feel your eyes wandering toward the ornate grand piano, as they often do when you have a free moment. Unlike the rest of the muted décor, Sour Note’s piano is pristine, glossy, even. It’s old, but has clearly been treated with the utmost care. Luke has told you on multiple occasions that if you touch it, he’ll cut off your thumbs.

But Luke’s not here tonight. Your fingers are practically itching, and one little song couldn’t hurt. Quietly, you slide onto the bench, mind racing, hands hovering over the keys. For a moment, you feel paralyzed with uncertainty. Your throat clenches, your chest is heavy. No big deal, you reassure yourself. No one will find out. This is just for me.

You begin to sing, softly at first. Your breathing is a little unsteady, your hands are stiff. But as you continue your performance, the fear melts away. In its place swells the joy of pure artistic expression, the satisfaction of doing what you love. Your voice, a rich and warm contrast to this dreary evening, seems to soar and fill the room. The gentle, twinkling piano flows beneath it like magic. When the last note rings out, you feel an unabashed grin lighting up your face. Your dream has come true, if only for a moment.

Show, sharp applause breaks you out of your trance in an instant. Your gaze darts to the table of regulars, but they aren’t the source of it. At some point during the song, a gentleman you’ve never seen before has entered the club. Your panicked brain hones in on each striking feature, silver-white hair that’s perfectly mussed in spite of the rain, blazing red eyes, a neatly-pressed suit with a leather jacket draped over his broad shoulders. He exudes the kind of nonchalant self-assurance you’ve only ever associated with the exorbitantly wealthy. He’s lounging on one of the sofas like he owns the place, eyeing you with an intensity that makes you want to crouch down and hide like a scolded child.

“Well, now,” he drawls, standing up and taking a step toward the stage. His voice is so deep and melodic that it makes you shiver. “I’m shocked. I wasn’t aware that Luke had booked a musical guest for this evening.”

You feel a blush creeping all the way to your ears. Debate lying and lightly playing it off. But something about this man’s demeanor, the wry arch of his eyebrow, makes you feel like he can read your every thought. All possible excuses die before they can reach your lips. “He… he didn’t.”

The man laughs softly, and you’re sure he already knew that. “I see. Bold, aren’t we, kitten? There are few who would dare to lay hands on my mother’s piano. But you really gave it your all, so I’ll let it slide.”

You gasp, hands jerking away from the keys like you’ve been burned. “Your… mother’s…?”

The man’s lips quirk into a sly grin. “No need to be scared. Instruments are meant to be played, right?” He steps up onto the stage, looming over you. “Though I do like that pretty ‘o’ your mouth makes when you’re surprised.”

Your hands fly to cover your face. You try desperately to think of something, anything intelligent to say. Maybe, ‘sorry’? Or, ‘who are you?’. But all you can focus on is your heartbeat pounding in your ears, the pleasant, spicy smell of his cologne, and the imminent possibility of unemployment. When you feel composed enough to peek between your fingers, you find him staring at you again, chin propped up on his palm, an amused glint in his eyes.

“Are you a little calmer now?” You manage a nod, and the man gestures to the bench. “Scoot over a bit.”

Your conscious mind barely registers his request, but you do as he bid on instinct. When he sits down next to you, the soft leather of his jacket brushes against your arm. There’s barely enough room for the two of you, and you curl in on yourself a bit until he taps your shoulder. “You can relax. I won’t bite. And I won’t tell Luke about your little solo act.”

You raise your head so you can look him in the eyes. “Really?”

“It wouldn’t matter if I did, though.” The man says, absently running his fingers over the keys. “The person with final say on hiring and firing is the owner.”

You blink. “But Luke, isn’t he—?”

“He’s been kind enough to watch over this place for me while I’m indisposed.” As if to accentuate his words, the man plays a light little arpeggio.

“Do you own other businesses, Mister, um—”

“Sylus,” he offers you a handshake, and you take it, still a little hesitant. But you give him your own name. “To your question, I guess you could say I have my fingers in a variety of pots in Linkon CIty. Music just happens to be a fascination of mine.”

“For your mother, too?” The question spills out before you can wonder if he’d find it rude.

Sylus looks a bit taken aback, but his expression clouds with something you haven’t seen from him before. Fondness. You find yourself marveling at the way the emotion softens the intensity of his features. “She did love music. Jazz in particular. She would have been a great pianist herself, in different circumstances.”

This time, you know better than to pry. “I’m sorry for touching something of hers without asking. It’s a beautiful instrument, and I’m sure it means a lot to you.”

A low laugh rumbles in his chest, and you feel a twinge of warmth at such a lovely sound. “Quite alright. But, if I may ask, what spurred you to play that song in particular?”

You cross your hands in your lap, humming in thought. “Well, ‘Crow’s Lullaby’ was on one of the records my granny used to play all the time at the house. She loved to twirl around as she cooked or cleaned, singing her heart out into a ladle or a hairbrush. She was tone-deaf, but my brother and I still loved to dance and cheer her on. When I was a little older, she brought home a spinet from the antique shop, and that was the first song I learned to play on it. She… cried when I sang it for her.” Feeling a little misty, you swallow thickly, wiping at the corners of your eyes and forcing a smile. “Anyway, I guess it’s what I think of first when I get a chance to perform.”

“I see. She must’ve been a great inspiration to you. A prime reason you want to be a professional.”

Your spine goes rigid at his spot-on observation. Holding back a sheepish smile, you fiddle with a stray strand of your hair. “Am I so obvious that you can smell my desperation?”

“That’s not how I’d put it,” Sylus’ crimson eyes linger on you a moment, and you fight the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. “I noticed because you carry yourself like a performer. When you sing, I sense not only raw talent, but years of practice that make those notes seem effortless.”

His straightforward praise leaves you speechless for a moment, your heart rendered gooey as melted chocolate. “Th-Thank you. You’re too kind.”

“No, just observant,” Sylus asserts. “That, and Luke complained to me a few months ago about an audacious, unproven girl looking for a singing gig at my club.” Your blush returns full force, as does Sylus’ smirk. “Does your grandmother know you’re working here?”

You shake your head, gaze falling to your lap. “She, um, passed away a few months ago.”

“Ah… My condolences.”

The conversation lulls. As the silence stretches on, a strange, fluttering urgency takes hold of you. A desire to maintain whatever tenuous connection you have to this man. “D-Do you play the piano, Sylus? Or sing?”

“I do play a little,” Sylus’ lips curve upward. “As for singing, it’s one of my greatest loves. Unfortunately, I’ve been informed that I’m a little… tone-deaf. That’s actually the story behind the club’s name—a bit of a self-effacing joke.”

“Huh. Somehow, that’s hard to believe.”

“What makes you say that, kitten? Teasing me for my faults?”

“Not at all. I just thought that with a voice like yours, you could enthrall anyone with a song.”

“’Enthrall’ them…? What an interesting choice of words. They bring to mind sirens at sea.” Sylus’ eyes twinkle with mirth, and you’re one more embarrassment away from bolting into the rain. I can’t believe I just said that.

You turn away, squeezing your eyes shut. “S-Sorry, that’s, um… I meant—”

“So quick to cower,” Sylus muses, his fingers gently guiding your face toward his, “but you shouldn’t apologize.” Your eyes meet his again, and it’s not just his voice that enraptures you. “I could only ever feel flattered by such praise, delivered straight from a siren’s lips.”

His words are a spell, a honeyed incantation that robs you of all your sense. Your lashes flutter, red lips parted slightly as if a kiss is a forgone conclusion. There’s no doubt in your mind that if anyone here is a siren, it’s Sylus. Your fingers trace his forearm before clutching the fabric of his sleeve. Your breaths mingle, your eyelids fall closed in anticipation, and then—

“This damn weather! I swear I’m going to—” The two of you jolt apart at the sound of Luke’s loud, disgruntled voice. When the man catches sight of you sitting at the piano, his nostrils flare, eyes bulging in disbelief. “What in Astra’s name are you doing over there? How many times do I have to tell you, brat? Lemme see those thumbs—"

“Luke,” Sylus’ chides, but his tone is placid, without a hint of the regret or unease that leaves you silent and paralyzed, “I told her it was alright.”

Luke scrunches his brow and scoffs. “That’s rich, Boss, considering all the times you’ve threatened my life over that old thing. ‘Luke, if there’s so much as a smudge on that piano, I swear I’ll rip off your di—‘”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Sylus rolls his eyes. “I merely told you to be careful, and you have been. Besides, this one bent the rules in service of a greater good. Now, Luke, break out our best bottle of gin. I believe a celebration is in order.”

Your eyes go wide. There are many speakeasies around the city—hell, you’ve been to a fair few—but alcohol is illegal, and it’s unusual to discuss it so brazenly. “A celebration…?”

“Why, yes,” Sylus winks. He offers you a hand, helping you stand up from the bench before he leans down to kiss your knuckles. “In honor of your new job.”

[bunnyboowrites]

Kinktober Day 3 ~ Overstimulation

The sea stretched endlessly around the Thousand Sunny, a tranquil sapphire expanse, only disturbed by the gentle lapping of the waves against the ship's hull. The air smelled of salt and adventure, and as the Straw Hat Pirates enjoyed a rare moment of calm, (Y/N) found herself at the ship’s edge, leaning over the railing, lost in thought.

It had only been a few weeks since she joined the crew, and every day brought something new and exciting, but also overwhelming. She  never thought she'd  find herself on a pirate ship with the infamous Monkey D. Luffy and his crew, let alone in the presence of someone like Zoro.

The swordsman, always aloof and distant, wasn’t the easiest person to talk to. She'd tried once or twice, but between his constant napping and his dedication to training, he didn’t seem interested in small talk.

Yet, she couldn't help but notice him.

It wasn't just his strength or the aura of danger that followed him — there was something about the quiet determination in his eyes that drew her in. She wondered what thoughts ran through his mind when he stared out into the sea, if he ever got tired of chasing his dreams, or if he was as invincible as he seemed.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps behind her. Turning around, she saw Zoro, looking half-asleep, making his way toward her. His green hair was tousled, and he rubbed the back of his neck, yawning as he approached.

“Nami wanted me to let you know we’re docking at the new island. We need to pick up groceries,” he said bluntly. She nodded, and he leaned against the railing, glancing at the brown-skinned girl beside him. “How are you feeling about leaving home?” The question surprised her, given his reputation for few words.

“Um, it’s strange, but I didn’t really have anything keeping me in my village.” She fiddled with the bracelet on her wrist, its gold glinting back at her—a constant reminder of her family encouraging her to embrace adventure, even if she wasn’t sure what she was seeking. “And who could resist our captain’s award-winning smile?”

He chuckled at the mention of Luffy, straightening up to meet her gaze. “Well, don’t be a stranger. I’m sure we’ll find ourselves in trouble sooner or later... but we can train together if you want.” The surprise on her face irritated him; he didn’t understand why it was so difficult to reveal the crush he had on her. He’d practically begged Nami to shop for groceries with her, desperate to keep the irritating cook from stealing her away. Nami had teased him mercilessly about it all morning. His heart raced, beating hard enough that he felt it might leap from his chest.

She made him nervous in a way he had never experienced before, and that thrill was what drew him to her.

“Well, Zoro, I’d love that. It sounds fun,” she replied, giving his arm a light pat that sent warmth rushing to his ears. “Let’s meet in the crow’s nest after dinner!” With a bright smile, she headed toward the kitchen to grab the grocery list.

(Y/N) tried to make sense of how she’d landed in such an awkward situation. It wouldn’t be nearly as embarrassing if Zoro’s hard length wasn’t pressed against her hip.

They were sparring, and since she didn’t have swords, he thought hand-to-hand combat would be best. He had her pinned to the floor, and as she struggled to break free, he smirked. “Are you always this bad at sparring?”

Rolling her eyes, she retorted, “Are you always this hard when sparring with someone?” She glanced up to see his face turning bright red.

“I-I—” He let her go, moving back quickly. “It was an accident! I don’t know why that happened,” he stammered, his lips pressed into a thin line.

She laughed, finding his fumbling adorable. “Don’t worry, it’s a natural reaction. I’m just teasing.” Standing up, she adjusted her clothes. “I’ll leave you to deal with that.”

As she started to climb down the ladder, she froze when she heard him call out, “Wait!”

She smirked as she climbed back into the crow's nest, catching Zoro’s gaze. He looked like a tomato, his intense stare fixed on the ground. The air between them felt different now, warm and charged.

“I have to tell you something,” he sighed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “I like you, (Y/N), and I want you to stay.”

Her heart raced, warmth spreading across her cheeks as she tucked a curl behind her ear. “Are you serious?” The question slipped out before she could stop herself. Why would he like her? He was practically perfect, and she… well, she was just herself. It wasn’t insecurity; it was confusion.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” he replied, his voice steady. “I like everything about you.”

A soft giggle escaped her lips as she met his gaze, her smile genuine. “I like you too, really, Zoro.” The words felt like a leap, and in that moment, everything around them faded away, leaving just the two of them in their shared warmth.

She crawled slowly toward him, her movements careful and deliberate, as if afraid she might startle him away. “Would you like some help?” she asked softly, her eyes warm and inviting as she pointed to his predicament.

He nodded shyly, a hint of vulnerability in his expression. The atmosphere shifted, filled with unspoken tension, as she closed the distance between them.

Her lips were so close to his, they were almost sharing the same air. Impatiently he pressed their lips together, the kiss was so heavy-their teeth clicking together, Zoro let out a moan when she bit his lip. “You’re so cute baby” she purred, her hands venturing down across his chest;tracing his scar gently she giggled when he shivered. She playfully pinched his nipple, he jerked and she could basically feel his glare.

“Calm down grumpy, I’m doing you a favor remember?” She murmured looking down at the tent in his pants with a newfound hunger. He rolled his eyes “you are having too much fun woman”.

Her hands stopped at his haramaki “can I take this off?” She looked at his face and smiled “it’s no rush we can keep kissing if you want” the reassurance flowed from her naturally and he nodded “can I get a yes baby?” She teased “yes woman” he smiled softly and reached and untied it to help her a small bit.

With a giggle she wrapped her hand around his pants and he assisted her in pulling them down. His dick was finally released from his pants and it twitched against his stomach. His tip was a blushed pink and the length of him was a nice tan, he was long and it looked like a nice mouthful.

She gripped his length and leaned down; her tongue ran up his length, she pulled the skin back from his tip and wrapped her lips around the tip. His head felt like it was filled with fuzz, was this a dream? He could not believe how perfect she looked on her knees for him. Her body was so nice, her ass was up in the air and there was skin peaking out from under her shirt that fell forward towards her shoulders.

When he looked down to watch her beautiful face, he groaned. She was staring up at him through her lashes, her full lips sucking his cock so good he would do anything for her.. if she asked him to cut the heavens he would do everything in his power to do it for her.

She was eager to take him deeper into her throat, it was hard but she was focused on his pleasured noises and it was making her feel so warm. She took him as deep as she could until he hit the back of her throat, she was already addicted to feeling him on her tongue. Her throat felt so good wrapped around him his eyes were closed tight and he had his hands on the back of her neck . he was close to his peak already, she stuck her tongue out and he could feel her sucking harder like she needed his cum down her throat. Suddenly the warm comfort of her throat was gone and when he opened his eyes he saw her pumping him- aimed at her face

“Please cum for me Zoro, cum on my face” his breath hitched as his hips jerked toward her hands, he came in spurts “god yes (Y/N)” she let out a low moan; he looked so cute and braindead from one little blowjob. It was so cute! His breathing was heavy as he watched her pull off the over sized t shirt and her work out shorts.

She was left in her underwear, his hands were on her immediately. Touching and exploring every part of her exposed skin he reached around and tried to unhook her bra, when he started having trouble she giggled “here let me help baby” she reached around herself and unhooked her bra. The fabric slid down her chest and he groaned; he began to kiss down her neck and she smiled “come on Zoro don’t you wanna fuck my pussy? You’re wasting precious time” she teased.

Instead of answering he grunted while trying to cover his blushing face, she giggled and pulled her panties to the side. She was so ready for him, he would be hard to take with no prep but she loved the sweet burn. Gripping his base she sank down until the tip slipped into her soaked pussy they let out noises in unison, her hips sank lower and she whimpered “you’re so big baby I uh-“ she gasped when his hips bucked into her, slipping him all the way in “god it’s too much” he smirked and she felt her face pull into a frown, he wouldn’t be smiling soon enough. She was gonna milk him for all he was worth and she was gonna love doing it.

Without warning she began bouncing on him, the sudden change in pace caught him off guard and he could feel the pleasure spread through him. Warming everything in his body as if she was what he needed on a cold night.

Her tits were bouncing in his face and he almost got her to stop for long enough to take one in his mouth- they were being neglected, why couldn’t he just have a little taste. (Y/N) had other plans; her muscles were starting to hurt but she pushed through the burn, this was her work out after all.

She leaned forward and placed her hands on his chest to ground her in the present situation. Her forehead met his and she chuckled “i didn’t know you whimpered swordsman, I thought you were the strong silent one” she slammed her hips down on him faster and he was so noisy under her she couldn’t help but keen at the slightest hint she was pleasing him “but I guess I have that affect on you” her climax was fast approaching.

Her eyes closed and she focused on the feeling of cumming, only to be ripped from her concentration by a loud moan that she pulled from the swordsman. “Fuck I’m cumming don’t stop (Y/N)” she whined and shook her head “no you can’t yet I’m gonna just wait for me Zoro” he couldn’t hold back anymore and he painted her insides with his cum.

She huffed in frustration, but she knew exactly what to do. Zoro was trying to catch his breath, two oragasms in the span of 30 minutes was so much; almost too much for him. He placed his arm over his eyes so he could avoid eye contact with her. He didn’t even make her cum and she made him do it twice. This was a constant reminder that she didn’t have any mind blowing experience whatsoever and he was being selfish.

His eyes shot open when he felt her pick up her pace again, his cock was practically getting soft. It hurt but it was starting to mix with the pleasure of her perfect pussy around him. Their moans and groans intermingled as she fucked herself on his sensitive cock. She was so close and she could feel it. She leaned back; playing with her nipple. Zoro ran his hand down and found her clit, rubbing circles on the little bud. “ZORO FUCK” she choked.

Her pussy was spasming around him and with one last prolonged moan he came for the last time of the night.

Sweat was dripping from both of them and the crows nest felt warm as she slid off of his lap. “So Zoro , I’ve been thinking about you and how I want to be with you” she fiddled with her bracelet “not just for the sex”

Zoro shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to meet her gaze. “I’ve been thinking about that too,” he admitted, his tone surprisingly serious. “We spend so much time together… I like that.”

Her heart raced at his words. “Really? You do?”

“Yeah,” he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “You’re strong, you keep up with me, and you’re not afraid to challenge me. I respect that.”

(Y/N) felt warmth spread through her. “I respect you too, Zoro. You’re… well, you’re you. And that’s pretty incredible.”

He looked at her, the playful facade dropping for a moment, revealing the intensity beneath. “So, what do you think? Should we give it a shot?”

She bit her lip, considering. “I think we should. I mean, I’d like to see where this goes.”

“Then it’s settled,” he said, his tone shifting back to lightheartedness. “But just know, if you think you can beat me in a spar now, you’re going to have to step up your game.”

With a laugh, (Y/N) nudged him playfully. “You’re on, Zoro. Just don’t underestimate me.”

As they lay back, the sun dipping below the horizon, they felt a new sense of connection between them—both excited and a little nervous about what the future might hold.

[ghostwise]

Matacuervos, ch. 5 - The wise assassin 2.2k words - cw: allusions to childhood trauma and child abuse A return visit to El milagro brings buried secrets to light. Read update on AO3 - Read from ch. 1 on AO3

As a young boy, he’d mastered the art of escape.

Out through the window with the loose screen, over the wall separating the apartment from the brothel, and around the corner into the alley (where he’d once witnessed a heartbroken suitor serenade one of the whores until a guard was called to drag him away). Then through the gaps of the iron fencing and out into the street. The path led between the apothecary and the butcher, where the crowds would conceal his small figure. At last! He would escape in this manner, sprinting down the street—and enjoy every instance of freedom, for he knew he’d certainly get a beating once it ended.

And it always ended. Of course, what choice had he but to come back at the end of the day?

Now he made the journey in reverse.

His jaw was set in a grim expression as he hurried down those familiar streets.

Even with Hamal at his side, he was wary of what he’d encounter there, at the place of his first sorrow; a run-down apartment he’d seen plenty of times in his dreams. Meanwhile everything had stayed mostly the same. The apothecary seemed to have fallen into some ill repute, with delirious and dazed customers exiting as they passed, and the butcher had changed ownership. The iron fence was gone—torn down and replaced with a low brick wall covered in graffiti and grime—but it was just as well, because he would not have been able to slip in between the railings. Not after 20 years away.

And it mattered little whether they were spotted. Thankfully they weren’t.

As they finally approached the apartment where Zevran had lived out his meager childhood, he heard small and scuffling footsteps. He stopped and grabbed onto Hamal’s hand to keep him close as they watched from the shadows.

Here it was. His only childhood home.

It looked better than he recalled.

There were no broken windows. The walls sported a fresh coat of paint.

The children were, a gaggle of them, dressed a great deal better than the rags he had lived in once. Why, they even had shoes on, running in and out of the building with toys in hand. And the fact that they were free to go outside at all, not locked indoors the entire day, was especially striking to him.

They were talking amongst themselves, or playing, or perhaps even being unkind to each other—he couldn’t tell, couldn’t hear them—but there, a ponytail yank! And a responding kick! One of them, apparently in charge of supervising his peers, quickly broke up the conflict. And back they went to the patched up ball, kicked against the side of the building with a thud.

Hamal looked at him. Zevran shook his head, unsure of what he was feeling. But he whispered, “Thank the Maker. They are still here.” And he squeezed his hand.

“We are not too late,” Hamal ventured after a moment. “What’s the plan?”

He was right. They still had a slaver to catch. And time running out, and no idea how to do it. Zevran had only his own fortitude and a prayer between his teeth. And Hamal, of course.

“Keep watch,” he said. “If anyone tries to take them, you know what to do. I will pay another visit to El milagro.”

.

As he walked, Zevran thought hard about blame. He hadn’t yet decided how to parcel it out. Who was to blame for his unfortunate life?

Certainly Atanasio was to blame, but Zevran had killed him in Antiva City, and it hadn’t been enough. Guildmaster Talav had been in charge of House Arainai when he was purchased, but he, too, was dead; killed years ago in one of the Crows’ frequent exchanges of power. And Grandmaster Eoman… well, Zevran had plans for him.

What of Sra. Amilcar, who had overseen his purchase? She was to blame for enabling the cruel deed, and worse, she was to blame for impeding their search, and for her continued involvement in these crimes. But she seemed too meek to have acted alone all these years. Someone else was involved, someone with connections. Whose pockets were growing fatter with each stolen child?

He would wrench answers from somewhere, that much was certain.

And he was waiting for Gloria Amilcar when she returned to her office.

The moment she closed the door, he spoke as low and even and close to her ear as he could: “Stay quiet, or you’re dead.”

In the instant of her strangled gasp he was gripping her by the shirt. He held up his hand, pressing a finger to his lips with a look that, was severe yet still implied the possibility of kindness. His daggers were not concealed, but brazenly worn on a bandolier. This was key to the ruse. He saw her eyes flick to their sharp edges at once.

“I don’t need to use these. But that depends on you entirely.”

He locked the door before dragging her to the desk.

“I am giving you a rare opportunity, Gloria,” he intoned, pushing her into the chair. “You might save your own skin yet, but only if you act accordingly.”

Here, she finally composed herself enough to speak. “How did you get in?”

“Crawlspace,” he scoffed. “Brief though my last visit was, it told me enough information for even a novice Crow to infiltrate your humble little hovel. It did not escape me that the parlor is bigger from the outside. My, my. What are you hiding, that you need a concealed passage along the building’s west end, I wonder? Clandestine meetings? Illicit lovers?”

She knew better than to hint, deny, or argue. But she grew a shade lighter, whispering simply, “Crow?”

“Do not act surprised! You gave me to them.” He paused, and gestured down to his figure. “Is it so unlikely that I return in their form?”

At his words she recoiled, and there was a genuine starkness to her face. Her eyes had grown wide, lined with terrified tears. Not of compassion, but of fear: fear for her own life.

Zevran smiled wide.

“First things first. How many children are you selling today?”

“I don’t…” She grimaced. After a moment, she squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “None.”

Zevran stared her down. He sucked his teeth and drew one of his daggers, and pushed the hilt into her chest with the blade angled to catch the light—a showy move, completely safe, yet it earned a small scream from her.

“Keep your voice down,” he said quietly. “And do not lie to me.”

“I’m not selling anyone!” she insisted in a rush. “I run the books for Sr. Rossi, that’s all!”

“You really believe that,” Zevran mused. “Tell me! How many children?”

“Th-they are not sold ,” she continued, “they are contracted, it’s a very reputable business, they’re granted opportunities, training-”

“For the Crows?”

“In a factory in Salle, please! I know nothing about the Crows!”

Zevran asked again, voice dipping into a menacing pitch. “How many?”

Gloria shut her eyes. Her cheeks were damp with tears, her body shivering. “Just two. The oldest. They are nearly of age, but they do not want to work here, so they will go work in Salle.”

“How vile,” Zevran said, voice dripping with disgust. “Where will you meet this slaver?”

“N-not a slaver… Th-the apartments out back-”

“How often do these ‘reputable opportunities’ come by?”

“Every four years or so! This is… so many places do this, you must understand. I don’t know what happened to you but it isn’t what you think-”

“You must think me stupid,” Zevran said bitterly. “I remember the day I was sold. I saw the money with my own eyes. I knew I was being bought.”

“A contract fee! Ten years’ work in the factories, then you’d be allowed to strike out on your own! And be all the more prepared for it, with a wealth of experience and learning. Far more than you would ever gain in a brothel.”

“If you are so convinced you did no wrong,” Zevran said slowly, “Why such a rush to chase me off when I was last here?”

“Mm.” She licked her lips, and turned to look at him nervously. “You were—digging into things.”

Zevran stared at her. He found her utterly hateful in that moment. He did not find her particularly clever, just weak-willed. She was not even very committed to hiding her employer’s secrets, now that it was she who had a knife pointed in her direction. But was she speaking truthfully?

He kept the dagger pointed squarely at her now, wrist steady, ready to cut her vocal chords in a split second if needed.

“The Crows pay you a pittance for their recruits. Do you know how many end up dead? Do you remember my friends?” He hissed. “I was the only survivor!”

“If—if that is true I am truly sorry.” She cringed, face wet with tears and spit. “It was not supposed to be this way. But I can help! I can find you the best lawyer in Antiva! You don’t need to hurt me! Please! I’m sorry I chased you off, I didn’t know why you were here!”

Zevran shook his head. “Why else would I be here?”

“I… I don’t-”

“What are you hiding from me?”

Her defenses had crumbled. She stared at her reflection in his blade, and took a breath.

“I processed the payment that undid your father, boy.”

The dead silence that followed might have meant his death, had he been facing anyone even remotely competent.

Zevran stared at her, processing her words, and his grip slackened on his blade for just a second—then, just as quickly, he corrected himself and pushed the tip of the knife against the fabric of her blouse, where the high neckline covered her paper-thin skin.

“I am here for the man who transported me to the hands of the Crows; the man who plans to give them more children to break! Nothing else. I don’t care how ignorant you claim to be, you will help me.”

The words came out in a desperate seething.

“My companion is positioned somewhere very close by! One misstep, and that’s you and your fellow slaver full of arrows, understood?”

.

As Zevran grappled with the revelation Sra. Amilcar had set upon him, Hamal grappled with language.

In his best efforts to conceal himself while guarding the apartment where El milagro housed the worker’s children, he’d climbed into the heights of a temachaca tree by what seemed to be a boarded up attic window. It seemed like a perfect place to keep watch from, secluded from the main road and well out of view, but then a voice had spoken through the wooden beams, nearly startling him enough to make him lose his grip on his weapon.

“¿Hola?” the voice asked, with that lovely Antivan lilt that rose up, then descended, then flipped up again like a song. Before he could locate its speaker, it continued, “Ah, ¡es el esposo de Zevrán! Espereme un momento, ahí voy. ¿Que hace aqui arriba?”

Hamal cursed inwardly, considering his options.

The light voice had distinctly said Zevran’s husband. The rest was, well, a blur. He could not leave, for the children still needed guarding, and this he would do at any cost. But though he had been recognized, he had no way of recognizing the woman in return.

He got down from the tree.

Nadia came to meet him, a basket at her hip. “Asi es. Bien que lo reconocí,” she said, then launched into a flurry of Antivan that left Hamal reeling. This was appended with a permutation of her first question question: “¿Qué hace aquí?” 

Hamal hesitated. He saw Nadia’s eyes flick to the apartment, then return to him with confusion that sublimated into suspicion.

“¡Cuidando!” he said hurriedly, fairly certain that was the word he wanted. “Ah, shit, wait… Hay peligro. Yo guardo.”

She stared at him, brow furrowed. “¿Donde esta Zevrán?”

“Adentro de El milagro,” Hamal said, and, when she turned to look towards the brothel, he sputtered, “No, no! No vaya. Aqui. Ah- robo, es un robo.” He pointed at the children, and received only an alarmed look in return.

“¿Robo?” Nadia dropped her basket and warily pulled a small blade from her skirts.

“No!” Hamal exclaimed, for he had not been trying to threaten to rob her. He dropped his bow, hands held up in what he hoped would be understood as a gesture of peace.

“Ayudo! Yo ayudo, guardo. Zevran ayu- ayudas a… a cuidarte… oh for the love of the Creators, woman!” His voice broke in frustration. “We mean no harm! But the children are in danger.”

“Alguien viene a robarse a los niños,” she said slowly. “Usted y Zevrán vienen a prevenirlo.”

“Si,” Hamal breathed, relieved. Then, he tilted his head, struck by something.

“Zevran?”

Nadia raised a brow. “¿Si? ¿Zevrán?”

Were it not for his albinism, he might’ve grown a shade paler.

“Fenedhis,” he said. “Is that where the accent goes?”

[beautifulbows924]

Home

Poly!Kaz Brekker & Inej Ghafa x Gender Neutral!Reader

Masterlist

AFG Bingo Masterlist

A/N: This feels like a successful attempt at transferring my sudden inspiration to paper (lol). Honestly, I’m really enjoying learning the nuances to writing these new characters! And I hope it was worth the wait for those of you who saw the sneak peak! As always, I hope you enjoy. Feel free to leave any feedback you have in the comments and if you like my work consider leaving a tip! Thanks:)

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1K+

Created for: @lgbtqbingo / Square Filled O3: Polyamorous Relationship.

Warnings: Violence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, religious undertones, vague spoilers for the books & show. (Paragraphs solely in italics are set in the past).

Loyalty may be seldom found among bastards and vagabonds, but Kaz Brekker had discovered suffering at the end of a gloved hand or the hilt of a cane served him just as well.

Dirtyhands became the stories, spoken late into the night by parents to regale the children of Ketterdam with, in case they thought it wise to stray into the tangled mess of filth the barrel had to offer. He became the whispers of an alley filled with shadows and the tight-lipped fears of those who would dare to cross him.

Rumors were as good as currency in Ketterdam, and he had heard them all. He had no eagerness to dispel them, they were all true enough.

Modesty was a commodity those without their freedom could only ever dream of, but Inej Ghafa had learned to use the nightfall of Ketterdam like a second skin.

A talent some swore must have been gifted to her by the Saints themselves.

Their rumors served her just as well. The Wraith became the whispered prayer among indentures and the grave reveal of words unspoken.

Secrets were as good as currency in Ketterdam, and she knew them all. Even his.

The rhythmic tap of your foot had become almost expected to him, comforting even. He always feigned annoyance at the action. Only internally allowing himself to wonder if you felt similarly about the sudden additional pressure of a cane against the tip of your boot.

Kaz Brekker had never believed in miracles. In luck, or Saints, or fate. But even a faithless man like him could recognize there was something of importance this moment had to offer him, and he’d never been one to turn down a deal.

He didn’t dare reach for your hand. Not here, not near the water. Not out in the open where anyone could catch sight of his failures.

Instead, he shifted his grip on his cane and poked your hand with the hilt until your fingers lightly wrapped around the crow's head, allowing him to feel the slightest pressure of added weight through his own hold.

Trying was easier than he thought it would be, especially with the sight of your half quirked smile as a lovely reward. It was a smile he had seen solely reserved for him.

He attempted to earn it as often as you’d allow.

Inej’s prayers sat heavy on her tongue.

She knew brutality. She knew the Saints would counsel mercy in a moment like this.

Yet not a word of opposition graced her lips as Kaz laid claim to the blood debt he felt he was owed.

She felt she was owed it too.

There was a past her that might have feared him once, but this was the same man that had worried if his tie was straight before he met her parents for the first time, so instead she asked, “Was this what it was like?”

The prolonged silence that came after wasn’t from the lack of context held in those six words. He was fairly certain they could retain the ability to read each other with a handkerchief stuffed in their mouths and their backs turned. He was simply attempting to discern which answer would be worse, the truth, or the lie he knew she’d see through regardless.

She slightly inclined her head toward him, the heavy scent of iron lingering around them like a stain. She watched how his gloved hands shook with boiled over rage, emotions poorly contained even in the dim light. To her, his silence had always been a response in it of itself. She wouldn’t pressure him, not now. She knew he didn’t want her to know, or perhaps—he didn’t want to relive those days for himself.

Maybe, she thought, he already was.

And as a former member of the Dregs stumbled down the alley, palm pressing hopelessly into the empty space where his crow and cup tattoo had formerly resided, searching for a sense of relief that would never follow, she wondered if that’s what Kaz Brekker’s mercy looked like.

He did spare him, after all.

Her lips bore the semblance of a smile, the only tell she provided in her knowledge of your quiet presence.

Your eyes remained steady to the horizon, face kissed with the last orange rays the sunset had to offer, patiently waiting until Ketterdam was once again cloaked in familiar darkness.

She couldn’t recall how the sun had looked that day. She was too captured by the sight of you.

The waves threatened to pull him under, a war of salt and foam just beneath his chin. He forced a pale hand to rest on the blood covered sheets, searching for reassurance, needing to communicate to himself that you were still there with them. Warm. Alive.

His other hand, gloved, loosely gripped hers. A reminder that she was there too.

Kaz Brekker had never believed in miracles. In luck, or Saints, or fate. But he believed in you, he believed in Inej, and for the first time, he prayed that was enough.

His expression shifted, lingering somewhere between exasperated and fond, a bit soft at the edges in the shared presence of those his heart had betrayed him for.

You looked similarly effected, eyes trained on Inej, committing her every feature to memory.

He did the same to you. For once, allowing himself to hope.

It’ll take time, she told herself, taking in a steadying breath as she walked to join the two of you at the bar.

“Inej”, Nina called from behind her, reminiscent of a time much different than the one they currently shared, voice low and intended for only their ears, “I once wished you could see what I did, hear each and every sound so you could understand what you were missing. But now”, she let out a light laugh, “When the three of you are together. It’s like home.”

It seemed as if a lifetime had passed since then, but Inej could still recall the words she had responded with, the confusion she had felt.

She smiled. She wasn’t that person anymore, and Nina was right.

She had found her home.

Thanks for reading! Let me know if you want to be tagged or un-tagged down below. <3

Shadow & Bone Taglist: @mxtokko

[ninjaneonleon]

By the Light of Day

Start

Prev

“You’re telling me that I have another soul inside me right now.” Leo stared at Donnie, deadpan. He was obviously trying to hold back his panic and didn’t know how to process any of that.

Since having Leo here and properly aware, Donnie found his understanding of the lake and everything to do with the spell seemed to come more into focus. He knew what spell was used, how it was performed and why it was used in the first place. He remembered being Odette and dancing with his mother before the water pulled him under. He remembered waiting for Ilma for years but her never coming to her him.

But that was Odette’s soul telling him those things. Not Donnie’s soul. There was a difference, even if that difference was starting to fade the longer he was here. Just like how Leo’s soul was meshing with Odile’s.

“That’s the only sort of magic that could teach you and transform you like that, Nardo,” Donnie explained gently. He had to stay calm, not get too emotional. Leo needed support and stability right now. “You went from never having tried ballet to being able to pull off thirty-two fouettés in a row.” It was an impressive feat, now doubt. “Your body is already starting to reflect the extra soul inside you. You’re fusing. Like me and Odette.”

“Wait, your souls is fusing with Odette’s? Is that why you keep getting the other memories and why you’re getting paler?” Leo asked, worry colouring his tone. Of course Donnie’s self sacrificing twin would be worried about that part, not so much about his own problem.

“Yes, but my fusing is slow. It’s been two years, Leo, and I’m still myself… mostly.” Donnie knew he was missing things, that he wasn’t totally himself anymore, but he was still close enough. Leo had lost himself entirely for a period in just three days.

“Well, how do we fix this?” Leo asked softly, taking Donnie’s hands and fiddling with his now much slimmer fingers.

“I don’t know,” Donnie confessed softly. “You’re stuck with that potion until you fulfil your end of the ‘deal’ you make with Von Rothbart. And I’m stuck here indefinitely because no one we know can undo the spell.” Only Ilma could and from what Donnie could tell, she had died years ago.

“Well… if we’re stuck here, I might as well get comfortable.” Leo stood and walked delicately over to the water’s edge. Panic flickered at the edge of Donnie’s mind but he pushed it away. Leo wouldn’t hurt him or his lake.

Dully, he also recognised how wrong it looked for Leo to be en pointe so casually. Was this what it was like for his brothers when they saw Donnie walking around like that?

Leo took a breath before he closed his eyes. Donnie heard the music that started for his twin, the soft, almost melancholy tune that almost swayed in the wind. Leo started dancing, looking so graceful and beautiful. Despite the fact he was now a crow, he was as graceful as any swan Donnie had seen.

Leo danced and danced around a single point at the edge of the water. Donnie could only watch in awe as a small sprout started growing from the ground, getting bigger and bigger until it was a young weeping willow, bent over the water with its leaves tickling the water.

Leo stumbled back, panting as he rubbed his eyes. “I… I don’t know how it did that.”

“Neither do I.” Donnie had never seen magic like that… had he? Wait, no, he had. The lake spell. Odette and Ilma had danced together before the lake took Odette in.

“Do you have a nest?” Leo asked, startling Donnie out of his thoughts. “Because this looks pretty cozy under here.”

“We don’t need to sleep.” Donnie pointed out.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be cozy.” Leo pointed out, rushing over to Donnie and tugging him to his feet. He almost dragged Donnie over to the tree. He tugged Donnie down into a dip between the roots, curling up with him with a happy sigh. “I’ve missed you.”

Donnie got the sense that it wasn’t just Leo saying that.

“I’ve missed you too.” Donnie murmured back, nuzzling against his twin. Odette’s soul almost sang with recognition as she recognised Odile was nearby.

Even as the sun rose and both Leo and Donnie transformed, they didn’t separate. Leo, as a little crow, just got comfortable on Donnie’s feathered back and nuzzled his way under his wing. Donnie held him a little closer, his neck bending gracefully over Leo’s form.

They might not need to sleep but Leo was right, that didn’t mean they couldn’t be comfortable. They’d figure this out, but for the first time in years, Donnie didn’t fear the sunrise.

—————

Part 6! This has really outgrown what I had initially planned for, but I’m actually really enjoying doing a little solo writing. It’s been a while

EDIT: part 7

Swanatello belongs to @tangledinink

Crownardo belongs to @dryad-druid

[thegoldheartlocketandkey-blog]

911 Spoilers Season 3: You’ve been warned. 😅 Buddie Rewatch

Episode 6-7

Episode 6: Monsters

Crow Rescue; No Buck or Lena. The 118 wearing sunglasses and being matchy matchy. Eddie points out how he’s never heard of a crow attack. Hen points out they are typically docile unless provoked.  

Something that is insignificant to the plot, but makes me strangely happy is something that was pointed out to me a while back and I remembered while watching this rescue. If you look very closely Eddie goes from wearing boots to slippers. It must have been a long shooting day.

Buck shows up for his first day back to work. He was expecting a friendly welcome, but got the cold shoulder from everyone in the firehouse. There is no welcome back banner like he had expected.

Side note, there are so many random firefighters in the 118 that we know nothing about. I wonder how they feel about the core group.

Hen surprises Buck with a small cake and welcomes Buck back. Buck admits to missing everyone and asks Hen how the fertility treatment is going. I really enjoy seeing Buck and Hen’s friendship, but this shows us how much Buck has missed because of the lawsuit.

Eddie walking into work, tired and bruised up.  Buck sees the cut/ bruise on Eddie’s elbow and asks him if he is okay. Eddie instantly annoyed gives him a bullshit response about playing with Christopher. Buck tries to have friendly banter; Eddie is having none of it and gives Buck attitude.

Buck is visibly confused but Chimney interjects by welcoming Buck back.  Eddie and Buck stand 2 feet apart as Bobby tries to do the morning brief.  The alarm goes off and Buck is told to stay behind and man the house.  Buck is standing there disappointed.

Bobby is instructing Buck on the rules and procedures of dealing with trick or treaters. Buck is confrontational and asks Bobby how much longer is he going to continue to punish him. Bobby responds back with when he finally develops patients.

Chim approaches Buck right after and repeats Booby’s sentiments. That he has to suck it up and be patient, and work a little harder. Eventually, Bobby will take him back.

Buck knows that Chim is right and tries to shift his attitude to be more eager and willing to work thru this situation, but there is no covering up Buc’s over all disappointment. Buck walks away semi defeated

Eddie approaches Chimney out of nowhere, as Chim is going to have a mental break down over a crow that no one else seems to see. Eddie looks at Chim likes he’s lost it and walks away.

Buck is bored handing out candy and getting sassed by a boy in a prisoner’s costume. This boy basically hit all of Buck’s insecurities. The 118 seems to be coming back from an emergency as this is happening.

Bobby hops out of the truck and tells Buck nice work. This moment can be seen as Bobby giving Buck a light jab, Not intended to be malicious but it could be taken as such.  

Buck calls out for Eddie and asks him if he wants to help out. Eddie wants nothing to do with Buck and basically tells him that he can handle it on his own, just how he wanted with the lawsuit.

Terrible Parents who treated their kids like prisoners; Eddie observing the area pissed off about the living conditions those poor kids where in. Every one is absolutely disgusted with those parents.

Hen taking a moment to talk to Bobby about Buck and how he needs to stop punishing him, by giving in or transferring him out.

Buck and Eddie walk towards each other. Eddie planning to just walk past him. Buck deciding that he’s not allowed to just do that and asks Eddie if this is how their relationship is going to be, if he’ll just continue to ignore him.

The camera changes and captures the moment they speak; they are visibly divided.

Eddie is not having it. Eddie doesn’t know what Buck wants from him. Buck vocalizes that he wants him to talk to him, “even if it is just to say you are still mad.”

Eddie was bout to walk away, but quickly turns back around to face Buck and say, “I’m not mad. I’m---” he pauses and takes a second to reevaluate what he’s going to say.

Eddie proceeds to tell him how his decision to pursue that lawsuit affected him what could that do to us.

Buck closes the gap between them and tries to justify why he did what he did and how he was feeling. Eddie arms cross, biting his lip, looking directly at Buck, listening. Buck admits to not wanting to hurt anyone while looking directly at Eddie.  Eddie quickly pointing out that Buck is too focused on himself and not the team.

Buck agrees with him and goes on to discuss how he was afraid of being left behind. Eddie seemingly understanding Bucks anger.  Buck asks for Eddie’s forgiveness. Eddie with zero hesitation forgives Buck. Buck seemly surprised and relieved by how quickly Eddie forgives him. There is this look in his eyes that I can only describe as desire, but not in a lustful way, it’s a wholesome look.

Let us take this moment to discuss how Eddie could not forgive Shannon, he struggled to forgive her, but easily forgave Buck.

Eddie warns him not to do it again and they give each other a hug. This hug is supposed to be big, but Eddie cuts the hug short with a slight groan. Buck is confused by Eddie pulling away. I was confused by Eddie pulling away, and then I realized he must be hurt from street fighting, because Eddie is readjusting himself.

Before Buck could process what was happening, Bobby approaches him, Eddie takes this moment to awkwardly get away.

Bobby wants to tell him something. He hesitates and instead sends him home early. Buck is not too happy about this.

Buck is at a gas station where he sees the man imbedded in a windshield. He goes into action and proceeds to rescue the woman and man who where obviously injured. He unknowingly cuts himself in the process and doesn’t realize it until a paramedic points it out to him.

Bobby goes to the hospital to see Buck. Buck is surprised to see Bobby. Bobby finally sees Buck is ready to be a firefighter. They go out for Breakfast. It feels like things will be getting back to normal.

Episode 7: Athena Begins

No Buddie. Amazing episode nonetheless. I teared up at the end of the episode. All the begins episodes are so emotional. I also think I tend to tear up the most in any Athena related emergencies.

[usmsgutterson]

Hey !! I’d like to request Jesper finding the reader in a depressive episode, like they‘ve been in bed all week, their room is a mess, they haven’t changed clothes, and their hair has started to become matted, something that’s more focused on the “gross” side of depression. Also I call the emoji alien emoji or pixel emoji :^) - 👾

Brighter Days- J.F x gn! reader

Okay, hi! This took me longer than I anticipated because I wrote relentlessly for three days straight and then was shocked when I fell into a bit of a writing slump and the exhaustion from the cold I've been dealing with for the past week or so finally got to me, so I'm sorry that writing this has taken me a bit.

Your other requests will probably come out closer to the end of the week if not the weekend, but yeah! Thank you for being so patient with me, it means a lot :)

Fic type- this is hurt/comfort with fluffy undertones

Warnings- jespers guns are mentioned, the reader is depicted exactly as requested, matting has started in their hair, their room is a mess. This is not an attempt to glorify depression on my end but rather a reminder that you don't have to suffer alone all the time, and if this romanticizes depression in anyway, I apologize and feel free to reach out and let me know so that I can make the necessary adjustments.

None of the crows had heard from you in weeks. It’d started when you’d turned down a job that you wouldn’t’ve, ordinarily. When you made up an excuse as to why you wouldn’t be able to do it and called it a day.

Then, when Jesper and the rest of the crows got home and Jesper didn’t find you on the bottom floor of the Slat, drinking a brandy or working behind the bar, regretting your having decided to skip out on the trip and the excellent money that came from it, he had the first idea that something could’ve been wrong. 

Even when you had nothing of real significance to do on the bottom floor of the Slat, you could always be found at a table in the corner, drinking your iced drink or alcohol of choice in the spring and summer, your hot drink of choice in the winter and fall. You’d always be reading, an oil lamp to illuminate your space placed onto the table at which you sat, the book you’d chosen sitting in the way you preferred as you read and occasionally annotated.

It’d been six weeks since Jesper had last seen you, and when he asked around, he found out that it’d been at least a week and a half since anyone had last seen you. 

You’d made a run to the shops while, according to Pim, looking fresh off a long cry, and nobody had seen you since you’d gotten back, a few bags with the essentials draped over your arms. 

Jesper immediately made it his prerogative to see if you were okay, and as he walked to your room on the third floor, some part of him wondered if the reason you hadn’t been seen was because you’d decided that Ketterdam was no longer your home and left, picked up a boat ticket or smuggled yourself on a cargo ship headed off somewhere like Ravka. 

“Y/N?” He asked, one hand ghosting the doorknob. You didn’t respond, and Jesper took hold of the doorknob anyway. He twisted it to the right, finding that it opened, the door having been unlocked.

Jesper stepped into the room carefully, taking it in as his eyes searched for yours in the darkened room, the only light having been the spring sun coasting in through the small window that sat near the ceiling. 

The room was a mess, trash and belongings alike scattered over the floor. You looked like you’d been crying, your hair beginning to mat in some spots. A dent had been made in your pillow where your head had rested most of the time, and Jesper had to wonder how long it’d been since you’d gotten out, stretched your legs and shook out the tension in your arms and back.

“Oh, you weren’t supposed to see me like this,” you said as you met his gaze. “I should’ve kept track of the days.”

“I would love you if we were stuck together in a dumpster,” Jesper said. “I can handle this, Y/N. Will you let me help?” 

“Jesper, no,” you said. “I can’t--you shouldn’t have to help me. I could barely get up for a week and a half. Let me clean up the mess when I’m the one who made it.”

“If I say no and I offer a kiss, what are my chances then?” He asked as you willed yourself to sit up, moving until your back was against the wall, your legs criss-cross on the bed. 

You hummed, pretending to think about it as you registered the dryness in your throat, the ache of your limbs and the exhaustion that you felt from having spent so long trying to fight your own mind. 

Four weeks, you’d managed, without slipping into the beginnings of a depressive episode. 

Week five came, you grabbed what you needed when you wanted to feel the sun against your skin and see if the vitamin D would be of any help. The depressive episode had begun in the middle of that week.

Week six donned on you and you could barely fathom the idea that you had to keep fighting against yourself to keep breathing, to keep blinking, to avoid just sinking into your mattress and ceasing to exist. 

“No,” you said, trying to bring an air of finality to your tone but finding that you just wanted to sink into your mattress and cease to exist. “No, Jesper.”

“I love you more than words can ever express properly,” Jesper said. “Which is why I’m going to spray one of my shirts with some of my cologne, get you a towel, and leave clothes by the shower. What I do while you're showering is my decision, and you don’t owe me anything for it. Does that work?” 

You sighed. “I know what it looks like when I’m being tricked, Fahey,” you said, though the shower was tempting, and you knew that you needed to brush your hair anyway. “But fine. And, for the record, I will be buying you whiskey at the Crow Club and coffee when we meet the others for breakfast at least until June. You’re the love of my life, and if you get to clean my room when I’m at my worst, I get to buy you coffee and whiskey.” 

Jesper hummed, stepping forward and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you,” he whispered before parting, heading to his room to grab one of his shirts, a towel, and a bottle of his cologne. 

You stood carefully, moved to your bathroom.

It was nothing more than a bathtub with a showerhead, a toilet and a basin with a mirror mounted to the wall above it, but the water worked and the temp was adjustable, a luxury that was ill afforded in the Barrel, and the mirror had never fallen off the wall and taken a piece of the wall with it, which wasn't something that many who were apart of the Barrel gangs and lived in their bases could say.

You turned on the water, made sure you had the soaps you needed, and stripped, stepping under the showerhead once the water had warmed up to your preference. You spent a long few minutes just standing under the water, feeling the warmth surround you as you pressed your forehead against the tiled walls. 

You registered, for the first time in a week and a half, it felt like you could breathe again. Breathing properly, breathing and acknowledging the weight of your lungs, the feeling of your skin and the heaviness of your heart, it was something you’d done over the past week and a half, something that had felt like a chore but in that moment felt like a blessing from the saints themselves. 

You washed up, stayed in the shower until your hands had pruned while trying to work out the beginnings of the mats that’d developed in your hair while it was soaked. 

When you stepped out, you found that Jesper had placed a towel atop the toilet seat, a pair of black cargo pants and a maroon Ketterdam University sweater beneath it.

You wrapped the towel around your body and found the comb that you’d used to detangle your hair in situations that were much like that one, used it until your hair was smooth, the mats that you’d begun ridding your hair of in the shower having smoothed out after a bit of fuss. 

You dried your hair off using the flip side of the towel and got dressed in the clothes Jesper had placed on the toilet seat, the distinct smell of his cologne combined with gun smoke from how frequently he'd used his revolvers meeting your nostrils as you pulled the sweater over your torso. 

You stepped out of the bathroom and back into your room as Jesper handed a garbage bag off to Matthias and another to Wylan.

“Hey,” you whispered into the open air.

“Hey love,” Jesper said, turning to you with a grin on his face. “How’re you feeling?” 

“Better than I did two hours ago,” you responded. “I still feel like shit and I’m convinced I’ll remain in this perpetual state of exhaustion forever, but thank you for all that you’ve done for me.” 

“You would’ve done the same,” Jesper said. “I’ve got your six, love. Even when you’re at your worst.” 

You stepped forward, pulling Jesper into a tight hug at that. You pulled away after a few minutes, let him press another kiss to your forehead before pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

Nothing was fixed, really. You still felt like shit and you knew that it would last at least another few weeks as depressive episodes always did, but you had people, you had at least one person, who cared enough to help you and love you even when he’d walked into your room and found it looking a mess. That, in that moment, was all you cared to think about, in the arms of the guy you loved with knowledge that brighter days were ahead. 

[ridiculoussquid]

A King is a King

A White Calf gift for @babe-bombadil for the @whiteoliphaunt Exchange 2023! Happy New Year!

Rating: G

Characters: Thorin, Fíli, Kíli, Dís

Length: 1279

Warnings: None

Summary: Thorin tells his nephews a bedtime story about the Elvenking despite Dís advising him not to. He is less than thrilled with the consequences…

This is also on AO3, in case you prefer to read it there:

“Are you sure they are old enough for this kind of story?” Dís asked quietly. “I don’t want the boys to get nightmares.”

“I’m no longer a baby!” Fíli protested. “Of course I’m old enough to hear it!”

“So am I!” Kíli exclaimed, scared to be left out. “I can even tie my own boot laces!”

Dís raised an eyebrow, remembering how she had needed nearly half an hour today to get him out of his boots due to his completely knotted and tangled shoelaces.

“I’m sure they’re old enough for this story,” Thorin said. “And they do need to hear about certain things sooner or later.”

“Fine, if you are sure. But you will be the one to make them hot milk and sit with them if they do get nightmares. And from now on, you will be in charge of assisting Kíli with his boots if he needs help.”

“I won’t need help!” Kíli insisted.

“Alright, it’s a deal,” Thorin said solemnly, extending his hand pompously.

Dís rolled her eyes but shook it.

“Can we hear the story now?” Fíli asked, bouncing his leg and braiding the edge of his blanket.

“Of course,” Thorin said, settling down on a chair between the beds of his nephews.

“A long, long time ago, when the mountains were younger, the moon was brighter and the kingdom of the Lonely Mountain thrived, there lived an evil Elvenking in a dark forest. He was ancient, and he thought himself wise and just, but the truth was that he was cruel and thought only of his own advantage.”

The candle flickered, bathing the room in warm light. Thorin enjoyed watching the emotions flicker across his nephews’ enraptured faces as he told the story.

A few days later, Thorin returned from the forge, his feet crunching as he walked through the thick snow that was still falling. As he approached their dwelling, he heard the sound of his nephews discussing something in terse murmurs, a sure sign that they were about to start arguing.

“I’m older, I get to decide!” Fíli was saying.

“Get to decide what?” Thorin asked, stepping through the gate.

“Uncle Thorin!” Kíli came running and threw his arms around Thorin.

“You’re back!” Fíli said, hopping down from a boulder that lay close to the entrance to their dwelling.

“I am indeed. And maybe I can help you settle whatever you were discussing.”

Fíli looked sceptical before his face lit up. “You can play him! You’re the tallest person in the settlement!”

Kíli nodded. “Yes! The tallest person in the entire Blue Mountains! And then I won’t have to play him.”

“Who do I have to play?” Thorin asked, rather amused at being able to solve the whole affair so easily.

“The evil Elvenking!” Kíli crowed. “We’re going to play the story you told us!”

Thorin choked on his own spit. “Or I could play… I don’t know… King Thrór? Or perhaps a dwarven warrior… or a man from Dale.”

“No, I’m going to play King Thrór. We need someone to play the Elvenking,” Fíli said.

“And I’m King Girion!”

“We could play something different,” Thorin tried to suggest. “Perhaps how Durin led the first dwarves into battle?”

The dwarflings both groaned.

“We play that all the time!” Kíli protested.

“We want to play the new story!” Fíli said.

Thorin looked longingly at the door to the dwelling and was surprised to see Dís standing there.

“Look, there’s your Amad! We should probably help her get dinner ready.”

Dís shook her head. “Don’t worry about that, the stew just has to simmer a while longer. You go ahead and play.”

“But perhaps I could watch the stew, and you join your sons,” Thorin attempted desperately.

Kíli looked his mother up and down sceptically. “No. She doesn’t fit.”

Fíli nodded. “Amad isn’t elf-like enough.”

“But I am?!”

Fíli nodded earnestly. “You’re tall. And fairly skinny, for a grown-up. You have less beard than Amad too. You’ll make a great Elvenking!”

Thorin spluttered.

“I told you not to tell them that story. Now you get to deal with the consequences,” Dís said in a far sweeter tone than the words merited. “Have fun!”

Thorin sighed, accepting his fate. “So, what do I have to do?”

 “You need a crown!” Fíli decided.

“Yes! The leaf crown!” Kíli agreed.

They hurried to gather some oak twigs that still had the brown autumn leaves attached, and Thorin showed them how to braid them into a crown. Soon, Thorin had two leaf crowns sitting upon his head, adorned with additional leaves stuck in where the twigs were too sparse where leaves had fallen off while being braided.

“Now you’re a very pretty Elvenking!” Kíli proclaimed. “And you can fight us.”

“He needs something to ride on first,” Fíli realized.

“We could get one of the goats from the stable,” Kíli pondered.

“I doubt they would enjoy that,” Thorin interjected. “They aren’t battle goats, they’re milk goats.”

“We could build a snow oliphaunt for you.”

“The Elvenking rides an elk, not an oliphaunt,” Fíli said.

“It was an elk,” Thorin agreed. “But building it out of snow is a great idea, Kili. We could use this boulder as the body, then we don’t have to build as much and I can sit on it.”

Thorin showed them how to roll the snow into balls and helped them push them towards the boulder. He kept having to set his crowns back onto his head since they had a tendency of slipping down. Together, they shaped the head and an awkward approximation of the legs. And if the elk was indistinguishable from an oliphaunt in the end, well, it was the process that counted.

Fíli found Thorin a long stick that doubled as both sceptre and sword. Then, Thorin had to mount his white oliphaunt-elk and declare war on all dwarves that had ever lived.

The improvised sword-fighting that followed soon turned into a full-blown snowball fight, which in turn developed into wrestling in the snow. Alliances were forgotten, leaf crowns fell off, braids unravelled and dwarflings giggled.

Thorin suspected that Dís had already been watching them for a long time before she called them in for dinner with a grin on her face.

It took Thorin quite a while to undo Kíli’s snow-caked shoelaces and wrestle off his boots, but even that only dampened the floor and not their moods.

Thorin woke up with a start. He was drenched with sweat, and he could still smell the flames and see the Elvenking’s sneering face in front of his eyes.

He took a deep breath, sat up and lit a candle. Dís was right. He really shouldn’t have told his nephews that story.

Tiptoeing as quietly as possible, Thorin made his way to the door to his nephews’ room. Fíli was sleeping deep and peacefully. Kíli on the other hand was twitching in his sleep. Thorin was worried for a moment.

“Got you,” Kíli mumbled in his sleep and giggled.

Thorin smiled. It seemed his nephews were made of harder stuff than he was.

“Is everything alright?” Dís asked quietly behind him.

“I had a nightmare, that’s all. Everything is fine with the boys.”

“I told you not to tell that story,” Dís said with a wry grin. “I said I wouldn’t be heating up any milk, but I’ll keep you company while you do so yourself.”

Thorin grinned. “My sister is always a woman of principles, isn’t she?”

Dís gave his shoulder a light shove. “You’re lucky to have me.”

Thorin followed her into the kitchen and silently agreed. He really was lucky to have her and his nephews.

[ahamkara-apologist]

personally a big fan of the one piece rule of scars; scars only happen when the injury has some sort of impact. getting slashed by a hive knight is just an injury, but being slashed by a hive knight while you protect someone is gonna leave a scar yknow

Never heard of that fanon! I do love the concept, though- anything where the Light is this deeply-entrenched thing that affects a Lightbearer's body beyond just giving them powers is super fucking cool to me. And that bit of fanon gains an even tastier edge with Crow, since so much of what he had to deal with at Spider's hands would have been about breaking and humiliating him- VERY fun idea to think of Glint trying to heal wounds that simply refuse to close properly, no matter how much Light he pours into them, and of Crow being ashamed that those marks linger on him despite how badly he wants them gone. You can't tell me that Spider didn't have him branded in some way, or at least just had him carved up enough that eventually things stopped getting put back together properly/

Continuing on that concept, I also like the idea of scars not fading until the original trauma starts to heal over as well, though I'm torn on if they should completely fade or not. I feel like it's the Light's desire to erase pain, but that its incapable of doing so fully, because that memory will always be there in some way- the Darkness inherent to life. It's something that I play around with in my own guardians- Aeris and Marcie, for example, have a predisposition towards Stasis and Solar because they slowly froze to death before they were risen, and that had a profound enough impact on their genes via stress-based epigenetic expression that when their ghosts found their bodies and rezzed them, that fear of deadly cold lingered on within them.

Personally, I'm still leaning towards wounds that started healing + wounds inflicted by a paracausal source to be a source of scarring, but I'm also gonna tuck this concept away for potential use later. Maybe mental trauma impedes their Light as it knits them back together- they may be trying to actively seal the injury, but a subconscious barricade stalls it. Lots of whump potential there!

[toastswritingprojects]

Kat-2 and Toast

Crow walked around the pale heart, wandering aimlessly and processing thoughts about everything happening at the moment. The Witness still loomed over, threatening everyone's existence while we all figured out prismatic. Zavala losing his ghost is still tough to think about, be he's learning stasis pretty quickly. Cayde's voice drifts around a corner, the light from a campfire peaking around the corner. He's clearing talking to someone, but who, Crow was not sure. Crow peeked around the corner, a rather colorful warlock sat across from him, her ghost hidden. She seemed to be talking to Cayde, but Crow couldn't hear her voice. Suddenly she turned her head and saw that Crow was standing there awkwardly, she stood up, shook Cayde's hand, and transmatted away, her ship nowhere in sight. Cayde waved Crow over, gesturing to him to sit where the guardian was. "Who was that?" Crow asked, sitting down hesitantly. "Oh, have you never seen her before?" "I haven't... at least I don't think so." Crow looks around, then looks at the swirling sky. "I thought there was only 5 of us here, how did she get here?" Cayde laughs, "I wish I knew, she just sort of shows up sometimes. Her name is Kat by the way, well sort of, no one actually knows her name but everyone just calls her that." "Kat... never heard of her." "Most haven't, she's pretty mysterious! Here let me tell you about her, she quite the... interesting individual."

"A long time ago, way before I, well, died, I met her while she was traveling to The Tower. This was before she was a guardian actually, she was very quiet, but very helpful when dealing with the fallen. Sadly she was hit by a Warsat while we were travelling one day, no one was supposed to be where we were so we weren't notified of the Warsat, hit both of us too. She didn't have a ghost so she was just... gone." Crow sits up, raising his hand, "Then how was she just here?" Cayde stokes the flame, "I'm getting to that. I realized we were right next to one my hidden stashes, so I grabbed her things and threw them in there. I dealt with the Warsat and the fallen, and then... left. About a week later I was back in that area and I decided to check in on the Warsat. I knew it was deactivated but... I just felt like I needed to see it. Well... to my surprise, it wasn't there, nor was Kat's body. My gut reaction was to go to my stash, and wouldn't you know it, there she was." Crow stands, walking around the fire, "So you met her, she was killed by a random Warsat, then you went back by chance and she was not only hiding in your stash but was also a guardian now." Cayde laughs and stands, "Yup, you got that right. Here walk with me."

As they walked around the random twists and turns of the pale heart Cayde pointed to random ledges, corners, small caves, basically just small spots with either a good view or comfy sitting spot. "She loves these spots. If I had a thousand glimmer for every time my fire team was exploring a new, or even hostile area, and she was just sitting on some random ledge looking at the view and talking to her ghost, I would be more than rich." Crow laughed, he vaguely remembers seeing a mysterious figure sitting in random places. Everywhere from The Tower to the Vex Network. "I think I've seen her before then." "Wouldn't be surprised!" Cayde laughs, "If you ever tried to go talk to her though I bet you know she was never there." Crow thinks about it, he realizes that he's never seen her outside of these spots. "Sounds like she's a hunter... Lone wolf type right? Kind of weird for a warlock, but that's what happen when your friends with The Cayde-6 right?" Cayde laughs, peering over a water fall and watching the Hive wander around down below. "See that's what's weird... She was a hunter right off the bat, I even taught her. Apparently a little while after I died she had a weird run in with the Vex Network. She saw herself in the future a noticed that something was off. In every Vex future, she and her ghost, Toast, died, other than one. One where she was a warlock, so, she decided to become a warlock. I didn't know this was possible but apparently she got Ikora to teach her." Crow stopped. He had a weird feeling that he was being watched, something felt very off. He looked around, slowly drawing Hawkmoon. Cayde felt this too, but he had felt this before and so he put his hands on his hips and waited for Crow to notice. A small 'ding!' came from a ledge above, Crow turned around quickly, drew, and fired a single shot. He looked up to see Kat sitting on the ledge, holding a coin with a bullet hole in it. Kat pocketed the coin, pulled out another one, and with another 'ding!' tossed the coin down to Crow. He caught it and inspected the coin, the names Kat and Toast were engraved on one side, a picture of a cat on the other side. Suddenly strand energy came from above, latched onto the coin, and then pulled it straight into Kat's hand. Cayde chuckled, "That's Kat alright."

The witness had just fallen, Cayde was gone again. Crow had just taken up a spot in the tower and Hunters had started to show up for advice and community. Crow finally got a chance to sit down on a small ledge on the side of the tower, it was a long day of helping hunters out after all. He sat, watching the sun set over the last city. He felt something bump his leg, and upon turning to his right, there Kat was, just sitting there silently. Crow jumped a little, nearly falling off the tower. Kat just stared off into the Last City while Crow got comfortable on the ledge again. "Where did you come from? How did you find me here?" Kat just shrugged. After a few minutes Kat pulled a coin out of her pocket and gave it to him, it was the same engraved coin from earlier, but this time with information on how to contact her. He looked at her and she was gone.