#(actually none of the crows are but that's a conversation for another time)

[timesomewhere]

WYLAN SAYING 'WE COULD WAKE THEM UP' SHOWS HIS PRACTICALITY NOT HIS RUTHLESSNESS. WYLAN SAYING 'WE COULD WAKE THEM UP' SHOWS HIS PRACTICALITY NOT HIS RUTHLESSNESS. WYLAN SAYING 'WE COULD WAKE THEM UP' SHOWS HIS PRACTICALITY NOT HIS RUTHLESSNESS. WYLAN SAYING 'WE COULD WAKE THEM UP' SHOWS HIS PRACTICALITY NOT HIS RUTHLESSNESS. WYLAN SAYING 'WE COULD WAKE THEM UP' SHOWS HIS PRACTICALITY NOT HIS RUTHLESSNESS. WYLAN SAYING 'WE COULD WAKE THEM UP' SHOWS HIS PRACTICALITY NOT HIS RUTHLESSNESS. WYLAN SAYING 'WE COULD WAKE THEM UP' SHOWS HIS PRACTICALITY NOT HIS RUTHLESSNESS. WYLAN SAYING 'WE COULD WAKE THEM UP' SHOWS HIS PRACTICALITY NOT HIS RUTHL- *I am shoved into a government car*

[bidisastersanji]

Was thinking about French gendered terms and Zoro trying to suss out if Sanji’s into men and I had some thoughts and oops now i wrote a thing so here you go:

In the early days Zoro drives himself nuts trying to figure out if Sanji bats for his team too or not. He listens in intently whenever the conversation steers the cook towards talk of his past dalliances, but, just his luck, none of the words used indicate their gender. And there ain’t no fucking way in hell he’s asking him or anyone on the crew directly, lest they immediately understand how bad he has it for the stupid cook.

He bides his time, surely someday he’ll slip up and mention something about the people he’s slept with, right? And sure enough one day, at a feast, a drunken Usopp starts asking what people’s types are. His face still schooled into a nonchalant, neutral expression, he does his best to hide how desperately he waits for Sanji to speak up about his type, only to once again be met with more general terms about people- someone with a kind heart, dependable, an equal… he’s so concentrated on trying to pick out any gendered terms he doesn’t notice the weird look Nami throws his way at each new descriptor in Sanji’s list of desirable traits.

He’s always known Sanji speaks French, finding it endearing whenever the cook curses (even at him), whenever he goes into small little rants to himself, or the face he makes when he can only think of a word in French, rapidly snapping his fingers until it comes back to him. But it’s only when they get to a town where Sanji starts speaking to a vendor excitedly about his produce that he realizes just how much this thing, this endearing thing that’s always been there, truly affects him, and his face burns at how different the cook’s voice sounds when he actually speaks it, how enchantingly low and throaty the foreign syllables ring in his ears.

Attached to living another day, he decides that stealing a book from Robin is a bad idea, and resigns himself to ask her directly for a favour. He swallows his pride and asks if she can lend him a French learning book and a dictionary, curious as to whether he can learn it a bit, and understand whatever the hell Sanji keeps cursing and muttering about around him, and what kinds of insults he’s been throwing his way. With her ever mysterious smile plastered on her face, a chain of Robin’s arms retrieve two books from her library and hand them to him. “Do come to me if you have any questions, Mr. Swordsman. My French is pretty good if I do say so myself.”

He’s out of the room, red as a beet, before she even finishes that sentence.

Learning the curse words comes to him unsurprisingly quickly given how often he hears a litany of « putain de merde », « fait chier! » and « enfoiré! » spilling from the blonde’s distracting mouth.

He’s very happily surprised when he learns that French is apparently a heavily gendered language- and that he can glean someone’s gender just from whether the adjectives applied to the subject are masculine or feminine. Now if the stars aligned and the cook would talk about his love life in French…

Zoro starts by going through the basic first chapters, taking great pains to hide and quickly dissimulate it in his haramaki anytime someone walks in on him- especially the witch. It definitely changes his usual routine on his watch in the crows nest, he muses to himself.

Weeks, months pass, and he advances further in the lessons, his vocabulary slowly growing, while he often goes to his dictionary for the more… colorful insults Sanji throws his way. He never says a word of French himself, not knowing how he could even justify knowing any without looking suspicious, and pretty sure his pronunciation would be way off anyways. But he starts to really enjoy it, being able to understand even a tenth of the things Sanji thinks he can say without the crew (save Robin) understanding.

And then Saobaody happens. And now he doesn't have time to think about learning French, not if he wants to get strong enough. Not if he wants to protect his crew.

He's at the table with Mihawk and Perona when his mentor asks for the salt (Passez moi le sel, s'il vous plait), and he executes himself without thinking. A quiet settles over the room and he looks up to see those intense red eyes boring into him, unnerving as ever.

"You speak French?"

"Not really," he grumbles, not wanting more excuses to think of the shitty cook, and his shitty cooking, and his stupid curly brow.

"Then you will. Consider this a natural continuation of my trying to beat some manners into your brutish mind."

Two years later, and he can't wait for dartbrow to show up. His pronunciation may still be shit, but he can't wait to use his newfound skill to his advantage.

With his now solidified grasp of the language, he slowly begins to understand that what he at first though was a mistake on his part- that he must’ve missed a part of a sentence, or mixed up some words- was not an error at all. It turns out, some of the French things that Sanji yells at him aren’t insults at all.

In fact… they’re sometimes downright complimentary.

And that's definitely a problem for Zoro, who now not only needs to keep pretending that he doesn’t know what Sanji is saying, but needs to pretend he doesn’t understand it when Sanji screams at him that he has a “stupidly pretty face” or that his “tits are even bigger than Nami’s and how is that even fair” . He doesn't know what to make of it.

And then one day… the stars align.

It’s another post battle party, and the cook has been drinking a bit more than usual, a tightly gripped glass of wine in his left hand, a cigarette in his right. Zoro is nursing his very own barrel of Ale when he hears the conversation turn to more gossipy topics, as it usually does the further into the night they are.

“Chopper was really into that nurse on Zou, wasn’t he?” Usopp starts to poke fun at the crew’s youngest member, laughing as the reindeer turns all red and tries to deny it.

“I mean it makes sense that she’d be his type! Right Nami?”

Nami nods at him, grinning wickedly. “Yeah, not all of us can be into rich little blonde girls can we?”

“You’re right, some of us are into rich blue-haired princesses,” he shoots back.

"At least I had the balls to do something about it before I left her island-"

Zoro is already tuning them out when Sanji sits down next to Robin just a few feet away, across from him and the campfire, his tongue loosened from a few too many refills and unconsciously reverting to his native tongue.

"Ils ont de la chance, ces deux là." he gestures to Usopp and Nami. (They're lucky, these two.)

Robin smiles at the cook, wordlessly prompting him to continue his thoughts.

"Qu'est ce que je donnerais pour pouvoir avoir quelque chose de plus qu'un coup d'un soir." Sanji sighs wistfully, lighting his cigarette. (What I wouldn't give to have something more than a one night stand.")

Robin chuckles. "Ne sont-ils pas satisfaisants?" (Are they not satisfying?)

At this point Zoro has tuned everything out, intensely focused on hearing what the blonde has to say, and not at all feeling a small churn of jealousy in his stomach for whoever shared Sanji's bed. His heart initially skips a beat at the plural masculine pronoun ('ils') used by Robin before remembering its actual neutrality in this context, as it's referring to the ""one night stands", a masculine word. Damnit. French is so dumb.

"Tu sais bien que je ne dirais jamais de mal à propos des belles demoiselles qui ont bien voulu m'accorder ne serait-ce qu'un baiser ou une étreinte. J'ai de la chance rien que d'avoir pu exister en leur présence."

(You very well know I'd never say a bad word about any of the beautiful ladies who've been kind enough to give me even a kiss or an embrace. I'm lucky just to have existed in their presence.)

Zoro feels his heart drop, a heavy feeling settling in his stomach. He's always known the pervert cook has been into women. Why was this confirmation hitting him the way it was? His eye darts up at his two crewmates, confirming that only Robin has noticed his eavesdropping. She opens her mouth to say something but Sanji continues, the glow of the flames dancing against his flushed skin beautifully.

"Et dans mon état normal tu sais que, par respect pour les sensibilités d'une dame, je ne te divulge pas beaucoup de détails sur ceux qui font l'affaire le temps d'une nuit. "

(And in my normal state you know that, out of respect for a lady's sensibilities, I don't divulge many details about those who do the trick for a night.)

Ceux. That's a masculine word for "those", isn't it? Zoro shakily takes another sip of his drink.

The archeologist's smile widens. "Oh, ne te fait pas de soucis pour mes sensibilités. Je brûle d'envie d'en savoir plus, et ne m'épargne pas les détails..."

(Oh, please don't worry about my sensibilities. I'm burning to know more, and don't spare me the details...)

"Je ne suis que ton humble serviteur...si ça peut te faire plaisir" (I'm but your humble servant…if it pleases you). Sanji's cheeks seem a tad more flushed than before. "En vrai ce n'est pas qu'ils ne sont pas satisfaisants...c'est qu'il ne sont jamais... assez."

(It's not that they're not satisfying…it's that they're never...enough.)

"Ah? Et que recherches tu? Qu'est ce qui serait..."assez"?"

(Ah? And what are you looking for? What would be… "enough"?)

The cook exhales another cloud of smoke, and nervously looks around. His eyes settle on Zoro, and indecision flits across his eyes for a second before continuing. Zoro can feel his gaze, can almost make out the deliciously unfocused expression on the blonde's face in his peripheral vision as he continues speaking French. His heart feels like it might beat out of his ribcage.

"Lui." (Him.)

Zoro forgets how to breathe.

Part 2 up now , and part 3 part 4

[placeinthemiddleofnowhere]

Reign down on me - Part 6

Pairing: Ghost x Hybrid!reader (eventual poly!141)

No use of y/n or mention of gender/race

Summary: Reader is a wolf hybrid in a world that treats them like second class citizens, given a horrible start in life after being thrown into the military with no preparation. After years of struggle, they're finally taken away from their base by Ghost, now a permanent member of taskforce 141 reader struggles to come to terms with the fact that perhaps there's a life there for them - if only they reach out and accept it.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, Angst, abuse mentions, self doubt, violent scenes

A/N: Hi, helooooo! Sorry for the long update times, my life has been super hectic. So this chapter didn't go where I thought it would end up going, so there's some things I think I said I was gonna explore that will be in the next chapter instead. However I hope you enjoy this one 💕 thanks for waiting

-🐺-

There was a quiet hum pulsing through the room, the buzz of everyone around you tending to their own conversations and hoppy drinks which allowed you to relax and attempt to tune out the busy environment. After another successful mission, the 141 wanted to unwind- which apparently meant going to the pub for drinks, darts and, according to them, mediocre grub. Although after dining fine on MRE’s for the majority of your life, you had to disagree. That sausage and mash was the some of the best you’d tried. 

Ghost had forced you to change into some civvies before you’d left, which meant doing another embarrassing repeat of the shopping experience hed’d taken you out on. You still weren’t convinced you were able to put together a good outfit, fussing and trying a few different combinations of things, but once Ghost had looked you up and down and given you a nod of approval you’d relaxed.

When you’d all gotten to the pub and you’d seen that less people stared at you while in your new attire, you were soon thankful for the change. A hybrid in military gear drew attention, it probably made people think the area was being worked, but a casually dressed and collared hybrid was apparently nothing to get too concerned about. Huh.

Once you’d pressed yourself to the back of the booth, you barely worried about being out in public anymore. The world was the confines of the table, the edge of it stretching no further than your now trusted teammates. That became all the more true after you were offered a drink and then another and another. Once the buzz had started, the last of your lingering anxieties around being out floated to the back of your mind and disappeared like smoke. None of the other patrons were even a blip in the back of your fuzzy little head. 

“So Pup, what’d you reckon?” Gaz asked, spinning his pint glass around in his hand. “‘Nother drink?”

How many were you actually allowed, you wondered, you’d already had a few. When you turned to Ghost to try and gauge your answer, he was too busy talking in hushed tones to Soap, so instead you employed your backup. Price smiled wryly the second you clocked eyes with him across the table. 

“Like most things, Pup, this ain’t a test,” Price chuckled. “You know your own tolerance don’t you?”

“You think I’ve done a lot of drinking before?” You asked back, innocently dodging his question.

You twiddled with your own glass, rolling it between your palms and watching the dregs inside twirl. Bubbles of the beer still continued to fizzle across your palette even as you watched it dance below you. The hypnotic show only served to further make you aware of the hazy sheen across your eyes, and you were sure that if you stood up you’d probably feel like you were walking on foamy clouds. 

You’d have to be careful. Wouldn’t do to overindulge, you tried to remind yourself. Though that voice was quiet compared to the euphoric beast in you that cried out for more, that wanted to keep going until you forgot about every sordid thought in your head as easily as you forgot about how uncomfortable crowds made you. 

“Well you sunk those pretty quickly,” Gaz said, motioning his glass toward you.

“Not to mention Branhaven has one of the highest rates of contraband seizure for a UK base,” Price noted, finishing the last of his drink. “Reckon you’ve probably indulged a time or two, no?”

You couldn’t conceal your smile. Though your ears soon pinned to your head, realising that the implication that you were engaging in illegal behaviour was floated out wide in the open. It was true, hybrids would often do chores or other kinds of favours for human soldiers in exchange for goods, which often meant working for booze or cigarettes or stronger stuff on occasion. You’d been more than happy to help with boot polishing and patch sewing on an occasion or two. Some nights it helped with the pain, on others it just kept you from going mad.

“Don’t worry, we won’t tell anyone your secrets,” Gaz winked. “I’ll go get us another round.”

You bit your lip and nodded, watching as he made his way over to the busy bar, casually floating around a group of men before seizing an opportunity to break through to the oderous wood top. Once at the counter, he folded his arms over it and leaned his body out ever so slightly, his hips angling back toward the table. 

It was hard to tell if it was entirely the drink, but as you watched him, you found yourself really looking what you saw. Gaz was a well built man, lean and proportioned well, but it was his face that your eyes were stuck on. He looked good that night, his smiles came easy, the full ones that showed his fang-like teeth. They glinted in the soft light when he turned around to say something to the man next to him, shining like pearls. His shoulders were relaxed, back untensed, his body shook with laughter when the other man made a joke. 

Truth be told you couldn’t be sure how long you stared after him, but it was safe to say your roving eyes didn’t go unnoticed. 

“See somethin’ you like over there?” Price asked, jerking his head back to the Sergeant. 

You blinked slowly. Your head felt like it was rushing with syrup, getting flustered but too tipsy to respond with anything smart.

“What?” 

“You’re lookin’ awfully hard is all,” he shrugged. 

The room felt like it heated a few degrees. In an effort to not meet that crinkly eyed grin of your captain, your gaze floated along the arm hed slung over the back of Gaz's chair. However, that only gave you more problems. You immediately imagined him slinging that arm over you, holding you close and sharing his heady body heat. Smelling his scent, bathing him in yours.  

It’s happening again! 

Your ears perked up like lightning rods when you realised that some baser part of your nature was taking over yet another time that week. The feral little creature that usually kicked around somewhere in your hindbrain was clawing its way to the forefront. Now you were practically panting after half your team. You needed to get a hold of yourself, you reasoned,  surely you weren’t going to give into whatever random desires you were getting for closeness. Stupid Pack bond - or whatever it was that Ghost had chalked it up to. 

“I, uh- there’s pool over there,” you shrugged lamely, gesturing to the tables just off to Gaz’s right. 

Someone managed to pot a ball not long after you’d said it. Your ears tilted toward the sound, then swivelled again when you heard Gaz’s familiar huffs and puffs of effort. He was now stepping toward you with a trayful of glasses, clenching his teeth whenever he came close to spilling or bumping into someone, walking ever slower with the wobbling glasses as he realised how precariously they were balanced. His muscles bulged a little with the effort. 

Price caught your stupid staring again, but he didn’t say anything about it this time. His eyes just narrowed knowingly at you, not with accusation but with concealed humour. You could tell by the subtle pull of his lip. 

“Gazzy. You up for a game?” Price barked.

“Depends, what are we playing?” Gaz asked, raising a brow as he snatched his pint.

He took a sip of it, coating his upper lip in a little sheen of foam. He licked it off in short order. 

“The wolf wants to play pool,” Price said. 

Price once again interrupted your brain fog from taking over. Knowing full well that he would be wearing that same stupid ‘I know what you’re thinking’ look on his face, you looked up at Gaz and reached out for your own drink. That one had to be your last before - god forbid - you were left drooling over anyone else. 

“Oh yeah? You a secret pool master?” Gaz asked. 

“Oh…no,” you clarified, awkwardly swallowing a gulp of beer. “I’ve watched it being played enough times though. I always wanted to try it.” 

You’d never actually been that bothered about it, you preferred to blend in rather than get caught in competition, especially when it came to games with humans. However as far as any of them were concerned, it was your life’s dream. Anything, as long as it stopped anyone from thinking that you were obsessed with your teammate. 

“You wanna pair up with me then? Reckon you should be on the winning team for your first game.”

“Pfft, winning team? Sure that’s with you, son?” Price scoffed.

“Beat you last time didn’t I, old man?”

“Fuck off.”

Price took a dramatic gulp of his beer then loudly pushed off from the booth, marching toward the pool table as if it were a mission objective. You laughed noiselessly to yourself, but soon had to stop yourself from choking on your own drink when the little demon inside you commented on how nice his big broad shoulders were, perfect for holding you close.

How were you going to survive the night?  

You looked back over at Ghost to try and regain some sense of composure only to see that Soap was shuffling along the bench to leave and your handler was about to follow him. Giving him a slight head tilt in question, you wondered where they were going. To which, Ghost answered by pulling you in close, wrapping his arm around you and leaving you practically choking on his forearm for a second, before he released you with a messy pat on the head.

“We’re goin’ for a smoke,” he chuckled, watching your annoyed glare with amusement while you fixed your hair. “Be good while I’m gone.”

The smile lines broke out under his eyes, and for a ditzy second all you could do was stare. All thoughts of telling him off left your mind, instead you were stuck looking above his face mask, drinking in the glittering pools of his irises and the blush tinged tops of his cheeks. Your tail wagged traitorously when he continued to stare back.

“What?” he huffed, smile still not leaving his eyes.

Your entire body flamed at being caught this time. 

“Nothing,” you shrugged, shrinking back into the chair.

You hoped that the chair would swallow you. 

“Silly thing.”

Ghost gave you a scratch behind the ears then finally slid off to join Soap. However, you weren’t left alone to your own self-deprecating thoughts. Gaz was watching you, his lips curving in amusement. He started to twirl his glass again, spinning it around on it’s axis. 

“So how do you like being with the 141 so far then?” 

The question caught you off guard, but you had to admit it was a welcome distraction. You unpinned your ears from your shameful, burning head and relaxed once more. 

“I like it,” you said simply. 

“Oh yeah? How’s staying with Ghost?”

“Oh uh, Ghost is nice. It’s been cool having my own room,” you said, smiling as you thought about your big comfy bed. “He’s been really good to me.”

Gaz snorted out a laugh before he could stop himself. 

“What?” You glared. “What’s so funny?”

“Nice isn’t the first word I’d use to describe Ghost, but….” He shrugged. 

“Ghost is nice though,” you frowned, body growing tense at the hint of any accusations of the contrary. 

“Sure, when he’s not telling awful jokes or burning holes into your head with that stare he has,” Gaz laughed, outstretching his hands and wiggling his fingers. “I’m from Manchester and I’m gonna steal your soul with me spooky eyes.” 

You giggled at his terrible impression, back unfurling from its defensive hunch, then hit his hands away playfully. Normally you would’ve worried about the repercussions of doing something like that to a superior, but the drink was still buzzing through your head and if that weren’t enough Gaz’s smile shone brightly back at you. 

“Ghost isn’t spooky,” you affirmed.

“Seriously? Next you’ll tell me that you don’t live in a big haunted castle together.”

“We don’t!” You laughed.

“I bet it has skeleton decorations everywhere. Skull pillows and skeleton paintings, table and chair legs shaped into bones.”

“No!”

“Really? Damn, the man isn’t as predictable as I thought…but honestly tell me. Does he have little skeleton jammies? You can’t seriously tell me that he doesn’t keep the skull look going when he gets home. He probably sits and watches Netflix with his skull top and bottoms and skeleton cuddly toy and skeleton sockies. No? Genuinely?”

You only continued to laugh and shake your head, denying his silly accusations. Gaz smiled back at you, shifting his eyes over you as if he were cataloguing every sign of your delight. 

“Oi, time for hilarities is over,” Price said, appearing through the parting crowds. “get ready to get your arses handed to ya. I got us a table”

“You sound awfully confident, Captain,” Gaz said, scraping his chair across the rough floors. 

“Because I’m not drunk this time.”

“Don’t need you to be drunk to beat you. Got Pup on my team, we can’t lose.”

-🐺-

“Maybe I should sit this one out,” you murmured, flinching as the cue white ball barely even tapped the yellow ball that you were trying to hit. 

Your ears pinned low to your head and your temperature grew as you looked up and down the table and failed to see how you were going to pot even a single ball at the rate you were going. When you’d watched the game being played in the past, you’d assumed it was easy, but apparently the human soldiers were just skilled at it.

Your failure was made all the worse by the fact that Gaz and Price had very dutifully stood and explained the rules and how to use the pool cue when the game had begun. In fact Price had been so thorough on his explanation it prompted Gaz to assert once again that you were going to beat his arse easy. However…

You had taken two attempts and in that time had only nudged that mockingly cheerful yellow ball once. The first attempt where you almost missed even hitting the cue ball altogether didn’t bear thinking about. Meanwhile Price had already potted four. You chewed your lip, hoping Gaz wouldn’t be too annoyed that his tutoring was apparently falling on deaf ears.

“Aw, don’t worry Pup. You’ll get it,” Price chuckled.

“Yeah, don’t sweat it. It’s your first game!” Gaz reassured

He leaned over then and zeroed in on a striped orange ball, setting his cue across the back of his roughened hand and sawing it back and forth like a wary snake. He’d taken off his brown trucker jacket at the beginning of the match, so now his arms were out in full display, practically suffocating inside the short sleeves he wore and bursting to get out. Your eyes grazed along the cue and danced between the thick hairs on the backs of his forearms and up to his biceps, mesmerised by the shifting muscle. 

You missed seeing him finally hit the cue ball, but your ears twitched at the sound and your heart sunk when you both saw and heard the resulting ‘plonk’ of the orange stripe rolling merrily into its pocket. You were so screwed. 

“Gonna hold back on making eyesight jokes now, Garrick?” Price questioned, already lining up his next shot.

“Only if you manage to get that blue,” Gaz winked, pointing to a ball that sat nowhere near the cueball. 

“Easy, I’ll just hit the ball off the side, let it bank left and then it’ll roll into the pocket,” he grinned.

“Oh yeah, easy,” Gaz scoffed, nudging you with his shoulder. “Watch this, Pup. Captain’s about to embarrass ‘imself.” 

“Oi. Keep your shit opinions to yourself!”

Gaz rolled his eyes, but nevertheless the two of you watched in concentrated silence as Price actually started to line up the shot he called. After a few tense seconds of watching him adjust and readjust once more he took a breath then whacked the ball with all the force of a train going through a brick wall. The white ball smacked into the fuzzy green side then banked just shy of the blue striped ball, rolling furiously into the pocket straight after. It landed with a heavy thunk to boot. 

“Fuck me,” Price muttered to himself, immediately grabbing for his beer straight after.

“Wahey! Look at that Pup, we’ve got two shots,” Gaz said, heavily patting your shoulder. “We’ve got this.”

“Yeah,” you laughed weakly, handing him the cue. “You got this.”

“Woah woah woah,” Gaz said, tilting his head dramatically. “We’re a team, we got this.”

“Well it is your shot.”

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

He shoved the pool cue back into your hands, but he didn’t step away from you after. He pressed you insistently toward the table and caged his arms between yours, taking your hands with his and adjusting them up the smooth wood. You shivered at the feeling of his warm breath tickling at your neck and teasing through your hair. You stiffened up like drying clay when he moulded himself closer into you.

“Don’t freeze up like that, you’re not under attack. Look, I’m gonna show you how to hold it properly and that way you’ll get a good hit alright?” 

You chanced a look back at him and caught a look into those molten honey eyes, knowing full well you were a goner. You’d just have to go with whatever he said. After giving him a gentle little nod, you swallowed the lump in your throat and turned back toward the table, allowing him to slowly arrange your body so that you were in the supposed perfect stance.

His hands were silk, gliding delicately across your arms so that you would place yourself how he wanted. You had to hold yourself back from shivering every time his touch came. Once you were standing how he wanted, he took to laughing and tutting at you until you got your finger into the correct position to support the cue, and only when that was Gaz certified did he allow you to start readying your shot. 

“Ok, take it away, Pup. You got this!”

After a couple of practice slides, you drew the cue back one final time, holding your breath as you prepared to send it flying forward and into the purple ball that Gaz had lined up for you. You finally took your shot, watching with wide eyes as the cueball barrelled forward and shunted straight into the purple, sending it toward the pocket while it landed neatly beside a couple more of your balls, ready for the next shot. As soon as the purple landed fully down, you were jumping up in an instant.

“I hit it! I hit it and scored a point,” you said, full smile beaming as you turned to Gaz. “Did you see how fast it went? I wanna do that again!”

Gaz’s sharp canines were on full display again. His eyes travelled low down on your body and he chuckled, and only when you followed his eyeline did you see that your tail was furiously wagging up a storm behind you. It wafted up a big draft of air, blowing gusts through the old newspapers that were piled on the low table behind you.

“I saw. You did good,” Gaz praised, laughing while rubbing the little spot on your cheek that he always did.

“Yes, Pup - very good,” Price added dryly, shaking his head while taking another swig of his drink. 

With that the newspapers behind you turned from almost the front pages, toward the nonsense stories at the back.

“What’s got you so excited, fuzzy lugs?” 

You turned and saw Soap leaning over the end of the table, slowly swirling his whisky while he assessed the game. His blue eyes rolled from one end and to the other then settled on you, pinning you in place for a moment until you’d realised that he’d asked you a question. You bit your lip and shrugged, trying to downplay yourself a little as you remembered that your victory was being celebrated a little too early. 

“I potted a ball,” you shrugged, trying to hide your mellowed tone with a drink. 

“Oh did ye, aye? You’ll have to do it again for me and Ghost,” he grinned. 

Soap motioned his head to the left, pointing toward Ghost who was taking his time wandering back to Soap’s side. You could smell the cigarette smoke cloying to him as he walked by. It made your nose wrinkle. Though you soon forgot all about it when he shot you a wink.

“Gonna show us your new skills?” He asked. 

Now everyone was watching you. No pressure. 

You gulped and made your way back to the table side, using your cue like a walking stick. Poking your tongue out, you stood for a second and swayed a little on your unsteady tipsy feet, thinking through your next move. Your eyes roved over the balls, moving between the two most likely candidates until you settled on the green. 

After looking up and confirming everyone was still staring, you shuddered. However Gaz gave you an encouraging smile, which spurred you on all the more. A few awkward seconds passed while you tried to reform yourself into the same position Gaz put you in before. Even in your drunken state you still recalled most of the ways he’d shown that you were supposed to position yourself, all the while keeping your hands further up the stick so that you could hit harder and keeping your finger ridgid against it. 

You slid it back and forth, once, then another two times and finally you made your move. The cue thwacked into the cueball and sent it rocketing into the green, sending the green ball rolling forward and flying toward the left side pocket. The ball began to lose its momentum just toward the end, it slowed just a little more and then a little more and just when your ears started to collapse downward in disappointment, it managed to creep into the pocket at the last second. 

“Holy shit I did it! I did it all by myself!” You squealed, perking back up again and grinning like an idiot. 

You turned, making sure everyone had seen it, but before you could take stock everyone you were surrounded by two massive chests. The pressure came quickly crushing you up like a scrapped car. Though you didn’t mind, when your panicked mind realised they were hugging you, you settled into it and wagged your tail. 

“That’s my good Pup,” Ghost crooned, his voice even more gravelly than usual. 

“You did so good!” Gaz whooped.

They both parted from you and just when you’d adjusted to having full lung capacity again, Soap all but whacked all the air from you with a couple of big pats on the back. 

“Well done, furball,” he said lowly, throwing you a sly smile. “Knew you had it in ya. You’re my wee pack mate after all, aren’t ya?”

Your tail wagged even harder at that. 

“Yes, very good,” Price barked, smiling despite the faux stern expression he tried to hold. “You taking your next turn or not, Pup?”

“I get another one?” You gawped, looking at the last few balls in awe. 

“You get one every time you pot. And if you don’t get on with your next one I’m confiscating it from you.”

“Don’t think that’s in the rules, old man,” Gaz laughed. 

“Gotta give myself a chance here, Garrick. You two have bloody hustled me,” Price retorted.

“Oh you think you’re hustled now? Just wait for this next turn.”

-🐺-

You helped Gaz win that game in the end, and as a reward he insisted on carrying you to the taxi on his back. Well, that’s what he intended anyway. He stumbled just as he got out the pub door and collapsed in a fit of drunken laughter. At that point Ghost took over and hoisted you up on his shoulder, carrying you like a sack of potatoes. 

Had you been in any state to complain you might’ve, however you were still riding on a winning high and your head was full of bubbles and fizz. No matter how hard you tried to stop it, your tail continued to sloppily wag even while Ghost carried you, and for the rest of the night he complained about having fur in his mouth. Normally something like that would worry you, thinking you’d annoyed him, but you’d been so carefree you fell asleep on him once he’d lugged you to the sofa. 

You’d woken the next morning stretched out fully over a sleeping Ghost and Soap, jumping up in mortification when you realised what you’d done and running to your bed for what felt like an extra five minutes of sleep. Then as a grand result of your wild night out (compared to anything else you’d ever done), you were exhausted the whole next day. So much so that you’d been flagging through a lot of your exercises, but luckily Ghost went easy and structured training so that you got more breaks and got easier tasks to complete. Whether that was more for you or him, you couldn’t really decide. 

“Sleepy Pup,” Ghost chuckled, rubbing your cheek with the back of his greasy hand. “We’ll get an early night tonight, huh?”

You hummed in response. The sound of him cleaning his rifle had been relaxing, the cloth fibres smoothly running along the barrel while you leaned against his leg and caught up on a little napping. Normally he would send you off to do something while he did upkeep, but given your low energy he was quite happy to have you rest with him while he worked. 

“Alright then, Pup. Time to head off home,” Ghost grunted, giving your shoulder a gentle shake. “We just gotta swing by Price’s office first.” 

“Ok,” you said through a yawn.

Your tail crooked off to the side more than usual, and you could feel the fur on your ears sticking up like an animal that had just emerged from hibernation. Had there been a mirror around, you knew you’d be jumping back from it,though luckily that wasn’t the case. Instead you followed listlessly along after Ghost, plodding through the hallways like a mindless golem after its master. 

“You ok to wait out here?”

It had barely even registered that you’d reached Price’s door. However when your mind came too, you were out in the dingy hallway that proceeded his room. The two of you standing by the chipped paint patch that looked suspiciously like someone had slammed a chunk out of the wall. You slowly nodded when you finally caught up, the joint in your neck rolling as if automated.

“Try not to fall asleep out here. I’m not carrying you again,” he chuckled. “You need anything, just knock.” 

You nodded again and watched him quietly open the door and click it shut. He left you alone in the corridor, staring bleary eyed at the flickering light, absentmindedly falling back against the wall and counting out the seconds between its full beam and little strobe dance. Without fail it would flicker every five to seven seconds. 

Footsteps marched down the hallway in the distance, and your ears twitched to their rhythm. The boots slapped against the floors at a quick pace, and slowly muffled voices echoed from out of obscurity and rang through your ears. The two men became clearer by the second, and before long they were crossing your path, just about to walk past you until one of them caught eyes with you and halted as if stopped by an invisible force.

“Care to explain what you’re doing leaning around like that, hybrid?” he growled.

You frowned at him. The man had dark hair closely cropped to his head, save for a small combed over patch on the top and big bushy eyebrows that fell heavy over his dark eyes. His friend meanwhile was almost completely bald, but had a striking scar across his cheek and a birthmark on his neck. Both of them seemed young, though not young enough that they were too fresh to think about messing with you apparently.

“I’m waiting for my handler to finish his meeting with Captain Price,” you said evenly, figuring it was easiest just to answer him. 

He didn’t look satisfied with your answer though, his eyes lit up in challenge and his jaw twinged as if biting through bone. All traces of tiredness left you in that instant. Whatever was about to happen couldn’t be good, you were experienced enough to know that much.

“What was that?” the man said, tilting his head for emphasis.

His friend raised his brows, looking between the two with a vexed expression. He musn’t have been as familiar with hybrids, you thought dully, glancing at him while still keeping yourself focused on the combover man. If only one of them was going to be aggressive then defending yourself from whatever they were going to do would be easier.

“I said that I’m waiting for my handler,” you ground out, stiffening your posture.

“Waiting for your handler, sir,” the man corrected, his thick eyebrows casting a dark shadow over his eyes. “You have to show respect to your superior officers.”

You said nothing in response, only nodding your head once and gritting your teeth. Technically that was true, but given Ghost was a Lieutenant that meant that you likely outranked them (given that you were automatically ranked the same as your handler as a hybrid). Those assholes could kick rocks as far as you were concerned, you’d earned your right to speak on their level.

“Do you want a last chance to fix your attitude, hybrid?” he asked, tensing his arms as he leered over you.

His shadow flickered in the wavering light and you couldn’t help but think of him as a demon. His friend put a hand on his back and urged him to ‘just forget about it’, but still the man didn’t budge. He continued to loom over you and stare expectantly, though as far as you were concerned he could wait forever. 

He didn’t though. The little shit, took your silence as insolence, and just when he was about to reach out and grab you, you strafed back from him and growled. The sound had the other man widening his eyes, but your main attacker only glared. It spurred him to come for you once again, but again he missed you and then failed to grab you another time after that.

“Get the fuck over here, you little-”

He reached out again to grab you, and finally he’d succeeded, clenching his hand painfully around your arm. However you weren’t going to let him manhandle you like that. You barked out a fearsome roar of defiance and dug your nails, more like claws, into the thick uncovered flesh of his arm and yanked it backward while spinning away from his grip. The yowl of pain he let out interrupted his sentence and sent his friend into a panic trying to drag the man back.

“What the fuck is going on out here?”

The shout echoed out across the concrete walls and all at once you all ceased your rebuttals. Your teeth stayed bared and you continued to pant, staring down the hallway as if possessed by a vengeful force. Meanwhile the two men looked fearfully over at the source of the voice, paling noticeably when they were forced to reckon with your fearsome handler. 

Your attacker gulped, loud enough that your sensitive ears picked up on it and swivelled in his direction. He flinched at the movement, but soon straightened up. The pitiful man held out his arm and set his face in a grim expression, using his other hand to motion down at the bleeding claw marks.

“This hybrid attacked me, sir,” the man said, voice far more subdued than it had been before.

Ghost raised his eyebrow from behind his mask and looked over at you. Once he’d finally assessed the state you were in, he put his body in between the two of you and set to work calming you down. He took your collar in his hand and directed you to look at him, smoothing his hand down your back and blocking your view of the perceived hostile. After which, he took to gently shushing your panting and making calming noises.

“Can you tell me what happened?” He asked after a few moments, smoothing his hands over your ruffled hair.

“Well, what happened was-” the man’s friend began. 

“Wasn’t fucking talking to you,” Ghost growled, not even sparing a look back.

Your mouth twitched into a smile, but Ghost didn’t indulge it. He set his eyes on you with a serious frown and forced a sigh from your lips. Part of you had thought that Ghost might be on your side, but now a little voice in the back of your mind was trying to scream past a crumbling barrier - it told you that maybe Ghost was going to give up on his gentle handler act. It would make sense, you thought, you were a bad soldier, you didn’t deserve the nice treatment to begin with. 

“I was waiting for you and then…I was asked what I was doing and then, when I explained myself, I was told I wasn’t being respectful enough. He tried to grab me and I fought him off,” you said awkwardly, not wanting to meet his eyes any longer. 

“Sir, that hybrid was leaning around - not even waiting at attention and when I tried to address their behaviour, I was given nothing but bad attitude back. I was trying to correct it’s bad behaviour when it saw fit to scratch me up like a fucking feral cat!” The man fumed.

“Correct their behaviour?” Ghost asked, turning to man finally. “How were you going to correct my hybrid’s behaviour exactly?” 

Your heart dropped into your belly. Every instinct within you screamed out that you were about to meet Ghost’s iron fist at last. You were going to experience a lashing at the very least and at worst, he might take everything you had come to care about away from you. Hot salty tears brimmed on top of your cheeks, finally overflowing at the thought that Ghost might’ve only given you all those things so that it would hurt more having them taken away again. 

You made sure to sob quietly, sniffling softly  into your hand so that you wouldn’t antagonise Ghost any further. Tears won’t get you anywhere in the army, mutt, Maddox’s voice chirped in the back of your mind. You almost missed the man’s pathetic whimpering answer.

“Well…I was going to give it a slap, sir. Strike some sense into it.” 

“I see,” Ghost replied, wide back still obscuring the man from you.

You doubted you’d make anything out past your tears anyway. In your mind everything was in the process of being ripped out of your life again, the team were going to look at you like the disappointment you knew you were, your things were going to be scrapped and stripped down to bare essentials once more and you’d never get to feel Simon the cuddlytoy’s soft fur ever again. However you were ripped out of your little pity parade with the sound of a hard smack. 

Your ears perked up and you jumped back a pace or two, looking around for the source of the noise until you looked past Ghost and saw your attacker rubbing his cheek and groaning. For a second, you couldn't quite believe what had happened, but soon enough the man was wrenching his hand away from his face in an effort to save face and it revealed an angry looking red patch of skin. It really had happened - Ghost had slapped the soldier. 2

“You think that’s knocked some sense into you, Second Lieutenant?” Ghost sneered. “Don’t you fucking dare breathe in the direction of another handler’s hybrid ever again, nevermind think that you have the right to discipline them, you self-righteous little cunt. Get out of my sight the pair of ya.”

The man opened his mouth, about to say something in his defence until his friend nodded sharply and began to drag him away. Not wanting to cause more of a scene the man relented, but the way he glared as he turned told you that this wasn’t over. There was a new target on Ghost’s back now. 

However, said back was turning away from you now and Ghost was facing you once again and pulling you into his arms. After a shocked second of fear, readying yourself to be hit or similarly reprimanded, you slowly came to realise he didn’t mean to hurt you at all. He was hugging you and rubbing your back, telling you that it was alright. 

“Wh- what are you doing?” you asked feebly, trying your best not to hiccup or sniff through your words.

“Trying to comfort you, if you’ll let me,” Ghost snorted, slowly walking you backward. 

You walked with him, but only grew more confused as he dragged you into Price’s office and forced you to sit on the old ratty couch and curl up with him. Out of the corner of your bleary eyes you saw Price sitting at his desk and watching you both with concern, gathering up a few bottles of water onto his desk. In front of you, Ghost wrapped his grip ever tighter round you and got you to bury your head into his neck.

“It’s over now, Pup,” Ghost said softly, smoothing over your salt scorched cheek. “You’re ok.” 

“But…you- aren’t you going to punish me?” you asked, freeing yourself from his hold a little and drawing away from his usually relaxing scent so that you could make an effort to think straight. 

“You’ve not done anything worth punishment,” he said gently.

“I scratched someone,” you whined, looking down at your still bloody hands with a wobbling lip. 

“Someone that saw fit to break protocol and try to discipline a hybrid that wasn’t theirs. You had every right to defend yourself. You’re not going to be punished for that.”

“Especially not when the punishment he had in mind didn’t fit the crime in the first place. Corporal punishment is supposed to be reserved for serious offences Pup, not for leaning or having a bad attitude,” Price added, coming to sit at your other side. “Here, take a drink of this. You need it, you’ve made yourself unwell.” 

He handed you a water bottle and gave you a serious look until you finally took it from him and slowly uncapped it. Through a series of uneasy sips, your heart began to regulate and your body stopped shaking. You hadn’t even realised that you had been shaking. The realisation made you sign, taking a couple breaths until you could clear your mind enough to reach some level of proper awareness again. 

“I thought it was all going to go away,” you sighed, leaning against Ghost’s chest when you knew that things were normal again. 

“What was going to go away?” Ghost asked, rubbing his thumb over your cheek. 

You bathed in his and Price’s joint attentions, letting Ghost rub your cheek and Price smooth a hand over your shoulders and back. For a few luxurious seconds you let yourself revel in the fact that you were wrong. The stupid little panicky voice in your head was a liar. Everything was just as it had been. 

“Everything,” you said eventually, voice barely a whisper. “I thought you were going to take all my things away and start treating me like they did at my old base. Thought I was going to be sent to the post…”

“Mark my words, anyone tries to lash you again and they’ll have the entire 141 to answer to, Pup,” Price said, voice coming through in a low growl. 

“And I’d never take away your things,” Ghost vowed, cupping your cheek so that you had to look at him. “They’re given to you as payment for your service to us. They’re not for me or anyone else to take away, just like Price can’t rip my things from me. Nothing’s going away and you’re never going to be treated the way you were ever again. You’re ours, alright? We always protect our own.” 

You stared at them both in disbelief, but couldn’t think of anything to say. The exhaustion and the upset combined and you were left feeling more drained than you had been in days. Instead you settled down back into Ghost’s collar bones and let yourself be petted and fussed over, sleepily letting your eyes close for the last time that day.

“Just wait till Soap and Gaz hear about this. That bastard’ll be lucky to see sunrise tomorrow,” you only just heard Price whisper darkly, before scratching a calloused hand over your ears. 

“Now now, Price,” Ghost murmured back. “Gotta make it look like an accident.”

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Four Crow Investigation II: Lovebirds' Outfox" - Kaz Brekker x Reader

[Four Crow Investigation]

☽ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ☾

Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi

SUMMARY: Nina and the rest of "crow-vestigators" are not as inconspicuous as they think. Being a little too spiteful for your own good, Kaz and you string them along. What the amateur detectives consider "evidence" of an affair is actually a well-thought-out scenario.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 2.1k

>>Grishaverse-inspired playlist&lt;<

You stare with amusement as Wylan, Jesper, Inej and Nina are sitting around the table in a hardly inconspicuous manner. They’re leaning so close to each other, their bodies are covering their faces but you don’t need to read their lips or expressions to know exactly what they’re talking about. Meaningful glances, small nudges, animated whispering - none of that escaped your attention.

Then, you feel Kaz squeezing your hand in an attempt to shift your focus from the gossiping friends back to him. His eyebrows are slightly raised in a silent question.

"Do you think they know that we know that they know?" you ask, cringing at the word salad filled with repetitions.

"No," Kaz answers without hesitation. "Considering how long it took them to notice something so obvious, their observation skills are more underwhelming than I had originally thought."

The two of you glance towards your friends once more, left to only guess what tall tales they were making up. Observation skills, Kaz’s voice resounds in your head. Yes, they are good at noticing things they are desperately looking for, so, maybe, if they are looking for crumbs…

"Actually, I have an idea,” you begin in a hushed tone.  Kaz turns to look at you, his expression hardens the moment he notices your mischievous grin. “Up for a bit of roleplay?"

It’s been a wild week for the four Crows. They sat down at a corner table, across the club from you and Kaz talking about something by the bar counter. Absorbed by the conversation, you’re pouring a drink in a record-long time. Your hand hovers above the rum bottle as you’re closely listening to Kaz saying something. Then, to the surprise of the gossip club, you erupt in laughter.

Jesper frowns. “I’m telling you, there’s two of them. She gets the nice Kaz, we get the mean one.”

“No, the mean Kaz is still inside,” Inej refutes. “The nice one is making an effort to bury him but he’s definitely in there. Saw it myself.”

He turns back towards the group. Jesper puts his finger up in a warning gesture and speaks slowly: “Do not tell me Kaz Brekker is a knight in shining armour because there is no way I’m treating that as anything but a bad joke. I’m barely believing the stuff I’ve seen with my own two eyes.”

“N-no, there is some truth to that,” Wylan interjects. “I didn’t see him get angry,” he quickly adds, ”just… strangely protective.”

“So we can agree,” Nina says with expected giddiness, “there is passion in the perpetually grim Kaz Brekker.”

Jesper squints his eyes with suspicion. “I hate the fact that you used passion and Kaz in the same sentence but at the same time I’m curious why.”

“Oh, you’re going to love it!” She taps the table excitedly. “I’ll go first.”

╚ Nina’s Evidence ╝

You’re pacing around the office, jumping from one leg to another, shaking and fidgeting as much as you can without making much noise. While preparing to fool the Heartrender’s power, you’re ensuring that you look the part:

“Is this obscene enough?” you ask unbuttoning your shirt further. Tugging at your clothing, you’re making yourself look even more disheveled. Even the smallest sound outside the office door makes you jump as you’re impatiently waiting for a certain creek of one of the steps.

Kaz doesn’t answer. His watchful eyes are following your movements as he’s focusing on keeping his attention on the task at hand. That bright mind of his, however, fights relentlessly to memorize your unkempt look instead.

Not hearing him respond to your question, you turn around to look at Kaz. Leaning against the desk, he’s just staring at you with a quite inexplicable intensity. His unspoken passion is only making the voice in the back of your head louder: what if it was Him undoing my shirt?

But you stifle this thought. It’s not the time for this. Searching for distraction, you look at Kaz’s collar - the first two buttons are undone but they make him appear more sleepy rather than caught red handed at a moment of weakness.

“May I?” you ask, gesturing towards his garment.

“Go ahead,” he quietly answers. There’s a lot of trust in his lack of movement and calmness about your closeness.

Carefully, you grab the hem of his collar and open his shirt further, while making sure your fingers do not even graze the bare skin underneath, despite the urge sitting deep inside your abdomen. Then, you take a step back, examining his general state and whether it sets a believable scene. A proud smile creeps onto your face.

“You’re really enjoying this,” Kaz states.

“Actually,” you say as you lean against the table, fairly unaware that because of your disheveled clothing your cleavage is significantly more visible, “I’d be enjoying this little scheme a lot more if we were in fact being scandalous.”

Whether that was your objective or not, Kaz’s heartbeat picks up noticeably, his rogue mind flashing explicit images before his eyes.

A creek of stairs.

You and Kaz give each other a meaningful glance and you push the paperweight off the desk, knowing that Nina can hear it. The door swings open and you’re immediately in character, looking away with the most embarrassed expression you could muster.

Kaz clears his throat. “Is there a reason why you’re barging in?”

Nina looks a bit lost, still piecing together what she might have just interrupted. “I… uhm… I talked with Lizzie Hardy. She’s in, we can count on her.”

“Understood,” he says in a low, firm voice. “Now go. And learn to knock.”

A half-grin enters her face as she gets rid of any doubts as to what the two of you had been presumably occupied with before she entered. With a skip to her step, Nina throws a “You bet I will!” before leaving the office. She’s quite sure no one will have a better gossip than her.

╚ Wylan’s Evidence ╝

Wylan is startled by your yelp of pain, almost dropping the delicate vial in his hands. His focus immediately shifts to you, who is now frowning with your hand raised slightly above your head. A string of curses leaves your mouth as you check the wound again - yes, still there and still bleeding.

Right, bleeding.

“Are you okay?” he asks in a worried tone. Part of you feels guilty for fooling Wylan because of the sheepiness he wears most of the time but, on the other hand, he is part of the gossip girl club. This little scheme is just a consequence of his choice.

“Yeah, no problem. I’m a big girl, I’ll just wrap this and I’ll be fine,” you answer casually.

Pretending to look for something that can work as a bandage, you’re praying that Wylan can’t smell the cranberry preserve slowly dripping down your forearm. There’s an urge deep inside you to lick the jam, almost tasting the sweet and sour fruit in your imagination.

Kaz, who was waiting for the well-played-out yelp, rushes into the room with a grim expression. The moment he’s supposed to notice your injury, he makes a show of dropping his shoulders. He’s not saying anything, only giving short sighs and annoyed grunts as he reaches for a random rag laying around. 

“I’d advise against cutting off your fingers,” he says loud enough for Wylan to hear as he’s tightening the wrapped rag around your palm. "You need to be more ca-" Kaz cuts himself off, suddenly realizing he was about to use an off-limits word. "You need to pay attention to what you're doing."

Looking over Kaz’s shoulder, you see Wylan nervously glancing at the two of you out of the corner of his eyes. Jesper is going to hear world-shattering news in the next hour - on that you can safely bet any number of limbs.

╚ Jesper’s Evidence ╝

Too busy retelling what he had learned while following Lizzie Hardy, Jesper doesn’t notice the tiny signal you give Kaz while the three of you are walking through the streets of Ketterdam.

Air, cobblestone, a lost dog - it doesn’t matter. You stumble over something but ever watchful Kaz manages to grab you by the waist, preventing you from falling. To be honest, until this moment you weren’t completely sure this is going to work out because you never practiced this with Kaz. Well, you did, once, but the two of you got significantly distracted early on. So the plan to outfox Nosy Jesper was a leap of faith - literally and figuratively.

Jesper, the man in question, halted his story as he’s watching the unbelievable occurrence of Kaz having a caring reflex. For a moment he considers whether this wasn’t some kind of miraculous coincidence but on the other hand, the movement looked so natural and purposeful that it simply had to be deliberate.

Standing on your own, you look towards Jesper, who’s still staring at you and Kaz with furrowed eyebrows and his mouth slightly agape. “You were saying?” you coax him to continue as though nothing happened.

“Yes, right, the thing,” he stutters out as he’s trying to remember what he was talking about before seeing something so strange he’s questioning his own sanity.

╚ Inej’s Evidence ╝

Due to the late hour, or rather an hour so late it can be considered early, the club is deserted except for you and Kaz sitting by the bar. He’s silently watching your profile as you’re applying another layer of theatrical paint and makeup.

“Does it look realistic?” you ask for the hundredth time while examining the bruise in a small hand-held mirror.

“It’s good enough.”

You set down the mirror and look at him. To a degree, you know he won’t agree to your proposition but you try anyway, just to make sure:

“Maybe you could hit me?” you suggest. His expression grows colder. “Just for good measure. To really sell this,” you add in your own defense, as though there is a possibility of him retaliating for such a ridiculous proposition. Even when furious beyond imagination, you’ve heard him yell exactly once out of anger.

He leans closer towards you. Paradoxically, it’s you who is uncomfortable with the sudden intimacy but maybe the uneasiness is not due to the proximity but the chilling tension that has sprouted between the two of you. Kaz studies your expression for a moment, his jaw relaxes and clenches over and over again as he’s clearly pondering the earthiest way he can put his thoughts into words.

“I will never raise my hand against you,” his voice is quiet and wavering with emotions, “even if my life depends on it. So don’t ask again. Ever.”

Suddenly, you feel strangely small next to him as though Kaz is but a shadow that quickly grows larger as candlelight dims. “Right, sorry,” you answer awkwardly.

The door to the club opens with a creek and the nervous conversation has to be cut short. You cover your face with hands, having rubbed some chili seeds into your palms earlier. As the capsaicin reaches your nostrils and eyes, forcing yourself to cry is easier than ever. Pretending to be agonizing over something, you keep reminding yourself not to actually touch your eyes or nose.

You can’t see her face but you’re sure Inej is wearing a worried or confused expression and you’re quite correct in your guess - she walks towards you and Kaz with apprehension as though she’s still wondering whether she wants to intrude. Inej momentarily grows anxious, noticing the vibrant bruise on the side of your face.

Then, in a truly dramatic fashion, Kaz gets up from the bar stool and storms out of the club as you had agreed beforehand. While he’s passing Inej, she calls out to him:

“Kaz-”

But he’s quick to cut her off in a harsh voice:

“Not now, Inej.”

The door closes behind him with a slam and considering the state of the two of you, she prefers not to ask questions. It will be easier to sleep at night.

“They’re staring,” you inform Kaz while pouring him a drink.

“As far as I know, they have a reason to,” he answers, taking a sip of the beverage. His eyes are boring into you like his trying to look past your skin and bones, into your mind if not your very soul.

A wide smile brightens your face. You lean on the counter, face close to Kaz’s. Although it’s been some time, it still makes your heart flutter that he doesn’t move away. Perhaps it’s just his unreadable expression or maybe he really is unbothered by the proximity.

“To be honest, I enjoyed our little theatrics.” Smiling at him, your teeth glisten in the dim light inside the club.

“You make an impressive con artist, I have to admit.”

“Ah, forget the con part,” you wave your hand in dismissal. “It was entertaining, alright, but the best part was just spending time with you.”

Kaz almost chokes on his drink.

____ @moonstruckpoet @shara-ne @queenkalico

[ghost-bxrd]

I’ve been getting really into magical stuff recently and also DC so I’m just gonna drop this here:

Fae Dick Grayson

F A E

okay so fae stories are special to me because I grew up on hearing pagan folklore and fairytales about fae and fae adjacent creatures as good night stories so hooo boy yes I adore that trope! (I mean, I made Dick a Banshee in my fic Shuck so… hehe)

Anyway, Fae Dick Grayson! There’s just so many things you can do with it ✨

Robin appears from one day to the next, following in Batman’s shadow like a mischievous sprite, so honestly rumors have been going wild about him since day one. Robin actually being something non-human doesn’t really come as a surprise!

The fae folk are known for being awfully good at blending in with regular humans when they put their mind to it, the only thing that puts them apart (in most stories) is their otherworldly beauty, and Dick Grayson? Well, he’s definitely got that in abundance.

Just sometimes, when the light reflects off a surface in just the right way, when someone pours a glass of water and you happen to look right through the spray, or when you think you catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of your eye and you spin around— but there’s only Dick Grayson, even if a second ago you could have sworn you saw eyes where there weren’t supposed to be any; colors that aren’t supposed to exist; feathers where only skin has any right to be.

And, gods, all the talking. Dick is terrifyingly good at talking to people without actually saying anything, to the point where you walk away from the conversation feeling utterly drained after spilling your entire life story but when you think back on it— you can’t remember him ever telling you anything about himself. You know there were the usual pleasantries of “hi” and “nice to meet you” and “how are you doing?” but anything beyond that just kinda… seemed to spill out of you? It’s very strange. It’s very unnerving. By the end of the evening you other convince yourself you’re overreacting or you simply push the incident out of your mind altogether.

And there’s another thing about Dick. His name.

He only ever introduces himself as Dick Grayson/Robin. Never Richard. Never. Especially not Richard John. Names are sacred for the fae folk, names have power, so while Richard John Grayson may not be Dick’s true name, he treats it as such to honor his parents. None are allowed to use it. None except Bruce or Alfred on special occasion.

Of course, Dick’s “true” name isn’t exactly a secret so when someone does happen to use it… well, Dick may be… other… but he’s still intrinsically good in a way many of his kind don’t have the patience to be. Dick judges on a case by case basis, just like his parents and Bruce taught him. And usually people do not mean it maliciously when they use his name so he kindly corrects them and that’s that. But oh man, if they still insist on calling him “Richard”? Well..

“Oh no, it seems your credit card is being declined, sir!”

“Sheesh, you tripped over a root? In Gotham?!”

“What do you mean ten birds flew into your window last night? You live on floor level!”

“Dude I’m telling you that rash doesn’t look normal.”

“I… don’t think crows are supposed to follow you like that.”

It’s little things (most of the time, unless you really pissed Dick off) but they keep piling up, slowly driving you insane. You feel like you’re being watched, but it’s just a bird sitting on the window sill again. You feel like someone moved all your furniture just slightly to the right even tho you checked all the cameras.

The fae are kind, but they are also vindictive when crossed.

(Thanks to Bruce, however, I think Dick’s bouts of “vengeance” rarely go much farther than that though.)

Dang ok that ended up being an entire rant… wow. Anyway, yeah. Fae.

[solomons-finest-rum]

Hello to one of my favourite Alfie fic writers! Since you're taking requests, I'd like to make one as well.

I don't know how it works but how about a scenario/imagine where Tommy gets in some kind of trouble (as always) and Alfie suggests that his lovely gangster wife could help and goes to introduce them but as it turns out it's none other than the Shelby's sister/cousin/relative/friend/or maybe even an ex? (Your call one this one) who they thought was dead or something?

Idk if it's even worth your time and effort but I just wanted to make a request ;) No pressure, of course!

Love you and your writing a lot!

“As The Crow Flies” (Alfie Solomons x fem!Reader) — PART 1

SUMMARY — By all accounts Anna Gray died in Australia and had no business standing in Alfie’s living room, nor calling the man “darling” for that matter. But there you were, identical to the picture they took when they shipped you off to the colonies.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — Thank you to @zablife for being the most gracious beta!💗💗💗💗💗 and thank you Anon for this request, because actually it inspired a full-blown multi-chapter idea! So this is set around... Season 5 I suppose? But I'm going to ignore everything in it and Season 6 too. Let's pretend none of it happened and just focus on the fun part! That is driving Tommy insane and making Alfie say outrageous lines.

WORD COUNT — 2,286

Masterlist

In retrospect, Tommy Shelby felt he should have known better. He should have fucking known that the moment, the moment, he came to Margate to sort the bloody situation out, exactly two things would happen.

One, he would have to sit and listen with a straight face to Alfie’s inspired monologue, the subject of which had swerved from elephants to bank robbery in about two and a half minutes, and then managed to touch upon just about everything else under the sun.

Tommy remained quite sure that the sense of Alfie’s rambling had been long lost to history and the point of it all was just to talk him to death, really. Put him out of his misery with nonsense alone.

“Now then, Tommy, as I said, right, I ain’t the vindictive type, I really ain’t, so I am gonna help ya out just this once, right, outta the goodness of my own heart.”

Tommy managed not to roll his eyes. Barely.

“‘Cause I am a changed man these days, Tommy, an’ it can be that the old man that I am, I’m goin’ soft on ya, right, an’ so tradition dictates, mate, to ask for more than ten thousand for my troubles.”

Tommy raised a brow.

“But as things currently stand with the medical bills, on the account of bein’ shot in the face by some cunt, right… Fifteen would sound proper fair, mate.”

Thank fuck for small mercies, Tommy thought, then lit another cigarette and promptly got up to leave. Alfie apparently managed to settle both sides of the conversation, negotiations included, and their American problem could very well sort itself out all on his own—thus proving to Tommy once more that the only thing he could really count on in this world had always been lunatics.

“Right, the fuck you’re doin’ now, sit down!”

Tommy frowned and remained standing, cigarette in the corner of his mouth and sheer outrage emanating from his entire person. The question of “what in fuck’s name do you want now, you crazy bastard?” overtook his face.

“Right, I need to make a bloody phone call,” Alfie said then, which explained exactly nothing.

Yes, that was the second thing Tommy had been so sure would happen. Alfie would first go on a tangent, then formulate a plan that involved three separate layers of deception, a bribe, and a crate of dynamite (probably).

Then Tommy would get caught in the middle as bloody always and Polly would have his head for going along with Alfie’s plan in the first place.

What he didn’t expect was for Alfie to change his tone of voice completely as soon as the person picked up on the other end:

“Yeah, darlin’, it’s me. Come to the house, alright? Right, ‘cause I need ya here for somethin’. No, not like the— Bloody hell, woman, just don’t fuckin’ argue with me for once, alright?”

Sometimes a rare occasion would present itself for Tommy Shelby to become fucking speechless. Truth be told, he remained rather surprised that two such occasions had also involved Alfie Solomons, undoubtedly purely for the Devil’s bloody amusement.

“Who was that then, Alfie?”

“None of ya fuckin’ business.”

Tommy had a sneaky feeling there wasn’t a clever enough question in existence that could have pushed Alfie to say anything more. He looked smug as hell for having pulled that stunt off so Tommy was willing to see it through.

For old time’s sake.

The sun was setting and they had another drink, then Tommy let Alfie go on another tangent about… Tea import. Perhaps. Who knew, he wasn’t really listening.

On drink three Tommy was alerted by a car pulling up to the house, followed by a door slam and a rhythmic clacking of high heels on the porch. Tommy looked to Alfie, but the man remained infuriatingly calm.

Just as Tommy was about to reach for his gun, the door to Alfie’s study opened unceremoniously and a scent of expensive perfume wafted across the room. Tommy turned around and tried his best to keep up the indifferent facade, but failed miserably. Nothing could have prepared him for you walking through that door, with a giant bodyguard no less, following you like a second shadow.

“Alright there, Billy?” Alfie greeted the bodyguard casually and the man grunted in response. “Right then, might ya wait in the car for us, mate? This whole bloody business will take a minute.”

Tommy then watched as Alfie approached you and planted an affectionate kiss to your cheek, at which point Tommy stood up abruptly.

For a moment he just stood there and stared; a state he didn’t find himself in too often these days. 

“Darling, are we having guests?” you asked Alfie in a tone so familiar to Tommy; so like your mother. Pleasant, on the verge of sarcastic. 

By God, either that Camden bastard was a magician or you had a twin sister that Polly never mentioned. Because it wasn’t possible… It couldn’t be you. Not according to the file he stole from the parish. By all accounts Anna Gray died in Australia and had no business standing in Alfie’s living room, nor calling the man “darling” for that matter. But there you were, identical to the picture they took when they shipped you off to the colonies. 

“Right then, Tommy, might I present my lovely wife,” Alfie said. “Sweetie, this here is Tommy Shelby, right, all the way from the ungodly place they call Birmingham—”

“Tommy Shelby?” you interrupted and looked at Tommy with a smile so like Polly’s that Tommy nearly lost his composure again. “My, my… And there you went and promised you were done with the life, Alfie.”

“Right, an’ how could that—”

“Anna,” Tommy interrupted what he was sure was a budding monologue from Alfie. 

“Yes?” you asked. “You know my name?”

“I… Know your mother.”

“Know?” There it was again. That curious smirk of yours that could really mean anything. Tommy found it harder and harder to keep up the charade.

“But that’s not possible, Mr. Shelby.”

“What’s not possible?”

Your tone remained polite, but your dark eyes said it all. The expression of quiet resolve Tommy thought only one person capable of delivering with such resentment.

“I’m an orphan, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy said nothing to that, because what in hell could he even say? All of a sudden the American issue faded into nothingness, replaced solely by the phantom standing before him.

“So you did not lie, I see,” you turned to your husband with a quizzical expression, seeing as Tommy went quiet again. “He really is as strange as the papers make him. No matter, though, Mr. Shelby, I hope you like chicken? My husband insists I’m a terrible cook, but you must stay for dinner.”

Tommy nodded mechanically and put out his cigarette just to busy his hands with something. When he looked at Alfie, though, Tommy noticed how the man’s mouth twitched, clearly indicating the scheme was playing exactly how he wanted it to. Mad bastard, Tommy thought. There was no saying if he was being played or tricked or helped. Probably all at once, but solely for Alfie’s benefit of course.

“Right, curious as I am, luv, what delectable fuckin’ option you maimed and butchered for dinner, Tommy isn’t stayin’—” Alfie then stopped himself when two sets of identical Shelby scowls got directed his way.

Tommy did stay for dinner and made sure to clean his plate, too. He didn’t mind the food at all; it reminded him of Polly’s simple cooking back in the day when she would take care of Tommy and his siblings in Small Heath.

The more he listened to you talk and bicker with Alfie, the more of your mother he saw in you and the angrier he got at seeing you here of all places, as Alfie’s wife, unable to speak to you in plain terms. Tommy wasn’t exactly sure which made him angrier, though—the fact that you were Alfie’s wife or the fact that the sly bastard had kept you from your true family for who knows how many years. How did he even find you?

All the questions he had were still swirling around in Tommy’s head and he wasn’t particularly paying attention to anything else, besides staring daggers at Alfie. He was hoping there would be a moment to talk to you alone, but of course your husband would never allow it. He watched Tommy like a hawk the entire evening, sometimes with just a hint of a smile to suggest he was still three steps ahead of everyone else.

“See you never got accustomed to that fancy cookin’ they’re offerin’ ya at the mansion these days, Tommy,” Alfie said, undoubtedly truly enjoying the charade. “Tommy’s an MP, darlin’, right about two steps from gettin’ a knighthood I reckon. Yeah, a real prince he is.”

The way Alfie said the word was so clearly a jab at Tommy’s ancestry that he didn’t even flinch. What he was curious about was your reaction, but you remained perfectly pleasant: 

“Don’t tease, love, we haven’t had guests in ages and I’m not letting you drive this one away.”

When the maid took away the plates, you lit a cigarette in a swift overdone gesture and Tommy was once more taken aback with your resemblance to Polly. 

“Well, I’ll leave ya both to it,” you announced as you got up. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Shelby.” You extended your hand and Tommy shook it. “I know you tried your best with the chicken and I appreciate it,” you paused and tilted your head to the side as if sizing Tommy up.

“I rarely trust your husband’s judgement,” he replied.

The way you smiled reminded Tommy of a cat that got into the pantry. He decided not to think about it too much.

“I see. Goodnight then, Mr. Shelby.”

As soon as Tommy heard you got upstairs, he turned to Alfie who, unsurprisingly, already had a gun pointed at him. It was a casual way of it that was the most infuriating—Alfie’s hand was more so resting on the table and the gun just happened to be there, pointing at Tommy. 

“Now then, Tommy, let’s be reasonable about this, mate.”

Tommy clenched his jaw and remained silent, but his murderous glare said it all.

“There are four people at the house, right, includin’ you, me, my wife, then the maid… Then there’s Billy outside, right, who’s gonna be rightly worried once he doesn’t get my dismissal for the night. So I want ya to be real cold an’ calculated about it, Tommy, just like I know ya can be, ‘cause if ya decide to off me for no reason now…”

“No reason.”

“Right.”

“You’re old enough to be her father.”

“Yeah an’ fortunately I’m not, ‘cause that’d be right fuckin’ awkward at the temple, mate.”

“Temple?”

“What’d ya think, Tommy, that I smacked her over the head and dragged her into my cave?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Right, we’ll have to show ya the pictures then, she looked stunnin’.” Alfie leaned back in his chair. “Tell ya what, mate, why don’t ya come by for tea one day?”

“Tea.”

“Yeah. We have it, Tommy, we’re not animals.”

Tommy said nothing to that. He was still reviewing his options, but as he wasn’t a fan of spontaneous action, the patient approach seemed appropriate. The offer, though, just like everything else about the situation, was fucking infuriating.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Fuck you, Alfie.”

That finally made Alfie smile and for some reason he lowered the gun.

“Right, so seein’ as we’re family, Tommy, and what a happy coincidence this is, I must say, I feel like we should talk fuckin’ proper. None of that shit.” Alfie then gestured between them as if he hadn’t been responsible for “that shit” in the first place.

“We’ve been talking, Alfie,” Tommy deadpanned.

“Yeah, but then there’s still somethin’ ya haven’t told me about your American troubles, isn’t there, mate, so I’m expectin’ you’ll be more honest with me in the future. Now that I’ve brought the right arguments to the table…”

The hint of a threat in that statement almost made Tommy wish he still had his razor cap around.

“She’s Polly’s only daughter, Alfie.”

“Right, I’m aware of that.”

Tommy nodded, feigning understanding between them. As always, handling Alfie very much resembled handling a live grenade without a pin.

“This can’t be the way to end things.”

“Who’s endin’ things, Tommy?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, an’ I’m going to let this one slide, Tommy, ‘cause you just got a lot to process, mate, so I’m prepared to be understandin’.”

Tommy shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket, at which Alfie uncocked the gun. Tommy slowly pulled out his cigarette box, but Alfie never even flinched. It was gruesomely reassuring to still have been right, even in the position that Tommy currently found himself in. 

Alfie Solomons would always remain Alfie Solomons, even with the whole song and a dance about getting old and senile. He was still the same mad bastard Tommy came to know all those years ago, and as things stood, Tommy found himself wondering if this time he shouldn’t try poison instead of a bullet.

“Tommy,” Alfie sighed, “with three good eyes workin’ between us, mate, I really would greatly mind if I somehow acquired a fuckin’ tumour in my lungs, too.”

Tommy said nothing and he knew Alfie hated it.

“Which means put that shit out, mate, and listen to what I’m about to say, ‘cause I got a feeling you’ll really wanna hear it.”

[auroravictorium]

question...? (k.b.)

Do you wish you could still touch her?

Summary: set prior to the midnights series, this is "you're on your own, kid" from kaz's pov! kaz spends much of his time at the crow club thinking about you, and he wishes he could do something other than think and watch from afar. Pairing(s): kaz x fem!reader (pining by kaz) Word Count: ~2.4k Warnings: violence [blood, stab wounds], death of unimportant character, drinking by jesper, inej and reader, mentions of past trauma [nearly drowning, death of sibling] and explicit mentions of kaz's haphephobia Genre: pretty fluffy until kaz finds reader

Author's Note: i have returned with a gift - "you're on your own, kid" told from kaz's pov, as promised! and happy trailer release day everyone! (i haven't recovered, how are you guys doing) only 26 days until the actual season comes out hehehe. by the way, HIGHLY recommend reading "you're on your own, kid" before reading this for more context! happy reading loves <3

you're on your own, kid (reader's pov) / grishaverse masterlist

Kaz hated patrolling the Crow Club on a good night, and he hated it even more when the patrons were rowdy and the walkways crowded. The Club was sweltering with the heat of the muggy summer and of moving, laughing bodies. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, and he longed to be anywhere else; each time someone stumbled into him as they tried to move to another table, he wanted to either vomit or toss them outside for a dip in the East Stave.

He roamed the floor, eyes scanning for fake coins and card blunders. Right away, he knew tonight would be a good night for the Club: tonight's gamblers were eager, impatient, and careless. They slid kruge after kruge onto the table, hoping the luck would turn in their favor, only for them to wind up broke when they made reckless moves. Only the thought of money filling the Dregs' coffers kept him from spiraling into a completely terrible mood.

Every so often, his eyes flicked toward the bar, hoping to catch you at work. If he was lucky, you'd look his way, and he'd get the chance to see you offer him the ghost of a smile while you poured drinks or cleaned glasses. You were the patrons' favorite, and it wasn't difficult for Kaz to understand why. You offered each one a smile and made cheerful conversation while making their drinks; if they were inebriated enough to be making emotional confessions or trying their luck at getting close to you, you would reach over and give them a reassuring pat on the shoulder or hand, and you would pull away with a watch or necklace slipped under your sleeve. The patron would be none the wiser, give you a tip for the excellent service, then return to his table and continue gambling away his earnings.

Kaz couldn't have chosen anyone better to work the watered-down bar, except tonight, you weren't there. Your absence was unusual; rarely were you late or missing without reason, but he refused to consider the worst. You could handle yourself. Behind your kind smile was ruthlessness, and he knew what it could do. He'd recruited you for a reason.

He circled the Club again, trying to get his mind off you, but he spotted you hurrying inside and through the crowds of patrons on his third loop around the outer ring of tables. You reached the bar and immediately got to work, and Kaz's grip loosened on his cane when he saw you were unharmed. His knuckles ached, and he looked down at his gloved hand. Had he really held on that tightly?

Kaz crossed to the bar after a few minutes and tapped his cane against the ground to get your attention. You jumped and turned to face him. He scanned you from head to toe, taking in your mussed hair and slightly wrinkled clothing. He gave no outward reaction to your tardy, disheveled appearance, but again, the part of him that shouldn't have been concerned about you was relieved. "You're late," he finally said. 

"I overslept," you responded. Your fingers fidgeted at your sides, and Kaz could tell you were waiting for him to snap. It was the reputation he'd carefully tended and let grow, and he knew he should uphold it. He should tell you that it was unacceptable, warn you that he didn't tolerate even a moment of lateness. Lateness on a job would get you killed. Lateness in the Club would lose the Dregs money.

But, Saints damn him, he couldn't bring himself to say anything of the sort to you. As he surveyed you, that softness and concern he felt for you made itself known once again, just like it had each time he'd seen you in the past six months. At first, it was his heart beating a bit faster. Now, it was his breathing catching and his pulse roaring in his ears when you looked up at him. His palms got sweatier in his gloves, and he was struck with the sudden urge to gently dab away the bead of sweat that had formed on your temple. 

He didn't know what was worse, the sharp spike of fear that ran through him when he realized he wanted to touch you or the resulting nausea that twisted his stomach so harshly that he almost needed to step out of the Club right then. 

"Don't let it happen again," Kaz muttered. He turned and limped away as if he suddenly had something else to work on. He probably did, but he couldn't remember a single one. All he could focus on was his need to get as far away from you as he could before he thought about how beautiful you looked when your hair framed your face and the dim light of the Club sparkled in your eyes.

Damn it. He needed a drink. If distance couldn't keep his head free of you, maybe alcohol could.

Kaz continued his scan of the Club, hoping it would distract him from the way his heart raced in his chest each time he thought of your name. He positioned himself near one of the busiest tables and looked over the cards each of the gamblers held. For a bit, the distraction worked, and then he made the mistake of looking over at you again.

Jesper had made his way over from the door and was ruffling your hair with a grin, and you were grimacing and swatting at his hand. The two of you looked happy to be bickering, and Jesper threw his arm around you and grinned with a shot in his hand. He teased you about something, and you shushed him before ducking under his arm and scowling.

Kaz forced himself to look away and unclench his jaw. Something had come over him when he saw the two of you. It burned beneath his skin so fiercely that it took most of his self-control to keep himself where he was instead of going behind the bar and shoving Jesper away from you. He didn't know where the urge came from. All he knew was that he wanted to be the one with his arm around you, but terror drenched him like ice-cold water, reminding him that he couldn't be that close to you. His chest tightened with panic, and he returned his gaze to the cards of the men in front of him.

The attempt to ignore you didn't last. He looked up again and watched as Jesper left with another ruffle of your hair and a smile. Fresh anger sparked within him, and his grip tightened on the crow's head of his cane. He took a deep breath and turned his back on the rest of the Club. What the hell is happening?

He had never felt like this, like any semblance of control he had over his emotions was crumbling. Kaz prided himself on his ability to keep his shit together, yet here he was, moments away from snapping. On the outside, he was as stoic as ever, all clenched jaw and sharp eyes. Inside, he was fighting a battle that should have been easily decided. The rational side of him knew he could not afford distractions, but part of him longed to be the one close to you.

The irrational side of him considering such things should have drowned with Kaz Rietveld in the harbor.

The rest of Kaz's time at the Club was an agonizing battle to keep himself calm and bring himself back to rationality. He firmly refused to look your way and even made a detour along the East Stave on his way home to clear his head. He moved slowly along the canal, partly to buy himself time to avoid seeing you with Jesper and partly because the damned humidity made the pain in his leg nearly unbearable. As he limped toward the Slat, he wondered what was wrong with him. Usually, he could banish thoughts of you without a problem. He'd been able to for the past six months since he became aware of a nagging tenderness for you in the pit of his stomach.

He entered the Slat in a terrible mood and intended to walk right past Jesper and Inej in the corner with their drinks. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone to plot a new job and get his mind off you. 

"Boss! Did you get the last of 'em?"

The Saints were laughing at him. He was sure of it. Kaz clenched his jaw and slowly turned. His eyes glinted with the promise of violence, but Jesper, bless him, either didn't notice or didn't care about Kaz's exceptionally foul mood. "What?"

"The men with the fake money." Jesper swirled his drink around in his glass and knocked the rest of it back. Inej passed the rest of hers to him, shaking her head. "I told Y/N-"

Something crashed into the floor above them, and Kaz's head snapped upward. He held up a hand to silence Jesper. Footsteps scuffled against the ground, and more thumps rattled the ceiling. Dust shook free from between the floorboards, which wasn't out of character for the dilapidated Slat. The loud noises definitely were, and the hair on the back of Kaz's neck prickled.

His gut twisted, but not with nausea. Later, Inej would call it a sign from the Saints, but Kaz preferred to call it intuition. He bolted up the stairs toward the attic, ignoring the agony in his leg and Jesper and Inej leaping up to follow him. Kaz knew. He knew something was wrong and that you were hurt, and he wouldn't let his damn leg stop him from figuring out what was happening.

A few Dregs peeked out of their rooms when they heard the commotion and saw Kaz, Inej, and Jesper rushing past to get up to the attic. Some followed, drawing their weapons, and they nearly tumbled into each other to follow Kaz through his office and into his room. Inej and Jesper readied their own weapons but stopped when Kaz held out his cane to block them.

You stood over a body, your clothing and face splattered with blood and your chest heaving. Your hand was red to the wrist, and a dagger dangled from your fingertips. Red drops beaded against your skin and fell to the ground.

You raised your blade again as Dregs poured into Kaz's room, your eyes darting nervously between them. For a moment, you were completely still, then you seemed to realize there was no danger. Your arm dropped to your side and hung limp, and your gaze went unfocused as blood spread rapidly through the shoulder of your shirt.

"Saints," Jesper breathed beside Kaz, taking in the scene. An assassin had gotten into the Slat and was no doubt going for Kaz. The Dime Lions were growing bolder. Nobody seemed quite sure what to do about that, and their utter shock at the incident rendered them unresponsive to your dagger hitting the floor.

"Get Nina," Kaz said, looking over his shoulder and scowling at the wide-eyed Dregs behind him. With some satisfaction, he watched them flinch. They deserved a lot more than a scowl for leaving you to fight alone. You idiots should have helped her. Maybe she wouldn't have been injured if you had. "Now," he added sharply, waiting for them to move.

They left, nearly tripping over themselves to get out of Kaz's line of fire. 

Kaz returned his attention to you and started to limp toward you. He looked between you and the dead Dime Lion, then his gaze lingered on the deep wound in your shoulder. His lips pursed with worry. "Grab her," he said, directing the order at Inej and Jesper and surprising himself with how softly the words came out. 

He wanted to reach out and hold you against him as if he could shield you from the man you'd killed. But the harbor, ever-present, threatened to sweep him away for even daring to think such a thing. He was suddenly nine years old again, clinging to his brother while bodies floated around him. The memory, cold and terrifyingly real, forced him to look away from you and down at the blood seeping into his floor. Why is blood easier to take in than the thought of touching you?

Inej and Jesper moved forward to grab you and led you into Kaz's office, away from the carnage. Kaz stayed, looking down at the Dime Lion and trying to think of a response to the events of the evening.

Yet, even as his mind spun with ideas for how to handle this and exact revenge on the Dime Lions in the most painful way possible, he thought of you. You had taken down a man twice your size without backup. You were wounded. You were covered in blood. You would have a nasty scar if Nina didn't tend to the wound soon.

You had potentially saved Kaz's life.

Kaz moved to the doorway to his office, leaning heavily on his cane. His leg seared with pain now, aggravated from his sprint up the stairs to get to you, and he bore most of his weight on his left leg as he settled against the doorway and examined you.

Nina was hard at work healing your wound, and you pressed one hand to your injured shoulder to keep it immobile. Inej and Jesper were starting to wipe away the blood on your face and neck and whispering back and forth. Despite the activity around you, you looked up and met his gaze.

Kaz's breath caught as you met his stare. He tried to think of something to say, anything. But words failed him, as they often did when you were involved, so he settled for a quick nod to acknowledge what you'd done. It wasn't enough, and he knew that.

But as he watched some color return to your face, his shoulders loosened. He would get the chance to thank you properly someday, and he would make sure it would be enough then.

TAGLIST: @tonberry-yoda, @b3kk3r-by-br3kk3r, @futurecorps3

[raina-at]

Familiar

This is very vaguely based on my fic Zing and You'll Miss It, but all you need to know is that Sherlock is a vampire, John is a human and magic exists.

--------

“This is a tiny bit humiliating,” John mutters, picking up the black cat rubbing its body against his legs.

He deposits the cat on his shoulder and moves further into the building. 

All witches have familiars, John, the cat purrs into his ear, sounding amused.

“I bet most of them aren’t actually vampire boyfriends, though,” John murmurs, looking around the crowded room full of dark-clad witches with their various familiars. He sees cats, dogs, snakes, crows, even a few large, hairy spiders.

Seeing as you are not actually a witch either, I don’t see why we’re having this conversation. 

John huffs an exasperated sigh when Cat Sherlock settles his claws into John’s shoulder to hold on, but concedes that he has a point. He grabs a glass of wine from a nearby tray and holds it up for Cat Sherlock to sniff. “Is this going to poison me?” he asks quietly.

I told you before, witches are human, and so is their food.  It’s why I needed you to get in here in the first place, Cat Sherlock purrs, and John has to bite down on a snicker because he’s never seen a cat roll his eyes before.

“So basically I’m your carrier.”

Cat Sherlock makes a movement that might be considered a shrug. You have other qualities, Sherlock purrs into his ear suggestively.

John squirms as Cat Sherlock’s wet nose touches the shell of his ear. “Can you not do this while you’re a cat? Makes me feel slightly pervy.”

You’re no fun at all.

John is about to respond when someone touches his arm. He turns around and comes face to face with a slight blonde witch in an alluring black dress. She gives him a charming smile and gestures at Cat Sherlock. “You talk to your cat too, I see.”

John smiles his most charming smile and shrugs. “You know how it is. Sometimes when he looks at me, I can almost imagine he’s intelligent - ow.” 

John glares at Cat Sherlock, who looks entirely innocent as he pointedly retracts his claws out of John’s shoulder.

The witch giggles and holds out her hand. “Oh, I know what you mean. I’m Pamela.”

John shakes her offered hand. “John. New here, actually.”

Pamela smiles and puts a hand on John’s arm, moving a bit closer. “I can show you around,” she says with a friendly, insinuating smile. “Not a lot of male witches here, bit of a breath of fresh air, honestly.”

Cat Sherlock narrows his eyes and hisses at her aggressively. Tell her to get her hands off you.

“Now, now,” John says, removing Cat Sherlock, who’s still hissing and spitting, from his shoulder. “None of that, or I’ll have you neutered.”

Low blow, Cat Sherlock hisses. Not funny at all.

“Why don’t you go have a look around, while I talk to Pamela here?” John asks, giving Sherlock a significant look. They’re not here for fun, after all. They’re here to find a missing cursed necklace.

Cat Sherlock gives him another hiss, and flicks his tail aggressively.  As long as blondie here keeps her hands to herself.

John rolls his eyes and sets Cat Sherlock down to the ground. Cat Sherlock glares at Pamela one more time, then vanishes into the crowd.

Pamela smiles indulgently. “He’s very cute.”

“He is,” John says, grinning, because he’s sure Sherlock can still hear them. “He just doesn’t want to admit it.”

Pamela laughs.

John decides that this is as good a place as any to start the investigation. He gestures over the waiter with the hors d’oevres. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Tell me, Pamela, do you come here often?”

*-*

An hour later, John is surrounded by several witches, who are all a bit tipsy, and some of whom are getting a bit too personal with John. 

One witch has her hand on John’s chest as she’s talking, and John would really like for her to stop touching him, but she’s giving him valuable information about their suspect, a witch named Esther. 

“She used to live up on the first floor, you know,” the handsy witch is whispering in his ear while stroking his chest. “Her old room is still unoccupied- ow!”

The witch flinches back and John looks down when he hears a loud hissing and growling.

Cat Sherlock is glaring daggers at the witch while he hisses at her threateningly.

“Your cat bit me!” the witch howls in outrage.

“Sorry,” John says, giving the witch a charming smile. “Never have been able to teach him any manners.” He takes his still hissing and growling cat-shaped boyfriend by the scruff and moves in the direction of the stairs. “If you’re quite done with the dramatics, I think I figured out where our lost necklace is,” he whispers.

Cat Sherlock stops struggling and glares at him. Unhand me at once!

John sets him down on the floor and crouches down. “Can we go finish this case now please?”

Cat Sherlock’s tail flicks in indignation, but he indicates the stairs. You’re going to have to carry me. My legs are short.

John sighs and puts a now pliant Cat Sherlock on his shoulder again. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Cat Sherlock says nothing, but the way he looks at John and licks his paw is answer enough.

*-*

“Stop it,” John hisses. 

It’s not that hard, John. Insert the pick, and feel for the pins, Sherlock instructs, watching John work as he’s perched on his shoulder. 

“I know. It’s really difficult to concentrate with you sticking your claws into my back. I feel like an oversized pin cushion.”

Cat Sherlock heaves a sigh and jumps to the floor. We’d be done with this already if you hadn’t spent all night flirting with everything that moves.

“Oi, I didn’t flirt with anyone. They flirted with me.”

Didn’t see you complaining.

“I was interrogating- Oh, finally!”

The door opens with a satisfying click, and John pushes the door open.

They search the room quickly and efficiently and find the stolen necklace within minutes. 

John breathes a sigh of relief as he puts the cursed object into the containment pouch Mrs Hudson provided them with. His relief turns quickly into horror as he hears a voice from the door. “Here you are, you naughty boy. I’d wondered where you’d gone.”

The handsy witch from downstairs seems to have followed him and is just closing the door to the room, blocking his way outside. She stalks towards him and backs him against the wall, putting a hand on his chest. “Oh, you’re so yummy,” she whispers.

“That does it,” a decidedly human voice says from the mouth of the black cat on the floor. There’s a sort of giant poofing sound, and Sherlock Holmes emerges from his cat body, eyes glowing red and fangs out, in full indignant glory. “Hands off,” he hisses, still sounding astonishingly cat-like. 

The witch screams and flees, and John takes one look at his bristling boyfriend and starts laughing.

“I’m glad you find this funny,” Sherlock grumbles.

John, still giggling, fists a hand in Sherlock’s ridiculous coat and pulls him closer. “I never noticed how catlike you are when you’re all hissy,” he says. “It’s admittedly sort of hot.”

“Sort of?” Sherlock asks, eyebrows raised in indignation.

John presses a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “Very,” he murmurs, nosing his way up Sherlock’s throat. “Wanna go home and bite me a little?”

Sherlock makes a show of considering, but the possessive grip he has on John tells another story. Finally, he sighs and says, long-suffering but with a wicked grin, “Yeah, all right.”

-----

This was a deep cut into Raina lore, lol. But fun! Catlock!

I've started a collection of these ficlets on AO3 here and already added it to @calaisreno's collection.

Tags under the cut as always. Please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

@jrow @peanitbear @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @jolieblack @totallysilvergirl @catlock-holmes @victorianpining @helloliriels @meetinginsamarra @discordantwords @givemesherbet-blog-blog

[ero-heart]

Alright alright while I am making your request

Imma request another Reader x Ruv

A funny one i guess

Ruv getting attacked by Reader's pet crows (probably like 20-30 crows)

THIS IS AMAZING YES

This fic can be perceived as either platonic or romantic

It ended up being another hurt/comfort- Ruv has a lot of inner struggle

Cw: self harm, light description of violence

THE COUNCIL

(Ruv x Reader + crow army)

Ruv didn’t knew you very well, he was curious though, something about you just seemed to spark curiosity in him. Sarvente budged him to speak to you, eager to make him socialize, he begrudgingly complied. Now he was on the church’s stairs, trembling, waiting for you to arrive to your weekly visits. Quietly preparing a conversation starter on his mind.

“Hey, I want to be your friend!” This sounds stupid; “I find you cool let’s hangout!” Also stupid. Everything he came up with was stupid, everything would work with anyone else but him.

Ruv takes off his hat and throws it on the ground in a fit of anger, grabbing fists of his hair. Taking deep breaths to calm himself down. Ruv curls in a ball as he dig his fingers into his head. Still taking deep breaths, he didn’t notice the dark creature slowly approaching to peck on his hat, another flies down to also inspect the object. When Ruv opened his eyes, there was five crows picking on his hat. Ruv got up to retrieve his hat from the creatures before they flew farther from him, with his hat in one of their beaks, loudly cawing. Ruv sighed before charging at them, granting more cawing as they flew away farther. He felt something grabbing at his hood, discovering another crow with its claws secured on the fluff, pushing Ruv while it flies. He tried to shoo the crow away but another one rapidly flew in front of him, getting caught off guard and falling on the ground. More cawing.

“Tsk”

Ruv was ready to break those bird’s necks when he realized, in mild horror, the quantity of crows surrounding him. On the church’s stairs, the trees, the sidewalk, everywhere.

What. The fuck.

Soon his moment of shock was cut off by a familiar voice, quickly turning around to see none other than y/n, face filled with confusion. A crow flew past them, dropping his ushanka right on their hands. Realizing what was happening, y/n came running towards Ruv.

“Shoo don’t bother him! Shoo! Shoo!”

Some crows went away while others remained to watch y/n apologize profusely for what just happened.

“I am so so so so soooo sorry! I really am! They are such menaces! I am really sorry-“

Y/n kept on as they put Ruv’s hat back on him and brushed some dirt off his clothes. Ruv just looks at them, why are they apologizing.. for the crows?? His adrenaline still ran high with doubt and shame, but he managed to speak up.

“S’ ok..”

Y/n grabs his hands and pushes up, it took a while to Ruv to realize that they were trying to help him get up, so he lifts himself from the floor, immediately towering over y/n as they smile up at him.

“Are you sure? Are you not hurt?”

“I’m.. no I’m not”

“Then I am glad!”

They sighed as they continued:

“They do that all the time! Every person in my life has gone through that!”

Were you murder’s caretaker of some kind? Those birds were yours? That was interesting, that was actually a great way to start a conversation.

Both of you sat on the church’s stairs as you told your story with your crows, Ruv was a great listener, intrigued with your experiences. Sarv eventually went outside, worried with y/n who until now hasn’t showed up yet, to find both them and Ruv circled by crows, telling stories and jokes as the crow laughed with you.

Ruv could get used to that.

Haa that was it!~ it was a small one but I really hope you liked it! I’m sorry if it’s too ooc haha stay safe everyone ❤️ happy pride

[deconstructthesoup]

I saw a D&D AU with the Voices, and I decided that I also wanted to do a D&D AU with the Vessels, so here goes:

*cracks knuckles*

The players are the chapter 2 vessels, who have joined together after they were each mysteriously attacked---and nearly kidnapped---by worshipers of a primordial god only known as The Narrator. Even though they're all vastly different people with vastly different motivations, they have to work together in order to figure out how they've somehow angered a long-forgotten god.

The Tower is a scourge aasimar and an Oath of Conquest paladin, who devoted herself to The Apotheosis, queen of the gods and the embodiment of justice and retribution. She acts as the self-appointed leader of the group, even though a good chunk of the other players are having none of her self-righteousness and narcissism. She doesn't believe that the Narrator actually exists, and considers the quest to just be another heretic-killing spree.

The Adversary is a tiefling Ancestral Guardians barbarian, who grew up in a rough-and-tumble all-barbarian community and is slated to become its next leader. She's just happy to travel around the world bashing heads, and she winds up clashing the most with Tower---mainly due to their very different backgrounds. She genuinely doesn't care who or what the Narrator is, and just wants to kick ass and have a good time.

The Spectre is a ghost and a necromancer wizard, who actually died when she was attacked and has brought herself back in order to track down her killer and to take her revenge. She kind of lost herself in the ivory tower of academia when she was alive, and part of the reason she's sticking with the others is so she can actually form connections before it's truly too late. She's studied several old cults in her time, but the only thing she's found of The Narrator is an old painting of a crow with sharp teeth...

The Nightmare is a dhampir and an Undead warlock, who draws her magic from the dread vampire queen who turned her. She is no stranger to being hunted, for people fear and shun vampires and their spawn, but she knows full well that this time is different. And during the attack, she managed to devour a dream of her would-be captor, getting a little glimpse into the ancient powers of the god that wants her gone... and, well, who can resist the allure of taking down a being as old as time?

The Witch is a tabaxi Circle of Spores druid and an Arcane Trickster rogue, who's been living on her own in the woods after suffering a great betrayal and heartbreak that damaged her trust in anyone. She's only working with the others because she believes she'll get further if she does, and while she initially intends to backstab them once they're no longer useful, she finds herself growing closer to them as their journey continues. All she really wants is to go back to her old life... but her goal may change as her walls begin to come down.

The Prisoner is a human Armorer artificer, who once angered an archfey and was cursed to always be bound in chains. Undeterred, she turned this to her advantage, reforging her chains into armor that she could use as a weapon. She starts traveling with the rest purely due to self-preservation, as every time she resolved to just hide, The Narrator's worshipers found her again---but she's definitely the practical mind that they needed.

The Damsel is a half-elf College of Creation bard and a Beastmaster ranger, and she's a princess whose kingdom was usurped by an evil family member, leaving her on the run. She's very naive about how the world works, mainly due to being sheltered her entire life, and is sure that this situation can be solved with a nice conversation. Thankfully, she has someone to help her...

The Beast is a fey that was cursed to take the form of a barely-sapient panther, and she barely recalls her life in the Feywild. Still, she has a soft spot for the innocent princess she came across in the woods one day, and she will protect her for as long as she can.

The Razor is an elf Soulknife rogue and a College of Swords bard, and she's actually a pretty well-known circus performer. She's absolute chaos personified, and she really doesn't give a shit about The Narrator either way---she's just ready to kick ass, stab people, and hang out with her new best friends. Even if not all of them are super into being friends with the crazy blade lady.

And last but not least, The Stranger is a changeling Divine Soul sorcerer and a Grave Domain cleric, who unknowingly draws their power from the long-forgotten goddess of change, transformation, endings, and new beginnings. They woke up one day with no memory of who they were, and were immediately attacked for reasons they could not explain---so, needless to say, they're pretty traumatized. It also doesn't help that they don't even know what they really look like, so they're constantly changing to reflect what people expect of them... which isn't the most healthy thing, but they're an amnesiac, give them a break.

So... yeah!

[absurdthirst]

Kinktober 2022: October 17th

Day 17: Hate Fucking // Pussy Slapping // Medical Play

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: Mentions of spitting, hate fucking, pussy slapping, mildly dub-con, hair pulling, face slapping

|| Kinktober List || MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

You’ve ignored him for seven days, five hours and twenty-three minutes. Not that you are counting, you wouldn’t let Francisco Morales know that you would give him the time of day or a passing thought again after the last time you had actually looked him in the eyes. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have spit at him, but you stand by your decision that you would never, never, let that man touch you again. Especially when you had seen him leaning in and giggling with that Air Force twit with the huge tits. 

It doesn’t affect your job. You don’t have to talk to the pilot in order to be able to carry out your missions. For the rest of the team, they don’t even notice a difference. There has always been a chilly report between the two of you. Neither one of you particularly cared for the other in social settings - more that you were polite acquaintances - pretending the other didn’t exist until you were required to interact. 

None of the team knew about the sex. The blowing off steam and using each other because it was convenient. Not that was over and Catfish could spend the rest of this deployment fuckign his hand or chasing whatever pussy he could around the base. You hope he catches the clap. 

“Are you done pouting?” Suppressing the urge to jump, your shoulders turn towards the voice in the dark, watching as Frankie steps out from the side of one of the builds. Obviously waiting for you. 

Narrowing your eyes, you scoff. “It’s a good way to get shot, Morales.” You tap the thigh holster that your beretta is clipped into. Your constant companion on the FOB unless you are showering or in PT gear. 

“Please.” Frankie rolls his eyes and steps closer to you. “You’re a shit shot, especially with the pistol.” 

“Night.” Your flat tone signals that you are done with the conversation, turning on your heel to walk the half dozen steps to the conex box that has been converted into a room for you to live in while you are here. 

“You’re jealous.” His crowing is the only thing that could possibly stop you from walking up the steps into the room, closing the door firmly and locking him out for another day. As it is, the timer would have to restart on how long it has been since you’ve spoken to him. 

“You can go fuck yourself, I’m not jealous.” You hiss. “I just came to my fucking senses.” Shooting him a smirk that you know will grate on his nerves. “Thank God.” 

When your door is closed, your smirk drops and you grit your teeth. Hating yourself for fucking giving him anything. You should have pretended he wasn’t there at all. From now on, he doesn’t exist. 

****

“PUT ME DOWN, MORALES!” You could get out of this hold. It would take one - well placed kick to the solar plex and he would drop you to the dirt and allow you to kick his ass like you are itching to. But it would create an even larger spectacle and you won’t give him the satisfaction. You go limp, smirking happily when the sudden shifting of your weight causes him to curse. You hope his back fucking aches. 

“If you hadn’t been such a spoiled little bitch, I wouldn’t have to carry your ass off.” He hisses, reaching up and smacking your ass sharp enough to make you gasp and he chuckles while you imagine the hundred different ways you are going to kill and dismember him when he puts you down. 

He doesn’t put you down, not until he closes your door and tosses you on your bed hard enough to make you bounce on the very firm mattress. “I’m going to fucking kill you.” You are springing back up, ready to throw hands when he pushes you back down a second time, fingers dragging down the shorts you wear when you work out. 

He knows you are bare underneath, bucking and fighting him as he yanks them down and pins your legs spread with those broad fucking shoulders of his that you hate. “Are you really?” He sneers, smirking up at you with the most condescending look he can muster. “Are you really going to kill me? Looks like you’re wet.” 

“It’s sweat.” You try to close your thighs, knocking your right knee against that shoulder that gives him fits sometimes and getting a jolt of pleasure when he hisses. “Last thing I’m going to do is be wet for you.” 

Frankie shakes his head, his expression challenging, and you see where his cock is already hard under his own shorts. “We’ll see.” 

“I not fucking you.” You hips buck up again and you swat at his head, a swing that both of you know you could have made connect if you really want to. “So get off. Go fuck your hand, fuck someone else.” 

“But you’re right here.” Frankie draws, pushing up your ARMY t-shirt and sports bra. “Why go somewhere else when I fuck the attitude out of you?” 

You snort, bucking your hips up again and shaking your head. “Over my dead body.” 

The sharp sting of pain on your clit makes you cry out, eye wide and shocked - flying to meet his dark orbs when you realize this motherfucker just slapped your pussy. And is fucking smirking about it.

It hurt and felt amazing at the same time. A sharp jolt to your clit that makes it throb. The part of you that doesn’t hate him with every fiber of your being wants to beg him to do it again, while he’s buried to the hilt inside you. 

The first time the two of you fucked, you were bent over, unable to see his cock before he pushed inside you. He was a fucking asshole and you despise him, but you can’t deny the prick has a big fucking cock. You had ached for days, not that you would admit that to him. Internalizing the winces and pretending you weren’t affected at all when in reality, your pussy was on fire just sitting still. You understood why when you got a look at him, the damn thing was as thick as your wrist and he still had the length to feel like he was pushing up into your throat. 

Anger, frustration and something else mix in his eyes and instead of fighting it, fighting him, you decide to turn the tables. 

Your legs move from his shoulder to his head, closing around it and locking together while you push up off the bed. Twisting and using your weight to throw him off balance and roll him under your, your cunt inches from his mouth and for a split second you want to sit on it. To bury his face in your sweaty, wet cunt. 

Instead you slap away his hands harshly, untangling your legs and moving down, your own hands pulling at his shorts, you don’t give a shit that you are still in running shoes and your sports bra digs into your skin and pushes your tits down. If you’re going to fuck, you are going to be in charge. 

“Th-thought you were weren’t going to fuck me?” He challenges reaching out to swat at your tit and he catches your nipple, 

“Shut the fuck up.” You hiss, glaring up at him, your grip around his cock probably tighter than you should have on it, but it doesn’t stop you from squeezing to make his breath hitch. “You fucking started this.” 

It’s just fucking, you tell yourself as you straddle him and start to sink down on his thick fucking cock. It’s only because he won’t leave and this is where it was going from the second that you had told him you weren’t fucking him again. It was a challenge and Frankie hates to lose. Instead of being defeated, you are changing the rules. You are using him for your pleasure. 

“God, you are never fucking happy.” Frankie huffs, fingers digging into your hips and biting his lip when you bottom out, taking him to the very root and squeezing him in your tight walls. “Always pissed about something.” 

“Hate you.” You practically moan the words, not giving yourself a moment to adjust to the way his cock stretches your lips wide. Immediately starting to bounce on his lap in order to get off as quickly as possible, the sting of it adding to the pleasure of having a cock inside you. You close your eyes, refusing to look at him while you set a frantic pace. 

Another sharp thwack against your cunt has your eyes springing open, shocked again that he is doing that. You don’t hate it, not the way your cunt flutters around him. 

“I hate you.” He snarls, trying to take back some control. Reaching up and squeezing a tit harshly and making you smother a cry when he pinches your nipple harshly. “Hate how you fucking act. Like a spoiled brat.” He huffs. “Pouting and pitching a fit.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Are you sitting on my cock?” He demands with a chuckle. “I am, sweetheart.” 

Growling, you curl his hair in your fist and yank it. Enjoying the way that he hisses in pain and his cock jolts inside you. Fucker likes it but he’s scowling so you do it again. 

“Never doing this again.” You hiss, rolling your hips a little fast as the heat and pressure curl in your core and you start to feel that sweet ache building. Chasing the whisper of it every time you slam back down on him. 

“Never.” Frankie agrees, pissing you off even more, letting go of his hair and slapping his cheek far harder than you had meant to when the sharp crack sounds out. 

You freeze for a split second, horrified at what you had actually done. Despite everything you had never slapped him. Not even able to open your mouth to apologize before Frankie is snarling. 

You are on your back in a second, the force of it pushing the air out of your lung, along with a much more quiet yelp than you would normally give when Frankie lunges forward and drives his cock back inside you. 

“Tired of your shit.” He grunts harshly, reaching up and taking hold of your throat. “Tired of you fucking pushing- bitching, lashing out at me.” 

You would comment, you’ve got a lot to say to him, but every swing of his hips pushes the ability to speak out of you. Leaving nothing but tiny gasps all you can muster as he huffs another chuckle. 

“Not-thing to say now?” He taunts, fingers flexing and your thighs start to shake around his hips. The pressure and angle is just what you need and yet you are trying to fight the oncoming wave of pleasure with everything you've got. 

You glare up at him, opening your mouth and all that comes out is a moan. Making Frankie grunt and nod, still driving his hips forward and pounding into you with zero regard for how you are going to walk tomorrow. Seemingly determined to completely rearrange your guts while he bares his gritted teeth and hisses through them, the look on his face feral. 

“F-fuck y-y-you.” You finally manage, huffing it out as your entire body rocks forward and back from the way that he hammers into you. Again those fingers around your throat tighten and your eyes close, back bowing up as you silently cry out. 

It’s explosive, almost nuclear as the force of it rips through you. Making your entire body contort and contract in pleasure and the hot rush of your release shoots out, soaking him and the material of his shorts bunched up at his knees. 

Making him groan, loud and his body lunges forward, lips pressing to yours while he drives so deep into your cunt that you swear he is touching your tonsils. Teeth biting and this his tongue soothing your lip before his tongue sweeps inside your mouth. Pouring his sounds into you while his cock steadily pulses, ropes of cum painting your walls while he rocks his hips slower than before. 

Your eyes close, panting and boneless under him, both of you softening for just a moment as you come down together. You might not be able to stand him - at least not that you can admit -  but the hate fucking is amazing. 

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #22 – Fevered Star by Rebecca Roanhorse

This was a bit of an odd read for me. I grabbed it because I have vague but generally quite positive memories of reading the first book in the trilogy a few years back, and having finished this I’m not really sure why. It’s not that it’s necessarily an awful read – it’s engaging, the moment-to-moment prose is fine, I finished it easily enough. Hell there’s a decent chance I read the sequel at some point. But my main feeling finishing it is that it’s an artistic failure, that I can see the things it was trying to do and generally speaking it just didn’t manage them. Which is a pity, really.

The book picks up right after Black Sun ended, with the crow god reborn massacring the Watchers and plunging the city of Tova into chaos, and world into permanent twilight as the crow and sun gods battle in the heavens. Inconveniently, the actual sun priest survived, having faked her death and fled to the undercity following a coup shortly before everyone involved died, leaving the ritual incomplete and Serpio (vessel and host of the Crow God) alive. The story basically follows the fallout from this, with the sun priest, crow prophet and three other POVs each showing the political trajectory of some different part of the world as things spiral inevitably toward war.

Which is the first problem, really. This is the middle book in a trilogy, and oh you can feel it. The entire book is spent moving pieces into place and just, table-setting for when the actual dramatic plot kicks off in book three. Now, personally I actually quite enjoy books full of intrigue and conversations on the road as people travel places, but it gets a bit excessive. It doesn’t help that half the POVs get barely any development and feel like they end the book in the same basic emotional/ideological place they started it with no progress at all to their arcs. The whole thing ends up feeling like a giant prologue to the actual story.

A feeling which is not helped at all by the book’s length. I’m not at all opposed to fantasy books being less than 400 pages. I am in fact incredibly in favour of it, the ideas of reading another 1100 page tome just makes me exhausted. But when you’re trying to do a George R. R. Martin-style continent spanning politics-heavy cast-of-thousands epic fantasy, you really need the extra wordcount. The result felt incredibly choppy and rushed, almost more like an outline or storyboard than a completed story. Each main character rushes from pivotal scene to pivotal scene with barely any time for establishing status quos or building relationships and connective tissue – instead things are basically introduced once and then the POV’s internal monologue just explains its importance to you, pivotal events in the plot explained either after the fact or not at all. Maybe one or two character dynamics in the entire book actually worked for me, the rest just felt like reading the ‘relationships’ section of a character sheet. It made getting invested in the whole thing remarkably difficult.

The feeling of reading an outline of a book wasn’t really helped by the lore. We got lots of interesting tidbits and implications, even some grand revelation – and essentially none of them are ever followed up on, or given the weight they really need to really land. The revelation of the Sun Priest having no shit miraculous magic powers after three hundred years of them violently suppressing any sorcery especially is, not exactly brushed over, but certainly no one seems to react to it have as violently as you would expect. Similarly, there’s a great book in here of just Tovan political intrigue and festering generational grudges and conspiracies colliding in the dark, but then that would require cutting out Xilla and Balam’s entire plotlines to make room for it. (I still kind of love the idea of the entire Golden Eagle hierarchy being pretty bitter that the coup they’d been carefully planning for years got derailed because a rival house pulled a messiah out of their ass and wiped out the entire governing elite of the city).

Then there’s things like the magic system – or honestly I feel like I should put that in scare quotes. There’s this idea brought up a few times that every form of magic fits into a neat schematic, associated with a particular god and specifically opposing and counteracting one other type of sorcery. Which I honestly kind of hate, for the same reason that I kind of hate the fact the crow god of shadows and death apparently really is exactly as vengeful and cruel as you might expect from that. Which might be building up to a big reveal in the third book! Who knows. But as is, the entire metaphysical setup just feels terribly like something out of a midbudget tabletop rpg setting, and not at all in a good way.

Which is a shame, because generally the setting is just a delight. No small part of that is just from the novelty of an epic fantasy stories that’s painted in the colours of pre-Columbian Mesoamerica instead of Medieval Europe. But even beyond that, the interplay of the different cities and factions within them is very fun, and it’s just a breath of fresh air to have no straightforward hereditary monarchies in one of these at all. I can’t say is felt really real (it is an agricultural society, plunging the world into permanent twilight as the winter ends isn’t dire and ominous, it’s an imminent famine of apocalyptic scale), but the aesthetics of everything were certainly entirely on point. I was left pretty sad this isn’t a series there’s more high quality fanart for, really.

[heniareth]

ZevWarden Week 2023

Day 1: Traditions and Trying New Things

The Naming Day

Wordcount: 3,469 | Rating: General audiences

Zevran and Astala Tabris have adopted three Antivan kids; two of them are former Crow recruits. None of them have ever celebrated their Naming Day.

(Read below or here on AO3)

The day he had arrived at Vigil’s Keep with the three Antivan kids had been a cold and rainy day in the middle of Drakonis. Carlo had been asleep and wouldn’t let himself be woken up. Virel and Perinella had also been exhausted. Their flight from Antiva and from the Crows had taken a lot out of them, and they had gone straight to bed after they’d gotten some food. Zevran was happy to see them safe, happy to know them well-cared for, and sad to have to leave the next day. His safehouse back in Antiva seemed cold and empty when he re-entered it and none of the three children were there. Updates from the Vigil became the highlight of the week; apparently the keep’s humble appointments had been a source of disappointment especially for Perinella—and she was right, for Fereldan nobility had nothing against even the Antivan merchants—and the children treated their new surroundings with the utmost suspicion. Smart, Zevran had thought. But at the same time, he wished they would soon realize they were safe there. Safe like he had been. Astala told him about how the children, sticking together, the only Antivans in a large, unknown fortress, had explored the grounds bit by bit. They had grown bolder as the days passed. Zevran fondly remembered opening a letter from his Warden and discovering in it a rather rattled account of how the children had discovered the kitchens and stolen fifteen of her beloved plum-filled pastries.

Of course, there had been setbacks. Virel still hardly initiated conversations with strangers. Carlo had taken to breaking things to get hugs after having been comforted over accidentally spilling the contents of an inkwell. And Perinella had broken into Anders’ collection of manuals on blood magic more than once. Fortunately, Velanna had been able to prevent any demonic possession of the girl. For now. But Zevran couldn’t quite bring himself to fault any of them for their behavior. The streets of Antiva had not been kind to Carlo, and Virel and Perinella had been left to fend for themselves under the Crows after their own parents had sold them. Really, given the circumstances, they were doing very well.

Zevran only hoped that today would not be another setback or give Perinella the wrong ideas. It was her naming day, after all.

Zevran quietly observed how Perinella, paper in hand, Virel in tow, and a big stack of gifts still in their wrapping balancing in her arms slowly made her way up the narrow steps to the rookery. Maybe it had been a mistake to leave this gift as one of the last. Where would she set down the rest? The air around Perinella was shifting ever so slightly, which tended to happen when she let her otherwise meticulous control over her magic slip. This could be very good, or it could be very bad. Zevran suppressed the urge to shift anxiously in his space. It would be better if neither of them was made aware of his presence. Otherwise, Virel would start to scowl again. The boy still did not trust him, former Crows that he was.

If only he could get some kind of clue as to whether this had been a good idea.

-

The children had no actual naming day. Astala had discovered this over dinner one day when she had asked for it and had only received blank stares and confused looks in return. Zevran had jumped in to the rescue; the Crows, after all, were not ones to celebrate an individual’s continued survival, and neither were the streets of Antiva. Astala had turned to him, confused.

“So you don’t know when you were named either? I thought you told me your naming day was on the 7th of Bloomingtide!”

“And so it is! Technically,” Zevran had answered. “There were far too many children at the whorehouse to keep track of, so there was one day where all of us would celebrate our naming day. Everyone got their due without too much hassle.”

Astala made a face to herself that indicated just how unimpressed she was by this. Then she mercifully turned to the children.

“And you gotta have a naming day, because you have a name,” she said. “You don’t remember it at all?”

Perinella, normally the most forward, had said nothing and only glanced at her brother. Virel had silently poked his dinner. Carlo had looked around the table, and then had carefully set his spoon down.

“What is this?” he had signed.

“A naming day?” Once Carlo had confirmed this was what he was asking, Astala had sat back and contemplated the question. “A naming day is the day you were named, normally a year and a day after you are born. Every year on that day, there's a small celebration to conmemorate the fact that you're alive. You usually receive some gifts from friends and family-"

At that, Perinella had perked up.

"-and people wish you well for the coming year of your life," Astala had concluded. "I have a naming day, my cousins Soris and Shianni have one, even my Da has one. So, if you don't know yours: would you like one?"

Carlo had indeed wanted one. Tomorrow, had been his first idea. Once Astala had explained that it would make for a very poor and underprepared naming day indeed, he had settled on the 8th of Cloudreach, with the reasoning that Cloudreach sounded nice and 8 was his favorite number. Astala had called it good. Perinella had dithered to and fro, and glanced intermittently at Virel, who was still staring at his stew like it had personally offended him—and this even though Astala had managed to find a decent cook even by Antivan standards. Finally, Perinella had decided to take Astala up on the offer as well and had settled on the date of their arrival at Vigil's Keep. Zevran had a strong feeling that this choice was less of a celebration of their arrival in Antiva and more because the date was an easy option. Virel had only stoically shaken his head when asked.

-

One exact year after their arrival at Vigil's Keep, Zevran was hiding and observing the rookery into which Perinella and Virel had disappeared.

For a long while, there was nothing. Zevran was starting to get nervous.

It had been his idea to turn the giving of gifts into a treasure hunt of sorts. None of the- their three children liked the attention of crowds, and to assemble every well-wisher and gift-giver in one room to assault them seemed like the perfect way to make them hate the whole idea. But sneaking and exploring? They liked it. They were good at it. They did it often. And so Zevran had suggested everybody hide their gifts together with a clue to the next hiding spot. They would have liked to try it out on Carlo first, easily enthused and more easy to read than the older two; alas, Cloudreach came right after Drakonis. It should go over well enough with Perinella—she was an inquisitive sort—if she found all her gifts. And if the gifts were to her liking. And if she understood that they were, in fact, gifts, intended for her to keep with no strings attached. Ah, the Crows had a way of ruining everything good for oneself. But Velanna’s gift, which was the one hidden in the rookery, should really-

There was a flash of light, and a small squeak. Zevran jumped up, ready to run towards the rookery should his help be needed, but everything was quiet now. Should he barge in? Virel and Perinella did not trust him. But what if they needed help? Braska, he had to do something. Zevran whirled around, intent on taking the steps down to the corridor leading to the rookery two or three at a time, and promptly bumped into another small person.

“Surprised!” he signed once he recognized the boy. “Bravo.”

Carlo grinned widely. He had evidently snuck up on him on purpose.

“Is everything ready?” Zevran asked, now whispering.

Carlo nodded, long bangs flying all over his face. He still hadn’t allowed Astala to give him a haircut.

“Very good,” Zevran said and tousled Carlo’s hair further.

The boy giggled.

“Could we change our plan?” Zevran asked with a glance towards the rookery. “I would like to ask for a favor. You may say no.”

Carlo frowned, evidently not happy with the question. But he also tilted his head to the side in an unspoken question.

“Instead of waiting for Virel and Perinella to come down, could you go to them now?” Zevran elaborated. “There was a flash and a sound. I would like you to see if they are alright, if you could.”

Carlo pointed over at the rookery.

“Yes,” Zevran nodded. “They are in there.”

Carlo made the sign for danger.

“I do not think you will be in danger, no,” Zevran said immediately. And then he thought, why was he asking the kid to check on Virel and Perinella anyways?

Before he could develop that thought further, Carlo shook his head and made the sign of danger again, then signed Virel’s name, then Perinella’s.

“They…” Zevran hesitated. “No. No, I do not think they are in danger.”

Because what dangers could await them in the rookery of Vigil’s Keep, of all places? Perinella's magic had been a bit out of control already, and now that he thought of it, the squeal had sounded more excited than anything. Ah, nagale! He was making a fool of himself again.

“I- Look, maybe there is no need to go after all,” Zevran said. “So you-”

But Carlo was starting to look frustrated as he signed ‘danger’ again, then Virel’s name, then Perinella’s. Zevran frowned. What was the boy trying to tell him?

“I… do not think they will search for trouble either,” he tried.

Carlo shook his head again, big eyes pleading Zevran to understand.

“They… are a danger?” Zevran guessed.

Again, Carlo shook his head.

“I am very sorry,” Zevran said and suppressed a small sigh. “I do not understand.”

Carlo repeated his signs, now looking truly distressed.

“Carlo, mijo, please.” Zevran knelt so he was eye to eye with Carlo. “I do not understand, but I no longer think there is a need to check on Virel and Perinella. What if we stick to the original plan, hm? Would that be better?”

Carlo repeated his signs.

“Alright,” Zevran said. “What are you telling me? Are you saying something is happening?”

Carlo shook his head.

Zevran tried again. “Are you asking me a question?”

There, finally, Carlo nodded.

“Ah, very well,” Zevran said. “And you are not asking-”

The door to the rookery flew open. Perinella marched out, her stack of gifts grown by one and wobbling precariously. Virel followed. They seemed no worse for wear than when they entered. Carlo's head snapped around, wide eyes landing on them. He urgently tugged on Zevran’s sleeve, and this time Zevran understood without issue. They ran off, to the small dining room where the five of them took their meals, where Astala was already waiting.

-

They arrived out of breath, but Perinella was nowhere to be seen. Astala set aside her work immediately and heaved herself up with the help of her cane.

“What happened?”

“Nothing of note,” Zevran was quick to assure her. “Carlo and I missed out cue, that is all.”

Carlo pulled out three more packages from behind the cupboard and laid them on the table. Zevran recognized his gift for Perinella among them. Then he pulled on Astala’s sleeve and started signing, the same signs he had said to Zevran.

“Carlo has a question,” Zevran tried to help.

“A question?” Astala sat back down. “What are you asking? If Virel and Perinella are in danger?”

Carlo shook his head, then pointed at himself and gave a big shrug.

“You don’t know?” Astala said. “What don’t you know?”

Carlo signed ‘Virel’, ‘Perinella’, ‘danger’, and then pointed at himself.

“You? When Virel and Perinella are in danger?” Astala asked.

Carlo nodded emphatically and pointed at himself again.

“What you can do?” Astala said.

Carlo nodded so enthusiastically that his whole body folded at the waist under the motion, and Zevran wanted to clap his hand against his forehead. Of course.

“Well,” Astala answered very seriously, “I think the best thing you can do is get help. From me or Zevran, or from any other adult around. We don’t want you to get hurt, after all.”

Carlo nodded firmly.

“Are Virel and Perinella in danger now?” Astala asked.

Carlo shook his head, then shrugged, then looked at Zevran.

“There was a flash and a noise,” Zevran said. “I forgot it sometimes happens with Perinella and I... may have let my worry carry me away.”

“Oh. Alright. That reminds me,” Astala continued, addressing them both and clasping her hands together, “how did it go? Did she find everything? Did they see you?”

Carlo proudly shook his head, and Zevran added: “I think Perinella did find everything. They have sharp eyes, but after discovering the first gifts, those eyes were very much consumed with their search."

"Good. Good." Astala turned to the decked-out table and tucked a flower deeper into the vase standing in front of Perinella's plate. "D'you think she'll like them?"

She looked at Carlo. Carlo gave a cheerful nod and then scrambled off to inspect the plates laden with food closer. Astala turned to Zevran with the same questioning glance.

"I think she will like them," Zevran said. "They are big, and colorful, and look expensive. She loves those things."

"She does." Astala smiled and turned to him. "And you think she liked the whole affair?"

"So many questions," Zevran said and laughed. "Are you worried, my Warden?"

"They're reasonable!" Astala protested before her single-minded focus returned. "So, did Perinella like it?"

"Ah, I was a far-away observer, amore," Zevran teased her. "Why do we not wait until she arrives to see?"

Astala scoffed. "I've been in here the whole time, Zevran! Just tell me!"

"Why so impatient, my Warden?" Zevran said and laughed. "Such a mother hen you are at times."

"It's her first naming day," Astala said miserably. Her eyes turned big and round. "Please, Zevran? Just give me a hint."

Ah. He wanted to continue the ruse. It was far too satisfying after his own worrying and rumiating. But those big, pleading eyes...

Loud, labored steps up the stairs saved him from squirming any further. Zevran opened the door. Perinella, hidden behind her stack of gifts, still with Virel in tow, was making her way up the stairs almost blind.

"Ah, donna Perinella," Zevran dramatically declared and took one step towards her. "May I help you with that?"

Something between a huff and a giggle came out from behind the stack of packages. "No!"

"As you wish." Zevran bowed just as dramatically and then smoothly stepped back and away from the door entirely as she sailed into the room.

Perinella marched across the room and sat her heap of gifts down on the bench that ran along the wall. Then, very carefully, she sat a fat envelope on top of it. Those had to be the well-wishes. She had collected them.

"Was it fun?" Astala asked.

Perinella nodded and replied in careful Fereldan: "I founded everything."

"I'm glad to hear it," Astala said with a wide smile. "It would be such a shame if you missed any of them."

"I do believe, however," Zevran said, "that there are more gifts to hand out."

And he pulled his packed gift out from behind his back.

Carlo, however, was faster. He all but shoved his gift into Perinella's hands and waited impatiently for her to open it. The dragon, princess and knight puppets he had chosen for her—with Astala's help—were met with shining eyes. Especially the princesses’ fine gown drew her attention. Virel was next. He very seriously handed Perinella his gift, a belt made to hold several potion vials. It was received just as seriously; one more attempt from an older brother to keep his little sister safe.

And then it was his turn. Zevran stepped forward and handed Perinella his gift. As she was opening it, he stepped backwards, keeping himself further than an arm's length away and watching the paper rather than Perinella. She carefully peeled the wrapping off and pulled out a fine cloak.

It was a Fereldan cloak, but it had been retrofitted and altered to bear stitching local to Antiva. They were beautiful, colorful, and they looked expensive. Rich wreaths climbed up the seams, small stars climbed up the backside. The inside of the cloak was lined with pelt. A clasp in the style of an Antivan sun held it close. Zevran held his breath. Perinella shook it out and held it up, face serious, but her eyes had widened. And it didn’t look like fear or anything of the sort.

"Your own coat looked so sad," Zevran said quietly, repeating the words he had often heard from her. "I hope this one will keep you warm and also make you feel like a lady of high standing."

Perinella looked at the cloak and said nothing.

“Would you like to try it on?” Astala asked gently.

At a nod from Perinella, Astala asked for the cloak so she could swing it over her shoulder. Perinella turned this way and that, tugged the cape closer and ran her hand along the fine pelt on the inside. Then she left the room after asking if she might look at herself in a mirror. Astala was quick to answer, of course she could! Zevran noticed Virel’s gaze resting on him; heavy, as always, and scrutinizing.

Perinella returned, and a complicated expression lay on her face. She immediately went to Zevran.

“La ringrazio,” she said.

Zevran couldn’t help the shiver running down his spine at the expression.

“Now, now,” he said, attempting a joke. “Am I an old man that you must speak so formally with me?”

Perinella frowned slightly, and Zevran decided then and there it was best to drop the matter.

“Ah, don’t mind me,” he said with a small smile. “You are doing well. Di niente, Perinella. Ti voglio bene.”

Something fluttered across Perinella’s expression, there and gone. Then she stepped back and Zevran forced his treacherous mind to put the matter to rest.

Astala’s gift came last. Perinella pulled it out of the wrapping and held it in her hands, confused; it was an old stuffed mabari, recently cleaned and mended.

“This,” Astala said, “was mine when I was little. I gave it to my cousin Shianni when I didn’t need it anymore. Shianni now let me give it to you. His name is Fen, but you can give him a different name if you want to. He’s a very, very good sleeping companion.”

Perinella slowly folded her arms around the stuffed mabari and held him to her chest.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Nella,” Astala said with a big smile and squeezed her shoulder. “I’m happy you like it.”

-

They ate, drank, and Perinella finally allowed them to help her ferry the rest of the gifts into the rooms she shared with Carlo and Virel. The night grew late, but even so Astala checked in one last time with the children before going to sleep. Zevran waited for her in the hallway. Outside, the rain pattered against the windows.

He almost didn’t hear Astala’s quiet call for him. He only approached carefully; the children didn’t trust him. He would rather spare them the scare of seeing him peek into their room while they were supposedly sleeping. When he saw what Astala had called him over for, however, he was glad to have looked.

Perinella was lying in her bed, asleep. In her arms, pressed against her face, were the stuffed mabari Fen and the Fereldan cloak with the Antivan stitching.

Zevran smiled as something loosened within his chest and something else tightened in his throat.

She liked it.

-

By the end of the month, Perinella had asked to continue this tradition of the naming day, Carlo had asked every day if his had arrived yet, and Virel had chosen the 9th of Kingsway for his very own naming day. Astala was excited. Perinella wore her cloak, which she did until the weather got far too hot to wear it anymore. Then it was hung up in her wardrobe, right at the front, in its own place of honor. It made Zevran smile more than a single thing—except, of course, for his Warden—had ever made him smile.

-

A couple notes before you leave because I cannot not talk about this story XD XD XD

First of all, I'm by no means an Italian speaker. I do hope what I cobbled together is more or less correct ^^' Here's the translation: - La ringrazio: formal way to say "thank you" - Di niente: "You are welcome"; "It is nothing" -Ti voglio bene: "I love you" (Am I cobbling together Italian and Mexican Spanish and the fantasy swearwords Zevran uses for Antivan? Yes I am)

Second, I love these kids so much omg. Carlo is about 8 here, Perinella 10, probably, and Virel 12-ish? It's hard to tell. They don't know for certain how old they are. Carlo is nonverbal, and has picked up a few very limited signs. Astala, mostly, is currently trying to get them both to learn more, but Carlo has never spoken. Turning his thoughts into word, even if they're not spoken words, is hard for him. Again, I have no personal experience with this. I have done and am in the process of doing my research, but if anything catches your attention that could be done better, please let me know.

The idea for this fic, as well as the idea of Carlo starting to break things in order to get hugs was developed alongside bumbleRhizal (whose Novhen Tabris is an abolute delight). Basically, Carlo once broke something by accident. He was so so so scared of the consequences, but had developed enough trust into the adults now in his life that he decided to risk it and confessed his mistake. He was comforted, told that he had done a very good thing indeed and that he didn't have to be scared. And the broken thing could be replaced anyways. Here, let's clean it up together. And Carlo did admit to his mistakes from that moment on, mostly, but he also found that breaking something was a very convenient way for asking for hugs. He's a street kid. He did not get hugs prior to this. At some point, the adults figured out that the boy hadn't just developed a bad case of the clumsy and started working on it. He still got hugs, just not when he broke something.

The reason Perinella doesn't speak Fereldan (or, in this case, English, saying founded instead of found), is because she's still learning. She's spent a year in the country. It's a totally different language. It'll take her a bit of time still. Also, she's a mage. Those puppets Carlo chose for her? She'll be animating them with force magic at some point. Somebody will have a bit of a heart attack XD XD XD XD Virel and Perinella are former Crow recruits. Zevran freed Virel, and then freed Perinella when Virel refused to leave without her. They have been together through thick and thin, and Virel especially does not trust Zevran, despite having worked with him. Old habits die hard, and the kid is traumatized. They'll get round to it and it'll get better. Not in this fic tho

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this one and I'm so so so excited to read and see what everybody else has been making XD XD XD Huge thank you for @zevraholics for organizing this event. Happy ZevWarden week!!

[ms-all-sunday]

Sanji didn't mind being out for watch during the nighttime- he usually got early night shifts so he could get enough sleep in the morning before preparing everyone's breakfast, usually for that time at least the Marimo was awake and then he'd have some amount of company, but for tonight he was all alone. Smoking as a blanket laid haphazardly over his body and a pillow behind his back.

The cool air of night hung around him in the crows nest and for a brief moment the merry- a ship with a notoriously loud crew even by Sanjis standards, was slient.

Only for a moment.

"Cook. Do you mind if I join you?"

"Robin?"

She poked her head above the entrance to the latter, just enough that you could see her eyes from under her bangs and the top of the bridge of her nose.

"Sorry. Did I come at a bad time?"

"No! I'm just surprised. It's cold and you don't usually stay up this late."

"Hm. Well. I'm up here now. You wouldn't mind company?"

He looked suspiciously at her. "... I wouldn't."

Robin is wearing a coat over her nightgown, which makes her look a bit less ghostly than usual. Would Sanji have to share his blankets? Yes. And he doesn't mind, he runs hot anyways. The only thing he regrets is not getting another pillow as Robin settles down across from him, the blanket covering all of the floor of the crows nest.

"I admit that this conversation isn't totally on a whim, I wanted to ask you something before we next to the next island."

The shipbuilding island.

He nods. "Anything for you."

"No, that's exactly it. Why don't you flirt with me like you do a lot of other women? I'm not complaining.

Well. Hm, that isn't exactly the whole truth is it? It's more complicated than that.

Regardless, you don't seem like you expect anything romantic from me or have romantic feels for me at all, I'm curious about that. You're so committed, I never thought your dedication would waver in this respect."

Sanji looked surprised and took a drag of his cigarette.

"Okayyy, for one, I do have a crush on you."

"Then why-"

"I'm insulted that you would think I didn't."

"Yes. Okay. Sorry. Regardless, that only makes the question more interesting."

"I don't seem like I have romantic feelings for you, I would guess, because... Uh."

Why does he do that? Why put a thin veil over being attracted to Robin and nobody else?

"You're smart and funny and it'd be a shame to limit myself when talking to you."

"Nami is smart and funny."

Sanji laughs and Robin smiles.

"Nami is different you know that. I mean that I don't have any chance with you, so thinking about our relationship from a romantic angle is... Unhelpful? Even though I have a crush on you doesn't mean I think flirting regardless of anything is appropriate. I have to know when to apply it to a conversation. It's like a seasoning. Plus, there's more to admire if I don't limit myself to flirting with you. Being friends is better on all accounts."

"Friends where one of them is in love with the other. Understandable. I honestly thought any romantic... vibes? I got where just apart of the rouse that you do."

He sputters. "It's not an act! Not fake-"

"Yes. I've mentioned your interactions with Nami once in this conversation already, do you want me to cite my sources beyond that or do we just want to leave it at that? Sorry, maybe it would be better to call it an excuse with her-"

"It's kind of a rouse, fine, contextually! It wasn't a rouse with you. I'm legitimately in love with you. It's kind of fucking hard not to be."

"Oh? How so?"

"Why is it, that when I tell the women I have crushes on that I'm in love with them, they don't believe me?"

She smirks. "You have a type, clearly."

Sanji takes a deep breath. "You're elegant, your voice calms me down, you're funny, you're unbelievably strong, you're insightful, you help me even though I don't ask for it, you know things about me that nobody else does and for once in my fucking lifetime I'm actually okay with none of my defences working against another person in the same way I am with Luffy. But he's him. And you're you. Different."

If the lighting was better, Sanji could see Nico Robin blush.

"Thank you."

"My pleasure. You believe me now?"

"I do. Somehow I thought it would be more surface level than that."

"People have been telling me I give off that vibe recently. I've gotta fucking change that."

...

"I want to sit next to you."

"Sure."

Sanji moves to sit next to Robin. She remains taller than him, even sitting down, by the few inches difference between them. She has an indescribable expression on her face, it seems distant. Maybe longing. There are a million words she wants to say and they all die in her throat.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No." She says softly. I did.

"You can lean into me if you want."

She does.

The texture of his dress-shirt was softer than she'd have imagined. She can't cry in front of him- none of this was planned out in her head.

Just get curiosity out of the way. This is the way it has to go- she tells herself. And despite intending it as comfort, the words in her head only twist the knife deeper inside her.

Making her want to cry more.

And so she does, softly, in the exact way Sanji can't see or hear but he can feel. While her mind is elsewhere, she can't realize she's being held.

[itsclydebitches]

I thought about the Ren & Yang fight in V8 again and it brought me to a sort of smaller issue: The Grimm aren't anywhere near as omnipresent as they should be. They're attracted to negative emotion. The squad's having this big emotional argument in the middle of nowhere, while the city is being invaded by the Grimm, and yet none of them are drawn to the group. The group is in complete disarray and yet this isn't punished by a Centinel ambushing them or a Gryphon swooping at them, or anything.

I think RWBY could have gotten away with this if there had been another conflict to forward that fight. Meaning, it's heavily implied throughout the series (though not explicitly stated? I honestly can't remember) that grimm are attracted to the most intense negative emotion nearby. So if one person is kinda bummed out and another is having a full-blown panic attack, and they're both approximately the same distance from the grimm, the one having a panic attack will be dealing with that Griffon. That's why Cinder was able to accurately predict that Penny's death would draw so many grimm to Beacon (a horrified crowed trumps whatever else might be going on nearby) and why fans were annoyed by the grimm in Argus just kinda flying aimlessly around our heroes when there was a panicking crowed of civilians below. If RWBY had actually kept this rule consistent--which it hasn't--I would have been inclined to say, "Of course none of the grimm stopped to attack the group. Yang and Ren's spat, though intense for the audience who is emotionally invested in them as characters, can't hold a candle to the fear and despair emanating from Atlas as Salem attacks." Plus, if we want to throw out another potential bit of worldbuilding, we might say that Salem is actively directing the grimm towards her target (the city). But really, neither the specifics of what grimm are attracted to, nor the amount of control Salem has over an entire army, is ever established. After all, this is the show that made a HUGE deal out of the Relic attracting grimm... and then had Ruby and Oscar carrying that around with zero consequences. The rules of this world exist only when it's convenient for the plot.

But to get back to my original point, even if RWBY had done the work to explain why none of the grimm made a pit-stop to attack the group, that scene still needed something to break up all the walking and talking. (Especially when, from my personal perspective, the conversations are so bad. I can't agree with the stance the show takes against Ren and I hate that instead of working to resolve their disagreements, Yang inexplicably worries about Blake and then Ren just realizes how wrong he was off screen??) Getting separated out in the wilds of Atlas should have led to some sort of danger for our group. If not grimm than the cold--another threat RWBY introduced, but then did nothing with. Really, what's the point of separating the group like that if nothing was going to happen? They can argue in Mantle. They can be found by the Ace Ops in Mantle. RWBY raised the stakes by going, "Look! They chased this horrifying grimm out into the tundra and are now stranded without transportation. Countless more grimm are wandering about--remember the problem of that hole in the wall?--and they'll be dead in no time if their aura should fail. To top it all off, they're fighting among themselves and may not be able to drum up the necessary cooperation to survive. What will happen to our heroes next?? Stay tuned to find out!"

Nothing. The answer is nothing. Nothing happens. They find a convenient house to sit in and then they leave.

In thinking about RWBY's status as a combat show in the wake of Volume 9's lackluster combat trailer, it stands out to me that so many of these action sequences are like... superficially exciting? The Hound attacks, but our heroes mostly stand still and watch it like we didn't just have a whole season about how they're the strongest of professionals now. We have a chase scene that doesn't end in a second confrontation and then they walk back, encountering nothing except their rescue. I do believe that as a show conceived as, advertised as, and heavily focused on action for the first three years, RWBY should maintain a certain number and quality of fights to meet viewer expectation--the same way I expect certain storytelling beats if you label your show as "horror" or "comedy" or a "fantasy." But that belief aside, I could far more easily accept RWBY's transition to something other than a "mere" combat show if it did something with those plot points. But as we've been saying for years now, RWBY seems wholly uninterested in exploring the new stuff it introduces. We don't get to learn about Oscar's merge, or tackle Whitley's abuse, Nora doesn't struggle with her new scars, Penny is killed off as soon as she becomes a Maiden, there's no confirmation for Blake/Yang... Ren's differing perspective is highlighted, rejected, and then resolved at some point in his own head, giving us only an unsatisfying apology later on. RWBY doesn't seem to want to be an introspective romance-drama, given that it ignores those ideas as soon as they're introduced, but it doesn't want to be a simple action show either.

Ultimately, I don't know what in the world RWBY does want to be, but the end result are scenes like this one. Do you want to see this fight have an interesting impact on the story? Too bad. Okay, do you want to see a cool grimm battle if we can't see character development? Too bad. The characters are going in circles nowadays and I'm afraid that Volume 9's trip to Wonderland and back is just going to reinforce that.

[meatriarchived]

he stood taller than johnny. maybe six-four. baby blue eyes. copper hair. crooked smile, wide grin showing teeth when he laughs. crows feet. stubble. he was tall. blue eyes. copper hair. tall. blue. copper. not blonde. copper. taller than johnny. or? no. same height. no ... no. he was taller but not by much. he was there, around the other side of the store front. he was right there — the fucker was right there-

the copper-haired one was meant to be beside her - went by isaac. the one she'd set eyes on well over a week before, kind eyes and gentle demeanor when they had spoken, that early evening, when she'd been out on her own. he was surrounded by people he'd known then, however. made it impossible to sneak him off alone, not without one of the others keeping her face fresh in memory, had he not returned that night. it was only a passing conversation, but it was enough to warrant him, two days later, to recognize her elsewhere. to cross parking lot immediately, calling out her name — dolores — and strike up talk once again. a gentleman, helping her pack the back of her car with groceries. kind, friendly, strong. she could see it easily — how well-worked muscle made things a breeze for him. and for most, the sight would falter their knees, make them swoon. once upon a time, she'd be the same if she were honest — now? now all she could read from such display was,

he would put up a nice fight.

instead, however, beside her in the truck she rode passenger in sat old but familiar face; long blonde locks and strikingly green eyes that gazed at her for the last couple hours — with such warmth, such affection; with hidden grief and uncertainty and hope all meshing in green shades bright and dulled. it wasn't the copper-haired man, isaac, in the drivers' seat of the truck driven all this way down from way up north, from montana —

it was donnie — su vaquero — beside her, stealing glances at her during the drive here ( ensuring, perhaps, that none of this was a dream — that it truly was maria flores, truly was the girl, his friend, who had suddenly disappeared those years ago — in the passenger seat, alive ).

to the home she'd set up, a decoy, a place not too far from home — not too far out past the hewitts' property — where she could lure targets to — made them feel safe, when running off alone with her. one of the few, smaller homes, mrs. hewitt had told them some time ago, still in decent condition, that belonged to one of the late patriarchs' brothers' before they up and took off, leaving most of their things behind. took a while to deep clean it, make it look lived-in again, but the remaining hints of a family — of old photographs still hung up all about — worked well as a nice little cover story—

maria found herself bundled in nerves, hands clasped the shawl she had wrapped securely around her ( handmade by mrs. hewitt, for one of her birthdays. shawl mirroring the wings of a mourning cloak butterfly ) — like a safety net, or an embrace; part of her wanted to think it was one of them — lee, or johnny — rather than simple fabric, calming her at this moment . . .

donnie caught her completely off-guard. when he suddenly came into view in front of her, before she'd made her presence known to her target — to isaac. she had been as stunned as donnie's face had been then. green eyes looking over her in disbelief, taking her in, registering that it was actually her — at least, she assumed so. she couldn't deny, either, that she had done the same looking up at him . . .

air lodged itself in her lungs then, and she found it difficult to expel, take in another. it was like the chill of the cold rooms that came over her, a trembling that hit every nerve throughout limbs.

a fear that swept over her.

and when donnie's arms had gone around her, pulling her into hug — misreading her body language, perhaps — she was suddenly small, vulnerable. not wolf, not lamb. not even rabbit.

she felt small, insignificant.

like a mouse.

cornered. arms trapped in a rodents' trap, metal bar like jaw closing around her. there was a panic, a fear, in blown-out eyes, pupils so dilated the hazel around them was non-existent, and they peered past donnie's shoulder, past him, out into the storefronts around them, to the people casually passing by without a thought or mind to either of them.

eyes that, desperately, flickered to every single face within sight — desperately looking for trace of either johnny or lee among them . . .

but then, small voice whispered in her head, you went out alone, remember? they had things to do this morning.

maria found her hands having raised to return donnie's embrace, however evident — likely from how much she trembled in his arms — that he pulled away enough to look down at her, concern laced in brow, and he had loosened his hold, suddenly aware he'd just pulled her in without warning, how it was just as much of a shock to her seeing him as it was when he recognized her. and he had apologized profusely, if he made her uncomfortable, if he had scared her — he didn't mean to, and more words tumbled from his mouth.

maria could hardly make them out. his drawl all but sounded to her like the ringing of ears, of the static of the radio . . .

reminded her of those fucking broadcasts—

her tongue, her lips, felt dried out. so isolated.

she knew, in the back of her mind, that someday, possibly, she or lee could run into any one of their old friends. and the thought of it, time and time again, stirred emotions murky and heavy. knew it would happen. knew it was only matter of time. knew she'd have to, one day, look back at any one of them — see how much they'd changed, the longer it took. for them to see how much she and lee both changed, too. but, maria had assumed when that day did finally come,

that johnny and lee would both be close-by, someplace she could slink over to if it was too overwhelming, too complicated — too painful.

and yet that day came — looking down at her with once-adored green eyes. and she felt completely alone.

it had taken a moment, to regain herself, claw back the security blanket that donnie had — without intention — ripped off around her. and she had finally looked back up at him, as dolores' mask slipped back into place. she let tears gloss over hazels, as cracking smile lifted cheeks as she'd shaken her head reached up between them, took donnie's face between them, allowed her gaze take him in all over again — without properly seeing him, this time; mentally blurring his features, as if quietly trying to erase the familiarity from her memories, erase his importance from them.

she'd reassured him, hours ago, that she was okay and not to worry, it was simply alot to suddenly take in, just overwhelmed seeing him. not a lie, to be fair. and she'd brought him back in, hugging him tightly — hugging him as if she could lose him all over, like he lost her those years ago.

( he still smells nice, voice sounds out again, and his hugs, oh his hugs, they're still so sweet— )

those hours they spent together, before piling into the truck, were sweet. like old times, of him coming by her apartment. talking about the smallest, most seemingly unimportant things. listening to the radio, breaking out into singing songs they knew to one another. of his jokes, and making her laugh. how sweet, innocent, gentle those nights had been to her — had it not been for the years in between, of that last see you later before she left that spring break, who knows . . . maybe she could have mustered up some shred of courage to admit she liked him, then, when she got back home.

but things changed. very much changed.

as much as even this day, he could make laughter pour itself out from her with ease; the taste on her tongue, dragged down throat, lingered bitter aftertaste. it only worsened the more he talked abut what he had been up to — about his moving out of texas, the ranch up in montana, of his daughter . . .

and yet, her face, her eyes, remained softly looking at him as he spoke, gentle smile — albeit, a little sad at first glance. she let him talk, offering curious questions to keep him doing so, keep him occupied. keep him there, across from her. eyes gliding to watch on the mans' wrist at the table behind his seat, quietly keeping track of time.

it was too late, now, to try and find isaac again. she was certain she could have coaxed him, finally, off to the house, entice him inside, in just the right amount of time to get his guard lowered further before johnny and lee would get there.

but isaac was gone, now. long gone, by now.

and there was a tightness along jaw, now, sitting across from donnie. he messed this all up. thought crossed mind, and maria looked at donnie for a moment, in silence. his features, once again, hazed and blurred, and mid-sentence she reached out a hand and took his in both of hers, standing and looking down at him, doe-eyed, pleading, as she had asked him with a small voice, soft and quiet, " can we go someplace else? someplace quiet, donnie? "

uncertainty crossed over him. briefly.

but it was doe-eyes unwavering, threatening tears once again as they welled from past lashes, the small quiver of lip even — a show of sudden discomfort, being out and about; of nervousness being in the public eye, a little white lie told to him earlier — and he crumbled for her. and she rewarded him agreeing, leaning in and kissing cheek, with a sad, gentle smile and a sincere thank you, before he stood and lead her, her hands still clasped over his own, to his truck.

he was not her intended for the night — but donnie could still be a nice catch to bring back in isaac's place. perhaps an even better one — for johnny, moreso.

( she still remembers all those years ago, when reading the newspaper her eyes found herself staring down at her own face — printed, in the obituary section — officially declaring her death. and how it was johnny, and lee, who comforted her when every little part of her mind, her heart, her hope of ever going home, shattered completely. being dead to the world, when you were very much still breathing . . . it hurt. so badly, it hurt. knowing she was given up on. by people she thought she mattered to. by her own family. and it was johnny and lee who were there, to reassure her that she was still very much alive, did matter — to them. and later on, the same was returned to lee, when his obituary, as well, laid out in plain view across tabletop. she remembers, vividly, the sincerity, on johnny's face, in his voice, when he told them both he was sorry their friends abandoned them. )

it was donnie getting the truck door for her, helping her hop up inside, that maria apologized to him — the amount of people had started making her nervous, that if he had places to be it was okay to simply drop her off someplace else. the thought was waved off by him, assured her that anything he could have needed to do could wait, and maria's face lightened up, warmed smile beaming on face ( closest, so far that day, to how she'd smile back then. )

and him smiling back at her — that cute smile of his that she had always adored — there was a tug on her heart as he closed the door, rounded the front of the trust to get into the drivers side. the static and haze buzzing wildly in her head seemed to slow, quieted down, as eyes followed him. watched as he got in, shut the door after him. while digging for his keys and bringing the truck to life from the ignition. when his eyes met hers once again, maria's gaze was softened. and a murmur fell past her lips,

" i missed you, donnie. "

smile returned to his own face, and before he could finish returning the sentiment, maria scooted herself closer to him, leaning in and kissing his cheek, before slipping her arm around his, brought legs up onto truck seat and lowered her head, resting cheek against his shoulder. " i'll let you know where to drive okay? " she tilted head to look up at him, smiling again, as he took off on the road — flustered, with a goofy little grin on his face. small talk shared between them, with the radio playing on low, every now and then one of them turning it higher, singing along to the tune being played and laughing at one another. like old times. then quieting it down, for her to point out where to go, for their talks and questions to continue. for her to look back at him, lean up and give his cheek another kiss. and another—

until instead of cheek, her lips meet his — feathery soft, lightly, as he drives, doing his best to still keep eye on the road. " good thing its quiet today, " is murmured against his lips, with a gentle nuzzle of the side of his face as he re-straightens the truck ( a little carried away, that time. ), " you seem like you're having a bit of trouble driving, donnie— " she teases gently, grinning when he shoots her a look, smirk crossing lips, " only needed to get back in the lane 'cause yer so distractin', miss maria. " she laughs at that and gives his cheek a final peck — for now — and straightens herself up a little in the seat, looking ahead at last out the front window, eyes scanning the landmarks, telling him what backroad to get off of coming up.

things slowly grew more familiar as he drove. and the warmth, the bliss that crept in her chest when they had kissed ebbed away — slowly, souring, a twisting anxiety replacing it in her gut the closer, she realized, they were getting to the home.

this is donnie. this is her friend. this is the guy you had that little crush on, all that time ago, maria — and you're leading him blindly into a wolves den, that damned voice, hissing in her head at her, tell him to just drop you off. tell him to get the fuck away from there. tell him to go home. to montana.

no, he left you there too. they were all so close to you and yet, not a fucking one of them heard you? how bad your voice was for days, after screaming from your cell, screaming for one of them to hear you, to find you? and not a fucking damned one of them did? bull-fucking-shit.

its donnie's voice beside her that draws maria back. back to present from the past few hours, of them finding place to go, to talk, to catch up. back to the passenger seat of his truck. back to her eyes staring empty at the front door of the decoy home. as reality slowly started to sink back in, like insects crawling all across skin.

( she's brought him to his own grave. )

his voice cut in again, that same uncertain concern in his tone, across features. when she turned to look at him, he asked if she's alright, if something's wrong. her head shakes, turning herself to him and leans over, re-meeting his lips softly, until she felt him melt all over again, until she felt his hand attempt to draw her even closer; she gently broke the kiss instead, murmured that they should maybe head inside, instead, if he wanted to. and shot him a playful grin and scoot back across the seat, opened the truck door and hopped on out before he had the chance to respond.

but she knew he followed her up to the front steps. the drivers' side door opened and slammed shut, the crunch of his boots against dirt road under their feet. she reached into suspended flower pot beside the door, taking out house key and dusting it off, glancing back at him with a smile, patting the sides of her dress, " don't have pockets, and not alot of people really come on by here so, don't carry it on me too often. " with a muffled click she opens the door, slipping shawl from around her and sets it just inside, on little side table in arms reach. she glances at him, again, when she steps in but he stays on the steps, looking up at her; eyes looking her over, raising to find and lock back on hers. she pauses and steps back out, closer to him, motioning with her head to the house, " . . . change your mind, donnie? "

please go, please go back to the truck, please go back to montana . . .

" maria— "

please turn around. go back. leave texas, go home to your daughter, please tell me you're leaving—

“ you… you gotta know, before anything else happens tonight… you gotta know that you were the greatest thing that ever happened to me. ”

was it possible for ones' heart to simultaneously crumble into ash and yet still feel warm, full? god she wanted to punch him, shove him back towards his fucking truck. GET OUT, she wanted to scream at him, she wanted to pull him to her, laugh in his face, break down right there in front of him, GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN, im so sorry—

but her hands had lifted, briefly cupped cheeks once more, and brought herself to him, kissing him all over again, letting his arms move around her this time, kissing lovingly, needingly, desperately even, to not want space drawn between them again. between them, however, comes her voice against his lips, " i always wondered, how it'd be, kissing you, you know, vaquero— "

as soon as old term of endearment slipped out, they both were inside the door, him shutting it harsh behind them without once either of them breaking away from the other. all those times, before everything happened, at the old frat parties where he'd come over to check up on her or the others, how they'd lean in close to one another, to hear each others' voices over the music playing as its loudest. how he'd look around the room, and her eyes would linger on him for seconds longer. he was always handsome, to her, and charming, too. his smile — both silly and boyish, or that damned smirk of his . . . they always made her melt a little on the inside, every time he flashed them her way. always wondered, too, how kissing those smirking lips would feel like . . . but, neither of them had ever said a word to the other, before she was taken. thought echoed from time to time, in the far corners of her mind, of if he had or if she had said anything then, would anything have changed now?

who knows.

her mind was whirling as it was, with the high she was getting, kissing him, after all this time. different than it was, kissing her targets. here was something behind both their lips, meanings unspoken, finally at least getting a shred of an escape, after all these years, a gentle touch of lips to hers, different, from how it was kissing—

" darlin', i love you, " donnie panted, his lips a hair's bredth away from hers, " i always did. i always have, ever since i met'cha. think i always will . . . "

his voice however dropped from existence the moment those words left his mouth.

i love you.

her lungs felt every bit of air in them were sucked out harsh, left her freezing inside.

you love me?

liar.

is that why you never heard me screaming for help down there? you loved me so much that the moment you saw an escape for yourself you took it? without a second thought? you love me, and yet you left me there, abandoned me there, then abandoned leland, and then just did what? did you love me so much you begged the police to come to the property? look for us? did you bother even trying to come back with anyone, to try and help us? loved me so much you fucking left me to rot down there . . .

you love me?

never looked back, you took off the moment you could, completely left texas entirely, ran off to live your life while we were stuck here fighting for our own. fighting to survive. you love me and yet, you continued on, met someone, had a kid?

no. you don't fucking love me.

fucking liar. you're a fucking liar, donnie.

maria knew damn good and well what love meant, what those words meant — the strength they held. because they were said, and shown, to her in every possible meaningful way, by leland, by johnny.

i love you was leland swallowing pride and fight when she begged him, pleaded for him to stop, out of fear she would lose him if he kept pushing his luck — and he did. for her. so he could be around, to stay by her side. protect her. so they wouldn't be alone.

i love you was her lost in that damn field, so long ago, running in fear from horrid, half-gored beast, from misshapen faces and figures, from voices from all directions — and then seeing johnny step out into view from the leaves and stalks of sorghum and miscanthus, the only clear, normal, familiar thing she'd laid eyes on for what felt like hours. how when she ran to him, out of desperation to get out, he allowed her into his arms, held her close and reassured her that she was safe with him, he would protect her from all that was lurking around her, and he did just that.

i love you was the both of them time and time again, when they went out on their hunts, together, and they both kept watch over her, even at a distance, even in a large crowd. and the moment either one saw any foul play, overheard any cruel thing be said to her? they were making their way over.

i love you was their protective natures. their gentle touches. their moments of peace back home, eating at the table together, huddled under the covers for warmth during the night, when the shack turned icy-cold.

where the fuck was yours donnie?

how much she would have wanted to someday hear those three words come from him . . . now? these years later, now he says it? when they hold no meaning. when he never bothered to find her. when he ran off — ran, like he always fucking did.

the audacity to tell her he loves her.

fuck you, donovan.

how seconds passing can instead feel like a century has crawled on by . . . when donnie's eyes open, and green meets hazel, does the split second shift in his eyes, across his face, show his attempt to register the look on her own.

before knife, dug out silently from drawer behind her, bites down into his shoulder; her pupils blown out, cold emptiness on her face—

FUCK. YOU.

“ you… you gotta know, before anything else happens tonight… you gotta know that you were the greatest thing that ever happened to me. ” + “ i love you. ” | @priestbit | scenario two, companion.