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yandere-daydreams · 1 year ago

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Title: Distorted.

Pairing: Yandere!Dottore x Reader (Genshin).

A Grab Bag Commission For A Very Lovely Anonymous Commissioner.

Summary: With the help of the Akasha system, Dottore strives to keep you happy and docile and, most importantly, unaware by his side.

Word Count: 1.0k.

TW: Unhealthy Relationships, Unreality, Slight Gore/Blood, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, and Obsessive Behavior.

“Do you think Ajax is free?”

Dottore hummed thoughtfully, pressing his scalpel downward and severing a measured length of small intestine from the greater mass. With time to spare and the patient he was extracting his materials from long-dead, he took a minute aside to note the patches of scar tissue lining their internal tissue on a blood-spotted journal, to test for unusual viscosity or durability that’d have to be accounted for in his research. It was a minor study, something that would’ve been handed off to a younger branch of himself not yet ready to play a hand in more dire schemes, but due to the intervention of a certain archon, he was forced to carry out more of his own grunt work than he had in decades. Not that he minded getting his hands dirty, of course.

Especially when the same archon’s nation had given him such a lovely lab assistant to keep him company while he worked.

“Planning to replace me, little mouse?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten. It’s your own dinner party, for the Tsaritsa’s sake.” He heard you sigh in mock exasperation, then again – your frustration more genuine. You were sitting at his desk, working away at whatever little task you’d assigned yourself, the ring of blue light encircling your head pulsing brightly. It was his own handiwork – a version of the Akasha system he’d been able to maintain even after returning to Snezhnaya. He had no idea where you thought you were, what you thought he was doing, what you saw through those clouded eyes, but he knew you couldn’t be here, in his dark, cluttered lab - couldn’t see your beloved husband, the man who you’d crossed half of Teyvat to stay with, elbow-deep in a vat of disembodied organs and viscera. That was what interested him most about your experiment, really. It was one thing to wonder how you’d react if you ever found out the man you loved had such grisly pastimes. It was another, to watch what lengths your mind would go to just to substitute your reality with a more palatable fantasy. When it suited him, he could play a more involved hand in your fabrication, make himself into a hero or a villain or something else altogether, but most days, he was content to let you create your own daydreams. You were the most obedient when you could make him into exactly what you needed, that day.

“To celebrate your return to Snezhnaya,” You went on, as he piled the segmented pieces of a malformed liver onto his scale. “Pierro says that you haven’t been holding up your social obligations. I know it’s not customary, but I thought it’d be nice to invite another Harbinger – so you don’t have to suffer a room full of noblemen and merchants alone.”

So you were aware of his status as a Harbinger, today. More often than not, you treated him like a neighborhood doctor, or a traveling scholar as far from home as you’d found yourself. Sometimes, he was a low-ranking diplomat, or a medic you could welcome home from the battlefield, but you rarely acknowledged him as something so dangerous, something so far above yourself. It must’ve been the occasion. It would’ve been hard to deny who he was when you were sending out the invitations to a Harbinger’s event.

On that note, he abandoned his work, positioning himself on the opposing side of your desk. He was already smiling – it was difficult not to, when you were in his position – but his grin broadened further as he looked over your half-finished guest list, your attempts at calligraphy scribbled across what little scrap paper you could find. “I believe Tartaglia was sent back to his post in Liyue last week.”

You pursed your lips. “Pantalone comes with good company.”

“And he charges market-price for every precious second of his time. You wouldn’t want to bleed me dry, now, would you?” You tilted your head to the side, pretending to consider it, and he let out a breathy laugh, rounding the table and settling behind you, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. “There must be an alternative.”

“Well,” You tilted your head back, your smile now matching his own. “It has been a while since I’ve heard Columbina sing–”

“Anyone but Columbina.”

“I write Pantalone a letter tonight, then.” You allowed yourself a moment to bask in your own self-satisfaction, leaning back in your seat and allowing your gaze to drift – first to your lap, then to your shoulders, where the blood and viscera coating your hands was beginning to soak into the fine ivory silk of your sleeves. There was a flash of repulsion, a sound not unlike a half-choked scream, and then you were shoving him away, your expression only growing more pained when he refused to move. He felt something tighten in his chest – not quite fear, but pure, zealous excitement. Had you, somehow, managed to break yourself out of your trance? Was there a flaw in the Akasha system he hadn’t accounted for? How much would you force yourself to forget, overwrite, warp and distort into something loving in the coming hours if you saw him for what he was, now?

“Zandik.” The sound of his name on your lips was to die for. He leaned down, pressing nipping at the corner of your jaw, and you groaned, brushing him away. “I’ve told you not to touch me while you’re painting. Look at me – it’s going to take ages to get this out of my clothes.”

Oh. Painting. How adorably quaint.

How adorably wrong.

With a sigh, he leaned down, pressing a fleeting kiss into the corner of your neck. You crossed your arms, sulking, but allowed him to. It wasn’t as if you’d be able to refuse. “Forgive me, darling.”

He straightened his back, watching red seep into white and begin to stain.

“I’m sure you’ll forget all about this in no time at all.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere genshin imagines #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin #genshin imagines #genshin impact #genshin x reader #dottore x reader #yandere dottore #yanderecore #yancore

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leighsartworks216 · 1 year ago

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Prompt for whenever you want it: the reader grew up in a household where she wasn't allowed to be very feminine/like cute things. Her family was adamant that she be tough and that anything remotely feminine or pretty would be wasted on her. So she secretly likes cute and pretty things, but has internalized all the things her family told her so she never let's it show. I would love to see astarion pick up on it and how he would react? I just imagined one day he presents her with a delicate handkerchief with her initials (he embroidered them himself) and I practically bawled my eyes out 😭😭😭

Idk why I really struggled to write this one. I just had a hard time starting it. So I'd write an opening, hate it, leave it for a bit, come back, leave it again. But I finally got it to a point that I am happy with it

Astarion x fem!Tav/Reader

Warnings: vague references to trauma, self-doubt, swearing

Word Count: 1,041

Main Masterlist

Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

One gets quite good at reading people when that’s all you did for 200 years. Someone would twitch and Astarion could know exactly what they were thinking. Reading you was as easy as opening a book.

Every time you passed a market or merchant, Astarion could see the way your eyes flit longingly over jewelry or dresses. It was always brief. If the vendor noticed, they’d try pitching the item to you; the same old lines: “A beautiful necklace for a beautiful lady!” But you just smiled politely and shook your head, muttering how it wasn’t your style.

It was curious. Throughout your journey so far, he’d noticed other things, too. How you’d save the most beautiful, feminine dresses for your female companions. At first he just thought you wanted to give them something nice, but it was odd when you’d provide them an item much more suited to your strengths than their own. How your eyes would linger a little longer on flowers and lace gloves. But the moment you felt eyes on you, you’d turn away, the distant longing gleam in your eye replaced with a set determination.

He’d even caught you staring at the embroidery on his clothes once or twice.

(“Distracted, are we?”

“I was only wondering what it says. An odd poem for a shirt.”

“Hmph. Clearly it’s meaning is lost on you, darling.”)

So, with 200 years of experience, Astarion came to the only conclusion he could plausibly find. He accounted for your own attire - masculine or purely functional - your steadfast avoidance of anything feminine, the sorrow that visibly washed over you when you came across something particularly beautiful.

You didn’t allow yourself these things, because you couldn’t.

Well, you could, he supposed. But you weren’t. Perhaps, like him, you felt you didn’t deserve it. Or perhaps, like him, it had been ingrained into your very being that you couldn’t have it. Either way, the result was the same.

He wasn’t honestly sure what came over him when he realized. And it had taken him a few days to think about the idea that formulated unbidden, itching at the back of his mind in a way that put the tadpole to shame. But one night, after feeding (on you and a boar), he sat within his tent and got to work. He threaded the eyes of needles with practiced ease, steadily guided it back and forth through the material in his hands, creating elegant shapes. If he was being honest, it was some of his best work.

It took him even longer to gather the nerves to give it to you. You handed out gifts freely - armor, weapons, trinkets, blood. But he’d… well, he’d never really given anyone a gift before. Nothing as genuine as this, certainly. His mind, his own worst enemy aside from Cazador, kept plaguing him with thoughts of how you’d hate it. How you’d take one look at it, struggle through a smile, and tuck it away at the bottom of your bag. And so it remained in his belongings, safely hidden.

And then you just had to go and be so damn good. You just had to stand up to Araj Oblodra when she kept insisting he drink from her. You just had to quietly tell him that he could, if he wanted to, but only if he wanted to. And you just had to respect his choice. He’d never been so overwhelmed with emotion before. Nobody had ever done that for him. His choices didn’t matter, his comfort didn’t matter. But you didn’t even hesitate.

When you sought him out at camp later that night, you even told him he was free. No longer a slave who had to get on his back for mere breadcrumbs. Too many emotions - relief, fear, euphoria, worry, gratefulness - flooded his chest.

He cleared his throat. “There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to give you,” he admits with a nervous chuckle. “Consider it a… thanks, for what you did for me back there.”

He pulled the neat, white handkerchief from his pocket and presented it to you. Red eyes flit over your face, trying to read every little expression that passed, as you stared at the cloth. On the corner, embroidered in the same golden thread as he used on his shirt, were your initials. Immaculate and shiny.

Your mouth opened. Your eyes were wide, your brow furrowed and then raised. You struggled for words. You met his eyes with shock. “A-Are you sure? I mean, this is much too fine for me - I was happy to stand up for you - Not that you needed any help! I mean-”

“Darling,” he hushed. So you did enjoy it, after all. “It’s a gift. Consider it repayment for all the nights you’ve bared your neck for me, if nothing else. A simple exchange.”

A dying sound left your throat with a breath as you looked back down at the handkerchief. With shaky hands, you took it from him. You held it as though it was a religious artifact from the gods, not a folded square of soft silk with lace borders. It had the same smooth feel as running your fingers over the surface of still water. Tears welled at the corner of your eyes as you ran a thumb over the letters.

“I…” You took a shaky breath, looking up at him again through the building water in your eyes. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”

He smirked, though your blatant joy made his lips twitch into the start of a genuine smile. “You… deserve something nice. Something more than, well,” he gestured vaguely at your worn cotton attire, “this.”

You laughed and brushed away the tears beginning to slip down your cheeks with the back of your hands. “You’re still a bastard.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.”

“But a nice bastard.”

“Careful, darling.” He leaned forward with an even wider smirk, fangs peeking out as a mischievous twinkle glinted in his eye. “We wouldn’t want word getting out.”

And if he caught sight of that little cloth poking out from a pocket or resting at the top of your bag, well maybe he let himself enjoy that warmth in his chest.

---

Tag List:

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literaryvein-reblogs · 2 months ago

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Writing Notes: Thinking Historically

What Does it Mean to Think Historically?

Rather than focusing on dates or facts, thinking historically means recognizing the ways humans shape history through their words, thoughts, and actions.

People do not experience events in the same way.

As a result, history is often told from multiple points of view.

Identifying these perspectives deepens understandings of the past and the ways in which history is created.

A Process for Thinking Historically

The first step of thinking historically is to learn more about the historical context.

Some important aspects to research include:

Who were the key people involved?

What happened?

When did it happen?

Where did it happen?

After studying the historical context, the next step is to consider how the Who, What, When, and Where work together to create a narrative and why.

Other questions to ask when examining a historical narrative may be:

How does the Who involved influence What happened?

How does the What change depending on Who is describing it?

Why did the Who describe the What that way?

How does the When impact the way it happened?

How does the Where affect the way it happened?

Example of Historical Thinking

Event: The Boston Tea Party

Historical Context:

Who: Parties involved included the Sons of Liberty, Loyalists, colonial merchants, and British Empire.

What: The Sons of Liberty dumped imported British tea into the Boston Harbor to protest a tax and business monopoly on tea.

When: The Boston Tea Party took place on December 16, 1773, prior to the American Revolution.

Where: This event occurred in Boston, Massachusetts, a city in the American colonies.

Narrative details:

Backed by colonial merchants, the Sons of Liberty disrupted the tea trade from Britain, describing their actions as a patriotic means to protect the economic interests of the American colonies.

Loyalists, American colonists loyal to the British Empire, described the actions of the Sons of Liberty as unlawful, reasserting their allegiance to Britain.

The British Empire suffered an economic loss and political humiliation from the Boston Tea Party, so the empire described the event as reprehensible, closing the port of Boston.

Note

By examining the Who involved in the Boston Tea Party, one can see how each group experienced and perceived the event influenced the ways it was described:

The Sons of Liberty benefited from the event and therefore described it positively.

The British Empire and Loyalists, on the other hand, experienced a loss; hence, they described it in negative terms.

Thus, thinking historically allows scholars to understand how and why multiple accounts are created for historical events.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

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mllemaenad · 21 days ago

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Hm. Blight.

The thing about Blight is that it shapes the world. It shapes people into ghouls and broodmothers, and through procreation into darkspawn. It shapes the landscape with its black tendrils and bulbous growths. It notoriously ruins the fertility of the soil, and creates deserts where there was once farmland.

It also sings. That's one of the first things we learn about it. And every darkspawn, bar the Awakened, is consumed by the Song. Darkspawn are, of course, people, and their reaction to events differs on a case-by-case basis, but we know from the Mother that the song can act as a kind of anaesthetic. She was unable to survive what was done to her without it.

We can tie this to the experience of the Tranquil. I keep coming back, again and again, to Pharamond's description:

I find it ironic the Rite of Tranquility cuts one off from the land of dreams. because a dream is exactly what it feels like. Everything in a dream is as it should be, nothing is out of place … yet part of you knows something is not right. This isn't your home, this isn't your life … it isn't you. – Dragon Age: Asunder

Everything is right, but everything is also wrong at the same time. I also think of the text from Eddin the Meek:

Some laugh at me. I no longer mind. Once upon a time, I studied as they did. I learned under the tutelage of an enchanter and attempted to master the art of bending magic to my will, and while I did well enough, I know that I struggled. I saw the way the enchanter looked at me, the sidelong glances of worry and disappointment. While other apprentices were conjuring fire, I could barely light a candle. I was frightened of magic. When I was a boy, my grandmother regaled me with tales of the terrible Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds. She told me of the magisters and how their evil magic infected the world with the darkspawn. She told me of demons, and how they were drawn to the dreams of those who possessed magic like moths to a flame. She told me all these things because, she said, the talent ran in our family's blood. And so it ran in mine. All my young life I had dreaded the thought, prayed to the Maker that I was not so cursed, but I knew otherwise. Deep in my heart, I knew. When the templars came to our home, I knew. The mages' tower was terrifying, full of secrets and danger. The templars glared at me as if I could spring full into an abomination before their very eyes. My enchanter patiently attempted to teach me to marshal my willpower, my only defense should a demon attempt to enslave me, but it was no use. How many nights did I cry myself to sleep in that dark and lonely place? Then my Harrowing came at last, my final test. Face a demon, they said, or submit to the Rite of Tranquility. They would sever my connection to the Fade, and thus I would never dream and no demon could ever touch me—but I would also be unable to do magic, and I would never feel an emotion ever again. Facing the demon was certain death, so my choice was easy. It was not so painful. Now I serve in other ways. We Tranquil manage the archives. We run the tower, purchase the supplies and maintain the accounts. Our condition also allows us to use the magical element lyrium without ill effect, and thus we are the ones who enchant the magical items. We are the merchants who sell these items to those the Circle permits, and the coin from those sales provides the Circle's wealth. Thus, we Tranquil are vital. The young and old may stare at me, ill at ease, but they would be worse off without me. They may think me a failure, but there is no horror for me now. I feel no fear of what I am. The shadows are merely shadows, and I am content. —Eddin the Meek, Tranquil of the Circle of Magi of Starkhaven, the Free Marches. – Journal of the Tranquil

Tranquility is generally described as torture, but some people who have undergone it, especially those who have been traumatised in some other way, believe that, like the Mother, they would not survive a cure. Avexis, in Inquisition, also believes she would not survive the reversal of her Tranquility.

Darkspawn operate as something like ... proxy bodies for the dreams of the Tranquil Titans. Tranquil mages are described as being like sleepwalkers, and I think you could reasonably describe darkspawn the same way. They are both lulled and compelled by the Song, and as Pharamond puts it "Yet [they] cannot act other than the dream allows. It follows its course, and [they] follow it believing nothing is real". A darkspawn may be cured of its condition (at least mentally) by a form of the Joining. Whether or not they can survive that cure is a separate question.

Cool.

But I also think about demons. Specifically about abominations. Or, well, to be really specific, about this:

That does not look exactly like a darkspawn, no. But there's a certain similarity there. When a demon decides to consume its host it also produces a distorted horror of what once was.

And a demon is a spirit that has been perverted from its purpose. It is also a being in distress, although it may not be able to articulate that. If things have gone this far, the demon is lashing out in helpless misery.

Which brings me back to the top. Blight shapes the world, and Blight sings. Titans also shape the world, and Titans sing. Isatunoll, as Harding is learning.

Blight operates like a Titan forcibly removed from its purpose. It acts with the will of a Titan, but distorted into horrors and destruction. It acts like a demon.

The distinction between living being and spirit is increasingly muddy: spirits can clearly become living beings – the elves did it. Do the souls of the dead become spirits? Unclear, but a possible theory among the mortalitasi. And Cole, of course, who is simultaneously a spirit of Compassion and a dead human boy brought back to life.

And Titans? Well, they are the pillars of the earth, but they are also magic incarnate – lyrium makes magic, and magic is a connection to the Fade. So they are, or were, simultaneously of the waking world and the Fade.

But there is a physicality to them that is not present in spirits. Lyrium is their blood, and it brims with magic. But it's a real material that you can mine and touch (although don't touch it if you'd like your brain to keep working). And Blight ... Blight is almost like ... bacteria? Perhaps a poor analogy, but as close as I can come.

The Taint has a real, physical presence in the world that is independent of other beings – although it can infect other beings. Like bacteria.

Isseya had this problem.

And it was her fault. Isseya still didn't understand exactly how or why, but she knew that it was so. The scarlet sickness that was overcoming the griffons was tied to the ritual she'd imposed on some of the fighting birds during the Blight ... but she didn't fully understand what it was doing to them, or how it was spreading, and she had no inkling of how to effect a cure. If it were a real disease, then their bloody spume might be the means of transmission. But it wasn't a real disease. Was it? How could it be, when she'd made it? – Dragon Age: Last Flight

Her Joining ritual failed, yes: instead of producing the resistance you get in Grey Wardens, it made griffons more susceptible to the Blight, and allowed it to spread more easily. But she didn't make a disease. Blight already acts like a disease. How do you catch Blight? From contact with the Taint, either in an infected person (like darkspawn) or from the environment.

The bodies of the Titans have magical properties – they might even be magic incarnate. The dreams of the Titans, tormented into violence by Tranquility, are a physical presence in the world, which mimic a sickness to produce their horrors.

They are backwards to what you see elsewhere: here is a person – they are solid presence in the world, but their mind travels to the Fade in dreams. Here is a spirit – they are imbued with magic, but lack a physical presence unless they possess something.

It feels like ... a fascinating look at what the world might be like if the Veil came down. A world where those rules simply don't apply.

#dragon age #dragon age veilguard #veilguard spoilers

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pendwelling · 9 days ago

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hello, pen-nim! I just wanted to ask about the "ether children"(!?) that CYC apparently has???? Like holy shit yes?????? They have kids??????????

It's been keeping me up at night ngl sjjsakaks

THEY DO HAVE KIDS and honestly it's so genius. I laugh about it all the time LMAO (anyway please brace yourself bc this ended up becoming a really long post WKFHDJ)

In non-romance fantasy settings, I always wonder about high-status characters like Crown Princes of the like and how they would make/appoint successors—even more so when it's implied that it'll probably be faceless characters who we never even meet (take Alver Crossman in LCF, for example, who iirc also mentioned he would just appoint one of his siblings' children as his future heirs). Even though TWSB is not a romance, its political setting has always played a prominent role and influence in the story, and even long before CYC have their "children", characters such as Cédric (a Crown Prince and future Emperor) and Christelle (previously a Duke's daughter) had been subjected to inquiries about marriage and about fulfilling their duties. Naturally, as these character's are ones whom we've followed for so long and through several trials and adventures, readers of course would want them to be happy with whomever they have to make successors with. But BECAUSE they are character's whom we know and have grown to know, we also know that a political marriage would not make our characters necessarily happy, or that it's something they'd even want (and to readers, would be an unsatisfying outcome to see).

Ham Ga-in Christelle actually isn't that interested in marriage (not to mention has a complicated relationship with and idea of parenting/parental figures, and thus, mothers/motherhood) as has expressed that if she WERE to marry, it being with a close friend where they'd be like roommates or in an eternal sleepover like, say, Yeseo, wouldn't be a bad idea since it sounds fun (such as in that one part when Cédric and her were being questioned by Fred and Aurélie about their fake relationship during Jesse first house arrest arc LMAO). As for Cédric, naturally, as a Crown Prince, he is very understanding and diligent as to what his duties expect from him, as such, even when there were discussions over whom would be the best political partner for him (high-ranking nobles such as dukes' children such as Vérénice Mendy, even affluent daughters of merchant families, etc), he most probably would have accepted anyone his mother and godmother decided would be most fitting as his partner. Love was never really a factor for a Crown Prince's marriage (though, I should notably state that his mom, Empress Frédérique, basically enthusiastically kidnapped(willingly) and eloped with her husband out of love against the wishes of his affluent mage family LMAO), though, that isn't to say that they won't take into account his feelings to—but it's clear that his feelings are, all-in-all, that of duty and acceptance (and buried reluctance, which Yeseo and friends bring up and consider when these talks were happening, and tell him that his feelings DO in fact, matter).

ANYHOW, all this is to say that both Christelle and Cédric (ESPECIALLY Cédric) are characters who qpuld inevitably have to continue their family lines.

So, how does our author Sookym resolve this?

Answer: They basically both respectively end up accidentally making magically-adjacently created magically-genetic babies with Jung Yeseo as the mother (LMAO)

CYC's firstborn daughter is actually an "age-regressed/reincarnated" version of one of their past adversaries, Lynn Isenia, a water-attribute Cardinal-level Holy Knight from the Divine Kingdom of Venetiaan who was part of Wilhelmina Sneijder's apostles. After Christelle and Jibrip Diop defeated her in battle [530s], she ended up activating her stigma which resulted in her physical body melting into water before disappearing. Both Christelle and Jibril presume her to be dead after this encounter. Prior to her "death", Lynn had actually expressed interest both in Yeseo (for his pure and bountiful ether) and in Christelle (for the divine power and ability that the Blessing of the Azure Ocean gave her), so it's many not out of nowhere that her resurrected body became Christelle and Yeseo's "child". (Side note: on the continent, Water has often religiously been symbolic of resurrection and new beginnings.)

So, how was "Lynn Isenia" (re)born?

Prior to her "birth", Yeseo was actually visited in a dream by a little baby expressing how hungry they were ("I need pure ether to grow big!" [693]. Yeseo, blearily under the impression that Rhea is the one asking for ether, eventually gives in, and the baby satisfying responds about how delicious his ether is, before finally thanking him ("Thank you, Dad.") which jolts Yeseo awake. Suffice to say, this was basically conception dream of soon-to-be Mama Yeseo.

Turns out, after using her stigma, Lynn Isenia became a wandering puddle/water-blob existence, and eventually found herself tagging along with Yeseo and Co. She was able to cultivate herself back to a human form by basically using Christelle's water-attribute ether as an embryonic sac, which was then had been further nourished and natured by Yeseo's pure ether. I call Yeseo the mom here because he's also the one who technically(?) "births" her LMAO—as in, she emerges/phases out from his belly and pops into existence in his arms out of the blue 😭😭 Everyone is so shocked by this scene that they pretty much forget that Yeseo has been "forever single", and in her shock, Christelle even asks him if an annunciation(LMAO) just happened, before Yeseo reminds them all, flustered, that he literally physically cannot give birth by himself and that the child couldn't be his 😭

That aside, turns out, the baby was born more water than human and without much of her memories, but she does remembers bits and pieces about being "Lynn Isenia", and so people draw the dots together from there. Despite this, she is undoubtedly her own, new, separate existence from the previous Lynn Isenia, with her own personality, wants, and needs (she is also pretty much just a baby, and not a Holy Knight who tried killing them once lol). This arc was actually super interesting to me, because throughout it, Isenia has shown attachment to Yeseo, but ESPECIALLY Christelle, whom Lynn actually considers very firmly to be her "mom" (since Chris' ether was also what helped nurtured Lynn). I love this arc a lot because it delves even deeper into Ham Ga-in as a person, as well as her suppressed anxieties and traumas regarding her own identity crisis, her outlook on parenthood, and subsequently, her relationship with her new mother-figure, Isabelle and her ever growing and increasing, yet suppressed, guilt over taking over her daughter's place. Christelle actually dislikes the idea of Lynn being her "baby" so much, to the point where she even feels hatred towards her own self for being such an "irresponsible/childish" adult. Of course, her worries are very valid, because Lynn is basically a "baby she never planned for", and even worse to her guilty conscious, one who sincerely loves and admires her so much despite Christelle's aversion. But eventually though, after very well-written emotional build-up and resolution, Christelle reconciles her relationship with her new mother Isabelle (one of my favourite parts EVER of the novel btw) and even more so with Lynn, whom she proposes that they reformulate the nature of their relationship and asks that Lynn instead call her "unnie". In the end, Lynn gets adopted by Isabelle, and officially becomes "Lynn Rambouillet" 🥹 Christelle and Lynn have a very fun and playful relationship after this, now that they can fully open their hearts to each other, and Christelle herself does her best to be an adult figure worthy of Lynn's sincere admiration and love.

So that's the first CYC child! Of course, Chris definitely acts more like an auntie/older sister, but does sincerely comes to care for the baby, and Yeseo, being the one with the most (momCOUGH) older brother instincts, takes to child-rearing pretty much like a fish in water. I think that I should also note that Lynn is very much Christelle's family. The baby takes after Christelle in their disliking and bullying of Cédric LMAOOOOOOOOO (at one point, Lynn refers to someone as very handsome, and Yeseo, naturally, assumes it's Cédric, before Lynn confirms that Jibril's looks are more of her style LOLOLOL and even picks up on the trend of calling Cédric a pig too. I think at one point, she even calls him ugly 😂😭)

BUT ANYHOW, NOW FOR CEDYES'S CHILD LMAO

Surprise~! Congrats to CYC on being the family of another daughter! Tbh, I think it's really fitting, because CYC all feel like Girl Dads.

SO!!

Their second baby is also a reincarnation. This one is MASSIVE SPOILERS regarding character death and some parts of the ending, because this happens like. in Chapter 797 and into the 800s.

Cédric and Yeseo's "child" was actually born from a seed. It was initially empty, and needed a core ingredient in order to germinate. This core would eventually be the body of the deceased Elise Venetiaan, who died at the end of the Riester and Venetiaan war (by whom, i will leave thay to you to find out *winks through tears*. Her death was very well-written and she's such a beloved and tragic chatacter oughhhh). Collecting her body, the Spirit of Eranda of the earth-attribute used it as a vessel to nurture the Seed and looked after it, pouring divine power into it and keeping it safe. It needed much more than just the Spirit's divine power, however, and eventually asked for Cédric to give it some strength. With this request, Cédric uses his abilities to offer it a sacred ether flame, which the Seed absorbs into its membrane [812]. His gift and offering of holy flames was not enough however, and the Spirit eventually reveals that in order for the Seed to fully achieve growth, it would require the "sacred moon" to finally bear fruit, and that no other ether would work. Naturally, the moon in question is our Jung Yeseo. Things gets a bit complicated because there's a lot going on in this arc (it's one of my favourites OUGHHHHH it's so damn good I swear) but basically, Yeseo was pretty much forced home by the powers of the Narrative and the Three Sisters (Bozena), and with that, he also took with him the literal moon of the TWSB world, as well as everyone's memories of Yeseo in the process. So, when the Spirit said that they need to moon to finally bear fruit from the Seed, it further propels Christelle, Cédric, Jibril and the original Jesse's (Losna, whose body he retook following Yeseo's second expulsion from their world) mission to bring back their "moon", gradually recovering their memories of him and growing all the more determined to get him back.

And eventually, they do finally reunite again 🥹 Upon returning back to the TWSB world (and establishing a permanent link between the TWSB world and Yeseo's world), Yeseo is finally asked by the Spirit to bless the Seed. Pouring his golden ether into it, the Seed cam finally begin its process of sprouting, now that moonlight has returned to the world and with Yeseo blessing the red seed [887].

The baby is finally born from the fruit in Chapter 917. Empress Frédérique is actually the one to first hold her, and is instilled with a feeling of familiarity/nostalgia upon holding a baby with hair as dark as Cédric in her arms once again. We can definitely assume she got that dark hair because of Cédric's influence on the Seed, but her eyes are still blue like Elise's were. It's an emotional birth for sure, with Losna and Cornelisse eventually getting their turn to hold her, too, and they both cry over their older sister having finally been reborn with a clean slate—chance to live a now more happier and relaxed life, one that will be full of love, especially with her new very extended family.

Because the colour of the fruit she was born from was red, the baby Elise Riester eventually gained the nickname of 'Cerise' (first coined by Yeseo and then picked up by everyone else)(lmao he really is her mom), which is additionally really fitting because "Cherry" in French sounds really close to Elise's own name hehe. She's a cute baby, and also gets officially declared by Frédérique as a "granddaughter/descendant of the Empire" (basically saying that she has chosen to adopt her, and Cédric has gained a younger sister despite the absence of the Prince Consort wfkfkdkdk but because her birth was miraculous and witnessed by many, it's easily accepted). Maartje, her only genuine friend and reliable adult companion in her life before her death, becomes her Godmother TvT and the Venetiaan siblings always visit her and shower her with love.

Also, you may perhaps wonder why she wasn't made a Venetiaan again, but keep in mind that this is right after the end of the Riester-Venetiaan war, where trials against the main villains have occured, Christanne has declared that she will be stepping down from her position as Queen, and that Venetiaan is now under Riester rule. The Venetiaan Royal Family's mistakes and history are now all basically made public, and while the people are still very loving towards them, the Royal Family themselves acknowledge that their family has done and has allowed many back things to happen to Venetiaan under their rule, and that a lot of cleaning up in the kingdom has to be done. Though, it's implied that Cornelisse will eventually come to be the new Queen, once all things are settled.

"Won't baby Cerise and her siblings be separated, then?" Actually, think of it like a joint household wkwkkkw. It definitely helps that Cerise was born near the Temple of Boundaries, and the (new) Pope's residence (which Cédric has enthusiastically proposed to fund and construct, and even build a new portal that leads there directly from HIS ROMERO PALACE 😭😭😭😭 just so that he, Chris, and friends could always visit Yeseo and vice-versa now that he's Pope)(almost forgot to mention that the portal to Yeseo's home in Korea is also in this location, so Cédric literally offered to build him a new home that is both near his second home in Riester, as well as his first home in Korea so that he can easily switch between worlds....... He's is just like his great-grandfather Romero. A SIMP 😭). Thus, Cornelisse can easily visit her little older sister, and even Losna actually expresses a desire to remain in Riester, too, since he didn't have many good memories in Venetiaan, anyway, aside from his sisters 🥹🥲 So he'll be able to visit Cerise easily! He's actually even been offered to be the stand-in regent of Yeseo's territory estate in Sérénité when Yeseo is away, which works out now that Yeseo will probably have to take up Popal duties now too WKDHJDKDKD

OH I COMPLETELY FORGOT TO MENTION THIS TOO LMAOOOO

Their second child was actually foreshadowed by Jung Hyunseo of all people, who, prior to all the events of these chapters, actually had a conception dream where Yeseo came home with a baby girl with dark hair and blue eyes 😂😭😭😭 Pray for this guy, he's gonna get grey hairs early. Hyunseo was actually really worried that his troublemaking younger brother would actually come home one day with a niece out of the blue.

AND TURNS OUT....... YESEO REALLY DID JUST THAT LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

At some point, Yeseo takes the portal back home with Cerise and Cédric in tow so that he could introduce her to Hyunseo. But for some reason..... this guy....... the way he does it was pretty much:

"Ta-da~ It's our baby!"

(WHY IS HE LIKE THIS 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭)

Hyunseo is literally hacking up a lung from how shocked he is, meanwhile Yeseo is sincerely praising (bragging) about their baby to his dumbfounded brother while Cédric is watching this chaos with a very smug and proud expression (THIS BRAT.... WHAT ARE YOU, THE FATHER?? 😭)((PRETTY MUCH......))

I'm actually really amused by how she might potentially grow up, because so far, it seems that she is really taking after Cédric 😂 She's already a Holy Knight despite being a baby—fire-attribute like her dad!! Hyunseo wondered if she inherited this from Cédric, too, to which Cédric merely responds with more smugness 😭 Hyunseo really hates Cédric, I cannot express how funny this is. His younger brother got caught up with an arrogant guy!!

BUT ANYHOW. SORRY THIS WAS SUPER LONG. Also a pretty late reply bc it just takes so much time to write these LMAOFHDJDJKS but omg. TWSB is really just..... it's so good. Sookym single-handedly solved the Heir Question by making her MCs magically manifest children together that could inherit their families/continue their bloodlines in their stead. Chris is awarded her own title of Marquess after the war, so Lynn is probably set to inherit the Rambouillet family after Isabelle, and if Chris doesn't have kids of her own. As for Cédric, his political and religious partners are most probably going to be Christelle and Yeseo, and since ChriCed's relationship is the cat-and-dog way that it is (HAHAHA) even despite having grown closer and partners, I think it's fair to say that Cerise would be 2nd‐in-line to the throne, and if Cédric never has children, if Cerise ever does in the future they can be eligible to become the next Crown Prince(ss), or otherwise they'll adopt from collateral lines. But in the end, I sincerely hope these girls would grow up with LOTS of love. They both deserve it after all the troubles they went through in their previous lives... 🥲 Elise's wish before death was for the cleansing of her country, too, so in this new world and era of peace, it's SO reassuring and deserving that she could be reborn in families that would give her so much love.

OH I would also like to point out that both girls have similar colour palettes, as in, Lynn has blue hair and dark eyes, while Cerise has dark hair and blue eyes. Sookym has actually admitted to purposefully doing this so that they could really look like sisters, and we as readers can absolutely assume that they will could grow up as such, too... 🥹

(Sookym behind-the-scenes from their blog! This was in reference to Lynn's appearance in the latest official illustration of the Rambouillet family: https://sookym.tistory.com/m/2) :

Anyhow, it's fair to say that they are pretty much spiritually CYC's children, just with the official roles as their adopted younger siblings haha. The sibling relationship is more so with Christelle and Lynn, but Cédric and Cerise..... Dude. I can literally see this guy as a Girl Dad. He's already so smug that she already takes so much after him and that she was born with both Yeseo and his own help, it's so damn funny. LIKE YOURE NOT TECHNICALLY ///ACTUALLY/// HER FATHER, BUT YOU SURE ACT LIKE IT HUH...... 😭 Cerise is going to be the most spoiled and loved baby in Empire for sure, and Lynn will naturally follow too, since they both share a crazy family and have the most powerful people taking care of them hahaha (look how Gerrit is being treated—he's not even a Riester but he's always doted on and gaining absurd amounts of pocket money from everyone, even from Cédric hahaha)

ANYWAY I HOPE THIS WAS ABLE TO SATE SOME OF YOUR CURIOSITY!!!!!!!!

I love the CYC children so much....... their mere existence fills me with such joy, and I hope we see more of them in the upcoming side stories 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

#asks #twsb asks #twsb #twsb spoilers #twsb spoilers 500+#twsb analysis #not really but this is a hella long post so ill shove it there too 😭#cedyeschris #lynn rambouillet #cerise riester #CYC CHILDREN ARE SO REAL LMAOAOOAOA #truly genius tho i cannot stress that enough

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the-lonelybarricade · 11 months ago

Text

Queen of Thieves - Chapter 6

Summary: A fulfillment of this kinkmeme prompt. Or; A Canon AU where half fae, con-artist Feyre makes an ill placed bet.

All of my love to @climbthemountain2020 for reading through this chapter and convincing me not to delete everything 😂💕

Read on AO3・QoT Masterlist ・Previous Chapter

The terms of a bargain must always be clear.

In Prythian, ambiguity was a weapon, and by the docks of Velaris, the lesser fae knew how to wield it expertly. There, where saltwater seeped through the cracks in the wood, rotting everything from the inside out, gamblers only kept on their feet through careful, precise wording.

At a minimum, each deal should state plainly when it begins and ends. If the terms of a bargain weren’t finite… it could be damning. It could mean a lifetime in service of its terms.

Raised as a merchant’s daughter, Feyre learned at an early age how to word a deal in her favor. But it was the years that came later, when evenings in taverns became routine, where she witnessed the true consequences of ill-worded bargains. Swaggering males who walked through the doors with everything and found themselves indebted beyond coin.

The lacework of ink decorating Feyre’s hand, fingertip to elbow, laid testimony to each wager she’d ever made, the countless times she’d risked her life on a gamble. And won. But perhaps, caught in the arrogance of her triumphs, she’d forgotten her first tavern-goer lesson.

The terms of a bargain must always be clear.

Twenty-four hours of her company, during which the High Lord could do whatever he liked to her, in exchange for ten thousand marks.

A simple enough bargain. Straightforward, finite, measurable. The twenty-four hours had passed, and the ten thousand marks had been conferred. The terms were fulfilled, and hypothetically, Feyre and the High Lord would now be able to go their separate ways.

But—that had not been part of the bargain. If Feyre could go back to amend the terms, she would have added: Twenty-four hours, after which the High Lord was never allowed to see or contact her again.

They’d made no such agreement. Which meant that after the funds had been withdrawn from the account Rhysand created in Feyre’s name, of which he’d doubtlessly been notified, there was nothing stopping the High Lord from waiting outside the modest apartment they rented above a confectioner’s shop in the Palace of Bone and Salt. She’d hoped for somewhere on the Rainbow, but ten thousand marks would only stretch so far, and the two-bedroom apartment that perpetually smelled of burnt sugar was a far improvement from the moldy attic in the tavern.

“He’s back,” Elain said, appearing at her door frame with wide eyes.

Of course he was. This had become his daily routine.

Feyre pried the hatch of her second-story window open, exposing her bedroom—one she no longer needed to share with her sisters—to the dewy morning air, crisp and sweetened by the cooked sugar within the shop below. The High Lord of the Night Court was opposite its storefront, propped against the wall with his hands leisurely tucked into his pockets.

He’d been staring at her window before she’d pushed it open, and when she leaned over the windowsill, his smile stretched wide enough to see his perfectly white teeth.

“Surely a High Lord has more important things to do than stand outside my window?”

“Someone thinks highly of herself,” he said, nodding towards the Cauldron’s Confections sign hanging over the door. “I could be here to provide valuable patronage to my people.”

“Patronage usually occurs inside the shop.”

Rhysand shrugged. “Some find my presence… distracting.”

Feyre snorted under her breath. Distracting didn’t even begin to describe how it felt to be pinned beneath his assessment. Even across the cobblestone pavement and a story below, his power radiated from him, pulsing like an invading heartbeat, threatening to spear beneath her veins and take control. His talons of darkness were nowhere to be seen, but Feyre still double-checked her mental shields just to be sure nothing crawled into her mind while her guard was down.

“I’m waiting out here until the shop quiets down,” he continued.

A moment of silence was all she needed to confirm his lie. The shop did sometimes get busy, particularly at midday, when an influx of voices swept in from the streets and drowned out the movements of the kitchen in the back. Now, the voices in the shop were a low murmur—and if she listened carefully, she could still pick out the crackling flame beneath the oven, the soft sputter of melted chocolate.

“In other words, you’re loitering,” she said.

Outside of his line of vision, she could feel moisture collecting in the hollow between her palm and her death grip on the window ledge. It was a concentrated effort not to fidget, particularly as Rhysand cocked his head like he was weighing the audacity in her tone.

Then he smirked. “And if I am, who’s going to hold me accountable for it?”

There was a challenge in the way he said it—in his eyes, as he studied her, turning over every inch of her expression for all the pieces of information she was unknowingly betraying. His smile was taunting, like that penetrating gaze saw past the veneer she painted over her uncertainty, through the defiance of her tipped chin and narrowed brows, right to the pit of apprehension yawning open in her stomach.

This was a mask she’d worn a thousand times over, night after night in that cramped tavern. She’d faced the scrutiny of males with fewer reservations towards violence, and yet none had ever made her feel so unsteady as the High Lord. But none had ever been as powerful, as capable of killing her with half a thought.

“The press,” she decided, after a moment’s consideration. “I bet I could sell this story for a pretty copper. The High Lord neglects his duties to laze around a sweet shop. Better yet—to stalk a harmless female.”

Stalk. She couldn’t believe she’d said it out loud, and to his face no less. Her boldness was going to get her killed one of these days, but this was the third day in a row that he’d shown up outside her apartment. She didn’t see how else to label it.

Rhys laughed, but with a razor-sharpness that straightened her spine. Shadow unspooled around him, rippling from his form like someone had smeared charcoal along the outline of his portrait.

His voice dragged over her skin, delicate as a lover’s blade. “That sounds a bit sensationalized to my ears.”

The velvet promise in his voice, its underlying violence, raised every hair on her arm. Despite her better judgment, she said, “The best stories usually are.”

He was drifting closer. No longer propped against the wall, but standing in the middle of the street. Citygoers passed by, moving out of their way to avoid him, but he continued staring up at Feyre’s window like he didn’t notice. A great stone parting a river’s current.

“Would you allow me to buy your silence? With dinner, tonight?”

Feyre shook her head and pushed up to her full height. “I’m afraid our bargain gave you the wrong impression, High Lord. I can’t be bought.”

His mouth opened, but she shut the window with exaggerated force before she could hear his response. She hurried into the kitchen, where Nesta and Elain were both sitting at the table with raised brows that said they’d been listening to every word.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Nesta said. “If you think you have any agency with him, you’re deluding yourself.”

Elain took a long sip of her tea, not meeting Feyre’s eyes. Her silent way of saying she agreed.

They didn’t know the full truth. She let them think the same as everyone else in that tavern—that the High Lord had seen a pretty, half-human novelty and wanted to have his fun for an evening. Feyre hadn’t told them how she met the High Lord in the alleyway, how he’d saved her life and slaughtered his captain. They didn’t know that he’d discovered her daemati ability and that he hadn’t touched her, at least not the way they assumed, during those twenty-four hours she’d been subject to his will.

I have plans for you, Feyre Archeron.

Yes, she was playing a dangerous game, but one she had stumbled into unknowingly. She was in its trenches now, fumbling blindly, and she already knew she was far too deep in shit to find a way out now.

“What was I supposed to do?” Feyre demanded, relying on her temper to disguise the helplessness clawing at her. She wished Nesta could give her an answer. “Let him buy me dinner? I’m sure that would have gone over splendidly.”

Nesta set her teacup on its saucer with enough force to send the porcelain ringing. The sound speared through the room, so sharp it made Feyre’s teeth ache. “You could have kept the window shut and ignored him. You’re only indulging his game by acknowledging him.”

“He’s our High Lord, Nesta.” Feyre flung her arms out in exasperation. “I can’t just ignore him. We’re required by law to pay him our respect.”

“Oh, because that conversation was brimming with respect.”

Feyre’s temper reared. “If you know so much better than me, what would you do?”

Nesta took a moment to respond, paying the question more consideration than Feyre expected. Once she came to her decision, Nesta tipped her chin and said with quiet steel, “I would have taken his money and bought a ship that would carry us as far away from Velaris as we could get.”

And maybe… maybe that was precisely what Feyre should have done.

That night, Feyre dreamt of the sea, churning beneath a low sun that cast its rippling surface into a deep, honey gold. It swirled and swirled until it crashed against a wall of crystal glass and emptied down into her open mouth.

Her throat burned against its invading strength, but it warmed her chest, and she sighed, setting the crystal down on a table.

“I heard your plan for our little recruit epically crashed and burned.”

“Shut up.”

Neither of those voices belonged to her. They were deep and smooth like the golden sea refilling her glass, churning again as a broad, umber hand lifted the cup and swirled its contents.

“Cheer up. I’m sure she’ll come around.”

“Leave me to drink in peace, you bastard.”

If more was said, it was lost to the bottom of the glass and the torrent of golden liquid that washed over her, its current warm as it carried her out to sea, then back to shore. The sun’s touch prickled over her skin, and she thought she heard a soft voice whisper—

Sweet dreams, Feyre.

Feyre was being followed.

The unsettling awareness of it skittered down her spine. She stood in line for a bakery on the corner of the Palace of Bone and Salt. It was a busy day at the market, and a glance over her shoulder betrayed only the passerby flitting between stalls.

Eyes of varying jewel and earthen tones swam past, many straying towards the palace’s largest attractions of smoked meats and spun confections. If any attention snagged on Feyre as she scanned the crowd, it was brief and largely accidental—apart from one ash-haired lesser fae, who met her stare and offered an inviting smile. That was a strange, new thing she’d become accustomed to. People treated her differently now that she was wearing handwoven clothes from the Palace of Thread and Jewels and not an oversized tunic she’d won off a sailor’s back.

With her fine sleeves covering the bargains inked onto her skin and her hair down to cover the smooth curve of her ears, Feyre looked just like any other citygoer. No one in the market was paying her any mind, but she couldn’t shake the unease coiling a knot in her gut. With a huff of air, Feyre stepped reluctantly out of line to see if anyone else abandoned their place to follow her. She earned her a few curious glances, but there was little movement aside from the few who shuffled forward to claim her spot.

That was fine. There was more than one place to get bread in the Palace of Bone and Salt, and she ambled in the direction of another stall as though she’d merely caught its scent and found its offer more tantalizing. The line was shorter, which promised the quality of the bread was less appealing, but maybe that meant it was cheaper, too.

“Good morning,” the baker chirped, standing beside her proud display of fresh bread, each wrapped lovingly in twine and wax paper.

There were other delicacies, too. The morning sun glinted off a row of glazed pastries generously dollaped with berries as vibrant as a freshly cut ruby—and nearly as expensive. Between the cost of their new apartment and the clothes they’d purchased last week, there wasn’t enough coin left over from Feyre’s bargain to afford her sweet tooth.

Just as Feyre opened her mouth to order, someone reached over her shoulder, pointing an elegant finger towards the pastries she’d been eying.

“Two of those, please,” said a male voice, deep and churning as a honeyed sea. Feyre stiffened. It had been nearly two weeks since she’d last heard that voice. “And what else were you after, darling? A loaf of bread, I presume.”

She whirled to find a familiar pair of violet eyes, half-lidded with delight. He was standing so close he needed to stare down his nose to meet her eyes.

Feyre bared her teeth at him. “Have you been following me?”

“Good morning to you, too,” he purred, slipping his coin to the baker without even counting how much he was overpaying her.

No wonder all the shopkeepers in Velaris thought so highly of him. Not that she’d been asking, of course. But in the weeks since their bargain, she had been listening more intently. Checking the tabloids if only to ensure her name didn’t end up among them. For all the gossip traded in this city like its own currency, she noticed there had been remarkably little chatter about the High Lord’s bargain with the witch of Velaris. Though if he was aiming for discretion, cornering her in the busy marketplace seemed counterintuitive to that goal.

Feyre crossed her arms. “What do you want?”

“You can be so grouchy in the morning,” he said, clicking his tongue.

The baker handed him a pastry, which he immediately offered to Feyre.

“Here, have something to eat.” When she only stared, he raised a brow. “Do I need to take a bite to prove that I haven’t poisoned it?”

The baker looked affronted by the question, which was the only reason Feyre took the damn thing from him.

“Thanks,” she said, ice dripping from her voice.

Rhys was satisfied enough by her response that he didn’t push further. With a charming smile towards the baker—the kind he flashed like he intended its recipient to begin fawning over him—he accepted the second pastry and handed Feyre a loaf of bread.

Once they were out of earshot, Feyre pushed her uneaten pastry back in his direction. “I don’t want it.”

“No?” Rhys swiped his finger through the jam in the center. It collected at his fingertip, gleaming like a pinprick of blood, and he held it an inch from her lips with a taunting smile. “Not even a taste?”

Taste, something whispered in the back of her mind, urging her to move forward, to dart her tongue across his skin. Perhaps it was a leftover cry from the child who could still remember how sugar melted on the tongue, from a time when her father used to return from his voyages with treats from faraway lands. Feyre leaned back, less from the threat of the High Lord’s fingers and more because she didn’t trust herself not to give into that wild and inexplicable impulse.

“And what will it cost me?” She demanded, stoking her anger to smother that strange ache. “Another day in your service?”

Rhys pulled his hand away. “Just your company,” he said, holding her gaze while he licked his finger clean with a long, exaggerated swipe of his tongue.

She tried not to think of the dream he’d given her on the night of their bargain, how she’d hovered over his mouth, close enough to feel his breath, and what that tongue might have done if she’d let him continue. Tried—and failed miserably.

His eyes sparked like he could see the direction of Feyre’s thoughts, despite how she triple-checked that her shields were still up.

Feyre narrowed her eyes. “My company for how long?”

“Only the time that it takes you to eat the pastry.”

Oh? It was roughly the size of her palm, but Feyre wagered she could still eat it in a single bite if she needed to.

“Fine.” She took a pointedly large bite and said around it, “But you might consider talking fast.”

If he was offended by her bad manners, he did a good job disguising it behind a laugh. “Have you considered that I simply enjoy your company, Feyre?”

She swallowed around the thick bite. “I think you like to check in on your loose ends.”

That prompted a raised brow. “Is that what you think you are?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve left my life of gambling and mind reading behind.”

“And what are you doing now?”

Feyre raised the loaf of bread in her hand. “Shopping.”

“I mean to make money.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she said with an innocent hum. “But hey, worse comes to worse, I could always get a job at one of the pleasure halls. Do you think you could give me your personal recommendation?”

Rhysand’s pupils flared, and Feyre’s heart jumped into an uneven beat at the darkness she saw flickering there, accompanied by a sideways smile. “I could write you a glowing recommendation, Feyre, but I personally think that’d be a waste of your talents.”

“Oh?” She took another bite of her pastry, meeting his eyes as if to say, your window’s closing. “And what would you have me do instead?”

“You could come work for me.”

There it was.

Pushing him, she crooned, “In your bedroom?”

Rhysand gripped her chin, turning her face towards his. “Is that where you’d like to serve?”

A challenge. An offer. A threat, maybe.

Her nerve was crumbling beneath the full force of his gaze. Those eyes seared straight through her, and though she knew her mental shields were in place, she somehow felt like he could read every thought she’d ever had. Her soul laid bare to him.

She wanted to make him feel equally riled. To waver the control he so carefully laid in place. Maybe that was why she whispered to him, poisonous and sweet, “Maybe I want to sit on your throne instead.”

His fingers tightened. She’d just threatened to steal his crown, and yet he was grinning like a fiend. “That could be arranged.”

Claws raked against her mental shields, and with it, an image flashed: Feyre, with her legs spread over the arms of a dark throne, Rhysand crouched before her, his head buried in her thighs. She flinched, struggling against his hold to escape the vision. His grip was iron-tight, and he only yanked her closer, leaning in until his lips grazed the curve of her ear.

“I have been exceptionally generous with you, Feyre Archeron, and your behavior has been atrocious in return. Is it a bid for my attention, or has someone never bothered to teach you any manners?”

Feyre gritted her teeth. “Some might say it’s part of my charm.”

The back of his throat rumbled. Rhys pulled away just enough to examine her face. His eyes narrowed in on her lips and he swiped his thumb upwards, brushing away a bit of leftover jam, which he then held in front of her mouth. Waiting.

Their eyes met, and he said, “Even I am a man of limited patience, Feyre.”

She parted her lips and he pressed his thumb between them, his remaining fingers holding her firm so she couldn’t pull away. With her cheeks burning, and her eyes boring into his, she pressed her tongue to the pad of his finger and licked away the jam.

“Good girl,” he said, releasing her.

Feyre wiped at her lips like she could erase the humiliation of what she’d just been made to do. With a glare in his direction, she shoved the rest of the pastry in her mouth. Rhysand’s chest was heaving, eyes simmering at her defiance.

All she said was, “Thank you for the food, High Lord.”

Then she stalked off, trying to put as much distance between them as physically possible. Rhysand didn’t pursue—at least not from what she could see glancing over her shoulder. But the oily, uneasy feeling of being followed didn’t relent, no matter how many crowds she weaved through.

Feyre veered another corner before she decided that even if Rhys was following her, it wasn’t as if he didn’t know where she lived. It wasn’t as if she could escape him in his own damn city. With a sigh, she cut across an alley that she knew would take her back to the Palace of Bone and Salt.

She dodged a shopkeeper loading barrels into the back of her store and kitchen staff filling up buckets of water from the outdoor spigots. Their curious stares trailed her as she passed, but it loosened some of her tension to know she wasn’t alone.

Not alone, indeed. Soon, that creeping sensation cracked over her spine with the urgency of a snapping whip. She noticed the shadows lurking in her periphery before she picked up the footsteps, and Feyre whirled, prepared to give him another piece of her mind.

Except it was not Rhysand standing behind her.

Feyre barely registered this information before her body was sent barrelling into the brick wall at her back. The air knocked out of her, and she’d only had a moment to gasp when her assailant grabbed her by the throat, trapping that precious breath beneath his palms.

Black cloth covered the lower half of his face, but his eyes were exposed. Hazel eyes, wild and burning as they narrowed on her, as his gloved fingers tightened against her throat. She clawed and thrashed at his grip, but he met each of her pathetic blows with unflinching strength.

“Please,” she choked.

She speared her magic towards him, only to slam into a mighty wall of cruel, vicious steel.

“You’re close with the High Lord,” he said.

Feyre shook her head.

The cloth over his cheeks shifted, and if she had to guess he was baring his teeth as he snarled, “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” she rasped.

His voice was the violent thunder rolling over a midnight sky. “You looked pretty close to me when he had his fingers in your mouth.”

Feyre kicked her legs out, shrieking her exasperation that nothing she was doing had any impact on this cold, ruthless male. She flashed her teeth at him. “And I would have bitten his fingers off for it, if he wasn’t High Lord.”

Something flickered in the male’s eyes, a certain understanding, and his fingers loosened on her throat. Feyre drew in a sharp breath, greedily sucking air back into her lungs.

“You resent him?”

Feyre held her tongue. She didn’t know who this male was, who he might be reporting back to. But her silence said enough.

He let go of her throat entirely. “Well then, how’d you like to make some coin and even your score with the High lord?”

Her interest was piqued. But so was her suspicion.

“Doing what?”

“He has something that belongs to me. Steal it back, and I’ll pay you what it’s worth.”

Feyre cocked her head. “Tell me what I’d need to steal, and I’ll consider it.”

Two mornings later, Feyre woke to the sound of fluttering paper, and peeled her eyes open to find a letter resting atop her bedside table.

She knew where it was from, even before she lifted the parchment to her face and found the Night Court insignia stamped at its signature—the same one she found inside Rhysand’s desk drawer. The letter was penned in elegant scrawl, though its content was meaningless to her.

Feyre D-

Feyre Dar-

Feyre Darling,

Im… Ima.. g—

The letter crumpled in her fist. With the Night Court insignia, it looked like an official letter, perhaps even a direct order from the High Lord. Elain would read it for her if she asked, but Feyre didn’t trust Rhysand not to have added something incriminating or absurd.

When she knocked on his door hours later, the letter folded and shoved into her pocket, he opened it with a smile that said he knew she’d be paying him a visit today.

“Feyre,” he purred. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She crossed her arms. “What does your letter say?”

“That’s for you to find out.”

Feyre tossed him a flat look. “Rhysand.”

“My, what a pleasant sound.” He stepped back into his entryway, gesturing to the hallway beyond. “Would you like to come in? I’d love to tempt my name from your lips a second time.” He craned his head. “Unless there’s another reason why you’ve come?”

She took a deep breath.

“I want to renew our twenty-four hour bargain.”

#Feysand #feysand fic #feysand fanfic #feysand fanfiction #Feyre x Rhysand #Rhysand x Feyre #Feyre x Rhys #Rhys x feyre

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maleyanderecafe · 11 months ago

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My Angelic Husband is actually a Devil in Disguise (Webcomic)

Created by: HaeMyang / Hiella / WOONGIN THINKBIG / Nyamm(Art)

Genre: Fantasy/Romance

I have mixed feelings about this webcomic- mostly because I absolutely adore the concept of a damsel yandere, one that uses their incompetence or feigned uselessness to get close to their love interest, however, I'm not sure I really like how this webcomic does it. Don't get me wrong, there are some good moments within it, but it's not particularly how I would write a damsel yandere. As of writing this, there are about 40 chapters out.

The story starts with Seita about to graduate from the college before her family attempts to sell her to get married. Her family would often gamble and treat her badly, trying to sell her to pay off the debt. She is then invited by Miere Lunaria, one of Seita's classmates. Miere wants to have someone who can manage his accounting and assets as he himself is too incompetent to do so. He proposes a contract marriage so that she can work under him, and in exchange, would pay off the debt for Seita's family so she doesn't need to worry. The contract would terminate under a four years allowing Seita to live her life. Not really able to go back to her family, Seita accepts and the two get contract married. The two of them have to pretend to be like a loved couple, going on dates and living together as to maintain Miere's reputation as a duke and of course, sleeping in the same bed together. After some cute moments while Miere and Seita working on their garden together, Miere travels to the prince. Unfortunately, this leads to a bunch of bandits attacking them on their travels, leading Miere to die. Seita has to attend his funeral but continues her duties taking care of Miere's assets. Miere returns after three years as we learn that he's not dead, but rather was working with the prince to get rid of said bandits. He's able to reconcile with Seita after all these years and despite this, Seita still accepts him and forgives him for what he did. During her years of being alone, she worked hard to continue her work, and befriended a local merchant named Roynus whom she works with closely, and who Roynus gains a crush on. After Miere comes back, Roynus basically tries to pull her away, stating that she only was with Miere for a month, yet Seita still retains loyalty to her husband. We find out also that Miere is actually quite competent in most things from basically Seita's work to actually assassination, but feigns ignorance as a way to get by Seita's side, as he feels she will simply leave him if she finds out that he can basically do all that he can this entire time. He uses his servants to watch over Seita even while he was gone for the three years and slowly wins her over in lovey dovey ways. Miere also keeps an eye on Roynus, being extremely jealous over the fact that he was by Seita's side those years that he was gone and that he is pining for her, attempting to find skeletons in his closet to out him. After a weird side plot about burning pillows so that Miere can sleep without a divider and be with Seita, we get to see how Miere fell for her in the first place. While at the academy, he would watch her from the treetops studying, seeing how studious she was. After noticing that she enjoyed some flowers on the road, he ended up taking up gardening, and despite the fact that he actually quite dislikes gardening, Miere still did it to maintain a connection to Seita. The last couple of chapters revolve around Miere buying an expensive piece of jewelry for Seita disguising it as something cheap, Roynus's return in winning Seita's heart and the introduction to the vice-master of the assassin group, Bianca.

As I said, in concept, I should like this manga. I like the way that Miere pretends to be incompetent to get Seita to like him. Seita believes that Miere needs her because he can't really do anything right, not even from just maintaining his assets but also just not putting on his clothes properly. Of course this is all a ploy so that Seita will stay with him, but I... also don't really see the point in it all. Miere could have very easily just had a contract marriage to pull her out of her bad family without having to resort to acting pretty stupid to be honest. Other than the initial ploy of getting her to marry him, he really had no reason to continue acting stupid but lovey dovey in front of her. Honestly, even if Miere had revealed to her right after that he was an assassin, there would still be no way for Seita to leave him and Miere could probably just play into the angelic facade he had anyways instead of this entire thing of incompetence. Plus now that he has gone this far, Seita is likely going to have more trust issues with Miere because he's pretended for so long, which regardless could have been avoided if he had just told the truth. The other thing which I think is pretty obvious as a problem is the sudden time gap of Miere pretty much dying and then coming back after three years. The two of them only really had a month to bond and to be honest, it wasn't really anything that I really saw as especially romantic or deep. He then basically pretends to be dead for three years, leaving Seita a widow essentially only to come back and then beg for forgiveness... to which Seita accepts it?? I mean, I get that Seita basically doesn't know this guy since they literally had a month together, but I think that most people would be at least a little pissed off that they were essentially ditched for three years to do a bunch of work all while thinking that Miere was dead the entire time. It makes way more sense for Seita to ends up with Roynus because as he said, the two have only known each other for a month at that time and Roynus had been by her side for two years. Yes, there was the contract, but like I said, Sieta basically had to do all of his work without the knowledge that her husband was alive, so despite the fact that he was on a mission for so long, still didn't know that he was alive. The assassination thing also doesn't seem to come up a lot since we never really see him actually.... you know, kill anyone. We know he's dangerous, but we're never really shown it other than him threatening a bunch of his servants.

I actually do like Seita as a character but unfortunately I feel like she's pretty underutilized and the plot forces her to make some dumb decisions at times. Seita being a hard worker and having to manage Miere's finances is very interesting and she does manage to do some good work with it, but honestly she could have gone way farther like fund her own school or even just get back at her parents in some way. It feels like they just gave her a bunch of responsibilities and power but she's not really allowed to use any of it- especially when she thought that Miere was dead. She probably could have used the money to help manage the safety of people traveling so that they wouldn't get killed by bandits or something but she doesn't. I get that part of it is because the servants are watching so they wouldn't really let her get away with anything too big, but like...she could have done more and should have done more since that seems like something that she would do. The other big thing I feel like they just did for plot reasons is her falling in love with Miere after one month of interaction, thus allowing her to forgive him for ditching her for three years. I can kind of accept her accepting him ditching for three years because to her this is just a contract marriage, she just wants to leave her family and have enough money to sustain herself, so she doesn't really care about Miere... or at least she shouldn't because again they knew each other for a month, but somehow in that one month of being together, he was able to woo her that much, which is absurd because again, they barely did anything noteworthy together. Afterwards, of course, Miere is far more lovey dovey to make up for the time that they missed together, but it's still very strange that Seita would just accept it without really any anger or disappointment. I also feel like her falling for Miere's more lovey dovey side so quickly is a bit out of character, but that just might be me. She's not aware of Miere's assassin or more devilish side, so I'm curious to see how that will end up in the future.

Okay, we finally end up with Miere and I really want to like this guy because again, I love the damsel yandere on guys, but I just don't understand what he's doing and neither does most of his other servants. I think the logic is that because Seita married him to help him with his incompetence (and to get out of her bad family), he has to continue feigning that kind of personality, but like I said before, if the two are in a contract marriage they cannot divorce until after four years like the contract says, so even if Miere pretty much killed someone in front of Seita, they two wouldn't be able to divorce or else Seita wouldn't be able to escape her family. Even as a damsel yandere, he does very basic things for incompetence like not being able to do any of the actual documentations, not being able to put his shirt on (or something) and not staying on the right side of the bed. I personally think he could have gone further either pretending to be completely innocent and himbo like or just incompetent in terms of clumsy and can't live without Seita type deal, but he doesn't really commit to either of those. He also, again does the really stupid thing of faking his death for three years, which kind of basically only leaves on year for you two to actual fall in love, which you are extremely lucky that Seita even speaks with you afterwards and doesn't just move on with Royus since she thinks that you're dead. Other than that, he also uses his royal money to buy things for Seita and make deals for her, while also trying to find secrets from Royus to try to snuff him out, as well as just use his power to do whatever he can to be with Seita. And that's about it. I guess it's fine, I think the artwork is also a bit stiff in a lot of places but like, there's nothing specifically special or interesting about it.

Overall, I think it's a good concept that's not very well executed. I would have liked it if Miere had an actual strong reason for him to actually pretend to be stupid. And perhaps actually use his assassination skills for something useful instead of just having it be something that he has and basically never uses.

#My angelic husband is also the devil in disguise #male yandere #yandere #yandere boy #recommendations #webcomic #ongoing

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smuttyaf · 1 year ago

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SouthSide Serpent

Word Count: 4.8k

Rating: R

features; childhood friends to lovers, loverboy ashton, literally ashton has been pining for y/n, & sum good old smut :)

a/n: idek what to say but hi! i’ve been in retirement for like 4 years and rediscovered this account. i got nostalgic & decided… shit why not write again?

please cut me sum slack tho! i wrote this on my notes app & it’s been years since i’ve written so i would love to hear feedback!

& yes i am hella descriptive and like to build suspense! i can’t help it >.<

also! y/n is heavily based on serena from mtv downtown ( i love her ) & this picture of ashton ( xx )

The crisp October breeze blew through your hair as the dull taste of your cigarette burns on your tongue; your forefinger and middle finger clenching the nicotine filled paper and pressing it against your lips, drawing in the vapour.

Your head nods along to the music playing before you just two doors down on the opposite side of your street. There was Ashton and his band, either playing covers of their current favourite songs, oldies, or new ones that they’ve all come together and created.

The usual guitar flow and drum beat of Maps by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs blasted through the speakers in the garage as the sound of Luke’s voice sang along on top of the tune.

You hum along to the lyrics as you glared in the direction, your lips peeling away from the filter and letting the smoke settle in your lungs before releasing it. The four boys were all dressed in their usual attire: white shirt, black trousers, beat up old chunky Doc Martins, and their signature SouthSide Serpents leather jackets.

As the wind picks up again you let your free hand tear away from your windowsill and tug the flying strays of your hair in front of your face behind your ear, the chipped black polish on your almond nails coming into view as you remind yourself you needed to get them done.

The bridge of the song is now blaring down the street, causing you to raise your cigarette back to your lips and think to yourself, what a coincidence this song is playing; the lyrics, the time frame, and the memories that all come flowing back as you hear the familiar melody.

It was 2009 and Ashton had invited you over during Christmas break to play Garage Band since Santa gifted it to him because that was the only thing he asked for on his wish list. You were both 8, banging on the drums and singing songs that you both were too young to know or remember from when your parents would play them on the drive home from school. But, for some reason this is the song that stuck with you both the most. Maybe it was the easy lyrics or the amazing beat but from then on it had you hooked to this alternative sound.

Now fast forward to a year ago, your now ex boyfriend Xavier was laying on your bed, finger pads heavy weight on your skin as he drew sloppy hearts on your hip. The wire of the headphones tangled between your shoulder and his wrist as you both listened to his playlist. The familiar intro notes to the song beginning to ring throughout the buds and the tug of your maroon lined lips turn into a smile.

“Already like the song?” He asked, brown eyes rested on top of dark circles scattered with freckles as he smirked down at you.

“I love it.” You sheepishly said.

The wind knocks you back into reality as it pushes through your window again, only making you remember how much you loved October; the weather changing, leaves blooming, smell of the rain just before it hit the concrete, the sound of the leaves dragging along the pavement, and the endless horror movie marathons that would run on AMC.

The orange, brown, and green leaves spin in the breeze and rustle along the branches as the sun stood brightly among the houses along the horizon. From your view on the windowsill you can see houses upon houses before you see the local water tower and old plazas that scream they need new merchant signs and fresh cement.

Your eyes flick to the lonesome string popping out of your black long sleeve before the sound of your phone’s text tone goes off, your eyes darting to the message running across the screen.

Stop watching me

Ashton’s text read, making you roll your eyes before placing them on the dark hair boy who had a goofy grin on his face from your view, his drum sticks were stuffed in one had and the other held his lit up phone.

With a smile on yours, you let the hand that rested in the crook of your neck tear away from the warm flesh and your middle finger stand in the air as a response.

Clothes were thrown in every direction of your room as you let your eyes drag along your frame in the mirror, your loose knitted black sweater hung off one of your shoulders as low waisted charcoal jogging pants rested on your hips. Your hair was in its loose waves as your curtain bangs swept against your temples, your fingers curling into themselves in frustration as you tried to not stress over how you look.

You didn’t want to over enhance your appearance to see Xavier since he wanted to meet up to get “closure” -even though he was the one who called it off despite your many pleas- but you wanted to make him feel bad for even deciding to drop you.

A frustrated sigh left your wine stained lips before turning around and sticking your feet into your ruined Converse. The low muffled sound of Xavier’s Prelude is heard out your window and you feel your heart drop.

You never understood why you always felt this way about him and why you couldn’t just get over this stupid boy who likes to break up with you every other month, a new reason every single time. The constant tears, text threads, and blocking to unblocking seemed to never get exhausting to you because you were always back in the same place, wondering if you overdressed to see your ex for closure.

The chime of Xavier’s specific text tone rings through your room and you already know what it says, so without checking you twisted your foot into your shoe to fit perfectly before you reach over and grasp your phone in your hand and tug your way to the window sill. Fingers pressing the frame up and letting the fall air sweep into your room before crouching down and fitting yourself through the frame and safely scale down the roof, onto the sturdy vine wall filled with dead clematis that prickled on your palms the way down before your feet landed on the short cut grass.

As you turned away from the wall and begin tugging your feet towards the black coupe, your eyes catch on the tall frame standing on their front step as an amber light glows slightly illuminating his face. You already know this is Ashton, so with a slight smile you let your index finger rest against your coated lips, a gesture to him to be quiet.

The only response he gives is his head nodding off to the side with smoke trailing out of his mouth.

The smile quickly falls as your fingers clench the car door handle and tug it open, the smell of him crashing down on you as you sit in the familiar leather, the hum of the engine vibrating under you as the car peels off.

The tinge of tequila burned on your buds as you felt the room spinning, the sound of chatter and shouts are heard from below you as the bass of Destroy Lonely’s song can be heard in the room you barged into when you gave up on waiting for Tabitha; who said she wouldn’t be long with the curly haired new kid in her history class.

Red solo cup was loosely clenched in your right hand as left was lazily running through your hair at random moments as you laid against the cottage floral bed sheets.

Here you were, back in the same spot you always found yourself in: drunk, heartbroken, and thinking about a boy who doesn’t even care about you. The constant routine of wanting him, then wanting to be far away but craving him every other second burned into your heart. The comfort and familiarity of him that you missed always overlooked every excuse he gave you whenever he broke things off.

Last month he said he needed time to himself, this month he told you that he was confused and didn’t know what he wanted; frankly he lost feelings for you, at least that was what he says now. Those words kept on replaying in your mind as if that was your favourite song. The way he sounded emotionless yet unsure that, that was what he really wanted.

And just with those thoughts, tears were flowing down your temples. Eyes blurring as the voice replayed in your head, the memory of him sitting beside you and saying that, to then recollect memories of how sweet and endearing the boy you loved in the beginning grew cold to your touch and looked into your hopeful eyes with detached ones.

The popcorn ceiling was fuzzy in your sight as the tears spill over your waterline and beads down the sides of your face. You already knew your cheeks were heated up, the liner and eyeshadow that was occupying your bottom lashes was smudged and probably slipping away with the liquid as a sniffle wrinkled through your nose.

God you hated this; the empty feeling of missing someone who you know you shouldn’t want but yet crave so badly. Why him? Why you?

As you were deep in thought you hear the rustle of the door knob before it turns and the music that pours from outside reaches into the empty depths of the room, the sound of footsteps halting and a sharp intake of breath being heard, but you don’t dare look away at the ceiling. Frankly, you could care less about who sees you crying your eyes out on this outdated duvet with ruined make up.

“Fuck my bad!… Wait Y/N?” The recognizable voice of your childhood friend is heard before the door is closing shut.

The weight of him sinks next to you on the bed as you let your eyes close and the final stream of tears leave your eyes.

“I look desperate don’t I.” You state, voice raspy from the strain in your throat as the usual feeling of a ball is formed.

“I think you look sad,” He points out, making you snort as the hand that was lazily playing in your hair tears away and feels the sheet below you.

“No shit,” You mumble before letting your eyes peel open.

“You and Xavier broke up again?” Ashton questions, the sound of his zippers clashing from his jacket as he shuffles around.

You only hum in response before you let both of your arms sit you up on the bed, your back standing straight as your hands cradle the solo cup. Your eyes stare down at your ruined pantyhose beneath your mini lace black skirt before they flicker to look at the hazel boy.

Eyes connecting with yours, you hear his breath hitch as he draws in your appearance. Cheeks with a glow of cherry red sweeping the bones under your eyes that are damp with black eyeshadow, your eyes were still puffy and red rimmed as they batted slowly up at him.

“He doesn’t know what he wants,” You let out, your eyes rolling before letting your plum coloured lips take a sip of the warm mixture of Pepsi and tequila.

“Oh?” He says in confusion, bushy eyebrows coming together trying to figure out how that could be since he saw you two together three nights ago.

“I’m so sick of being with these screwed up guys all the time,” You state, hand tearing away from the cup to dig your nails into the rips of your stockings.

“Really?”

“I have such crummy luck or taste? What is it with girls like me? All a guy has to say is, he can’t express his feelings or he listens to Deftones and it’s like my head tips right over and my brain start to slip out of my ear.”

Ashton lets out laugh, the beer bottle he’s holding by the neck resting on his knee as he stares down at you. “So which one is Xavier?”

“Both,” You scoff while sticking out your tongue in disgust.

“You know… if you wanted to, I’m sure you could have a different great guy to go out with every night,” Ashton assures, a smirk tugging on your lips as you decide to ignore the glint of promise in his eyes.

“No way, I’ve always been a mess. Remember Cleo?” Your second boyfriend that seemed to be stuck on your hip but ironically found someway to cheat on you every weekend yet you still dumbly went back to him every. single. time.

The feeling of your sheer button up rubs against your arm as you let your hand fall against your hip and feel your black crop top tight to your skin.

“Maybe you just need to talk to someone who isn’t your usual type,” Ashton points out. Your head nods a few beats as your thick wedged heeled boots run over the wooden flooring.

“Maybe I’ll be luckier if I tried dating someone nice for a change,” Voice hopeful as your eyes dart away from the bubbly dark liquid into Ashton’s brown hues.

“Nice guys,” Ashton says with a smile, both of his hands tearing away from his knees as if to gesture to himself in this equation.

A laugh escapes your lips before your eyes run over Ashton’s frame from head to toe.

“What are you getting at Irwin?” You say with a pointed brow, playing stupid to the implication.

“Oh nothing..” He sings while tearing his eyes from yours, toothy smile still spread on his lips before he takes a swing of his beer.

You shake your head with annoyance before your hazy eyes look down at your lap, your hands resting on the cup and drumming a random tune.

“Honestly Y/N… I think you’re a really great girl and…. I just think maybe…” His words a scrambled mess and trailing off. You smile to yourself before turning to look back at him.

“Mm?” You question, the fifteen percent liquor coursing through your bloodstream and giving you confidence as you lean into this chest, eyes never tearing away from his. Because if Ashton was going to give you hopeful eyes and stuttering speeches you might as well put the ‘nice guy’ to the test and see if he was really about what he said.

That only made his lips break into a smirk, his tongue sneakily gladding along his bottom lip to wet it before looking into you daringly.

That only made you squish your plucked eyebrows together in question. How did the stuttering boy from just a view seconds ago all of a sudden turn cocky and confident? How many drinks did he have? Or was it the weed that clung to his jacket that gave him the boost.

“I think you should give me a chance,” He nips back, and before you can even respond to him, you watch his neck crane down and press his lips against yours.

The crisp taste of his beer stung your lips as they opened and immediately danced along with his tongue. White liquor and brown meeting together to taste each other and leave an acquired flavour in your mouths.

You hummed along to the feeling of his tongue circling against yours before peeling away and molding your lips to sink against each other. Your heart was beating through your chest, nails now digging into your plastic cup and head ducked back as you continue to press your mouth against his.

The feeling of his cold hand pressing against your neck caused you to shudder and tear away from his lips for a second, your eyes peeling open as they look in front of you. Black hair loosely falling on his forehead, the smell of his husky cologne clogging your senses, and the feeling of his fingers now dancing along the back of your neck.

“What are we doing Ash?” You breathe against his lips.

“Something that I’ve always wanted to do,” He says, making your heart launch. You bite down on your bruised lip and tear your eyes away from his, your stomach twist as you try and gain some self control as you almost fling yourself on top of him.

Something that he always wanted to do? You never really found yourself desirable to the point we’re men would see you in that type of light? But maybe what Ash said was just a simple lie, just so he can get what he wants and frankly you don’t even care. You’ve heard lies your whole entire life when it came to boys and this wasn’t any different, maybe you should just let your mind shut off from your stupid ex and just be in the moment for once.

So with that final thought, not having a care in the world, you drop the red cup in your hand and let your lips launch back onto his. Ashton follows your movements and the sound of the nearly empty beer bottle drops onto the hard wood, his right hand now resting along your neck as you both kiss each other.

Warm breaths, beating hearts and the sound of music is the only thing heard in the room as you lick into each others mouths. Soon you feel the weight of Ashton nudging you to lay back on the bed as he lies on top, you feel the cold zippers from his jacket press against your skin and all you can do is moan.

The feeling of his left hand tears away from the hairs on the nape of your neck and dance down your collar bone before letting it cup your breast in his hand, kneading the soft tissue which only makes another moan slip through you.

He pulls away from your lips and begins to suck and press kisses along your pulse, your hands that lie by your side now running up the sleeves of his jacket and into his hair.

A whimper spills out as you feel his hand tug your tank down and free your naked breast, he engulfs it in his cold palm making you let a shaky breath escape before you’re curling your fingers in his hair, the feeling of him twisting your nipple makes you bite down on your bottom lip. The pleasurable pain you feel running up your spine making your shoulders slightly buck off the bed.

“Hmm…” Ashton hums in your neck before tearing away, his eyes once such a light brown and green hue, now a chestnut and forest green colour filled with lust.

Your fingers tug away from his hair as he now descends down your body, his warm lips pressing kisses to your exposed skin as you let your hands tear your blouse and tank off. Your eyes never leaving his as he watches you undress. His lips now press against your pieced belly button as his fingers tear away from your chest and roughly takes your skirt by the band and peels it down your hips, your stockings following soon after.

Not wasting a moment he lets his mouth press against you covered core, lips pressing small kisses against your heat making you quietly moan. You wanted so desperately to tug Ashton into you and make him start devouring you right there but instead you let your hands trail back into his hair and play around with his locks.

Small kisses soon turn into open mouth licks, his wet muscle running up and down your clothed slit that it had your head digging back into the sheets, your legs spreading wider and whimpers endlessly trailing out.

“Ash.. please..” The words slip out so quiet that you assume he didn’t hear from the pulsing music below you, but instead your met with the feeling of his finger pulling your panties to the side and his tongue finally meeting you were you desired.

It circles around your clit gently before you feel his lips suck it into his mouth, a moan drawls from your throat due to the sensation. Soon enough, he’s letting his mouth discover the way you taste which only elects a moan from him. His tongue now dipping in between your two lips and curling around your insides.

“Oh my,” You moan as your fingers dig into his hair, eyes closing shut as you begin to slowly move your hips to the movement of his tongue.

The feeling of his right hand breaks away from your thigh and flows to your hips, his nails leaving small indents as you feel his other hand move away from your panty and rub against your clit.

The feeling of him humming against you sends a vibrating pleasure down your back as he continues to lick you, this only made your toes curl and your hands to fall out of his hair and onto his leather shoulders.

“Fuck,” You moan, your hands tugging him gently away from you as you feel your climax about to overcome your nerves.

And just as you feel it on the tip of your toes, the mouth between your legs pulls away beginning to press wet kisses up your thigh, his hand that once laid against your heat now meeting with the other at your hips.

A groan leaves you as your eyes tear open and look down at him. He mischievously looks up at you, his kisses now run up your stomach once again to lead to your neck.

“Upset?” He teases, only making you shudder at the rasp in his voice.

“I want you Ash,” You say breathlessly, turning your head to knock his out the way and look him in the eyes. “Please,” You utter, fingers now leaving his shoulders and brushing against his rip cage covered by his white tee.

Without any hesitation, Ashton is pulling away from your embrace and leaning back. He shrugs off his jacket, tugs his shirt over his head, his fingers going to the back of his baggy jeans to pull out his wallet to dig through before you see a gold package flash. If your cheeks could burn any brighter they differently would.

The mixture of his clothes and yours are strung through out the room, both of your shoes kicked to the bottom of the bed as he now shuffles his way back up to his original position.

Without question your hand meets the band of his boxers as you begin to inch them down his waist, wanting to return the favour.

“I think that can wait love, I rather be in you right now,” He breathes against your neck, only making your heart stutter. A sheepish smile tugs at your lips as you feel him twist around and lay on his side, his hands laying on your hips, turning you into the same position.

Your head rested on his arm as your back laid against his chest, hips aligned with each other as the feeling of his smell overcomes you. His knees prop up your legs as you hear the tearing of the condom package.

Deciding to distract yourself you let your eyes fall looking at Ashton. His black hair a tossed mess from your fingers, hazel eyes drawn to wear you both meet as he begins to run his member against your heat.

A whimper leaves your lips as you close your eyes when you feel him push inside, his hand now propping up your thigh as he eases into you.

He nudges your head forward and begins sucking kisses down the expanse of your neck, the feeling of his heart beating against your back and the smell of his sweat mixed with his cologne was filling your nose.

“Feels so good,” He mumbles against your skin, his arm that rested under your head turning slightly as he runs his hand against your wrist and takes your fingers into his, lacing them together as you continue to feel him stretch you out.

You never expected Ashton to have a thick piece but you also didn’t expect to be in this exact position right now, literally. Your childhood friend having his way with you while you were both drunk off each other and the alcohol in your systems.

His hips meet your backside before drawing back and pushing back in, your walls expanding with each thrust as you feel him begin a good pace. Moans begin to fall from your mouth, your eyes fluttering open every few seconds as your skin burns from the bruises soon to appear on your pulse from the black haired man beside you, skin still stuck to his lips.

“You’re moans are so pretty,” He breathes against you, his hand that was holding up your thigh runs up your hips to your chest, letting your leg fall as he takes one of your breasts and squeezes it gently.

All you can do is hum at his words because you’re too overstimulated to speak. The feeling of his thickness drawing in and out of you so heavily has you nodding off at the sensation, his fingers intertwined with yours beings to squeeze them together as the hand that was on your breast meets with his head at your neck.

“You like me fucking you,” He says into your ear as his hand squeezes your throat gently.

You nod your head as you feel your eyes slip close, and you were completely wrecked. He was so dirty yet gentle with you, peppering you with kisses yet digging into you so devilishly that it had your mind distraught.

“You like the way I feel inside you,” He continues, his hand growing more tight around your throat.

“Ash…” You say breathlessly, as your hand that rested against the bed sheets rises up and places it against the one making you breathless but encouraging your climax.

“Mm I like the way you feel around me,” He eggs on, and that makes you cry out, your back pushing pack and meeting his hips.

The feeling of your stomach twitching and legs quivering to close makes your head tip back even more against Ashton as you feel your orgasm on the brink.

That has him taking his hand away from your throat and slips it to lift your thigh back up as he continues to thrust into you, his lips press more kisses against your neck.

Your toes curl as the knot in your stomach expands and releases, the satisfying sensation washing over you as you let a deep breath break through your lips with a moan.

“Fuck,” Ashton hisses as he feels you twitch around him, the contractions from your high throwing him into his; his hips stutter before rocking back into you slowly, teeth gently digging into your skin, his breath being blown over the expanse of it.

The thickness of him slips out which causes your eyes to open, his hand dropping your thigh to wrap around your hips as his head buries into your neck.

The room is quiet for a moment as the only thing that can be heard is your hearts calming down and the chatter from down below.

“I would give you more kisses but I’ve made a mess on your neck,” His voice vibrates against you, that only makes you let out a broken laugh.

“I don’t even wanna know what it looks like,” You reply, your hand that rested on the duvet linking with his that rest along your stomach.

This felt nice, the amazing sex and cuddling session after. The room just being quiet and the only thing that can be heard is your breaths and beating hearts. This was so spontaneous that you still can’t even wrap your mind around what happened.

“How would you feel about doing this more often?” Ashton says after a few minutes, his chest moving as he pulls his head away from your neck to lie back against the pillows.

Having casual sex with him? You ponder on the idea. It was definitely one of the best you have ever had, he felt amazing and checked off every box when it came to how to please you. You couldn’t even lie and say that you didn’t find Ash attractive, you are also now officially single, free to due what we you wanted, so fuck it.

“Like… Friends with benefits?” You say, your thumb running against his hand still linked with yours by your head.

“Yeah, friends with benefits,” He confirms.

You let your head swish from side to side as you feel the burning sensation of his love bites strain against your neck as you let out a sarcastic hum to yourself as if you’re thinking it over.

“I wouldn’t mind that.”

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merchantservices444 · 11 months ago

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How much does it cost to open a merchant account?

(Human directed ai content.)

In today's digital age, having the ability to accept electronic payments is crucial for businesses of all sizes. Whether you run a brick-and-mortar store, an e-commerce website, or a mobile service, having a merchant account allows you to process credit and debit card transactions securely and efficiently. However, the cost associated with opening and maintaining a merchant account can vary depending on several factors.

Understanding Merchant Accounts:

Before delving into the costs, let's clarify what a merchant account is. Essentially, a merchant account is a type of bank account that enables businesses to accept payments via credit or debit cards. When a customer makes a purchase using a card, the funds are deposited into the merchant account, and then transferred to the business owner's primary business account after processing.

Factors Affecting Cost:

Several factors influence the cost of opening a merchant account:

Type of Business: Different types of businesses have varying levels of risk associated with them. For instance, a retail store with a physical location generally carries less risk compared to an online business. High-risk businesses, such as those in the travel or adult entertainment industries, may face higher fees due to the increased likelihood of chargebacks and fraud.

Credit Card Processing Volume: The volume of credit and debit card transactions processed by your business plays a significant role in determining costs. Merchants that process higher volumes typically receive lower processing rates and may even qualify for volume-based discounts.

Business History and Creditworthiness: Your business's credit history and overall financial health can also impact the cost of opening a merchant account. Businesses with solid credit histories and a track record of financial stability may qualify for better rates and terms.

Payment Processing Provider: The provider you choose to work with will heavily influence the cost of your merchant account. Different payment processors offer various fee structures, including interchange-plus pricing, flat-rate pricing, and tiered pricing. It's essential to carefully compare providers and their fee structures to find the best fit for your business.

Common Fees Associated with Merchant Accounts:

While the specific fees can vary depending on the provider, some common fees associated with merchant accounts include:

Setup Fees: Some providers may charge an initial setup fee to establish your merchant account.

Transaction Fees: This fee is charged for each transaction processed through your merchant account. It may be a flat rate per transaction or a percentage of the transaction amount.

Monthly Fees: Many providers charge a monthly fee for maintaining your merchant account, regardless of transaction volume.

Statement Fees: Some providers charge a fee for generating and sending monthly statements detailing your transaction history.

Chargeback Fees: In the event of a chargeback, where a customer disputes a transaction, you may incur a chargeback fee.

Early Termination Fees: If you decide to close your merchant account before the end of your contract term, you may be subject to early termination fees.

Conclusion:

Opening a merchant account is a necessary step for businesses looking to accept credit and debit card payments. While there are costs involved, the ability to offer convenient payment options to customers can ultimately lead to increased sales and improved cash flow. By understanding the factors that influence the cost of a merchant account and comparing providers, businesses can find a solution that meets their needs while minimizing expenses.

#merchant account #merchant account pricing #merchant account fees #merchant account rates #how to get a merchant account #what is a merchant account #merchant account providers #merchant account processing #merchant services #how to open a merchant account #high risk merchant account #merchant account application #how does a merchant account work #how to open merchant account without ssn #how to set up a merchant account #how to create a merchant account

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yearnerandaloser · 11 days ago

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Behave

Himeko x reader

Word count: ~680

reader creates chaos wherever they go and Himeko has to put them in their place

———

The Astral Express had seen its fair share of chaos. Interstellar storms, bugs, a weird knight—every challenge under the stars had come knocking at its doors. Yet somehow, none of these compared to the whirlwind of trouble that seemed to follow you.

To put it lightly, you were a walking disaster. No matter where the Express docked, you managed to find some way to stir the pot. Whether it was accidentally setting off alarms in a trade bazaar, “borrowing” an artifact from a merchant for research purposes, or unintentionally teaching the children of a diplomatic envoy a series of very questionable phrases… chaos seemed to follow you like a second shadow.

It was never malicious—your intentions were often problematic—but consequences rarely aligned with your plans.

And now, standing in the middle of the Express’s parlor car with March 7th yelling and Welt sighing into his hand, you were faced with yet another diplomatic fallout of your own making.

“What were you thinking?!” March cried, pointing dramatically at you.

“I wasn’t!” you replied honestly, throwing your hands up. “I just thought they wouldn’t mind if I tried on that crown for a second!”

“You stole the crown of a planetary sovereign,” Welt said, his voice laced with exasperation. “During a public ceremony.”

“In my defense,” you said weakly, “uh... well..”

March groaned, flopping into a nearby chair. “We’re never going to be allowed back on that planet again!”

“I’ll write them an apology note,” you offered, though even you knew it wouldn’t help.

Before either of them could continue their lecture, a calm voice cut through the tension.

“Enough.”

The entire room stilled.

Himeko stood, her arms crossed and her amber eyes focused squarely on you. Her expression wasn’t angry, but there was an undeniable disappointment in her gaze that made your stomach flip.

“(name),” she said simply, her voice steady. “Come with me.”

As you followed Himeko through the Express, you felt like a child being dragged to the principal’s office. The usually cozy corridors felt like they were closing in around you.

“I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble,” you said eventually, breaking the heavy silence.

Himeko glanced at you over her shoulder, her expression softening slightly. “I know you didn’t,” she said. “But your actions have consequences, whether you intend them or not.”

“I thought it was funny, actually.” you muttered, your gaze dropping to the floor.

Himeko stopped walking, turning to face you. Her gaze was reprimanding now and no less piercing. “If you keep this up I might have to pull away your cuddling privileges.”

You blinked, taken aback by her words. You weren’t sure if she was serious. “This is the first time I’ve heard you being sarcastic.”

“I’m not,” she said, smiling coldly. “and it doesn’t mean I won’t hold you accountable. you need to learn how to NOT create a mess and the others tired of it.”

You frowned, feeling like a kicked puppy. In return, Himeko sighed. “Do it for me? Please?” Her expression became soft as she reached out to reach your hand.

“Alright, fine.” You grumbled, crossing your arms. “But only because you’re threatening to take away my privileges.”

She chuckled. Safe to say you can hug her all night long.

After your talk, things began to change—at least, a little. You still had a knack for finding trouble, but whenever you felt yourself teetering on the edge of disaster, you’d remember Himeko’s words. Her threat to take away one of the most precious thing you love to do became a scary thought that shivered your spine.

And, of course, there were times when your mischievous streak got the better of you. But whenever that happened, it only took one glance or your name from Himeko to bring you back in line.

“You’ve got her wrapped around your finger,” March teased one day, watching as Himeko easily diffused one of your latest schemes with just a calm look.

“It’s the other way around,” you muttered, ears burning as you glanced at Himeko, who was smiling at you with that patient, knowing expression.

#himeko x reader #himeko #hsr x reader

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deepdisireslonging · 1 month ago

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Nautical November Part 8: Retaliation

The Reader witnesses how a pirate raid can go wrong. To help distract her, Sam takes his vengeance for having to listen to her and Dean from the crow’s nest a few days ago. He and the Reader find comfort in each other.

Pairing: First Mate!Sam x Reader

Warnings/Promises: light description of battle, cw blood, reassuring Fluff, SMUT, dom/sub, degradation and name-calling (whore, slut, etc.), oral (female receiving), knife/blood play, aftercare

Word Count: 4321

Note: Omg, this chapter is so long. Then again, you have to take into account which Winchester I focused on. The fic is… proportionate. On that note, reblogs, keyboard smashes, and gif reactions are super appreciated. Happy reading!

Part 7: Against the Mast

A few days after Dean had you pay him back, he led the crew through another raid on a passing merchant ship. The Gazelle was deep into the Caribbean. The merchant ships here were loaded with fine goods headed north to the English colonies and across the ocean to Europe. And they were armed. The Winchesters had mentioned, off-hand, how lucky they were that they hadn’t crossed paths with another pirate vessel. Or the equally dangerous ships of privateers and buccaneers, who raided and attacked on behalf of one country or another. With the thicker pool of dangerous ships around wanting to gain some loot, the ships that just carried goods to and fro took bigger steps to protect their wares.

The shipmate you bought medicine for had recovered enough to participate. Not that you saw him. Or anything. You stayed in the captain’s cabin as you were ordered. You were thankful for its comforting walls. The boom of cannons and the sound of splintering wood nearly sent you cowering under the covers like a child. A few merchant cannons hit the side of the Gazelle. They made the whole ship shudder.

You didn’t feel worthy of God’s forgiveness and protection, especially with how you were paying your way to a future sinful occupation. But you still pleaded with Him not to let the opposite cannons aim too low. If the cannonballs pierced at the waterline, the ship could list and potentially sink. A sinking ship was the most dangerous place someone could be. Rushing water could block the doors and prevent passengers from shoving their way out. Even if they made it to open water, the waters swirling around the sinking ship could create a whirlpool-like effect. And anybody in the water could drown.

So when you heard the pirate crew’s triumphant return, you finally breathed a sigh of relief. You waited until the ship was well underway from the pillaged ship before darting out on deck.

Dean gave a little “umph” when you ran into his arms. Sam made a similar sound when you wrapped your arms around his waist.

“Were you worried about us, Sweetheart?”

A shiver ran up your spine. While Sam wrapped his arms around your shoulders, you turned your face out of his chest towards Dean. “The cannons were so loud.”

The Captain cleared his throat. He ran a hand through his hair, cut short against it being whipped into his face by the wind. “Yeah. The gunpowder will do that. You okay?” He startled. “I didn’t see anything hit aft, but did anything hit next to you? Are you okay?”

You nodded. “I’m alright. Nothing came through. I… I was worried about the waterline.”

Both brothers breathed a sigh of relief.

“They didn’t really have those kinds of cannons.” Sam tilted your face up. “The merchant ships out here add extra gunpowder for the sound and to make their cannonballs faster. It makes the impact wholes smaller due to their speed. This ship didn’t have many. They were trying to scare us off, not sink us. If they had, they’d be obligated to rescue the crew.” He hugged you close. “We would be fine. Besides, what kind of pirates do you take us for?”

Dean chuckled, “as if four piddlin’ cannons could sink the Gazelle.”

From the center of the deck, a crewmate called out to Sam. He passed you to Dean after a quick kiss to your forehead. The Captain pressed his lips to your hairline, swaying you to the rhythm of the ship’s cant. He waited until your trembling had ceased before loosening his grip.

“I’m glad you’re okay.” Squeezing your hands, Dean glanced over as a couple of crewmates helped a third belowdecks. It was the young man who had been steering the ship while you and Dean had an evening on deck. “Unfortunately, I’m not going to be available for comforting you tonight. Adam caught some shrapnel in his ribs and Benny’s going to be up all night taking it out. So I’m going to have to steer tonight.”

“Oh.” You watched as Adam’s head disappeared; his grimace seared into your memory. Unconscious of your movement, you leaned into Dean’s chest, gripping his shirt in your fingers.

He slid his hands up and down your back. “It’ll be okay. You’ll have Sam.” He tilted your face up and away from the sight of other crewmembers patching their wounds. “You tell me if he doesn’t treat you right. Okay?” He bobbed his head. “He’s a little… miffed about what we did to him the other night. I’ve told him, tonight is not the time to take vengeance on you. Got it?”

Across the deck, Sam watched your conversation with rapt attention. He took notes of what came aboard. But also watched your face as Dean warned you what might be in store while he was away. Sam nodded at crewmates listing off who gathered what and who already had claims to some of the goods. As Crowley slid into your space to gift you a silver bracelet, Sam frowned. His thinly veiled growl sent his shipmates scuttering.

---

That night you slid into Sam’s bed and pulled his covers up nearly over your head. His scent was imprinted into the fabric. It washed over you, reminding you that you were safe. Dean was safe. Sam was safe.

But the young navigator, Adam, wasn’t safe. Sam had left a few minutes ago to check on him. You couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be to take out splinters on a rocking ship. Not to mention, the lighting wasn’t great. The glass-encased lamps threw a good amount of light to see your way by, but would it be enough to…

You tugged the sheet over your head before the image of Adam’s bloody side could overwhelm you. Huddled under his covers is how Sam found you when he returned. Gently, he tugged the fabric away. “You alright in there?” He kneeled next to the bunk so he was eye-level with your face. Reaching up, he wiped away a stray tear from your cheek. “Adam’s going to be okay. I promise. They’ve got him knocked out on enough brandy to drink even Lee under the table.”

Shaking your head, you whimpered, “it’s not that. I mean, I’m glad to hear he’s going to be okay. But…”

Sam sighed as you couldn’t continue. Blankets and all, he guided you to sit up so he could squeeze himself into a sitting position in the corner. He sat you on his lap. With your forehead resting on the curve of his neck, you reached under his shirt so you could warm your hands against his skin. Maybe then, you thought, you could keep them from shaking. Instead, it passed on to Sam how unnerved you were. He leaned back. Closing his eyes, he focused on his breathing. Your body rose and fell with his chest, slowly calming most of your terror.

Just when he thought you had dropped to sleep, your body jolted. And your gasps picked up again. He fought against a hiss as your nails dug into his stomach.

Sam rubbed his large hands up and down your arms, trying to stop their trembling. “Did you forget what kind of ship this was?” He squeezed you close. You leaned into it, willing his strong embrace to calm you. “We’re pirates, little one. This kind of danger is our bread and butter. And we take it in stride.”

Still, you willed your breath to even out. Your lungs fought your command, stuttering your gasps and sniffles.

“What do you need?” His arms tightened around you. “Do you just want to be held?”

You tried to answer. You tried to imagine a night resting in Sam’s arms. Having him there if you woke up from a nightmare. But the nightmare invaded your blinking. You heard the cannons. You heard the ships splintering. The wounds the fight produced layered over your vision until you were forced to open them to the darkness of the cabin.

“Make love to me,” you begged. “I – I can’t… I don’t want to think. All I can see or hear is the fight. Block it out. Make me forget.” You broke off with a sob. “Please. Love me so all I can see or hear is you.”

Sam shuddered. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Okay. I’ve got you.” He thought for a moment. “Are you okay with a little danger? That is, if you know I would never hurt you?”

“Yes. Anything, Sam.”

Whispering in your ear, his voice took on a darker edge. “Can I press cold steel to your skin? Mark you as mine?” He waited for your whine of approval. “If it’s ever too much, you tell me. Got it?”

“Yes, Sam. Please. Make me yours.”

He pushed on a plank of the wall, popping it open for just a second. A small dagger slid out into his hand. He twirled it through his fingers. The dull silver blade caught the light, entrancing you as it spun in Sam’s deft fingers. As quickly as it appeared, it disappeared. You blinked. And it was suddenly pressed against your throat.

“It’s completely safe,” he hummed. In front of you, he slid the edge across his palm. It didn’t break the skin. “I’ve been meaning to sharpen it for ages. Kept it out of the way so I didn’t accidentally grab it for a fight. The only place where it’s sharp is the tip.” He gently took hold of your hand. He pinched your middle finger with one hand. As he pressed the tip of the blade to your finger, a tiny droplet of blood welled up. You gasped, not from the hurt. But from the tiny relief of pressure.

It was if that tiny droplet had released several lungfuls of worry.

He lifted your finger to his lips, lightly sucking on the wound and humming around it. When he returned your hand, the cut had already closed. “Is this okay? This is what you wanted, right? For me to mark you as mine?”

“Yes.” You twisted in his lap. You kissed across the expanse of his face. He was surprised at first. Then he grinned with a cheeky sneer.

His arms wrapped around your waist. Tugging and pushing, he maneuvered you to straddle his hips. He stretched his long legs out till they overhung the bunk, creating a more comfortable seat for you. Sam squeezed you tight. You were trapped against his chest. He noted that your trembling had stopped, replaced by the subtle rocking of your body into his. Pressing the blade of his knife against your spine, he deepened the arch of your back. Your gasp washed a breeze over his face. His sneer deepened.

“I think you did forget. Did you forget what kind of ship this is? The captain and I have been very good to you. Fucking you deep whenever you asked. Whenever you begged for it. Maybe if you weren’t such a needy whore, we’d have taken what we wanted, whenever we liked. Like monsters in a fairy tale stealing away the princess. This is a pirate ship. Our ship.” He dug the knife deeper, forcing your face closer to his so he could mouth at the underside of your jaw. “And you are our slut. Our prize. For us to use and take as we like.”

The shiver that ran through you pushed you down onto Sam’s bulge trapped in his pants. He groaned as you began to roll your hips, chasing the feel of it against the apex of your clothed thighs.

“Sam,” you sighed. You tried to slide your fingers up into his hair.

But he caught your wrists in one of his large hands. Giving them a tug, your sleeves gathered around your elbows and exposed the red welts from Dean’s shackles. Sam froze. His gaze refused to move from the sight. You shuddered with the way his pupils began to eclipse his irises. He brought your bound hands close to his face until his nose could nuzzle over the welts. Dean had taken care of you well enough. They didn’t hurt anymore. Only time would heal them fully. Sam kissed your skin gently.

“Hmm. He really did a number on you, didn’t he?” His head tilted to one side. And he hummed again as if realizing something. “Maybe he had the right idea.” His hand tightened around your wrists, finally causing a little pain with his grip. Enough to make you whimper. Sam ate it up, kissing you deeply as you tried to pull away. The knife still in your back kept you from going far. “Yes, we’re taking you to Tortuga. And your commission. But what if you arrive… damaged?” He pulled back, pleased with the haziness in your eyes. “What if we get there… and the Headmistress doesn’t want you?”

As he glanced deeper into the cabin, you followed his gaze towards the desk. His words carried the old familiar threat.

“Anything can happen to a little sheet of paper. Water damage. It’s happened here before. Important paperwork lost to saltwater washing away the ink. Or fire. Dean accidentally lost us a map once, holding it too close to a lamp. But we don’t have to resort to such… accidents.”

The cold press of sharp metal across your cheek startled you. Sam pulled the blade away enough not to cut you when you jolted. But once your face was turned towards his again, the knife trailed across the round curve of your cheek. The sides may have been dull, but you remembered the small sting from the tip. Sam lightly traced your face with the sharp point. He breathed deep and slow as the blade travelled to press against your bottom lip. His words seemed less and less for you, and more like he was trying to talk himself out of maiming you.

“The Ambrosia only hires pretty faces. A girl’s smile is like a shoppe window. Promises of pleasures to come. The ones scarred by pox or old lovers end up in the common brothels. Where it doesn’t matter what they look like.” The knife traced a line from your ear to the side of your mouth. His voice dropped to a whisper. “If you’re not pretty when you get there… you’ll end up in a common brothel. Where Dean or I, or any of the crew can visit you whenever we like, paying pence for a good suck.” His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. “But I like your face the way it is. Carving it up would be a waste.”

You breathed a sigh of relief.

Then the knife trailed against your wrists, barely pressing into the hurt already there. You waited for the moment when the blade would break your skin, but it didn’t come.

“I could cut up your hands. Make it so you have to hide them with long lace sewn into your sleeves. Or with gloves. How long would you be able to hide them from your Mistress? The scars on your palms, the long cuts running the length of your fingers, and the bands around your wrists deepened with knife point.” He pressed the side of the blade harder into the curve of your wrist. You waited for the blood, for the release of pressure. But he flicked it through his fingers, making it disappear from sight. “No. Can’t do that. You’re so good with them.”

With the knife gone, his hand was free to latch around your throat. Your eyes rolled with the sudden loss of oxygen. He bullied you to lay backwards across his bunk. With his body barely hovering over you, and his hand on your throat, your terrified breath had nowhere to go. Sam drank it in. How your eyes flicking between his face and looking for where he hid his knife. He smiled, watching the wheels turn in your head as you tried to figure out what he would do next. With a tiny shove, he used his leverage to push you further into the cot.

“You gonna beg for me, whore?” He chuckled. “Gonna beg for me not to hurt you? You could try begging forgiveness, little thief. We could destroy your commission at anytime and you still stole from us. And then that stunt you and Dean pulled on me.” He growled, pressing his hips into yours. “That was torture. Having to listen to you from a mast up. Having to listen to what my brother was doing to you without being able to see you.” He pressed close. “Should I return the favor? Maybe I should bend you over the back railing over the stern. Where Dean can’t see you. If he’s steering the ship, he can’t stop looking ahead, or he’d take us off course. Which could prolong your voyage. Can you imagine him gritting his teeth, angry as a shark that he can’t do a damn thing. Just like I was up in that crow’s nest.”

Your lips trembled. “I’m sorry. Sam. Please-“

“You will be.”

In a scuffle of fabric, he pulled up your skirts over your head. Tucking the fabric around you, he constricted your limbs with your own dress until you couldn’t get out. His hands smoothed up and down your thighs. He parted your legs slowly. As if watching your slick shine in the lamplight like it was the complete purpose of the night. You felt the cot dip. And you felt his hot breath over your tummy. His lips kissed where they wanted. You couldn’t track where he’d kiss next.

You startled as the blade pressed flat against your inner thigh. Sam’s arm darted out to pin down your hips.

He tsked. “Try not to move too much. I’d hate to hurt you.”

Still, a tremble crept into your limbs. You couldn’t make it stop as the sharp tip traced unknowable patterns over your flushed skin. You cried out as Sam latched his mouth over your sex. Loudly, he lapped and drank up your arousal. His arms wrapped around your thighs to tug you closer. The butt of the knife hilt pressed into your skin.

When he finally broke away for a breath, you couldn’t find your own air.

“I wondered how wet you’d be. You were made to be a pirate’s whore. Can you feel it?” He curled his fingers through your slick. “How wet you got while I threatened your life and your livelihood? Only a true harlot would find pleasure in what I threatened you with.” He sucked his fingers into his mouth, knowing you could picture the sight of him humming around your essence. “Even if you leave this ship and never come back, you will always belong to us.”

Then he was on you again, sucking and flattening his tongue against your sex. You called out his name, muffled by your skirts. He didn’t care how much your torso thrashed as long as he could hold your hips close. You managed to loosen the fabric around your arms. Cool air rushed over your face as you managed to push it all away. You whimpered at the sight of Sam’s face dripping with you. He grinned. Shifting to kneel, he pulled your hips up so you were trapped on your upper back. He continued to eat you out, groaning with the feast of you.

Your release washed over you. Trembling head to toe, you waited for Sam to let you go. But his mouth kept working you over. You cried and begged for him to let you go. To put you down. You promised to suck him off. To use your hands how he liked, but he didn’t relent. Not until your voice was hoarse and spent, and your eyes crossed with the overflow of it all.

He eased your body onto the sheets. So exhausted by the ordeal, you didn’t move when the blade smoothed across your thighs again.

“There she is,” he crooned. “Look at you. All blissed out. And I’m not even done with you yet.”

The tip finally broke through your skin, dragging a tiny line across your tender inner thigh. It didn’t bleed at first. But Sam dug his thumb into the skin around it, and finally tiny drops of blood welled up. He laid across you again, watching the red drops make their appearance. You shuddered as his tongue darted out, gently lapping up the drops before he flattened it wholly over the cut. Your body shook as the side of the blade pressed harder into your other thigh. But Sam made a similar shallow cut, waiting as before for the drops before lapping up your terror and your blood. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t speak. The haze that settled over your mind when he first pressed the blade into your spine was solid by now. You couldn’t think if you wanted to get away, or if you wanted to lean into the pain.

Sam stroked the tip across your skin, thinking aloud for you. “I want to mark you. Make you mine. Maybe carve my initials into your skin. Did we show you? When we took you to the wheel. Dean and I carved our initials into the back of it. We could do the same here. I could carve my initials here,” he flattened the blade against one of your cuts. “And Dean could do the same on the other side.”

Gasping, your chest rose and fell with the force of the threat. With the force of the potential.

“What would your future clients think? When they finally got between your thighs and found our initials there?”

He nicked the tip at your skin. Twice more, each side, he carved away your earlier panic. You arched into the sensation. Softly sobbing, you welcomed the tiny lines of pain. By the time you breathed air back into your lungs, Sam’s cock was out. He speared into you without warning. And he didn’t wait for you to re-catch your breath. He held the knife at your throat; its dull edge held you in place as he thrust. Desperate for his own release, he took what he needed, hissing as your walls gripped his length. You had to reach back to press your palm against the wall to keep him from forcing you back with the force of him. There wasn’t a point trying to roll your hips to meet him. Sam was relentless. You listened to his moans and sighs as they dipped and rose in pitch.

When he finally filled you, spiraling you into your own release, he collapsed on top of you. Gangly limbs and muscle pinned you to the cot. It helped keep your shivering to a minimum. His weight and the warmth of his body over yours, including his slowly evening breath, calmed you. Your trembling ceased. You were able to inhale easily.

And the thoughts came back.

Sam helped you out of your dress and chemise. He cleaned up the small cuts on your thighs. When he looked back up at your face, his soft grin fell.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You shook your head and tried to burrow yourself under the blankets.

But Sam met you there, curling you into his chest. “You know we’d never let anything happen to you, right?”

Despite the reassurance, a few tears traitorously escaped your eyes. “I know.” What was making you so unable to control your emotions? Your body felt wonderful. Relaxed and pliant except for one last knotted bead in the small of your back. There wasn’t a single doubt in your mind that the brothers would drop you off at the Ambrosia. They could threaten your letter all they liked; they were empty threats. But something about Adam’s face as it grimaced… “What about you two? Who keeps you safe?”

Sam rested his chin on the top of your head. His answer was quick, well-practiced. “We watch out for each other. We always have.”

As you closed your eyes, you wondered if he could feel your eyelashes fluttering against his chest. “Why did you choose this? Who could ever choose this?”

“We didn’t exactly choose it. There were… complications to the lives we wanted. Our dad… it doesn’t really matter how we got here, but we’re the best now. No taxes, no mortal laws to obey besides our own. We have code our hearts follow, and that’s all we need. That, and the open sea.” He groaned lightly. “Startin’ to sound like Dean. ‘The open sea.’” He breathed a laugh. Glancing up, you just barely caught him rolling his eyes.

You reached up and cupped his cheek. “And I want you to know: you’re not monsters from a fairy tale. Not to me.”

Sam tried to grin away the reassurance, but the sad way his gaze listed to the side revealed the nerve you touched. Maybe one day they would tell you their story of how they got into the life. And if they ever wanted to leave it, if they could. But right now, Sam’s even breathing finally triumphed over your fear.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me.” You curled your hands to your chest, accepting Sam’s cocooning embrace. “Both of you. You take care of your crew and you’ve taken care of me so well.” He kissed your forehead as your voice drifted off.

“It’s an easy thing to do, with a sweet thing like you. You’re a wonderful woman.” Sam’s voice also began to drift off. But he did his best to pass on as much reassurance as he could before sleep took over. “I’ll be here when you wake up. And Dean’ll be along soon. We’ve got you.”

***

Part 9: Like a Diamond

Masterlist

No Cum November 2023

#nautical november 2024 #pirate au #first mate!sam winchester #reader insert #sam winchster x reader #sam winchester smut #spn smut #winchester x reader #winchester smut

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lemonhemlock · 1 year ago

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I think one of the most frustrating things about both the ASOIAF/HOTD fandom is the inability for people to discuss these characters or books without projecting their own personal/modern sensibilities. I've noticed this a lot with TB so targ nation in general, but they fundamentally hate the world building and lore of a feudal medieval monarchy. They hate tradition, they hate religion, they hate the concepts of honor and duty which is why they can't or won't understand Criston's character if their lives depended on it, they hate anything that can be deemed in anyway conservative, religious, traditional lol, they hate the inheritance laws preferring males, they hate that women have to stay chaste before marriage, they hate arranged marriages, they hate the fact that people care so much about bastards and that bastards cannot inherit, etc. I could go on. Yes, from a modern perspective a lot of these things are now deemed obsolete and uncool, but there were very good reasons for these things AT THE TIME. These people just hate the entire lore that this world is based on and instead of good faith engagement with the lore, they just call anyone who uses the world/lore to logically analyze the text a sexist, misogynist, tradcath, conservative, or whatever. It boggles my mind. Why interact with media, and not just interact with it, but have entire social media accounts dedicated to their hyper fixation and borderline parasocial relationship with these characters/books if they fundamentally hate the world and hate seeing their faves lose as a result of the rules in place. I'm begging these people to go read one of the thousands of fantasy books that isn't set in a rigid feudal monarchy.

This is such a spot-on, insightful comment into how a lot of people interact within this fandom. 👏👏👏 This typology of the late stage social justice internet warrior that fundamentally refuses to engage with the historicity of the story's spatio-temporal setting, i.e. a feudal medieval monarchy of European inspiration, that predates centralization and thus absolutism. Even though Westeros is so very obviously decentralized, many fans do not realize this for some reason and pretend it's an absolute monarchy a la Louis XIV.

Many people, like GRRM, who is a prolific science-fiction writer (!), are attracted to this setting regardless, because of the pageantry (look how obsessed he is with creating house sigils and mottos), the romantic flair + the fact that it's literally the setting of fairy-tales, which inspires in the reader a world of magical possibilities. Of course, the world of ASOIAF is an attempt to shore up the 'realism' of this imagological construct, but medieval fantasy is a genre in and of itself, like there are certain flavours of societal layering and organization that are inescapable, like the rigid social structures, the political rule as the purview of the elites, the importance of religion in everyday life etc.

This is not to say that those aspects are in any way aspirational for a modern person or that we should yearn to go back to those times, only that they are merely characteristics that developed hand-in-hand with the technological advancements and the economic progress of the period. If you have a civilisation whose economy is centered on land ownership as the main source of wealth acquisition, its society is going to look a certain way. Certainly, in Westeros there are some craftsmen and merchants, but there seem to only be a handful of towns throughout the entire continent and, off the top of my head, the mention of guilds and the middle classes are few and far between in the books, so there is no concrete way of determining how consolidated the bourgeoisie is. At the same time, this is absolutely just a story and not a 1:1 recreation of those times, so these gaps are completely understandable, as there only is so much worldbuilding one man can do.

Anyway, I often see analysis or commentary being circulated, which are obviously a projection of modern sensibilities, like how there should be no king at all or the Iron Throne is evil or how Westeros should revert to being separate kingdoms because somehow the concept of unifying regions with a common cultural and religious background is automatically bad, always and with no exception. To me these are rather perplexing, but they are so wide-spread that it's not even worth it to try and open up that particular can of worms. Some of these takes don't even make sense if you expand them to their natural implications. Someone has to be the king in a medieval society; it doesn't work like some people envision this - no one chooses to rule and that's that, problem solved? How is society going to be organized then? It's doubtful that the conclusion of the last book will be anarcho-socialism. The Iron Throne consistently cuts kings who are unworthy to sit on it - it's not a symbol that the author intended to be construed as malevolent. Sure, death of the author and all that, but it's not described as mystically quasi-sentient for nothing either. Fragmenting Westeros back into individual kingdoms while maintaining the feudal structure retains the inherent unfairness and inequality of said hierarchy; it's amazing to me how it could be considered progress etc.

To wrap this up, yes, I agree, some people would be much better served if they simply found other fantasy media based on a different time frame. Because it doesn't make sense to become so entrenched in this specific one if you hate the medieval period so much. Again, this is not to say that the Middle Ages cannot be criticised because that's just the way it was back then, they absolutely can, but a lot of criticism shared around is just done in bad faith and with no real desire to understand the historical phenomena at play.

For example, a few days ago, someone commented on one my bastardposts that "just because it was illegal doesn't make it fair", with the implied solution to that conundrum that Rhaenyra should simply be allowed by society to do whatever she pleased. No reflection on why that law/rule was in place to begin with, no consideration of how it would impact the wider community, no proposal as to how one could advance to a society in which all children are considered equal, regardless of their parents' marital status etc. The thought doesn't go beyond "feminism in its modern definition can magically crystallize in any historical period because it is completely divorced from the material conditions of a society".

#ask #anon #anti hotd fandom #bastardposting

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doughguts-art · 4 months ago

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Okay okay back with more Bandit questions and observations now!!! Hi!!! First off, what's the model of his gun? Literally just curious, really doesn't mean anything unless I feel like drawing it lmao. Secondly, what's his thoughts on the people in power/the guardians + the queen (I'm lumping the Judge into the guardians)? You said he won't work when he can survive well on his own, but does his dislike stretch out to even wishing harm on the guardians? Actually, does he know if a guardian dies, their Zone dies, too? How knowledgeable is he on the world of OFF's lore and how it functions?? Thirdly, does he have any friends I should know about? You drew him interacting with Project Goldfinch/Just Finch to break up the text in my first ask, what's their relationship? Does Bandit scam him to hell and back, or do they just casually chat every now and then? Fourthly, I VERY BRIEFLY checked out Ask Bandit and here are some observations I made: Uno, how come you ship him with Red from Animal Crossing? Is it cuz they both steal and resell?? If so, that's hilarious and I love your sense of humor. Dos, when drawing him with Elsen 7 I did not know Bandit currently resides in Zone Three, because 7 lives in Zone One. This whole time I was under the impression he travels through Zones for some reason lol? I guess that's my curse of having a handful of ECU Elsen that do that themselves lmao. Last but not least, not something Ask Bandit related, just generally speaking, would you like to see any future doodles I make of Bandit, whether he's interacting with my own OCs or otherwise? If not, I totally get it lol. Sorry if this is too many questions btw!! You're free to infiltrate my inbox with silly questions too if you want, just to make it more fair. Thank you! :]

Apologies in advance, I didn't make any new Bandit art for this post so I'm just linking something I drew in April that I don't think I shared to tumblr XD Answer time!

I modeled Bandit's gun after a Glock?? Kinda?? I didn't really reference a specific model, more like loosely inspired. I probably should create a prop-reference for it, but I haven't yet.

Bandit's dislike for authority does not stretch to wanting to take out the guardians. It would be counter-intuitive to his role as a merchant to kill off his customers by killing off the guardians. Bandit cares too much about profit, and although the guardians are annoying, without them he wouldn't have profit.

Bandit is fully aware on how the world of OFF works, it's inner workings, and other meta things.

Bandit will say anyone is his friend, even if they clearly hate him. Louis would be the only one that would truly think of Bandit as a friend (except maybe my elsen-sona, but they're a mary-sue type oc and should probably not be counted if we're talking in-universe/story lol)

As Finch is the protagonist in my game concept, Bandit will be the merchant selling them items. Finch is distrusting of Bandit, but sees him as a necessity in their mission. I do have an idea where Bandit does steal something from Finch to propel the plot, but who knows if that'll stay in the final lol

Bandit x Redd is a joke ship created by @brandy-elsen (tagging the account it was posted on and not your current account because I do not wanna waste a tag on this I am sorry Brandy AHHSGFG). All the credits to her for the comedic genius. I think you guessed right as to why that ship exists tho. I just drew it for that post because it met the "two pieces of fanart" criteria I set.

Bandit travels the zones, your initial assumption was right. He is only in Zone 3 on the askbandit blog because of the story being told on there. He's gotta refill his stock of sugar manually since sugar happens to be one of the things he cannot magically pull from his pack.

I would love to see future doodles you make of Bandit! I like collecting all the fanart I get and posting it (with credits/links) to his gallery on toyhouse.

I'm terrible with asking questions, but I'll keep your offer in mind if I have any in the future! :D

a dapper Bandit in a suit

#bandit (elsen)#bandit elsen #bandit #finch #finch (PGF)#finch (elsen)#Project GoldFinch #PGF Dev #oc #original art #original character #louis (elsen)#fan oc #off fan oc #elsen oc #elsen (off)#elsen off

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justavulcan · 1 year ago

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Backgrounds With Class: Golgari Agent

I'll be honest: Ravnica has always fascinated me. I was a high schooler when the first set came out, and I was immediately consumed creating characters for the setting. Now that we've actually received my long-awaited crossover, I thought it would be nice to write a love letter to the setting in the form of another Backgrounds with Class series. After all: some guilds have natural class choices tied in, from a conceptual standpoint. Boros and Fighter, Izzet and Wizard, Selesnya and Druid. But guilds aren’t class-restricted, and so I wonder what it would look like if you paired every class with every guild background, even the ones that seem at odds, like Izzet and Barbarian, or Gruul and Artificer. So I thought about it, and this is what I came up with. Some character concepts for each class, and each Guildmaster's Guide to Ravnica background for each class.

Golgari Agent

The Golgari Agent Artificer is one of the kraul, a wingless merchant who recently took over the family business. Poling a narrow raft through the undercity’s sewer network isn’t glamorous work, but it does afford her a fine selection of various fungi and other ingredients for her elixirs and salves. If push comes to shove, her alchemical expertise is for more than just brewing potions; many an undercity predator has tasted her home-made deathspore bombs and opted for easier prey elsewhere.

The Golgari Agent Barbarian has been a member of his neighborhood’s hunting party since he became of age. Eschewing moodmark paint in favor of a hunter’s mottled camouflage pigments, he knows how to track and run down prey with the pack coordination of a wolf. This talent’s not hyperbole, either; his last encounter with one of the Selesnya’s ledev guardians supplied him with a fine wolf-pelt cowl he wears proudly over his hunter’s paint. Sometimes he even thinks the spirit of the wolf takes over on the hunt; it would account for the times he’s come to after a kill with blood on his face.

The Golgari Agent Bard knows better than most how things of import can turn up anywhere. A findbroker by trade, her ability to discover the history behind any gewgaw or trinket she scrounges up has more than doubled her profit on occasion. Gifted with a turn of phrase and the eerie, low-pitch ocarina she cares for like a child, her ambitions don’t stop at finding lost art- she yearns to be the first to rediscover some buried vault or basement thought long lost.

The Golgari Agent Cleric, in accordance with the Swarm’s care for the cycle of life and death, has been responsible for dozens of acts of euthanasia in her life. It doesn’t take an expert to recognize when a hunter’s been taken by zombie fungus, or when a red reaver bloom’s explosive dispersal drives a whole apartment block mad with aggression. It just takes care and respect for the final solace of death to ease people’s suffering. That her focus also comes in handy fending off territorial disputes is icing.

The Golgari Agent Druid is, technically, a drudge, one of the zombified dead that the Swarm relies on for muscle, both on the farm and the battlefield. However, unknown processes allowed the fungal parasite to seize full control of the host, and arrive at a consciousness of their own. Now, they’re busy determining the meaning of their new existence. While they work it out, they shamble about the Undercity, working odd jobs tending livestock and helping farmers with their natural understanding of other fungi.

The Golgari Agent Fighter is militant, a troll-blooded human with the strength of arm and heart to testify to his lineage. While for the moment just one of the many toughs that lurk around the Undercity looking for easy prey, his true goal is far less provincial: to climb the Swarm’s political ladder and become one of Jarad’s closest advisors or even his bodyguard. To this end, he’s quick to speak out in aggression against surface- dwellers intruding on his domain, or take the initiative and lead a raiding party himself.

The Golgari Agent Monk was always gifted with swiftness of arm and wit; as a nymph he scrapped with his siblings more days than not, and has since taken to far more dangerous partners to improve her skills. He mostly works as a guide for the rare surface-dweller to travel below the sunlit streets, and even distills his own moonshine from fermenting fruit and the ample yeast colonies on his travels. He’s become quite the alcoholic aficionado, and claims he fights even better when he’s had a few drinks.

The Golgari Agent Paladin was, like many of his Ordruun kin, originally slated to join the Boros Legion as a cadet when he came of age. He did, but when a raid went bad and he was left for dead in the Undercity by a sergeant he knew to be corrupt, he swore he wouldn’t leave the darkened streets and buried closes of Ravnica until the man lay dead before him. A childhood roaming the near-surface reaches and a minotaur’s innate sense of direction have served him well, and his new guild feeds the cold core of his desire for vengeance happily so long as it’s pointed at their mutual enemies.

The Golgari Agent Ranger always liked bugs. Wasn’t much of a choice, really, living in one of the many tenement buildings sunk below the sunlit streets of upper Ravnica- you learned to deal with the scurrying things of the world young. Cultivating a unique magical bond with them was the work of many long nights, but the result has been beyond reproach- his many tiny friends are stronger than they look, and complement his hunting well as they ensure that his prey can never truly escape.

The Golgari Agent Rogue has aspired to become one of the Ochran ever since one killed his abusive parents in front of him. Starry-eyed about becoming one of the Swarm’s most famous killers, he moved to the Undercity the next week, escaping the home of his blood family to find new kin. He had a rough time of it, begging and sweeping out chimneys, but he picked up the poisons quickly, and has always been slight enough to slip down sewer pipes and chimneys to find the target.

The Golgari Agent Sorcerer was a washout before he was anything of real use- literally. Originally an experimental attempt at forming a drake-human krasis for the Guardian Project, he was mistaken by a careless lab assistant for a failure and flushed out of his transformation tank before his scales, wing flaps, and poison glands fully developed. Recovered by a rot farmer accustomed to handling the runoff from the Simic lab in question, he’s grown to appreciate his new environment- and has already misdirected or slain the first attempts of the lab’s owner to track him down for retrieval.

The Golgari Agent Warlock always made a point of delving deeper and into tighter environs than his contemporaries. Never a good fit with hunter or shaman, he explored the depths of the Undercity all on his own before stumbling one day into an as-yet undiscovered chamber. The figure sitting on the throne there was enormous in size and patched together from all different creatures, but when it stirred to see the boy before it, all it did was offer him a set of knucklebones on string. Taking them was the beginning of something, and now the man treasures the talisman that forms the link to his patron.

The Golgari Agent Wizard has been a rot farmer for decades. It’s only now, lately, that he’s set out to travel and study magic in the hopes of winning his farm back. It was taken from him by a devkarin lich, an objective lesson in might making right within the Swarm, and he hopes to master enough of the necromancer’s art to bend the new owner’s undead farmhands to his will. He’s quickly finding that things are very big outside his secluded cavern home, and even that he likes it- perhaps enough to keep him from going back.

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