looks like I'm not coming home

[cassiopeiaducouteau]

{{ tryna write starters like 

i’m tryin man i’m tryin so hard }} 

[cassiopeiaducouteau]

"Cass. Since the Ascended are all humans that turned into dogs and crocodiles and birds, and you're half-snake, does that mean you're half-Ascended?"

Cassiopeia gives a deep sigh and quietly has to remind herself what is obvious to her is sometimes not obvious to Talon (particularly when it comes to subjects she isn’t fond of speaking about). 

“No. It means I am cursed. Shurimans revere animals, and each form represents something important to or of the bearer of that form. They would not befoul their animal self with human features.” 

(It is why, theoretically, this curse is easier on someone like Cassiopeia as opposed to a Shuriman who paid reverence to such traditions. Then again, it took something different from her, gave her something that wasn’t shame. Poetic, really.) 

“You are full of questions today. Bored?” 

[cassiopeiaducouteau]

"If someone chopped off your snake tail and ate it, would it count as cannibalism?"

The raised brow is a far more delicate manner of asking what the fuck is wrong with you, baby brother.

“Snakes are not human. So no, it would not be cannibalism.” 

                                                           (Seriously though.)

[cassiopeiaducouteau]

Caitlyn/Vi

Send me a ship and I will write you a 6-8 word story.

              Sheriff tames Zaunite criminal. Fluffy cuffs not myth. 

[cassiopeiaducouteau]

// is there a limit to how many of these I can send in bc I could send so many BUT firstly: Riven/Kat

Send me a ship and I will write you a 6-8 word story.

              Father always said never to love a soldier. 

[cassiopeiaducouteau]

// quietly whispers 'katyas' and vanishes into the dark

Send me a ship and I will write you a 6-8 word story.

               The enemy of my lover is my friend. 

[cassiopeiaducouteau]

MOON LOTUS

Send me a ship and I will write you a 6-8 word story.

        In loyalty, love, and lies.  (and love again)

[cassiopeiaducouteau]

CASS/FIORA

Send me a ship and I will write you a 6-8 word story.

              WTB: one heart. Asking for a friend.

[jncos]

Cobra venom isn’t poisonous. People just get freaked out when they get bitten by cobras and let their negative emotions do the poisoning for them. I’ve been bitten by dozens of serpents over the last fortnight and due to my positive attitude I am healthier than I have ever been in years.

[cassiopeiaducouteau]

{{ @rvdemption‘s been keeping me busy with prompts tonight and has encouraged me to post the thing so here is a smol-ish drabble inspired by this wonderful art by @suqling. }} 

Fiora didn’t move, wide blue eyes catching the shine of the metal before them and her heart sinking to the very pit of her stomach. It twisted and it kicked as a sharp, loud wail broke out behind her. She wasn’t supposed to be here. It was a chance visit, light-hearted tea of all things.

(Shyvana was adorably unwieldy with her teacup.)

It was in pieces on the floor, and Fiora was taking steps forward, gentle hands coming to rest on Shyvana’s shoulders and her grip feeling that much more sure than her thoughts, her countenance that of a rodent caught by a broom. Shyvana was so hard beneath her soft fingers, solid, natural armour warm to the touch as though the fire within was already breaching the surface. Her hands covered her face, but Fiora knew better than to think she cried; Fiora knew better than to hesitate a moment longer.

“Take that away,” she ordered quietly, ignoring the way bright yellow eyes snapped to hers in favour of watching the guard who had brought it. His hands shook, and his brown eyes that seemed as though they might have been warm in the sunlight flickered between the duelist and the dragon.

“M-miss Laurent?”

“Go.” It was a command this time, a disbelieving snarl coming from the creature on her knees but Fiora did not relent. “Take it away, shut the door, and close the gates leading up to here.”

The gates. Within, Shyvana seethed. She had accepted such confines for Jarvan’s sake, a measure that was never supposed to be used, a just in case to be thrown at the public like a white flag to give them something to quiet them. She was faced with a choice, eyes darting between Fiora and that retreating helmet. Retrieve it, or fight?

But it was not grief that motivated her now. It was rage.

With no less than a roar she was on her feet, a firm hand closing around Fiora’s neck as the duelist was hauled off the floor entirely. Sharp talons pressed into her flesh but the pain of such was ignored in favour of the stunning blow her head took the moment she was slammed against the wall.

“You think that will stop me? You dare try?” Shyvana growled. Her voice had lost its human grate, taking on an echo that rumbled as though every word coated itself in the very fire that brewed in her belly before falling from her lips.

Fiora did not flinch, did not blink, nor beg nor struggle to breathe. She was the picture of calm as one delicate palm pressed against Shyvana’s wrist. She didn’t even try to pry it away, rather held that limb to her chest as her heel dug into the baseboard of the wall if only to alleviate her own weight on her neck. Her free hand rested persistently, gently on Shyvana’s shoulder and she barely hesitated a single moment before speaking.

“I am hoping it will not be needed at all.” She said, meeting Shyvana’s furious gaze without a single flicker of fear. Fiora was never afraid. Fiora never flinched. It was why they got along so well. She could see in her peripheral vision the fist at Shyvana’s side, the way it flexed and tensed, the way talons dug into her rough palm. She had seen Shyvana do this before. She was trying to contain herself, and judging by how her breath was beginning to come panted and eyes were all but glowing, she was failing.

“How dare you,” the woman who was more dragon than human hissed, her grip tightening on Fiora’s throat and lips curling to bare the vicious fangs she hid behind them.

Only now did Fiora move, helpless digits teasing at Shyvana’s, but still she didn’t pry. It was almost a distraction in itself as Shyvana’s mind struggled to focus on her fist, to fight back the dragon, the instinct to roar and lay waste to all that surrounded her in her rage. She didn’t want to do that. She didn’t want to give in. Shyvana watched, her chest rising and falling as Fiora gave up trying to slip her fingers between her own, and instead let her touch trickle down Shyvana’s arm.

Her fist twitched. She wanted to snap that arm, crush its bones for seeking her out when Fiora had paid her such disrespect. The fingers finally found her neck, curved around the back and into her hairline, thumbing her earlobe as small, choked words slipped from her lips.

“Prince Jarvan is dead.”

It almost caught Shyvana by surprise. It wasn’t what she expected It wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t what she needed to hear. It didn’t feed her anger, it didn’t encourage her rage. It caught her short; but no more so than her own response.

“He is not!”

(But he was, he was. She knew the truth. Why was she denying it?)

Her fist rose, slamming viciously into the wall beside the duelist, and Fiora finally flinched, but she didn’t falter. Her touch on Shyvana’s neck was persistent, her grip on her shoulder as calm as ever.

“Prince Jarvan is dead. He is gone.”

Shyvana’s grip changed, the curve between her thumb and forefinger almost garrotting Fiora while the claws of both her fingers and her thumbs dug into the duelist’s flesh. She drew close in an instant, all but screaming in Fiora’s face despite how it felt like she couldn’t breathe, the fleshy pad of Shyvana’s fist coming down against the wall right by Fiora’s head.

“He is not!”

(He is gone, he is gone, and I am alone.)

The stone cracked, deep rivulets forming up and down and left and right, small shards of the slate trickling to the floor. Fiora’s heart was pounding and her throat felt like it was on fire. Breath came with great difficulty, but still she pressed on. Still, her tone was that of a mother comforting a child, her touch gentle, and her voice as much a plea as it was an assurance.

“He is dead, Shyvana. Jarvan is dead.”

The dragon’s palm opened against the stone, claws digging their way into it as though it was butter as she stared intently into sapphire blue, fangs bared and snarling. But the weight was smothering her with every second she did not tear the woman before her limb from limb, the weight of her grief all but snuffing out her rage. Her throat was clear but Fiora might as well have been strangling her with the pain that came from that last breath.

“Why?” She breathed, her weight sinking against Fiora, her grip weakening. “He cannot be gone. He is my charge.”

(I have failed him, I have failed my friend.)

Fiora was careful then. Shyvana’s weight slipped to the floor, her head falling into her hands and cradling there. Fiora came with her, hands at first resting on the dragon’s shoulders while she regained her breath. She could feel them shudder beneath her grip, and it made her heart twist and her gut crawl. Hands shifted, pulled Shyvana’s away and replaced them with her own, cupping the beast’s cheeks and directing her sights upwards.

(Never had there been a day where Fiora expected she would see Shyvana looking like a lost puppy.)

“Listen to me, ma cendre.” She said, her own voice thick with her grief, thick with the lump in her throat she was yet to swallow. Her grip was harsh, her own nails digging into Shyvana’s flesh as though to return the favour of the crimson that stained her own cheek and dripped to her neck.

“Do not let go of your rage.”

Fiora’s words were stronger now, and they were met with knit brows and lips that looked as though they wanted to flicker into a snarl. Better already.

“Save it for the bastards who did this. Do not waste it on a rampage through the city, do not give them reason to lose faith in you.”

Shyvana huffed, like a bull ready to charge, her chest pumping and that fire building in her stomach once more. Fiora was right. It was not the time for grief, not yet. But her anger had to wait too. Red eyes levelled on sapphire, and the beast nodded, clawed hand rising to grip at the back of Fiora’s neck, pulling her close -- forehead to forehead -- closing her eyes and sharing one, two, three breaths. A gesture of respect.

(A gesture of thanks.)

[wordsnquotes]

If you read 6000 books in your lifetime, or even 600, it’s probably because at some level you find «reality» a bit of a disappointment.

Joe Queenan, One for the books

[mercless]

{{ i love talon's fluffles. cass wants to play w/them }}

Talon wants to fight but is sleepy (ง’̀-‘́)ง

[ Forgive me; on top of my terrible anatomy I’ve never drawn Cass before ;~; ]

[cassiopeiaducouteau]

Rich, dark hot chocolate with melted whipped cream. Extremely luxurious, the sort of hot chocolate you get at artisan-chocolatiers, with that melted, delicious cream on top that makes it flow down smoothly and counterbalances the sweetness of the chocolate while the darkness gives it that lingering power.

tell me what you think my writing would taste like

{{ oh my g o o d n ess this is a very rich description and i’m really not sure my writing deserves it ;u;;; thank you so much, i really appreciate that you think so! }} 

[cfmusings-blog]

                                мy lonelιneѕѕ ιѕ ĸιllιng мe

[wnq-writers]

She’s what dreams are made of.

kj-knight (via wordsnquotes)

[artsnquotes]

Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.

Edgar Degas (via wnq-art)

[cassiopeiaducouteau]

au. the fine art of poisoning

time period: modern setting: real world status: open

bio: It was an accident, the first time. Just another explosive argument. An impassioned swing. Returning fire; featuring a particularly sharp piece of jewellery tearing the wrong vein. As her husband lay on the floor seeping from a pitifully small puncture in his neck, she watched with deep interest. He gasped for an ambulance. She smiled, and waited just a minute more. With a lot of panic and a major case of hypovolemic shock, the paramedics were offering their deepest condolences. What a messy, remorseless event.

It only took three well paid lawyers, a sympathetic jury, witness after witness insisting Cassiopeia Du Couteau would not harm a fly, and a self-defence plea to save her freedom, and immense family wealth to ensure the story never touched the papers. Such a scandal that would be, for such a large business mogul to father a killer! 

As far as her family are concerned, Cassiopeia is travelling to cope with the grief and guilt of the death of her husband.

The thrill of the kill proves intoxicating, and this time Cassiopeia is determined to make less mess (her apartment, she hears, was a bitch to sell with blood soaked into the very floorboards). Her second victim is not found until he missed a meeting four days later. His money and valuable possessions gone and a beautiful performance staged in scattered papers and the careful placement of a knife between the bones of his rib cage, it looks like a robbery gone wrong. 

The poison was long faded from his veins by the time the autopsy was carried out. 

In Paris, France, Cassiopeia reclines in a decorated cast iron chair outside a small cafe on the banks of the river Seine and contemplates her next move. She sips a lumiére, the taste delightfully bittersweet to her practiced tongue. Lifting a pen, she begins to write a postcard.