May i have a blurb of Haytham Kenway… a taste… pretty please…
( all credits to @giffedit for this incredible gifset! )
✠ | insufferable ; haytham kenway
summ. Bickerings oft lead to equally heated conclusions.
a/n. A TASTE you say? Here’s 1k of an angry, enemies-to-questionable-allies makeout. No actual smut, but NSFW themes, ofc.
YOU CAN’T RECALL how you got here.
Here, by way of meaning:
Pinned against Templar Grandmaster Haytham Kenway’s paper-strewn work desk, inkpot spilled over and staining the cuffs of your sleeves, with his hands roving down your sides and your hips pressed hard against his.
“You,” he rasps, bordering a growl. “Are an insufferable woman.”
The proximity, the heat of your panting mingling with his— it’s blistering. Feverish. You want to kiss him. You want to punch him.
You tighten the bracket of your thighs around his waist, tip the tricorn hat off his head with a defiant scowl. “You should’ve never inducted me into your Order, then, Master Kenway.”
Right. Yes. You vaguely remember now. It’d been yet another typical heated argument; another disagreement and row borne from dredging up old wounds of your ex-Assassin history, of Haytham’s present and obvious distaste of it, despite the fact you’ve proven yourself worthy to the Templars more than once alongside Shay.
Earlier, you’d barely finished your tirade (“You and your dastardly cloak make me so—!”), hands thrown in the air when the ironclad grip of Haytham abruptly circled your wrist.
The others had known better than to interfere when you’d practically been yanked into the Grandmaster’s study for an upbraiding.
Or, well, what they thought would be an upbraiding.
“Then let us be free of this months-long tension,” Haytham had hissed, instead. “More productively.”
So here you are. Rough-housed and man-handled. You hitch at the bumps and the scolding nips he makes, try to return the same wanton fervor to his jaw and his Adam’s apple, but to no avail. Haytham is a looming shadow, greater than you not just by rank and experience but by sheer, dizzying strength—
The vicious kisses he bullies against the bitten-red of your lips are charged and ardent. Meant to force you into some semblance of submission; to be docile. Has you gasping for air and resisting him the satisfaction of a moan when he gropes at the flesh of your thighs.
“Master Kenway,” you choke, nuzzling into the slope of his neck, unable to stop yourself from indulging the heady, masculine, salt of it with an eager tongue.
He groans at the high and tight way you address, call, plead for him, sounding like prey at the mercy of an untamed, starved beast.
It makes you grin when you realise. Coy as a fox and full of guile. Haytham can feel it curl across his cheek, in your slow languorous tease as you snark, “And here I thought you hated me.”
“Hate is an inadequate term,” he censures, mouthing hot and humid against your skin. “There are no words in any bloody language that can encompass just how— you make me feel.”
It’s a raw confession, as mean and as bitten out as it is. A honeyed, double-edged sword. You make a mental note of it anyway, and try not to contemplate the fact that you have this much power over the Grandmaster Templar, nor let it get to your head— whatever he means by his words.
“And what, exactly, do you feel?” Your hand expertly wanders past his belt. The innocent petal-touch strikes a lightning bolt of want surging through him. Makes him twitch. “This?”
Haytham doesn’t deign to give you an answer, unsurprisingly. He hates not being in control, after all, and so he makes quick work to put you back in your place: below rank, through yet another savage kiss, a guttural warning nosed on the scant space just below your ear that leaves you subconsciously keening closer.
It does poorly to satiate him. The dangerous yen for something more brutal still burns molten in his stomach; something that tastes warmer. There’s still the bitter anger and bruised pride he holds from the arguments before, and for the ones that’ll surely come after. The blatant disrespect you show whenever you bare your teeth at him, as if he isn’t your superior.
He wants— no, needs— to sink into you, to see you shut up and aching to be ruined with the thick of him—
“I’ll make you wear nothing but this ‘dastardly’ cloak of mine one day,” Haytham grinds out, voice rough-hewn from his wet and growing appetite. “And then spread you out and take my time with you.”
He greedily licks a stripe up your throat as he says it, carves the whine that escapes you into his memory.
“One day?” Your scoff is breathless and stilted. The feel of his teeth grazing your jugular is intoxicating. “I reckon you’ll— hah— hardly deliver now, Master Kenway, to— warrant another chance after this.”
(Regardless, you entertain the idea. Have entertained, to be more specific. You’ve imagined what it’s like on lonelier nights.
To have him hike your legs up his broad shoulders, tangle your fingers through his perfectly kempt hair. Catch the flash of his wry, canine-sharp smile, rare as they are; face soaked and telling over his nose and down his lips from where you’d have shut him up by forcefully burying him between your thighs and cushioning into your—)
You expect the usual blaze of anger. A challenging snarl. Instead:
“Oh?” Haytham laughs.
Laughs.
And Christ alive— that dark, daring and depraved rumble huffed at your sweat-slicked nape shouldn’t have made you more pliant; more eager for him, but it does. It feels like the damning prelude of an already losing war, now, the way he’s forced your full weight down with such frightening ease onto the desk to look up at him.
There’s an ominous calm before a storm, brewing frostily in his dilated eyes. He’s conceding, you realise.
And then—
“Tell me to stop,” Haytham breathes.
It’s the least insulting tone he’d taken with you yet since you’d first begun arguing. A fragile moment of clarity.
In uncharacteristic tenderness, you feel him thumb gently at your cheek. “Tell me to stop, and I will,” he says, “You have my word.”
Something soft unfurls deep in your ribcage. Takes flight.
“Don’t,” you whisper, trying not to shudder at the English gentlemanly-ness he so likes to wholly fashion himself with to hide his wild, beastly nature— that you’ve so liked to repeatedly claim you found irksome. You tighten your grip reflexively.
(Darling, dearest, dove. You never admit it, but the classy posturing has always been an attractive feat of his. Something about wolves in sheep’s clothing, you think. Something about being rabidly taken for his own animalistic pleasure—)
“Don’t you dare, Kenway.”
And so the delicate moment passes. Haytham surges his head forward to steal a kiss from you again, inhales a lungful of your cloying scent that’s mixed with the sea-winds from the weeks of sailing aboard the Morrigan.
“Mh,” he hums in assent, nosing his way from your hairline down to the juncture of your neck; letting his calloused hand mould wide around the thin, bare skin of it to feel your bated breath and rapid pulse. He could snuff you out like a light in an instant. (And he supposes you like the thrill of that as much as he does.)
“Then I believe I ought to teach you a lesson or two about respect, dear.”
Haytham pulls away and cocks his head. As if thinking. As if he hadn’t imagined this a hundred times over since he’d met you, in the darkest hour of every restless night when he’s alone with nothing but his fist jerking between his legs.
“How about we put that smart mouth of yours to good use first?”
Sometimes I like to think about that time when TF! decided to release like nine, of the most chaotic, status-quo shaking, heart-stopping episodes of miraculous ladybug all in like, a week, and then dipped for several months to go on hiatus
I headcannon that secretly Sam and Grian are enemies but hide it when Taurtis is around. Then suddenly the bastard develops a crush and that's why he dresses him like a girl for "Humiliation". look mate, I'm a sucker for rivals to lovers.
Yhs rewrite but it's actually a rival to lovers slowburn between the two
Had my first Being Gay Makes You Dumb moment today when a random girl complimented my hair so I in return complimented the red shirt she wore like two days ago when I saw her in the dining hall and now I want to die but also am fantasizing about introducing her to my parents so ¯\ _(ツ)_/¯
"I like to watch the sun come up as well." [...] every [sunrise] was full of promise.
--Tyrion Lannister, A Dance with Dragons
I love the hope and the possibilities and the joie de vivre in Tyrion’s chapters, even when he’s at his lowest in ADWD. “I like living,” Tyrion tells us in AGOT, and it’s a sentiment that GRRM carries throughout Tyrion’s chapters.
Tyrion’s love of life -- his love of good food and good company and good books, and his desires, his oh so very human desires, to be loved and to have a family and to be treated with the decency due him as a human being -- it’s this tenacious love of life that first made me fall in love with Tyrion. Tyrion holds fast to life, even when life is at its darkest, and it’s this that makes me believe that Tyrion will play such an integral role in the War for the Dawn. “I like to watch the sun come up”
And BEFORE Y’ALL SAY IT, AS IF I NEEDED THE ~FRIENDLY~ REMINDER, YES, Tyrion does terrible, horrible things! Tyrion is such a morally grey, morally complex character. Because life is complex! Life isn’t just black and white; it’s both, and so is Tyrion (quite literally). Tyrion is black, and white, and grey, all mixed up into one.
Now, Tyrion is undeniably a very dark character, as GRRM himself says, but the darkness is not The Point of Tyrion’s character. Throughout his writing career, GRRM plays with the imagery of a ray of light cutting through overwhelming darkness. It’s the rays of light within Tyrion’s darkness that are The Point. It’s these rays of light in the dark that set Tyrion apart from his father, and indicate that Tyrion’s purpose in the story is not to become the ultimate villain. Tyrion loves life, and love, and laughter, in a way that Tywin never could. "life is full of possibilities." Tyrion loves life, and that’s why he’s going to save it, for everyone.
“In the dark, I am the Knight of Flowers.” It’s when the Starks -- the Starks, who hold the laws of hospitality so dear -- it’s when the Starks greet Tyrion with barred steel instead of meat and mead that Tyrion gives his saddle design to Bran. It’s when the world is darkest that Tyrion shines.
i get an email from mychart that my pap smear results are in. i remind myself to wait to look at them until i hear from my gynecologist. i get a second email from mychart that my gynecologist has sent me a message. my blood pressure skyrockets. i log into mychart. i read the message. my results are normal and there is nothing to be alarmed about and she hopes i have a nice day. i log out of mychart.
