The Gods' Clerical Error

𝑪𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒂 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒎. 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒅. 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒅𝒔 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇𝒇. 𝑰'𝒎 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌. 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒂𝒍𝒗𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒍 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕.

[vymyn]

Exiled and Exaggerated

Vymyn here, once a writer, now a harbinger of chaos. You’ve found my corner of the universe, and trust me, I have no idea what I'm doing either.

I write, both my own stories and a hella lot of fanfiction. I'll share when I can but I mainly post on A03.

I also share and reblog things I find pretty or funny.

#ScourgeSpeak - My thoughts on smart, dumb, and everything I hate. Be prepared for rants, among other things.

#AskTheScourge - Want to know something? Ask away. Don’t expect any pity, though.

#Narrativerot - Writing and other tidbits. Check out my AO3 for more.

#ScourgeRot - A collection of reblogs that reflect my rotating door of vague entertainment.

[pomrania]

“This reads like fanfiction (it feels like it was written by a preteen, and most of such things posted publicly are fanfic)” vs “This reads like fanfiction (it has a focus on character and relationships, like the style of a lot of modern fanfic)” vs “This reads like fanfiction (it keeps referencing people and events with the assumption that the audience is already familiar with them, like how fanfic doesn’t need to rehash the source material)”

[pomrania]

Some further suggestions from the notes:

“This reads like fanfiction (it’s a love story for the ages as long as you can overlook that the author keeps misspelling ‘you're’)” vs “This reads like fanfiction (you can tell the author was having a blast writing this and now so do you reading it)” vs “This reads like fanfiction (the author is clearly info-dumping about a very niche hobby of theirs that they’re passionate about)” vs “This reads like fanfiction (the characters keep getting put in increasingly weirder situations which you’d normally only find in fanfic)” vs “This reads like fanfiction (the author felt the need to rehash the characters from when they were first introduced instead of after several years’ worth of character growth)” vs “This reads like fanfiction (it feels like it had no editor)”

[ryanthedemiguy]

“This reads like fanfiction (I’m pretty sure I can identify the filed off serial numbers)”

[nyssaismyrealname]

“This reads like fanfiction (I have no idea what anyone looks like because the writer forgot to describe people when they replaced the character name with their new name).”

[author-morgan]

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

👀

here’s some cowboy for you. 💕

Arthur snatches the key from the safe, kicks the door shut, and sets you on the desk, one hand going to the nape of your neck, the other hiking up the skirts of your gown, gripping bare thigh. You gasp, taken aback by the way he’s shamelessly pawing at you.

“Wha–” The question dies on your tongue when his mouth presses to yours and you hate that your response is immediate. Hands lifting to Arthur’s neck, you brush your thumbs along his jaw and the short stubble there, tilting his head down in a way to deepen the kiss. He presses himself close between your legs, and you sigh into his mouth, feeling his lips twitch against yours into a lazy smile.

“Miss! Sir!” The started cry comes from the butler in the doorway, mortified to have found two of the mayor’s guest in such an indecent position. “You’re not supposed to be up here!”

[wesleyagrace]

SEBASTIAN STAN as The Winter Soldier

[loveridden1999]

when england lose, women bruise

[author-morgan]

THE EDWARD SPIRAL WE NEED THANK YOU!

I would like to offer up one, please.

Edwardxreader

"This should distract them, right?"

Reader dressed in a provocative dress for a mission. Edward just has his hand over his mouth, unable to speak while his eyes are way too expressive looking her over with the only pirate thought being:

"Plunder that Booty."

it is, indeed, a full fledged Edward spiral. this man has me in a chokehold. hope you enjoy this one! ♥️🏴‍☠️ Edward Kenway x fem!Reader; 18+

...so come and tell me what my kiss tastes like...

The door creaks shut behind you, muffling the raucous laughter and clinking tankards from the tavern below as Edward Kenway slips into the room. He’s been out most of the afternoon, eavesdropping on conversations between guards and merchants along Kingston’s streets, seeking confirmation this grand scheme you’ve cooked up will work out and not end with a trip to the gallows. 

You adjust the neckline and bodice of your dress a final time. The maroon taffeta and white linen sit tight against your flesh, cut low to draw the eye of men and ladies alike, cinched at the waist, and slit high enough on one thigh to promise trouble. Taking in a slow breath, you steel your resolve and nerves—Anne always does this routine better than you. 

Turning from the mirror, you face Edward, oddly nervous, truth be told. A cutlass or pistol in hand would be more comfortable than this. His blue eyes flit from the map and letters on the corner table to you, pupils darkening instantly with lust, and everything else stops. 

“This should distract them, right?” You ask, hands smoothing along the front of your bodice laces and stomacher. 

His throat goes dry, breath catching at the sight of you. He’s always been quick with a rogue smile or clever remark, eager to bestow compliments too, but Edward only lifts a hand to his mouth. A poor attempt to muffle the guttural sound that escapes him as his stare drags shamelessly down your body: the swell of your breasts, the curve of your waist, the bare skin of your thigh. Suddenly, those documents and charts in the governor’s storehouse don’t seem all that relevant anymore—a prize worthy of plundering is standing right in front of him. 

“Edward?” It’s teasing, how you say his name like that—all innocent and the like, as though you’re not dressed like Sin itself and all but beckoning him to take you here and now. 

He drags his hand down his face, jaw still clenched tight, a flush creeping up his neck. “Jaysus,” he starts, voice rough. “They'll empty their purses and thank you for robbing them.”

“That’s the gist of it,” you say, stepping closer, hips swaying just enough to test him. “While they’re gawking, you slip in and...”

Edward doesn’t let you finish. He closes the distance in a long stride, hands catching your waist to pull you flush against him. The heat of him engulfs you—solid muscle, salt, and cloth and leather. You tilt your chin to look up at him, lips twisting upward, and before you can think to say anything or take another breath, his lips are on yours. It’s as if he is a starving man when his tongue brushes yours—tasting your kiss—the second your lips part for him.

One hand slides up your back, curling at the nape of your neck to tilt your head how he wants. The other drifts lower, palming the curve of your hip, and lower still, until he grips your backside with a low, appreciative groan that reverberates in his chest. 

You melt into him with little restraint, fingers curling into the lapels of his coat, and curse him for the heat pooling low in your belly as he walks you backward. Your bare shoulders scrape against the rough, wooden wall, but Edward presses closer, his thigh sliding between yours—the hard line of his body leaving little doubt about how much he wants you.

“Edward,” you gasp, breaking from his kiss, heart racing. His mouth trails along your jaw and down your throat—lips searing your skin—beard scraping along your collarbone. Your hands slip into his golden locks, and instinct takes over when you tug at the roots, hard enough to make him groan—the hold he has at the back of your neck tightening. A cold shiver creeps down your spine as Edward nips at your breastbone, soothing the aftermath with his tongue. 

“Christ, Dove,” he mutters against the swell of your bosom. “You’re ruining me.” And have you ever seen him so needy and disheveled before? His hand squeezes your rear again, thigh pressing harder between your legs, knowing you want, need, the pressure and friction. 

Damn him. Another kiss and errant touch, and he’ll ruin you too. You whimper—a delightful sound—and it stirs Edward’s blood, fanning the flames hotter. The plan. You need to protest, tell him this has to wait, but all you can do is chase his mouth for another kiss—slow and open-mouthed. 

For too long, the plan ceases to exist. He could have you like this all night, and you’d not complain, not when his mouth and hands are roaming your body, and he’s whispering filthy praises and promises between kisses. Bet you’re already wet for me, aren’t you, love? Edward asks, voice rough at your ear. I’ll have to carry you to the Jackdaw once I’m through with you. A promise you’ll hold him to. 

You gather what remains of your wits when his fingers tug at the laces of your bodice. Breathing hard, you place both hands on his chest and push against him, gentle but firmly. “Edward,” you chide. “The documents.”

He makes a noise somewhere between a whine and a growl, forehead dropping to rest against yours with ragged breath and half-lidded lusty eyes. “Bugger them,” Edward mutters, stealing another quick kiss that nearly undoes your resolve. “We’ve all night to—”

“No.” You smile despite the flush on your cheeks and the way your legs feel shaky. Cupping his face in both hands, you force him to meet your eyes. “We need those documents. The guards change shift in less than an hour. I distract them with… this,” you gesture at your scandalous dress, “you get inside, grab the papers, and we’ll be gone before anyone’s the wiser.”

Edward’s jaw clenches—fighting every urge and instinct he has. He has half a mind to bend you over the rickety bed, hike up your skirts, and take you. A short round. His hands are still on your waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles over the dark silk. “And after?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.

You lean in, brushing your lips against his in a teasing, feather-light kiss. A dangerous thing to do when he wants you so badly. “After,” you promise, nipping at his bottom lip, “there’ll be plenty of time for plundering.”

Blue eyes flash with wicked delight, and a rogue grin splits his lips. “Never enough time with you, love,” he says, gaze raking over you once more—savoring the sight. He’ll let the image and thought serve as motivation to do the job clean and quick.

Before you can step away, Edward catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up as he leans in. This kiss is slower than the frenzied ones before. His lips move against yours with the same heated intent, though, tongue teasing just enough to draw another soft sound from your throat. For another blissful second, the plan fades again.

He pulls away, like it pains him to do so, and lets his forehead rest against yours for a heartbeat. Then Edward groans, adjusting himself and his coat, before catching your hand. He brings it up to his lips, placing a tender kiss on your knuckles. “Just…” Another kiss to the inside of your wrist. “Be careful. If any bastard gets handsy, I might forget the whole bloody mission and run him through.”

“I can handle myself,” you reassure him, hiking up your skirt to show the small dagger tied to the outside of your thigh—hidden from view even with the slit. Still, warmth blooms in your chest at his stubborn protectiveness. “And you’ll be there to watch my back.”

“And your front,” Edward winks, “sides, and everything in between too, if I have my way.” Rolling your eyes fondly, you give him a shove toward the door. He stops at the threshold, looking back at you one last time. “Later, love,” he says, raising the white hood of his robes, “I intend to plunder every inch of you ‘til the only name you remember is mine own.”

He slips away after that, leaving you hot and breathless, and even more determined to see this mission finished quickly—the sooner it’s done, the sooner Captain Edward Kenway can make good on every filthy promise.

[Edward taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @chonkercatto / @dontwannabeanamericanidiot / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @fridrssvardagi / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @hnybnny / @itseivwhore / @jadynchronicle / @maddiethecanadianassassin / @morganamayne / @mossywossy14 / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @rainsought / @slytherinmates / @thatrandomfeministgamer / @theoriginalannoyingbird / @theexaustedmermaid / @vymyn ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Edward taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[author-morgan]

'You're my competition, my nemesis, my—fuck, I don't even know anymore.' - Edward x pirate!reader during a parley temporary truce scene where Edward's ship gets boarded by enemy pirates

I tweaked the wording of the dialogue a bit, just so it would fit better for Edward and the time period, hope you don’t mind! ❤️

Smoke and splinters fill the air, blotting out the morning light—the sulfurous haze from cannons and muskets chokes the men above and below deck alike. The first boarders swing down from the rigging, firing pistols and brandishing sorry steel against the Jackdaw and her crew. Then come the grappling hooks to heave the two ships closer together and boarding planks stretched over the gunwales. Pirates. 

“Christ's sake,” Edward Kenway groans, heaving the helm hard to starboard before abandoning it altogether, freeing his cutlasses from their scabbards, finally lifting his attention to the black sail emblazoned with an ivory skull crowned with a wreath of sea holly on the assailant’s frigate. He should have known. 

"Hold!" The voice rings through the chaos—clear and unmistakable—and the clash of swords quietens. Edward’s head rolls toward the upper deck, watching your crew and his part as you make way toward him, sword lazily resting against your shoulder.

But taking the Jackdaw is not your goal today; it’s about sending a message—you’re not the only one hunting riches in these waters, Kenway. You stop a few paces away from Edward and have the nerve to smile—all teeth and no apology. "Captain Kenway,” you greet. 

"Captain,” he echoes, eyes narrowing, despite the reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. There’s begrudging respect in the way he speaks your title too. Names and ranks have power, even amongst scoundrels, and many in the West Indies know yours, just as they do his. Quite the pair the two of you could make if you ever stopped vain attempts to kill each other. 

The newer recruits glance between you, confused. You know one another? Only Adéwalé and your quartermaster answer with matching, long-suffering sighs from opposite sides of the fray. Nothing good will come of this meeting beyond wasted shot, fresh cuts, and bruises.

"You've sunk three of my prizes this year," Edward says, his hard stare nigh enough to set you ablaze. Your smile only widens, even as he holds his sword level with your neck. First time, he called it rotten luck; the second, a coincidence. By the third, coincidence no longer serves as an excuse. You were turning up far too often for that.

“You stole three of mine,” you remind him. Should be that you called it even and moved on, but the treasure ship you’ve tracked halfway across the Caribbean has another set of eyes watching too. You’ll not let Edward make off with another of your prizes—a fat haul that’d set you and your crew right for a good long while. 

“I earned those prizes,” he counters with a shrug and knavish smirk. You scoff—arrogant prick. Bribing the harbormaster to blockade your frigate with fishing sloops does not count as an earned prize, nor does swapping his bottle of rum for water and only playing at being drunk the night before you intended to go after a French merchant schooner. “Unlike you,” Edward continues, “firing on a man before he’s even broken his fast.”

"You deserved that,” you grit out, glaring at him. 

"Did I?" He questions, but aye, maybe he did deserve it for leaving you on that beach three moons ago without a word—but you looked so lovely lying there in the sand, with the tide at your toes, wearing nothing save the sun’s golden morning light and the small bruises left in the wake of his affections.

It seemed fitting revenge at the time after you left him trussed to the bedposts of a Nassau boarding house, absconding in the dark of night with his charts—not his proudest moment when Adé found him the next morning.

"So, uh,” one of your lads poses from behind, scratching the back of his neck, “we killin’ them then, cap’n?"

Edward points his sword toward you—the tip level with your breastbone. “A fair question,” he replies. 

“That eager to send me to the Locker?” You ask, cocking your head. “I thought we enjoyed these moments, Edward.” It’s teasing, and by God, it drives Edward Kenway mad. You chase him across the seas, and he turns around and does the same; always finding an excuse to dock in the same port as your Sea Holly. 

Adéwalé shakes his head, and Edward lets out a short laugh, and the tension ebbs as he lowers his blades, resigned to whatever torment you have in store for him. “What do you want, Dove?" He asks. 

You look over his shoulder toward the merchant vessel on the horizon, and he follows your gaze and intent. "The Portuguese Galleon." You nod toward the lone vessel. “Princesa do Céu.” You’ve seen the manifest: gold and silver, wine, tobacco, spices, textiles. Everything a pirate could ever hope to plunder and unaccompanied by royal line ships. 

He turns back. "No,” Edward says. “Been chasing her since Nassau.” His crew spotted her to the north of New Providence three days ago and set out with full sails.

You step closer to him, holding his clear blue gaze with iron resolve. If he refuses, the sea can still drink its fill. “We've been chasing her since Havana," you counter, unwilling to give up such a prize. 

“Split it, then,” Edward offers—fair wages; fair work. The Jackdaw could come alongside to starboard while the Sea Holly took larboard. Between the two crews and over fifty guns, the galleon wouldn't hold out long. You each can walk away with some booty—and better than none at all.  

“Sixty-forty,” you amend. 

Edward looks to Adéwalé, an exasperated appeal for divine intervention—Adé only folds his arms across his chest. This is where my day begins, he thinks, debating percentages. "You'd haggle over your own ransom,” he laments. The latest broadsides nailed to tavern walls in Kingston and Hamilton with your likeness had offered five hundred pounds for your capture—two hundred shy of the King's seven hundred on Edward's own head. 

"A pirate's obliged to bargain,” you tell him—a silvertongue’s gotten you out of trouble more times than you dare admit, but it doesn’t stop you from digging yourself farther into a hole either. "And I'd rather like my bounty to be bigger than yours." Taking Princesa do Céu may just do the trick and raise the price to eight hundred pounds. 

"Aye, and you've made a damned habit of barging into my affairs when you're meant to be competition." Would make things simpler if he could say that’s all you were. You grin, moving closer, and Jaysus, you want nothing more than to haul him down for a kiss and a slap. "A thorn in my side,” Edward continues, but the fondness bleeding into his voice and the way his blue eyes soften betrays him.

"You've named me far worse than that before, Kenway,” you remind him. Harpy. Sea-witch. Thieving jade. Devil's brat. Hellion. And even a brazen hussy after you refused to put your shift back on and reclined on his bed while he'd been trying—and failing—to study a map. 

"My..." He falters, the words dying on his tongue. Edward drags a hand through his straw-blond hair instead, letting out a defeated laugh. "...Devil take me,” he mutters, shaking his head, “I can't make sense of you anymore."

Edward looks at you for a long moment before speaking again. "Split the spoils?" He offers again.  

"Nothing less than fifty-eight for my share,” you tell him. Two percent—maybe you do love him after all. "Parley?" you say, offering your hand. 

"Parley," he agrees, clasping your forearm. "We'll take the galleon together," Edward announces, loud enough for his crew and yours to hear. They lower swords and holster pistols, accepting yet another temporary agreement. 

Then Edward drags you closer by the arm until there’s scarcely a breath between you, his voice dropping to a rough murmur meant only for you. “After we’ve settled the finer details.” The Jackdaw and Sea Holly are both swift; the galleon can be granted a day or two’s head start in this fair weather without risk.

You arch a brow, looking up at him. "Your quarters or mine, Captain?"

His answering grin is unrepentant—charming bastard. "Mine,” he tells you, fingers hooking in the wide belt around your waist, “saves us the steps.” 

Without another word, you turn toward his cabin, leaving him to catch up. Adéwalé only shakes his head as you pass him; your own quartermaster huffs before turning away, motioning your crew back to the Sea Holly. “Ready the guns, you dogs,” he shouts, “we’ll be hunting Portuguese...eventually.” A guffaw of laughter takes the men as you round the corner, reaching for the door of the captain’s quarters. 

The latch of the heavy oak door barely catches before Edward has you pinned against it. 

One hand braces beside your head while the other cups your jaw, tilting your face toward his. He doesn't bother with a clever remark, letting his mouth find yours in a kiss—all stolen breath and suppressed laughter. “This is temporary, Edward,” you remind him, gasping against his mouth, even as you pull and loosen the buckles of his holsters and sword belt, letting them fall carelessly to the deck planks underfoot.

“Then we’d best make it count, Dove,” Edward grunts, teeth grazing your throat, careworn hands slipping into the waist of your breeches, palms hot against your hips. “Before we’re back at each other’s necks.”

[Edward taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @chonkercatto / @dontwannabeanamericanidiot / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @fridrssvardagi / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @hnybnny / @itseivwhore / @jadynchronicle / @maddiethecanadianassassin / @morganamayne / @mossywossy14 / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @rainsought / @slytherinmates / @thatrandomfeministgamer / @theoriginalannoyingbird / @theexaustedmermaid / @vymyn ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Edward taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[author-morgan]

Brasidas:

I'd burn the world down before I let you win. [Come on, angry on the battlefield has this energy]

I hate how much space you take up in my head.

here you are! some BAEsidas♥️♥️ (I tweaked the prompt wording, just so it would better suited for the time period)

The first time Brasidas spares you, he claims it is strategy—to let Athens see Sparta’s strength and sow the seeds of fear. The second time, he calls it necessity, even though killing you would be easy. Stopping his own men from doing it is harder. "She's mine," he lies, sending them to begin preparations for the next campaign while you disappear into morning fog. By the third and fourth times, neither of you bothers asking for an excuse.  

You find him in the ruins of a temple to Athena Nike on the outskirts of Megara, kneeling over a small fire and kylix of dark, red wine—a simple offering. Pressing your back to a felled marble column, you watch in silence as he lays his spear and kopis at the foot of the cracked altar. Athens and Sparta will face each other on the field of battle once again on the morrow. It should be easy for Athens' favorite mercenary—a blade bought by the Assembly often enough that Spartans had begun cursing your name before they ever saw your face—if not for those complications with Brasidas of Sparta. 

Too many times, you’ve let one another go only to meet again after the fighting and give in to the fading adrenaline and blood lust. Loose stone and dried leaves crunch underfoot as you push off the column and near him, standing on the opposite side of the altar. He looks up, unsurprised to find you there—a goddess of battle in your own right. But it’s the hazy look in your eyes that ensnares him. Hatred. Respect. Love. His weapons lie beyond arm's reach. You can end the war between the two of you before tomorrow's battle ever begins. 

“I hate how deeply you have rooted yourself in my thoughts.” It’s an admission of weakness, and it pains you to say it. You should be enemies, and yet... “Like some relentless spirit who refuses to be banished.” If only you knew he feels the same. Always hoping and dreading to cross blades in the heat of battle, and waiting for the space afterward when you inevitably found one another.

Brasidas rises to his feet, stepping to the ruined altar. Closer, you can make out the faint scar crossing his cheek—a gift from your blade when last you met in Lyncestis. Without thinking, you reach for him. He doesn’t stop you from tracing the raised, silvery line, or when your hand slides down to the edge of his jaw, combing through his close-cropped beard. Brasidas catches your wrist and presses your palm against his cheek as if trying to brand the feeling of your gentle touch. 

You step around the altar, the space between vanishing. Brasidas bends, lips nigh brushing yours. “Then we are even,” he murmurs, voice low. “You have carved yourself into my marrow, woman.” His free hand finds the small of your back, fingers splaying over the leather and linen of your armor. "You are the only person," he adds, "who has ever made me question whether victory is worth its cost."

His kiss is not gentle—it never is. He tastes of wine and iron. You bite his lower lip hard enough to draw a rough growl from deep in his chest alike. Brasidas answers the attack quickly, lifting you onto the altar. The kylix at his feet tips and dark wine spills across stone like blood.

By dawn, the wine has dried black upon Athena's altar, and blood stains the hills of Megara. The clash of bronze and iron rings across the ridge, even though the battle is all but over. Spartans outnumber the Athenians two to one. A sly trick, to conceal half his forces between descending on the walls of Megara. Your spear scrapes against Brasidas’ shield as he drives you back, his tawny-brown eyes burning gold with the surrounding fire. Sweat and soot streak his face, blood too. You’ve told yourself there will be no backing down this time.

“It is done!” Brasidas shouts, not wishing to raise his spear against you again this day.

His hand shackles one of your wrists, and it only makes the fire in your blood burn hotter. You twist free and slash your kopis against his shield. “I’ll burn the world before I let Sparta win,” you snarl. You’ll submit to Brasidas, your merciful and golden general, but not the state he serves. 

His shield bash catches you mid-swing—driving the breath from your lungs—and slams you onto your back in the mud. Before you can rise, Brasidas is over you, his foot lightly pressed to your sword arm. He hefts his spear up. No hesitation. You squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the iron kiss and damnation. 

With a powerful downward thrust, Brasidas drives the point of his spear into the earth next to your head, the blade quivering only an inch from your ear. Why? You glare at him, chest heaving. He stares at you for a long moment, jaw tight, before turning and walking away, leaving his spear rising like a marker between you—neither victory nor surrender, only another mercy you did not ask for.

[Brasidas taglist: @balmacedapascal / @certifiedlittleshit / @chonkercatto / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @theexaustedmermaid / @hereforreadandwrite / @jadynchronicle / @kvitravn​  / @morganamayne / @mossywossy14 / @mrsragnarlodbrok  / @qhbr2013 / @rigshak / @stormyblue90 / @tammym3903 / @thepreciouspurrsian ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Brasidas taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[author-morgan]

Edward:

We're on the same side now, whether you like it or not.

We're gonna regret this in the morning.

here you are!! 🙂‍↕️♥️ (i need him!!!)

Thunder rattles the rafters; rain hammers an old copper roof—loud enough to drown thought coupled with the howling wind. Flashes of lightning cast long shadows across dried cane leaves and the cracked stone floor. An abandoned sugar mill, tucked away somewhere in the thick forests of Antigua, is poor shelter in the summer storm, given the water seeping under doors and through walls, but better than facing the Spaniards blocking the way back to your ship and men. Heaving a breath, you lean back against the crumbling chimney, clothes still dripping, a bloodied dagger hanging loose in your hand. 

Across from you, with his arms braced on bent knees and head hanging forward, is Edward Kenway—a sleeve torn and blood streaking his blond hair. His pistols lie atop a nearby crate, useless now, the powder spoiled by the downpour. He lifts his gaze, watching you with keen blue eyes, though he’s drawn to the silver cross nestled at your bosom—the mark of your Order—and the small brass key there too. For two years, he’s chased you across the Caribbean and up the coast of the colonies. A thousand-year-old game of cat and mouse between an Assassin and a Templar. 

Always enemies. Always flitting around one another as though you could be something more than just hunter and quarry. Always one step away from killing each other. Until now. “They've played you false,” Edward says, face distorted by anger—offended on your behalf for the betrayal of your Order. “Heard them before they sprang their trap. Your own Templar brethren meant to see you dead and lay the blame at my feet.” His jaw tightens. “Neat work, from their point of view.”

Your stomach twists. You suspected something was wrong from the start—conflicting information, missing patrols, the way your supposed allies disappear so quickly once the shooting started. "Bastards," you whisper, though, in truth, you aren't sure whether you're speaking of the Spanish outside or the Templar officers who sent you here to die.

Edward studies you for a long moment, the hard lines of his face softening before he crosses the space between you. “We’re on the same side now,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. His hand brushes your jaw, fingers trailing down your neck until finally curling around that damned Templar insignia that marks you as his target, “whether you like it or not.”

A quick pull and the thin, silver chain gives. Edward studies the cross and key in his palm. Been chasing this bloody thing for years. His gaze flits back up, and the metal clinks on the floor when he lets it fall. Neither of you look down. Reckon I’d rather have the woman wearing it, though. 

You should push him away when he settles his lips over yours, but you meet him with equal zeal. It’s the years of chasing, clashing, barely resisting this pull ignited at once in rough kisses and clothes being shoved aside in desperate haste. Edward’s hands pull at the laces of your tunic, and you push his coat from his shoulders, fingers pressing into the tattooed planes of his chest. 

You trace an old scar along his shoulder—one you’d given him a few months back in Havana after a lovely evening of dancing at the Governor's bal masqué—when he buries his face into your neck. “We’re gonna regret this in the morning,” you murmur, fingers twisting into his blond locks. 

Edward’s laugh is tired and husky as he presses his open mouth to your collarbone. “Aye,” he agrees, voice oddly rough with some kind of begrudging affection. “But I've regretted far worse than wanting the woman who's plagued my every step these past two years.”

You smile despite yourself. "Plagued?"

He tips his head back just enough to meet your eyes, the corner of his mouth quirking. "Haunted, then," Edward amends. "That the better word?" You hum, pulling him back to you—it’s a good start.

[Edward taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @chonkercatto / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @fridrssvardagi / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @hnybnny / @itseivwhore / @jadynchronicle / @morganamayne / @mossywossy14 / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @slytherinmates / @thatrandomfeministgamer / @theoriginalannoyingbird / @theexaustedmermaid / @vymyn ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Edward taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[wolfythewitch]

First | Prev | Part 14

[wolfythewitch]

Finally added another frame to finish these three shots yaaaay

[squirrelstone]

Maybe if people updated more we wouldn't turn to ai

You’re a pathetic, impatient loser. Fanfic writers owe you nothing, and their writing is their own, not yours to do with as you choose, you entitled brat.

[author-morgan]

(@maddiethecanadianassassin cause tumblr doesn't let me swap for sending asks!!!!)

Okay, here me out!!

Edward Kenway... doing the one handed lifting mc by the corset from Wuthering Heights?

i admit, i haven’t watched the new Wuthering Heights movie, but i did my research for that scene. 🙂‍↕️ hope you enjoy! ❤

Edward Kenway x fem!Reader

THE JACKDAW ROCKS in the storm—great swells breaking against the oak planks and over the deck, lightning splitting the sky, and rain beating against the glass panes. A maelstrom outside to match the heat rising in your blood and the indignation twisting in your gut. It is folly to give chase. You told Edward Kenway that before the seas began to churn, before rain and hail lashed the crew, and before the gales of Neptune tore at the sails. Nuestra Señora De Soledad turned north into a horizon as black as night. She’s wounded, he reasoned, seeking to follow the Spanish treasure ship. But even half-lame, a galleon can take more knocks than a brig.    

Now the Jackdaw is in the thick of it—down two sails and three guns—and likely halfway up the Carolina coast by now. You’re chasing your pride! The ship creaks and lanterns flicker, fighting the darkness creeping at the corners of the captain’s quarters. God help me...you're still trying to prove something.    

At your sides, your fingers curl into fists when he turns his back, starting to the doors. He’d rather face nature’s wrath than yours. “You do not get to walk away every time you dislike the conversation, Edward,” you snap. Another roll pitches the Jackdaw to port.   

The cabin doors shudder and his hand stills on the oaken panel. Damn you. Edward’s jaw tightens. “Enough,” he grits out. By God, he doesn't need reminding of the litany of his failings—chasing fortunes into hurricanes, wagering the Jackdaw and her crew for Spanish silver, or the carelessness with which he's handled the heart of the woman he claims to love. Damn me.    

“You’ll sail us straight into Hell if you continue chasing shadows!” Worse, the men will follow him, gladly. You will follow him. Lightning flashes again, bathing the cabin in white for a trice. It catches the hard line of his cheek and the water dripping from his straw-blond hair. Boots thudding on the deck, you close the distance, just as he pulls the latch to leave. You grab his wrist. He stops but doesn't turn.   

"I said enough." There’s a venomous bite to the words, but the fire in your own blood dampens any shock from his tone.    

"And I–" With a sharp jerk, Edward twists his wrist free, but you seize his sleeve instead, and his frayed patience finally snaps. He spins, catching you by the front of your stays, fingers hooking through the laces before he can think better of it. With one rough tug, he hauls you against him. Your breath catches. Edward doesn’t relent, hefting you up until he can look you in the eye, your damp skirts brushing his thighs as he holds you there against his chest. It’s like you weigh little more than a sack of cane sugar. "You've made your point," he hisses. The words leave his mouth harsher than he means them to, even with his blue eyes alight with frustration.      

The strength isn’t unfamiliar. You’ve watched him knock sailors over gunwales, wrestle marines two heads taller, and climb rigging easier than some scale stairs. By God’s bones, you’ve felt the corded muscle under your hands before, but never, not once, had it been turned upon you. Edward's grip is iron and breath ragged in the wake of his fury. Your lips part, breathing uneasy. “As have you.” It’s barely a whisper when you say it.    

Wind howls at the door, timbers groaning as the ship rolls. Neither of you speak. Edward blinks, looking down as though only just realizing you're no longer standing, and the anger is washed from his face so suddenly it’s nigh painful to see. "...Christ,” he mutters. Your heart pounds, so loudly in your ears you’re certain Edward must feel it through the damp linen of your chemise. His hand loosens, and he lowers you with a care at odds with the temper that lifted you. “Stubborn, lass,” he says, softly, then more affectionate and bemused: "You'd argue with the Devil himself."   

"Only if he had taken leave of his senses,” you counter as the Jackdaw lurches beneath you again. The lantern swings overhead, gilding Edward's face in amber warmth before casting them back into shadow. 

"God, you infuriate me," he laments, gaze flicking across your face—a portrait of composure—before finally settling on your mouth. His fingers tighten in the laces of your stays again, drawing you flush against him. You mean to tell him the same. That you’ve never come across a man so hellbent on his own destruction, so insufferable, and so impossible not to love. But Edward closes the last inch of space between you before you can speak at all.    

His lips brush yours—not with the hunger that usually steals your breath, but hesitant tenderness. A silent apology disguised as little more than a fleeting kiss. When he starts to pull away, you catch him first—tilting your chin to kiss him again. Edward exhales softly against your mouth, his eyes slipping shut as your fingers find the loose hair at the nape of his neck.   

He tastes of rain, salt, and rum—guilt, too, for turning headlong into the storm instead of sailing back to Nassau and clear skies. Edward’s shoulders sag beneath your hands. Part of him resents the hold you have over him. That a single touch—a single kiss—is enough to quiet whatever tempest rages within his breast. His hand lingers in the laces of your stays, his other lifting to cradle your cheek. “I’ll see us through this,” he promises, resting his forehead against yours. By the glint in his blue eyes, you know he speaks of more than just the storm—it’s the rocky patches in your amour too.    

“Captain Kenway!” It’s Adéwalé shouting over the storm. “We need you at the helm!” Edward closes his eyes, taking a slow breath as his hands slide from the laces of your stays to your waist, smoothing a wrinkle from your bodice with the backs of his knuckles—lingering for as long as he dares. You lean into him, fingers curling around his at your middle.   

His gaze flicks over you once before he steals a kiss—a peck on the lips—and lifts your knuckles to his mouth, breath hot on your flesh. "For luck," Edward says, kissing your knuckles like he’s a proper gentleman and not some rogue scoundrel fighting the Atlantic.    

Your lips twitch at the gesture, and you lift a brow. "You've never needed luck before." In all the years you’ve known Edward Kenway, he’s scarcely credited his skill as a helmsman to luck   

"No," he replies with the start of a rakish grin, letting your hand slip from his. "Won't refuse yours, though." And that’s enough almost to make you flush and forget about the moments prior.    

Another shout echoes from outside on the deck. "Cap’n! Wind's shifted!" You step back, letting him go. He’ll still get an earful from you when the Jackdaw makes berth—he knows that—and maybe this time he’ll do more than listen. Edward turns and throws open the cabin door—the wind nearly tears it from his hand.   

The rain comes in cold, lashing sheets into the cabin as the Jackdaw climbs another wave. Edward looks back at you, the corner of his lips quirking under blond stubble. Then he squares his shoulders and pulls the door shut behind him, disappearing into the storm to take his place at the helm.

"Reef those topsails before they tear clean away!" He barks, and the cadence of his voice above the storm does something to soothe you. You offer a silent prayer to the sea, and another for the stubborn pirate steering through it. "Hard a-larboard! Hold her into it!" The Atlantic may rage all it pleases; Edward Kenway has never been one to yield to a storm—save yours.

[Edward taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @chonkercatto / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @fridrssvardagi / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @hnybnny / @itseivwhore / @jadynchronicle / @morganamayne / @mossywossy14 / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @slytherinmates / @thatrandomfeministgamer / @theoriginalannoyingbird / @theexaustedmermaid / @vymyn ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Edward taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[author-morgan]

(@maddiethecanadianassassin cause tumblr doesn't let me swap for sending asks!!!!)

Okay, here me out!!

Edward Kenway... doing the one handed lifting mc by the corset from Wuthering Heights?

i admit, i haven’t watched the new Wuthering Heights movie, but i did my research for that scene. 🙂‍↕️ hope you enjoy! ❤

Edward Kenway x fem!Reader

THE JACKDAW ROCKS in the storm—great swells breaking against the oak planks and over the deck, lightning splitting the sky, and rain beating against the glass panes. A maelstrom outside to match the heat rising in your blood and the indignation twisting in your gut. It is folly to give chase. You told Edward Kenway that before the seas began to churn, before rain and hail lashed the crew, and before the gales of Neptune tore at the sails. Nuestra Señora De Soledad turned north into a horizon as black as night. She’s wounded, he reasoned, seeking to follow the Spanish treasure ship. But even half-lame, a galleon can take more knocks than a brig.    

Now the Jackdaw is in the thick of it—down two sails and three guns—and likely halfway up the Carolina coast by now. You’re chasing your pride! The ship creaks and lanterns flicker, fighting the darkness creeping at the corners of the captain’s quarters. God help me...you're still trying to prove something.    

At your sides, your fingers curl into fists when he turns his back, starting to the doors. He’d rather face nature’s wrath than yours. “You do not get to walk away every time you dislike the conversation, Edward,” you snap. Another roll pitches the Jackdaw to port.   

The cabin doors shudder and his hand stills on the oaken panel. Damn you. Edward’s jaw tightens. “Enough,” he grits out. By God, he doesn't need reminding of the litany of his failings—chasing fortunes into hurricanes, wagering the Jackdaw and her crew for Spanish silver, or the carelessness with which he's handled the heart of the woman he claims to love. Damn me.    

“You’ll sail us straight into Hell if you continue chasing shadows!” Worse, the men will follow him, gladly. You will follow him. Lightning flashes again, bathing the cabin in white for a trice. It catches the hard line of his cheek and the water dripping from his straw-blond hair. Boots thudding on the deck, you close the distance, just as he pulls the latch to leave. You grab his wrist. He stops but doesn't turn.   

"I said enough." There’s a venomous bite to the words, but the fire in your own blood dampens any shock from his tone.    

"And I–" With a sharp jerk, Edward twists his wrist free, but you seize his sleeve instead, and his frayed patience finally snaps. He spins, catching you by the front of your stays, fingers hooking through the laces before he can think better of it. With one rough tug, he hauls you against him. Your breath catches. Edward doesn’t relent, hefting you up until he can look you in the eye, your damp skirts brushing his thighs as he holds you there against his chest. It’s like you weigh little more than a sack of cane sugar. "You've made your point," he hisses. The words leave his mouth harsher than he means them to, even with his blue eyes alight with frustration.      

The strength isn’t unfamiliar. You’ve watched him knock sailors over gunwales, wrestle marines two heads taller, and climb rigging easier than some scale stairs. By God’s bones, you’ve felt the corded muscle under your hands before, but never, not once, had it been turned upon you. Edward's grip is iron and breath ragged in the wake of his fury. Your lips part, breathing uneasy. “As have you.” It’s barely a whisper when you say it.    

Wind howls at the door, timbers groaning as the ship rolls. Neither of you speak. Edward blinks, looking down as though only just realizing you're no longer standing, and the anger is washed from his face so suddenly it’s nigh painful to see. "...Christ,” he mutters. Your heart pounds, so loudly in your ears you’re certain Edward must feel it through the damp linen of your chemise. His hand loosens, and he lowers you with a care at odds with the temper that lifted you. “Stubborn, lass,” he says, softly, then more affectionate and bemused: "You'd argue with the Devil himself."   

"Only if he had taken leave of his senses,” you counter as the Jackdaw lurches beneath you again. The lantern swings overhead, gilding Edward's face in amber warmth before casting them back into shadow. 

"God, you infuriate me," he laments, gaze flicking across your face—a portrait of composure—before finally settling on your mouth. His fingers tighten in the laces of your stays again, drawing you flush against him. You mean to tell him the same. That you’ve never come across a man so hellbent on his own destruction, so insufferable, and so impossible not to love. But Edward closes the last inch of space between you before you can speak at all.    

His lips brush yours—not with the hunger that usually steals your breath, but hesitant tenderness. A silent apology disguised as little more than a fleeting kiss. When he starts to pull away, you catch him first—tilting your chin to kiss him again. Edward exhales softly against your mouth, his eyes slipping shut as your fingers find the loose hair at the nape of his neck.   

He tastes of rain, salt, and rum—guilt, too, for turning headlong into the storm instead of sailing back to Nassau and clear skies. Edward’s shoulders sag beneath your hands. Part of him resents the hold you have over him. That a single touch—a single kiss—is enough to quiet whatever tempest rages within his breast. His hand lingers in the laces of your stays, his other lifting to cradle your cheek. “I’ll see us through this,” he promises, resting his forehead against yours. By the glint in his blue eyes, you know he speaks of more than just the storm—it’s the rocky patches in your amour too.    

“Captain Kenway!” It’s Adéwalé shouting over the storm. “We need you at the helm!” Edward closes his eyes, taking a slow breath as his hands slide from the laces of your stays to your waist, smoothing a wrinkle from your bodice with the backs of his knuckles—lingering for as long as he dares. You lean into him, fingers curling around his at your middle.   

His gaze flicks over you once before he steals a kiss—a peck on the lips—and lifts your knuckles to his mouth, breath hot on your flesh. "For luck," Edward says, kissing your knuckles like he’s a proper gentleman and not some rogue scoundrel fighting the Atlantic.    

Your lips twitch at the gesture, and you lift a brow. "You've never needed luck before." In all the years you’ve known Edward Kenway, he’s scarcely credited his skill as a helmsman to luck   

"No," he replies with the start of a rakish grin, letting your hand slip from his. "Won't refuse yours, though." And that’s enough almost to make you flush and forget about the moments prior.    

Another shout echoes from outside on the deck. "Cap’n! Wind's shifted!" You step back, letting him go. He’ll still get an earful from you when the Jackdaw makes berth—he knows that—and maybe this time he’ll do more than listen. Edward turns and throws open the cabin door—the wind nearly tears it from his hand.   

The rain comes in cold, lashing sheets into the cabin as the Jackdaw climbs another wave. Edward looks back at you, the corner of his lips quirking under blond stubble. Then he squares his shoulders and pulls the door shut behind him, disappearing into the storm to take his place at the helm.

"Reef those topsails before they tear clean away!" He barks, and the cadence of his voice above the storm does something to soothe you. You offer a silent prayer to the sea, and another for the stubborn pirate steering through it. "Hard a-larboard! Hold her into it!" The Atlantic may rage all it pleases; Edward Kenway has never been one to yield to a storm—save yours.

[Edward taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @chonkercatto / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @fridrssvardagi / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @hnybnny / @itseivwhore / @jadynchronicle / @morganamayne / @mossywossy14 / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @slytherinmates / @thatrandomfeministgamer / @theoriginalannoyingbird / @theexaustedmermaid / @vymyn ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Edward taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[varsityhearts]

no matter how bad it gets it cannot possibly be as bad as it was this time last year when i was using all my free time to replace the music in captain america the winter soldier with 2000s pop hits

[sinnegantheworm]

this works. So Goddamn Well.

[funkythingsthatmyfriendssay]

Bucky Barnes in What If…? Season 3

[lanadelreyquasa]

WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT

[kaibas-paragraphical-mind]

YOU COULD BE A FUCKING BADASS DRAGON THAT’S THE POINT

[who-the-f-ck]

“I AM A CREATURE OF DARKNESS” “oh hey sabrina.”

[shitsuren-chama]

I guess the point is that you could shapeshift into the body you always thought you’d grow into when you were a kid

taller, shorter, slimmer, more muscular, purple hair, tattoos everywhere, tattoos nowhere, 

every single shoe would fit you every single time you tried it on, every single article of clothing would fit your perfectly, all you have to do is transform slightly, you’d never run out of ‘your size’ again

and you wouldn’t have to work for it at all, and you’d never be limitted by your bone structure or something. You could just transform at will.

[elvenrainbow]

[bogleech]

I don’t see how this is much of a downside

When you turn into a sixty story tentacle demon and terrorize a city you want to get the credit you deserve

[revereche-deactivated20140508]

Oh man that would be so sweet. I could be an annoying fuck as an insect or something but you couldn’t kill me because everyone would know

[perpetualcombustioninstruct-blog]

That’s great but have you considered

~cosplay

~Halloween costumes

~acting

~cosplay

~stretching to reach stuff and shrinking to fit through spaces

~cosplay

~cosplay

~COSPLAY

[solsolecito]

imagine being at work minding your business and then suddenly you look out the window and see like a 50ft tall flamingo and then someone just says “oh, yeah, that’s just pete, he does this sometimes, don’t worry”

[brightlotusmoon]

“BRB, gonna be a cat-sized dragon for a few hours. Might come home a foot taller with mood tattoos.”

“Don’t antagonize the fae.”

“I AM the fae, Susan.”

[aqueerkettleofish]

Also, consider— people will know it’s you, but it doesn’t say they’ll know what you are. “So is Pete a 50 foot flamingo who changes into a man, or the other way around?” “We.. we don’t know. Barbara asked him once, but he just grinned. She said they weren’t the teeth of a human OR flamingo and she didn’t want to talk about it.”

[frolicking-cat]

Iconic post