#☆ MERCY ❜ the golden warmth that welcomes prayers into her lips

[archonanqi]

fragile as dust / 11 - dreameater

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a/n: Please let me know if you’d like to be added to a taglist for this story. Thank you all for the kind comments! ;-; @fishyfish-y @writingmi @just-some-stars 

 —

ch 11 | dreameater

The memories you had of the rest of the night were fragmented, incoherent — just a few rare flashes of consciousness.

You did not know how long you were stuck within the amber, but you knew fear, and darkness, and suffocation; felt the energy draining right out of you into the crystal. Though you had briefly been resigned to your fate, the thought of Zhongli suddenly had you struggling with renewed vigor. 

You wanted to see him again. You wanted to live. 

—-

For as long as you could, you tried to stay conscious. You thought about Zhongli’s eyes, how they twinkled gold under any light. About how warm his hands had been, holding yours. His hearty laugh, and how it stole your breath away each time you managed to coax it out of him. The knowing smile he wore as he told you stories and corrected the ones you were reading. His voice, rich and deep; his lips around your name— 

The mercy he had shown you, where he had been well within his rights to be cruel. The way he had taught you of a life worth living. 

—-

There was a strange, cold heat between your collarbones. Perhaps, you wondered absently, the amber was reacting with the jade in your necklace. For a moment, it seemed like it would burn a hole right through your throat, but after a while, the heat subsided.

—-

Somewhere along the line, your thoughts shifted from a steady mantra of Zhongli Zhongli Zhongli to: Rex Lapis . 

Though you were sure that the former Archon received no lack of desperate prayers, even with his apparent death, you still prayed fervently, offering contracts that you’d find some way of fulfilling: you would bring Osmanthus Wine to his statues, you would learn to use your Vision, you would learn to fight and defend Liyue from monsters—

—-

Somewhere outside the pitch darkness of the amber, you heard a loud whoosh; and even through the sap, you could feel the familiar warmth of Geo. Of Zhongli’s Geo. 

Oh.

You could barely let yourself hope, even as a brilliant golden glow shone through the thick walls of your prison. Even as the amber cracked open with a deafening groan, slowly at first, then shattering into millions of fragments. 

—-

You found yourself on your knees, savoring the damp mud against your skin and the cold air deep in your lungs. Solid arms gathered you, gently bringing you to your feet. 

You threw out your hands and wrapped them tightly around your savior, despite the hideous pain in your wrist, deeply breathing in the scent you had long since begun to know as “home”. 

“You’re safe now,” Zhongli murmured, “I’m here.” 

—-

You blinked back the relief that welled up in your eyes, a sudden bout of exhaustion and pain rendering you limp in his arms. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into his chest, “I’m getting mud on your coat.”

Zhongli made a noise you had never heard him make before, sort of a laugh but not quite. “ Oh , Hansi ,” he shook his head. “My coat is the least of my worries. Are you hurt anywhere?”

“I think my hand is broken.”

“Hmm.” Zhongli gently lifted your arm, examining your swelling wrist with composure that you didn’t think 

Behind Zhongli, in the dim light, you noticed a small movement amidst the grass. Suddenly, you remembered where you were, the danger you were both in. “Watch out!” you cried, gripping his sleeve with your good hand and trying to run. Without his support, your legs immediately buckled, but Zhongli caught you before you hit the ground. “Zhongli, be careful, the Adepti— they’ll kill you—”

Zhongli exhaled lightly and to your bewilderment, showed not even the slightest hint of panic or fear on his face. With a gloved finger, he gently pushed the damp hair from your cheeks, then looked up at the mountain where you came, eyes sharp. Suddenly, you were no longer afraid. 

“ She is under my protection .” Zhongli’s voice was not loud, but even more than usual, it was resonant. Before you gave in to the heavy calm of sleep, you swore for a moment that you saw the amber ends of his hair glow the same warm hue of his eyes. “ Do keep your karst crawlers in check, Mountain Shaper .”

—-

The next time you slipped back into consciousness, you awoke to a rhythmic swaying. You blinked the sleep away from your heavy eyelids, peering up, and your heart skipped a beat. 

Zhongli was carrying you effortlessly, one of his hands under your knee and the other supporting your back. 

Your cheek was pressed firmly against his solid chest. Was it your imagination, or was his heartbeat… too slow, each resonant thump far too many seconds apart? 

It was freezing. The amber had kept you insulated, but now that you were out in the air again, your damp hair and clothes caught the bitter windchill and made you shiver. Zhongli paused in his steps.

“You’re cold,” he asked, and without waiting for a response, began shrugging off his coat. Your protests died on your lips when he gingerly draped you in it, carefully avoiding your broken wrist. The residual heat from his body offered a much welcome warmth. You inhaled deeply into the silk and hoped he did not notice.

Between the rocking of Zhongli’s footsteps, the gentle moonlight, and your newfound comfort, sleep found you quickly once more.

—-

You never thought that you’d see the woodlands outside Zhongli’s house again, yet the welcome and familiar sight greeted you the next time you opened your weary eyes. 

“Are you able to stand?” He asked. You hesitantly nodded, then crumpled immediately when he gently lowered you to the ground. 

“Actually,” you corrected, grabbing onto Zhongli to steady yourself, black spots on your vision like ink stains, “no.”

With furrowed brows, Zhongli deftly removed one of his gloves and pressed the back of his hand against your clammy forehead. “You have a fever,” he stated, “Go get changed—” The world lurched, the black spots growing bigger and Zhongli’s voice becoming distant. “Hansi? Hansi, stay awake—” 

—-

When you dredged yourself back into consciousness, you were inside the warmth of the house, sitting on the side of your bed. Zhongli was meticulously, slowly, peeling the wet silk off of your damp skin, and though you felt a brief surge of shame through your haze of torpor, there was no judgement in his gaze — only concern.

As he raised your arm to wrap a large coat around you, you realized that your wrist had been put into a splint, wrapped neatly in a small white towel. 

After Zhongli was finally satisfied with the layers upon layers of clothing he had piled upon you, he covered you with a thick blanket. You supposed that it was a cause for concern that despite everything, you were still cold, but for the moment, you were so comfortable and content that you did not mention it. 

Finally, Zhongli stepped back, and you noticed the empty space on your windowsill. Oh . “I’m so sorry,” you suddenly blurted, the horrible memory of what had happened that night suddenly rushing back. “I lost the dragon’s tooth. We were attacked by an Abyss Mage, and- and--” 

Zhongli’s thumb gingerly brushed over your lips, quieting you instantly. “As long as it protected you, it has served its purpose,” he said, as though you hadn’t just lost a priceless heirloom from his old friend. “What matters is that you are safe.” 

—-

You fell into fits of feverish sleep. 

The grotesque chittering of the Abyss Mage, the blood on Xiangling’s fingers, and the endless hungry darkness of the amber swirled about in your mind each time you closed your eyes. 

Several times, you found yourself waking up with Zhongli’s name on your lips, but each time, the chair by your bed remained empty. 

—-

You would not remember this, but: at some point of that night, you found yourself once more in the realm of cloud and dust of your dreams.

Relieved, you looked up in search of the familiar silhouette of Zhongli, to once more watch him in peace and quiet. 

Instead, you met golden, reptilian eyes, each the size of dinner plates.

A monstrous dragon was curled in a wide circle around you, the berth of which scaled larger than Zhongli’s house. Its scales were like terraced fields, each one shining its own spectrum of brilliant, iridescent gold. For a moment, you were enamored by how beautiful — how oddly familiar — the beast before you was. 

But mostly, you debated begging for your life.

Its mighty head was lowered just enough that you could see it was looking straight at you, and when it opened its mouth to speak, it revealed rows of huge, wickedly sharp fangs. They looked just like the tooth you had lost. You dropped to your knees, pressing your forehead to the ground, knowing now who stood before you. 

“She will not remember this dream ?”

The dragon’s mouth barely moved, but its deep, guttural voice seemed to shake the world itself. You raised your gaze slightly and saw, under the dragon’s head, a young man with dark hair and green-blue undertones. He was also staring at you intently, and unlike the dragon, there was disdain clear in his eyes.

“No, Rex Lapis,” he said, shortly. “Not when I’m done.” 

“How is she faring ?”

“I can’t tell until I consume it,” the young man shook his head, and vaguely, you realized they were talking about you. “But the dream is stable, and so it seems, is her mind. Rest assured that Jueyun Karst has not broken her like it does so many other mortals.” 

Rex Lapis’ body, all scales and sinew, seemed to visibly relax.

“I must apologize for placing this task upon you. But it is imperative she does not remember this when she wakes up. I fear that she is not yet ready for the truth.”

The young man exhaled in quiet resignation. “You gave me my name, and you released me from an endless darkness,” he said, and with a deft wave of his hand, donned a beastly fanged mask over his face. “At your request, I would lay down my life a thousand times over, Rex Lapis.”

“Thank you, Xiao . Do proceed.”

The dragon cast one last lidded glance at you, dipping its head as if to leave. You don’t know where within your lungs you find it in you to whisper: “ wait .”

To your absolute astonishment, Rex Lapis did, once more turning to look at you expectantly. 

Rex Lapis. Giving you the time of his day. You hadn’t cried in a very, very long time, but you thought that you might just start right then and there.

“Speak, mortal,” the young man — had Rex Lapis called him Xiao? — snapped, crossing his arms. “Don’t waste his time.” The curtness stung, but it helped snap the fuzzy panic right out of your head. 

“Your majesty,” you bowed low once more. Was that how you were meant to address an Archon? You certainly didn’t know! “Wh— why did you give me a Vision? Was it a mistake? Do you— do you want it back?” 

The words felt as stupid coming out of your mouth as they did in floating around in your head. 

You heard Xiao snort incredulously, but Rex Lapis stared at you for a moment, unblinking and as still as a rock. You had begun to wonder if “begging for your life” was still on the table, when the dragon’s massive head shook gently from side to side. 

“A mistake? ” Even in his deafening timbre, you could hear incredulity. The clouds, the dust, the ground beneath your feet seemed to sway. “ Is that why you have not told...?”

There was a brief pause. 

“My dearest Hansi, nothing I have done for you is a mistake.”

If you weren’t already on your knees, hearing your name rumbled from between his fangs would have brought you to them. It was not the first time , you realized, something deep within you rearing its head. It was not the first time you had heard that guttural voice utter your name. 

“Rex Lapis, if I may be so bold as to ask,” Xiao asked, “just what is this mortal to you?”

It was not the first time you had met Xiao, either.

“She is under my protection” , the dragon responded shortly. “ As I once was under hers.”

Under his… protection?

All at once, you realized whom the dragon’s golden, iridescent gaze reminded you of. Your lips formed around his name, just as Xiao stepped forward and raised one clawed hand.

—- 

You woke up to the soft morning light, your head once more feeling like it had been stuffed full of cotton. Though you didn’t know how it was possible, you felt hot and cold at the same time. 

Wondering how many days had passed, you sat up slowly, but even that small motion made you retch. 

You’d had a dream. You didn’t remember what it was, but it was vitally important— that much you knew. Thinking about it too much made your head hurt. Giving up for the moment, you reached out for where your cup usually was; yet your fingers wrapped around something smooth and cold. 

On your bedside table, next to a cup of steaming tea, sat the dragon’s tooth — the only indication that it had ever left the house: a charred ring where it had met the Abyss Mage’s fiery shield. 

#zhongli #zhongli fanfic #zhongli fanfiction #genshin #genshin fanfic #zhongli x reader #fragile as dust #my writing #anqi writes

[michaelbogild]

The best of Michael Bogild

There are nights when only sorrow offers an embrace

I will escape with the sunset

As long as we can dream the world shall not destroy us.

Her heart shapes her poetry and her poetry shapes her heart.

We met a thousand dreams ago. I remember you.

She’s created of moonlight and mystery

I am drowning in the depths of her name.

I stood in the richness of her angelic affections.

I belong to another world. I will dream it into existence.

You are always welcome in my dreams

Only the dreamers are truly awake

She undressed before the stars, laid bare her beauty in the moonlight

…and her heart unraveled itself like a beautiful poem

I wander through the timeless dream of her, the pilgrim of a thousand passions.

I leaned on your love, secure in the truth of your affections

A poem is an invitation into another world

A single glance and I slipped into a dream

A hopeless dreamer, in love with strange worlds

She is born of the softest strains of heaven.

…and the stars looked like hope

I ache in the dark syllables of her name.

She leaves stars in the trail of her glances

The electric witchcraft of the serpentine thunder-stroke

She is fearlessly transparent, a pyramid of glass

He excites her heart with the force of a thousand dreams

Love is the bridge between our souls

There is nothing within me but midnight

Great eternal sea, swallow my sorrows

Her eyes of emerald enchantment

Lost in the daze of her beauty's vast eloquence

She has a soul for every season

He summons with a look all the shades of her love.

I ascend from the chaos, feral and reborn.

Your love was the true herald of spring.

I am elsewhere. I am scattered.

My hope of love, the thinnest of ghosts

He kissed heaven into her soul.

The adventurous sailing of her wildflower heart

The flaming crosses of her eyes, her nocturnal endlessness.

This strange state of my heart, this terrible moon-madness

Have mercy, dark melancholy; tear not apart this star-crossed heart

My soul of ruins and night

I am a thousand dreams deep in this love.

She dreams in all the hues of his heart.

Is your moon also in tears?

They married the vastness of each other's love

We fled on mystic wings to lands unknown.

Lost in the golden astrology of her lovesome eyes.

She colours her sorrows.

Of course I love her, I am eternally fond of flowers.

I tried to recover my spirit from the past

The soft-sailing moon of her dreamy affections.

Our love is winged with the eternity of stars.

Meet me in the depths of night

The dream-born diamond of her unutterable beauty.

You brought into my heart every shade of bliss.

She puts her wreath of wildflowers upon the brow of nature

I buried my heart in your shadows

You were ever celestial to my affectionate eyes

I will love you in this life as I did in the thousands before.

My heart wept memories

I have wandered far from my soul

Our first kiss, the beginning of the world

Kiss me on foreign moons. Dance with me and the night.

He broke the hearts of all her seas.

I don’t write poems about her; those are prayers

I wandered through the dusk of God.

Sad midnight, have you come to claim my heart?

Give me, Life, a draught of oblivion.

She gathers poems like a child gathers flowers

I melted into the music of everything she is.

She hid her heart in her poems…where no one would ever find it

You and I, starry-eyed dreamers

We’re one of God’s unfinished poems

The skies are drunk with the blue of her eyes.

I burn at the edge of night

The night and its starry dome of dreams

Wedded to the darkness, she wears a ring of sorrow

The silken spells of her spring-born graces

She weeps in the language of an ancient longing.

She hides in her haunts of sweet poetic solitude

We met a thousand dreams ago. I remember you.

She entered his heart with the tenderness of a daffodil’s dream.

Old tender heart, I heard you weep in the wilderness

The circling ravens of his dark memories

We float in the infinite space of a dream. The moon recites poetry to our hearts, the stars look brighter than ever.

Her heart is a flowerless vase

The oblivious rose of her sightless love

Awake in a dream that wears her beauty

He woos with poems the summer of her soul

Their love was a chorus of unfathomable richness.

You will find her nowhere. She only deals in shadows.

I want to unbridle all the worlds inside you.

Inside her love, centuries of light.

This heart of roses, roses of pain.

They are divinely married to the melodies of each others hearts.

Your love was the true herald of spring.

…a love that could outlast the reign of stars.

She wept into the abyss of his indifference

I can taste my dreams on her lips

She is a tender flower in a storm of broken love.

Let’s hang our sorrows on the crescent moon

Elusive rose of my deepest love, where are you?

Mapping the anatomy of a dream, trying to make sense of the obscure.

Winter, you are as pale as my longing.

Love, old beloved star, pour your light into my heart, and let me dream.

You are always the moon in my dreams

She reads sonnets in his looks

They ascended like moons into each others souls.

My days of only night

You’re the unanswered question of my heart

Her fathomless eyes, wistful muses of autumnal grace

Because the ocean speaks my sadness, because she knows my heart as her own

The darkness sank its claws into her soul

He unchained the songs of her bashful soul

He keeps her memory in a shrine of shadows.

I linger in the heart-shaped notes of her beauty.

There are stars in her sorrow

Her love wears the spirit of an infinite rose

Awake, but dreaming

We circled each others souls in a dance of dreamy love.

The whole universe opened like a flower the first time I saw her

He lit with a hundred kisses the torch of her heart.

She is made entirely of night-songs

We hid in each others souls

I feel that cosmic wanderlust

The charming butterflies of her feminine glances

I need to be more patient than the darkness.

These poems are the fruits of my madness. They were forged from sorrows that seemed eternal.

The spirit of dusk plays within the beauty of her eyes.

They struck with their love the secret chord of infinity.

Our golden hours, our spring with no end.

I love all the moons inside her.

She could dream forever in the warmth of his arms

The ravishing rose of her soul's imperial beauty.

I am locked into the greyness of your eternal absence

His beauty could pierce the heart of a thousand angels.

He covered her scars with a love unending.

I scattered our memories into a hundred silent poems

Her tender eyes wear the starlight of his affections.

Love is my melody, broken and dark.

The bewitching rose of her spring-born beauty

Eyes of moon-madness, eyes of collapsing stars

Our emotions floated so ethereally into each other.

What angel spun this dream of you?

The night wants me more than the dawn.

She drinks the wine of his celestial lyrics

The spring moon took us into his dreams.

Our hearts like howling wolves, our hearts like burning churches

She felt every note of his affections

Wandering moon-drunk through the skies

I fall into dreams, I ascend into delirium.

Marry me on the moon of this golden moment.

Her name is its own world. In there I wander restlessly.

He followed the butterflies of her charms

She answers his soul with all the colors of her affections

I am anchored in the depths of her sacred name.

The spirit of spring moves within her, dances, poetizes, loves.

She’s dressed in the beauty of a thousand possibilities

Her soul, a dark shrine of sadness.

My heart finds in you nothing but its tomb.

The stars are too beautiful, we don’t see their sadness

Her night-soft heart-wanderings.

All the stars are in her soul

Our love still breathes in my poems and dreams

You’re a different universe completely

Love: a shrine of tears

The ghostly waves of her forsaken ocean

Her beauty is a song wherein poets ache.

She lit a candle in the darkest room of my heart.

The one who dreams swallowed the sun in the heart of the forest.

You touch the silence in me.

You were blue skies and roses to my heart

Take me, angels of imagination, to her loveliness

To be in love with you is to be in love with life

[dogsofwarhq]

𝐀  𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊  𝐘𝐎𝐔  to  all  who’ve  showed  interest  &.  applied  thus  far,  as  a  roleplay  cannot  get  this  far  without  your  dedication,  after  all  !  i  was  blown  away  by  the  amount  of  applications  received,  and  due  to  that,  complied  them  into  a  mass  acceptance  post  found  beneath  the  cut.  i’m  looking  forward  to  both  speaking  &. plotting  with  each  of  you  tomorrow  (  bear  with  me  while  all  pages  are  properly  updated  )  —  welcome  to  dogs  of  war  !  please  review  our  checklist  and  report  to  the  bratva  within  the  next  twenty - four  hours.

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  KAZIMIR SKUTNIK,  the  OBSCHAK of  the  volki  is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  bratva’s  rivals  swear  that  he  is  originally  from  BUDAPEST, HUNGARY ;  perhaps  it’s  BEING TAKEN PRISONER DURING THE WAR  that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  members  of  the  volki  liken  their  resemblance  to  MANNY MONTANA.  the  THIRTY-TWO year  old  CIS MALE  was  PERSPICACIOUS  &.  AFFABLE  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  EGOCENTRIC  &.  CONDESCENDING.  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  A TRAITOR TETHERED TO LOYALTY BY BLOOD AND GOLD; INTIMIDATING ASCENDENCY, FORGING WORDS AS COLD AS A DAGGER’S STEEL BLADE BETWEEN A SHARP TOOTHED SMILE ; A VAGUE ACCENT WHICH HAILS NO DISCERNIBLE REGION; A DEEP LONELINESS BURIED BENEATH AVARICE AND SADISM. ( VJ,  27, est/gmt-5,  he/they.  )

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  ALEKSANDR  IVANOV  ,  the  SOVIETNIK of  the  volki  is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  bratva’s  rivals  swear  that  he  is  originally  from  MOSCOW  ;  perhaps  it’s  AN  INNATE  &.  SELF  -  SERVING  NEED  TO  SURVIVE  that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  members  of  the  volki  liken  their  resemblance  to  RICHARD  MADDEN  .  the  THIRTY FIVE  year  old  CIS MAN  was  CHARMING  &.  FORGIVING  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  DUPLICITOUS  &.  SHREWD.  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  a  smile  that  doesn’t  sit  quite  right  with  you,  all  teeth  and  no  warmth;  oaths  made  and  oaths  broken;  a  hand  around  the  wrist,  neither  pushing  nor  pulling,  but  always  there,  a  persistent  warning;   an  eye  for  an  eye  makes  one  man  blind  .  (  julie, 21, mst, she/her.  )

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  KHRISTINA  VASILIEV  ,  the  MEDIK  of  the  volki  is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  bratva’s  rivals  swear  that   she  is  originally  from  ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA  ;  perhaps  it’s  THE DEATHS OF HER PARENTS  that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  members  of  the  volki  liken  their  resemblance  to  ANYA CHALOTRA  .  the  TWENTY-FIVE  year  old  CISFEMALE  was  CLEVER  &.  INDEPENDENT  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  CYNICAL  &.  VINDICTIVE.  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  QUICK MATH EQUATIONS DONE IN HER HEAD, A STOLEN WATCH SNUGGLED INTO HER POCKET, THE TAPPING OF DELICATE FINGERS TO STAVE OFF PICKING UP A CIGARETTE, STRONG CUPS OF COFFEE, & THE MEMORIES OF FIRE LICKING AT HER FINGERTIPS  .  (  alyssa,  twenty-two,  est,  she/her.  )

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  TATIANA  HENNESSEY  ,  the  BARMAID  is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  volki  swear  that  she  is  are  originally  from  DUBLIN, IRELAND  ;  perhaps  it’s  TO CARE FOR HER AILING GRANDMOTHER  that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  residents  liken  their  resemblance  to  SARAH GADON  .  the  TWENTY-NINE  year  old  CISFEMALE  was  KINDHEARTED  &.  ADAPTABLE  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  REACTIVE  &.  CLOSED-OFF.  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  the humming of irish drinking songs while working, curse words muttered in russian under her breath, the faintest smell of vanilla, old letters tucked in a hidden box, & a single ray of light pouring into a dark church  .  (  alyssa,  twenty-two,  est,  she/her.  )

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  AMARINE BERGER ,  the  MECHANIC is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  volki  swear  that  she  is  originally  from  MONTPELLIER, FRANCE  ;  perhaps  it’s  AN ACHE FOR THE UNCONVENTIONAL AND UNKNOWN  that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  residents  liken  their  resemblance  to  ALICIA VIKANDER  .  the  THIRTY  year  old  FEMALE  was  DARING  &.  MOTIVATED  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  SUSPICIOUS  &. FLIPPANT.  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  BRIGHT, FLINTY EYES, WHITE KNUCKLES FISTED ‘ROUND A WRENCH, A BULLDOGGISH TENACITY AND  DISDAIN FOR THE SOCIETY THAT BORE YOU.  (  meg,  26,  PST,  she/her.  )

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  LEONA DEL ROSARIO   ,  the  OWNER OF  THE NIGHTINGALE is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  volki  swear  that  she  is  originally  from  BOHOL , PHILIPPINES  ;  perhaps  it’s  WANTING TO ESCAPE YOUR PAST  that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  residents  liken  their  resemblance  to  SHAY MITCHELL  .  the  THIRTY   year  old  CISWOMAN  was    LIVELY  &.  ZEALOUS  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  PROFLIGATE  &.  ACQUISITIVE  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  CHILDISH LAUGHTER ECHOING THROUGH THE CORRIDORS OF A NOW EMPTY THEATER , A COLLECTION OF FANCY DRESSES BROUGHT WITH YOUR FATHERS DIRTY MONEY , A PRETTY GOLDEN LOCKET ALWAYS SECURED AROUND YOUR NECK THAT HOLDS TOO MANY MEMORIES , THE LINGERING SMELL OF PERFUME AND CIGARETTES LEFT WHEREVER YOU GO , BATTING YOUR LASHES AND SENDING SULTRY SMILES TO GET YOUR WAY , & RED LIPSTICK KISSES ON OLD VANITY MIRRORS.   (  nina, 20+,  est,  she/her.  )

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  YURY LENKOV  ,  the  FIGHTER AT THE DEN  is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  volki  swear  that  he  is  originally  from  KASIMOV, RUSSIA  ;  perhaps  it’s  THE NEED TO EARN MONEY, AND PERHAPS MAKE SOMETHING OF HIMSELF  that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  residents  liken  their  resemblance  to  WOLFGANG NOVOGRATZ  .  the  TWENTY-TWO  year  old  MALE  was  FRIENDLY  &.  ENTHUSIASTIC  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  REPRESSED  &.  NAIVE.  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  ROUGH, BLOODY HANDS WRAPPED IN BOXING TAPE THAT CONTRAST YOUR SOFT, GENTLE BEATING HEART ; SEWING UP YOUR WORN OUT, THREADBARE CLOTHES LIKE YOUR MOTHER ALWAYS TAUGHT YOU TO ; BOUNDING WITH EXCITEMENT AND ENERGY THAT GLITTERS IN THE COLD POST WAR CITY OF MOSCOW ; A DESIRE TO DO SOMETHING MORE THAN YOUR FAMILY HAS EVER BEEN ABLE TO DO STARTING TO SEEP THROUGH INTO YOUR YEARNING HEART ; PACKING UP AND LEAVING EVERYTHING YOU'VE EVER KNOWN BEFORE IS EASIER AFTER YOU END UP COMPLETELY ALONE IN THE WORLD  .  (  sarah,  twenty-six,  cst,  she/her.  )

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  KONSTANTIN ZORKIN  ,  the  MEDIK  of  the  volki  is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  bratva’s  rivals  swear  that  he  is   originally  from  ABALAK  ;  perhaps  it’s  HUNTING DOWN THE REMAINING ROMANOV LINEAGE  that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  members  of  the  volki  liken  their  resemblance  to  LUCKY BLUE SMITH  .  the  TWENTY THREE  year  old  MALE  was  SEDULOUS  &.  VALOROUS  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  QUARRELSOME  &.  ABRASIVE.  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation of SINKING FINGERTIPS AGAINST MOONSPUN HAIR AS LATIN SPEWED FROM DRY LIPS; SHOVING A HANDFUL OF STRAWBERRY CANDIES INTO A DIRTY HANDKERCHIEF WHILE GASPS OF ADMIRATION PEPPERED THE BACKGROUND; COAXING SMILES AFTER SELFISH PRAYERS FOR DIVINE MERCY; THE SMELL OF RUST DISGUSED BY PEPPERMINT BEFORE THE SKIN GROWS COLD AND THE DEATH RATTLE RINGS AT MIDNIGHT; DELICATE DRAWINGS OF THE WORLD’S MOST GROTESQUE EXHIBITION  .  (  J,  twenty six,  CST,  she/her.  )

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  NATALIA SUDAYEVNA ,  the  PRIMA BALLERINA  is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  volki  swear  that  she  is  originally  from  KIEV  ;  perhaps  it’s  THE KIEV OFFENSIVE  that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  residents  liken  their  resemblance  to  DANIELLE ROSE RUSSELL  .  the  TWENTY THREE  year  old  FEMALE  was  TENACIOUS  &.  CLEVER  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  COLD  &.  DISTANT.  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  BLOOD ON POINTE SHOES, A BLAZING FIRE IN THE DARK OF NIGHT, SIBLINGS LOST AND FOUND AND LOST AGAIN, A NEVERENDING PIROUETTE IN A DARK THEATER, THE STING OF THE COLD .  (  skye,  21,  pst,  she/her.  )

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  VITALIYA YVONNE BALAKIREV ,  the  BOYEVIK  of  the  volki  is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  bratva’s  rivals  swear  that  she  is   originally  from  VORONEZH , RUSSIA ;  perhaps  it’s  SEEKING OUT THE VOLKI TO JOIN THEM AFTER LOSING EVEYTHING  that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  members  of  the  volki  liken  their  resemblance  to  KAT  MCNAMARA .  the  TWENTY FOUR  year  old  CISWOMAN  was  FORTHRIGHT  &.  CANNY  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  VITRIOLIC  &.  DOGMATIC.  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  WILD LOCKS JUST AS FULL AND BEAUTIFUL AS YOUR MOTHERS , THE FEELING OF A COLD METAL BLADE PRESSING AGAINST A WARM THROAT , DEAD ROSES WRAPPED ON AN OLD WEDDING BAND , LULLABIES HUMMED SOFTLY IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT AS YOU HOLD THE MOST IMPORTANT THING TO YOU CLOSELY & CRIMSON DROPLETS OF BLOOD FROM SOMEONE ELSE ON THE FRESHLY FALLEN WHITE WINTER SNOW.  (  nina,  20+,  est,  she/her.  )

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  NATALYA  ALEKSEVNA  KHVOSTOVSKY ,  the  HANDMAIDEN  TO  THE  ROMANOV  FAMILY  BARMAID  AT  THE  GARNIZON  is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  volki  swear  that  she  is  originally  from  SAINT PETERSBURG  ,  RUSSIA   MOSCOW  ,  RUSSIA  ;  perhaps  it’s  ESCAPING  TOBOLSK  DAYS  BEFORE  THE  THREE  REMAINING  YOUNG  DUCHESSES  AND  THE  HEIR  APPARENT  WERE  TRANSFERRED  TO  YEKATERINBURG  that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  residents  liken  their  resemblance  to  LILY  JAMES  .  the  TWENTY  SEVEN  year  old  CIS WOMAN  was  ALTRUISTIC  &.  DILIGENT before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  MEEK  &.  GUARDED  .  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  BRIGHT  WHITE  GOWNS  TURNED  A  MUTED  GREY  BOTH  FROM  TRAVEL  AND  NERVES  THAT  NEVER  CEASE  ;  ONCE  DELICATE  FINGERS  USED  FOR  TYING  BOWS  ARE  NOW  RUBBED  RAW  BY  SPILLED  ALCOHOL   ;   BLONDE  HAIR  THAT  HAS  BEEN  STRIPPED  OF  IT’S  GOLDEN  SHINE  IN  FAVOR  OF  A  MEEK  BROWN  TO  HIDE  FROM  A  LIFE  ONCE  LIVED   ;   LETTERS  THAT  ARE  BURNED  LONG  BEFORE  THEY  ARE  SENT  ;  A  DAMNATION  AND  CONDEMNATION  TO  A  LIFE  ALONE  FOR  NO  ONE  CAN  KNOW  WHO  YOU  WERE  OR  WHERE  YOU  ONCE  THRIVED  .  (  lilah,  twenty two,  est,  she/her.  )

𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐀𝐑 , BAYEZID KUZEY , the BOYEVIK of the volki is seen traversing the streets of moscow , but the bratva’s rivals swear that he is originally from TRABZON , TURKEY ; perhaps it’s USING THE VOLKI’S NETWORK AND CONNECTIONS TO RECRUIT ANARCHISTS that brought them here . fellow members of the volki liken their resemblance to DENIZ CAN AKTAŞ . the THIRTY TWO year old CIS MAN was VALIANT &. BENIGN before the war’s ruination , but in the aftermath have become BANEFUL &. INCENDIARY . rumours throughout eastern europe have given them a reputation of THE CROW THAT SCAVENGES ROTTED , RANCID MEAT , DEVOURING WHAT THE WOLF CANNOT STOMACH ; THE DEAFENING CHORUS OF CITY DOGS BARKING AFTER THE SUN IS WANED . ( zemër, 27, eet, she/her. )

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  MISHKA,  the  STABLEHAND is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  volki  swear that they  are  originally  from  ZVENIGOROD;  perhaps  it’s  REPAYING THEIR UNCLE’S DEBT TO THE VOLKI that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  residents  liken  their  resemblance  to  BEX TAYLOR-KLAUS.  the  TWENTY-ONE year old  NON-BINARY PERSON was  DILEGENT &.  SANGUINE  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  WITHDRAWN &. CREDULOUS.  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  DIRT BURIED UNDER THEIR FINGERNAILS, THE CREASES OF THEIR SKIN, AND THE FIBERS OF THEIR CLOTHES | A SMALL BODY HOUSING THE MIGHT OF A MUSTANG’S HEART | AN OLD MILITARY COAT, AWKWARD AND LARGE ON THEIR FRAME, WITH FRAYED HEMS. (  VJ,  27,  est/gmt-5,  he/they.  )

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  FYODOR  GRIGORVICH   RAKOVSKY ,  the  MANAGER  OF  THE  DEN  is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  volki  swear  that  he  is  originally  from  MOSCOW ,  RUSSIA  ;  perhaps  it’s  BEING  A  RETIRED  BOXER  that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  residents  liken  their  resemblance  to  DANIEL  HENNEY  .  the  THIRTY  EIGHT  year  old  CIS  MAN  was  FERVENT  &.  PATERNAL  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  DEFENSIVE  &.  EXACTING .  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  A  FIGHTER  THAT  WAS  ONLY  HALF  SKILL ,  AWARE  OF  THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  SHOWMANSHIP  (  NO  ONE  PAYS  TO  SEE  A  CLEAN  KNOCK - OUT :  QUICK  LUNGE ,  ONE  PUNCH ,  DROP  ) ;  THE  GHOSTS OF  A  CATALOG OF INJURIES  IN  BONES  THAT  REFUSE  TO  CALM ,  IN  A  LIMP  THAT  MAKES  OTHERS  THINK  THEY  HAVE  ANSWERS ;  IMAGINE  THE  WEIGHT  OF  THE  ONE  THING  YOU  HAVE  BEEN  TAUGHT  TO  DO  BEING  LIFTED  OFF  YOUR  CHEST ,  A  SUDDEN  NEED  TO  RELEARN  HOW  TO  BREATHE  WITHOUT  IT ;  UNOPENED  AND  UNSEEN  LETTERS  SCATTERED  ON  THE  FLOOR ,  STORIES  SENT  HOME  NEVER  HEARD ;  THE  CREEPING  FEELING  THAT  YOUR  MOTHER  LIED  ABOUT  DIVINITY  AND  GRACE .  (  quinn,  twenty two,  est,  she/her.  ) 

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  ELENA  ZORKIN  ,  the  SERVER  is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  volki  swear  that  she  is  originally  from  YEKATERINBURG  ;  perhaps  it’s  HER SEARCH FOR HER BROTHER  that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  residents  liken  their  resemblance  to  SAOIRSE RONAN  .  the  TWENTY ONE  year  old  FEMALE  was  GENTLE  &.  SWEET  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  SKITTISH  &.  ANXIOUS.  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  A GENTLE SMILE HOLDING BACK TEARS, THE WHISPER OF THE WIND IN THE TREES IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, LOOKING FOR WORK IN A NEW VILLAGE EVERY WEEK, THE ECHOES OF SCREAMS IN HAUNTING DREAMS, BACKROADS THAT NEVER SEEM TO END .  (  skye,  21,  pst,  she/her.  )

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  EVGENIA  KONSTANTINOVNA  ZINOVIEVA  ,  the  SOVIETNIK  of  the  volki  is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  bratva’s  rivals  swear  that  she  is  originally  from  VIENNA  ,  AUSTRIA  VLADIVOSTOK  ,  RUSSIA  ;  perhaps  it’s  FLEEING  FROM  THE  RUINS  OF  TWO  EMPIRES  THAT  WOULD  GLADLY  SEE  HER  SILENCES  BROKEN  that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  members  of  the  volki  liken  their  resemblance  to  NATASHA  LIU  BORDIZZO  .  the  TWENTY  FIVE  year  old  CIS  WOMAN  was  INTELLIGENT  &.  PERSPICACIOUS  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  APATHETIC  &.  WITHDRAWN.  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  SLENDER  FINGERS  —  GLIDING  ACROSS‌  THE‌  SURFACE  OF  PRISTINE  PIANO  KEYS,  CLAMPED  OVER‌  THE  HANDLE  OF  A‌  WELL-WORN‌  BAG,  SLIDING  ACROSS‌  A‌  PASSPORT  WITH  ALL  THE‌  WRONG  WORDS  ON  IT  ;  CRIMSON  RED  —  THE‌  COLOUR  THE  STREETS  RUN  IN  YOUR‌  SLEEP,  SHADE  OF  THE  RUBIES  YOUR  MOTHER‌  TUCKED  INTO  THE‌  HIDDEN  DEPTHS  OF‌  YOUR‌  SUITCASE,  HUE  THAT  YOUR  COMPANIONS  DROWN  THEMSELVES  IN  ;  WELL  SPUN  AND  WELL  WORN  LIES  —  THE  ROLE  OF  WHO‌  YOU  ARE‌  TO‌  PLAY  NOW,  EACH  AND  EVERY‌  LAST  CALCULATED  WORD  THAT‌  FALLS  PAST‌  YOUR  LIPS,  THE  PRETENSE  THAT  YOU  ARE‌  ANYTHING  BUT  A‌  CHILD  BUILT  OF‌  THE  RUINS  OF  EMPIRES  .  (  kyoto,  nineteen,  gmt+3,  she / her.  )

𝐋𝐄𝐓    𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏    𝐓𝐇𝐄    𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒    𝐎𝐅    𝐖𝐀𝐑    ,    MARIJA    TATYANA    KOVALEVA    ,    the    NURSE    is    seen    traversing    the    streets    of    moscow    ,    but    the    volki    swear    that    she    is    originally    from    YEKATERINBURG    ,    WESTERN    SIBERIA    ;    perhaps    it’s    THE    KOVALEV    FAMILY    PATRIARCH’S    PURSUIT    OF    DYNASTIC    WEALTH    that    brought    them    here    .    fellow    residents    liken    their    resemblance    to    LAURA    HARRIER    .    the    TWENTY    SEVEN    year    old    CIS    FEMALE   was    CONSCIENTIOUS    &.    MAGNANIMOUS    before    the    war’s    ruination    ,    but    in    the    aftermath    have    become    DEPRECATING    &.    PHLEGMATIC    .    rumours    throughout    eastern    europe    have    given    them    a    reputation    of    SUGAR    COATED    WORDS    SPOKEN    WITH    THE    INTENTION    TO    SOOTHE    WHISPERED    TO    DYING    MEN    ,     OR     ,    THE    GIFT    OF    COMPASSION    IS    LEARNED    WITHIN    A    FIELD    HOSPITAL’S    WALLS    ;    GRIEF    HIDDEN    IN    TORN    SEPIA    PHOTOGRAPHS    THAT    SHOW    SNAPSHOTS   OF    WHAT    USED    TO    BE    AND    THE    SUBSEQUENT    ACHE    FOR    WHAT    CAME    BEFORE    ;    BECOMING    OVERWHELMED    BY    THE    CHILDISH    YEARNING    TO    BE    CLASPED    IN    THE    SAFETY    OF    YOUR    MOTHER’S    ARMS    ;    CATEGORISING    YOUR    LIFE    AS    A    SERIES    OF    WHAT    CAME    BEFORE    AND    WHAT    CAME    AFTERS    ;    LIPS    PURSUED    IN    STEELY    DETERMINATION    AS    YOU    SKILFULLY    SEW    PEOPLE    BACK    TOGETHER    .    (    lucy    ,    23    ,    gmt    ,    she    /    her    .    )

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  SORIN  LAZARESCU  ,  the  BRIGADIER  of  the  volki  is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of      moscow  ,  but  the  bratva’s  rivals  swear  that  he  is  originally  from  BUCHAREST, ROMANIA  ;  perhaps  it’s  IN SEARCH OF HIS ANONYMOUS PENPAL that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  members  of   the  volki  liken  their  resemblance  to  BILL SKARSGARD  .  the  THIRTY  TWO  year  old  MALE  was  DISCIPLINED  &.  PRAGMATIC  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  NIHILISTIC  &.  DECEPTIVE.  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have   given  them  a  reputation  of  THE CRACKING OF THE RADIO RINGING LOUDER THAN STIFLED CRIES ; CURLS OF SMOKE DANCING ALONG PALE LIMBS AS THE CENSER DANCES ITS LONELY PERFORMANCE WITH EACH STEP TAKEN ; HOLDING DELICATE PAPER WITH TWO FINGERS IN ORDER TO INHALE EACH WORD AND TASTE THE WORLD THEY ESCAPED FROM ; HANDS RAISED HIGH AFTER WHAT ALMOST WAS HIS VERY LAST KISS FROM THE CROSS DRAPED SAFELY AGAINST HIS PLENDER GAP ; THE STIFFENING OF LIMBS AS HE ENTERS A ROOM, READY TO EAT THE FEARFUL .  (  j ,  twenty six,  cst,  she/her.  )

𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  MARGARITA MAKSIMOVA ,  the  OPERA SINGER is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  volki  swear  that   she  is   originally  from  PETROGRAD  ;  perhaps  it’s  SEEKING A SECOND CHANCE  that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  residents  liken  their  resemblance  to  ZHENYA  KATAVA  .  the  TWENTY-FIVE  year  old  CIS WOMAN  was  CHARMING  &.  GENUINE  before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  COLD  &.  DISTANT.  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  HAVING THE SOFTNESS OF A DOVE, LIPS WARM AS A SHOT OF VODKA,  A WISTFUL SONG PLAYING FROM ANOTHER ROOM .  (  sylv,  21,  gmt+1,  she/her.  )

#accepted #:'))

[sugarfreecapsicle]

i saw the light

moodboard by the incomparable @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan

moodboard by the lovely @sebashtiansatan 

A/N: first of all, big congrats to @marquiswrites on her milestone! She’s a wonderful and creative writer who deserves every ounce of recognition she can be given. I’m thrilled for her and even more honored to be able to participate in this challenge for her. second of all, thanks for putting up with my crazy and this series - here’s hoping I can somehow keep this going!

warnings: religious ceremony (christian), mentions of deity, prayer, hymns, ANGST

pairing: bucky x reader, southern usa au

country mile masterlist

Molten dread seeps from your chest to your toes and piles, feet to knees. Hallowed ground, from both childhood memories and divine merit shackle you to the gravel. Weathered steps precede the equally aged white doors. Music hums from the other side, choir warming up, some attendees mingling and chatting about their week prior to the balmy Sunday morning.

“Well, look at you!” You pivot and grin at the decades-old Buick Sam assists his mother out of - this morning her suit matches the car in alabaster white, accented by a pink ribbon tied on her hat and a coordinating purse. Sam loops her arm in his, grinning proud. The Wilsons, in your experience, mirror the same smile: bright, joyful, genuine.

“Look at you!” A laugh as you tuck some hair behind your ear. Mrs. Wilson hobbles along by a patient Sam to meet you where you stand. “You look so pretty today, Mrs. Wilson. You tryin’ to impress somebody?”

She laughs heartily and swats at you with her well loved leather Bible. “Honey, I’m just here to make sure Jesus knows I’m tryin’ to behave myself and keep Sammy in line.”

“Mama, you know I don’t make trouble,” Sam retorts, feigning some minor offense. Of course his mother pays him no mind.

“It sure finds you easy, son,” she murmurs and jabs his side with her elbow. “Let’s get in there before the reverend thinks I’m not comin’ today.”

Another common quality in the Wilsons: they quietly sneak through your safeguards and guide you in the right direction. You flank the elderly woman and find solace in the whine of the stairs underfoot. Power in faith, Mrs. Wilson would’ve called it had she known your entrapment in the parking lot.

The three of you make it up the stairs carefully, balancing Sam’s mother between as her knees aren’t what they used to be. The comfort of her habit to sit on the right, in the third pew from the front where she can feel the sun beam through the stained glass depiction of Jesus in the garden of Gesthemane settles in your chest.

Before you can scurry away to one of the back pews, she gently pats the seat to her left with a coy grin. “You always have a place with my family, baby.”

So you sit and feel a bit more prim as the townsfolk make their way in, Coulson mingling with the present congregation. In the seersucker suit and tie, a small cross pinned to his lapel, a cracked and worn leather Bible in his hand that now wore a golden wedding band. Light gleams off it from the hanging metal-work lights so out of date you marveled at their resilience.

Even the pillars in the church are the same - a fresh coat of white paint to match the exterior, stained glass windows depicting the life of Christ only a little dirty from recent rain, low pile green carpet from the door at the back up into the choir loft. 

“Good to see you this morning,” Coulson greets jovially, hand extended to you for an always firm shake. He passes onto Mrs. Wilson and Sam quickly who both answer him with pearly white smiles. You grin, a knot in your chest. “It’s been a long while since you’ve been in town - we’ve missed having you here.”

“It’s..” you clear your throat and hold a hand to your chest, still politely grinning, “it’s good to be back, Reverend.”

Coulson nods, hands folded over the Bible in front of him as he chats with the Wilsons about the restaurant, the family band and if Sam wouldn’t mind helping tune the guitar this morning when you notice a barely put together attendee enter from the side door.

“Well if it ain’t the Barnes boy,” Mrs. Wilson mutters in your ear. Coulson quietly shifts along to the far aisle and walks to meet with more of the flock.

Bucky smiles and nods with one of the deacons, hands clasped between them in welcoming. As expected, the young farmer traded in his plaid shirt and red dirt mottled denim for black chinos and a clean tattersall button down. Tucked in, of course, similar to the small knot of hair just above the collar of his shirt.

He moves to the left side of the pulpit and makes himself comfortable at the piano. Since when had this developed? The Bucky you remembered couldn’t sit still long enough for anything like a piano lesson. For all the nostalgia, parts of this little world shifted out of place, a memory disjointed.

Steve appears in your periphery looking spick-and-span as ever with Peggy not far behind in a pretty blue pencil dress. Both greet you warmly with hugs and jump into the conversation as your now full pew inventories the goings on ahead of you.

“Bucky’s been playing for a few months now. It’s the only way we could get him to show up anymore,” Steve answers your unasked question. Apparently you’d been caught ogling.

Your Bucky - if you could even call him that anymore - loved being social at church. He could do without the sermon and the singing, but the congregational greetings just after the reverend’s first song fit into his heart lock and key. He beamed, shaking hands with anyone he could reach, even crossing the aisle to visit with as many as he could. Age never mattered to him then - he’d shake hands as heartily with an elder as a baby. 

This new Bucky fusses with his sleeves at the piano bench alone. Not frowning, but not smiling. 

“Y’all are comin’ by for supper after the service today?” Mrs. Wilson leans over to address both Steve and Peggy, expectant eyes and a nodding head.

“You couldn’t pay me to be anywhere else but your kitchen, ma’am,” Steve answers kindly, giving Peggy’s manicured hand a squeeze. Another new development. Warmth radiated from the couple, a new love realized. 

“Well, good,” the elderly woman settles back and gathers her Bible and sermon outline in her lap. “Lord knows I need an army to eat all the food I make.”

You sense the roll of Sam’s eyes - always a few steps behind his mother’s innocent manipulation. The din of the room swells briefly, and Reverend Coulson makes his way up the steps to his matching white podium. A full congregation, choir in attendance, musicians tuned. And an eager preacher with the Good Word for his flock.

“Good morning,” Coulson calls into the microphone.

Your religion hadn’t survived your departure from town either, but the enthusiasm of the room was contagious. The music starts, and you find your gaze drifting to the piano as you sing. Sleepy blue eyes meet yours in the moment before a blink, then they’re gone, reading the sheet music in front of him. Probably just his eyes finding a place to rest as he plays, a subconscious thing, not intentional in the least.

The muscle memory of the opening prayer followed by a short hymn - I Saw the Light sung by the reverend himself -  and then choral worship awakens a dormant longing in your bones. Routine, peace, an odd juxtaposition to your inner turmoil. 

Coulson opens his Bible at the song’s end with echoing applause, resting it against his little wooden podium. He has more crows’ feet now, but the smile is all the same. 

“Isn’t it a wonderful day the Lord has made for us?” 

Amen’s scatter around the chapel, and suddenly you realize you’re without a Bible and a small copy of the outline for the sermon. Might as well be considered naked and foolish in the church. Without prompting from you, Steve passes you  a heavy and scribbled old copy of the Word, with him since high school. Peggy follows suit and shares her Scripture with him and sets the outline nearby.

A note on the edges of his outline reads: He stares at you every time you look away.

It’s heavy in your lap, a foreign and old thing, while a shiver pricks at the back of your neck. The feeling of being watched. You dare not look away from Coulson as he emphatically tells the story of Jesus’ miracle of feeding five thousand people with only five loaves and two fish. God provides for us in the same way, he says, creating blessings out of what some would consider table scraps. 

“The Lord abides and he provides!” Coulson laughs heartily and the congregation returns his excitement.

He casts his usual glance at the clock - he’s ready for lunch, ready to wrap up his sermon. One more song to call those who feel compelled to kneel at the altar or prayer benches to entreat God’s mercy - Bucky and the Wilsons play Softly and Tenderly in slowed tempo.

Coulson steps down from the pulpit to the altars and benches, offering to pray with some of those who appear moved to tears, a few weeping as if to mourn a death. He places a hand at their backs, each and every one in their own turn, and murmurs quiet prayers, beseeching God’s intervention to those families. 

Your heart twists in your chest, a rag being wrung out of its heavy laden burden of moisture. Fingers grip the Old Book in your hands just along the edges. Steve doesn’t notice. Your lips work between teeth carefully when you brave a glance to the piano.

Bucky - eyes watery and tender - stares at you like you’re breaking his heart. The song ends, prayers complete, and Coulson dismisses the congregation to flood the parking lot. Sam offers you a ride to his mother’s house, and you accept in a voice distant and foreign. 

The little yellow house teems with friends and family alike, and you manage to weave a path to the living room’s sofa. Faint magnolia wafts about once you plop down, memories of nights spent whispering and giggling in pillow forts made from the cushions bubbling into mind. Then it’s all cheers when the first round of biscuits emerge from the oven.

Steve and Peggy find you soon after and try to maneuver the bottled hallway to get a plate for themselves, portioned by either the matron of the family or her ever faithful son. The process runs like her diner with servings then seating then conversation over a home cooked meal.

Your table with the new couple allows for one more, and you expect the seat to remain empty until Sam manages to make a plate of his own. 

And then Bucky finds his way over and sits unceremoniously next to you, arms brushing against each other and flinching away as quickly. Steve says hello to his friend who responds with a shoveled bite into his mouth and a nod.

Some things clearly remain the same.

Sunday lunch continues like this, bumping elbows and hands with Bucky more often than either of you would prefer. Peggy tries her best to keep your attention; Steve and Bucky share clipped sentences and have their own implied conversation. With only his green beans and some gravy left on his plate, Bucky uses the napkin draped over his knee and moves to depart.

“You need a ride home?” 

The trio wear expectant looks you don’t notice until you look up from your own scant plate. Your cheeks warm under the awkward silence, you quickly wipe away any remnant of food from your lips and mumble out your acceptance.

A flurry of goodbyes, and then it’s just you and Bucky in his truck thundering down the road to your house. He’s quiet, hand resting over his mouth while the other minds the steering wheel. 

“What was up with your staring this morning at the service?”

The engine roars in the tension between you.

“What staring?”

Lazy mid-afternoon air tangles your hair. Your jaw sets tightly. 

“The staring at me, Barnes.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” he scoffs, hand scratching against his unshaven cheek. “Good to know you left all this to go get yourself an ego, though, that’s good for you.”

Subconsciously your right foot shifts left in the dirtied floorboard to pump an invisible brake pedal. The truck pushes onward.

“An ego?” Raised  voice and adrenaline. “Bucky, if someone told you a snake bit your ass, you’d say it was a damn bee even if you saw the thing slither under your feet.”

Your pushing against the floorboard suddenly pays off when Bucky diverts the truck to the side of the road and squeals to a stop. After shutting the engine off, he angles toward you, thin blue against wide black pupils. 

“What’d’ya want me to say? D’you want me to roll out some red carpet for you because the princess returned?” Veins in his neck emerge under sun-tanned skin that fades paler by the white collar of his undershirt. Your throat dries when his silver chain catches sunlight. “You were just gone one day. No goodbye, no nothing. Just gone. You didn’t give a shit about any of us, how we’d feel.”

How I’d feel remains unspoken.

“When have you ever known me to live my life for other people, Bucky?” 

The silence of Bucky’s heart plummeting through the undercarriage carries on as  a coin in a well. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and for a moment, you regret your reply.

“Sorry I thought my feelings mattered to you.”

And what can you say to that? The finality in his own answer keeps your lips shut for the remainder of your ride home. An apology hangs in your throat, in your heart, but finds nowhere to surface. Too little too late.

You don’t even say goodbye when you exit his truck and shut the door behind you. Neither does he.

#marquiswrites100challenge #my fic #country mile #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes fic #bucky fic #bucky fanfic #bucky fanfiction #bucky angst #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, KAY! You’ve been accepted for the role of HELENUS. Admin Rogue: I will be honest and say I must have read this app six times since we got it, minimum. There was something about your words that made me want to live in them forever, to tell Hugo all my secrets and let him tell me his. Hugo is so easy to turn saintly or push toward martyrdom, and your Hugo is a good person with all his flaws on display, humanity shining forth so clearly from him that he breaks my heart. He reminds us that sometimes God’s will brings down the crusades; he understands peace the same as he has made war, and Hugo knows the sanctity of blood in how he cannot wash it from his hands. I think I fell a little in love with him in this app, in spite of his Jimmy Buffet obsession, and that’s when I knew we couldn’t go another day without him! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Obiwan Kaynobi

Age | 25

Preferred Pronouns | She/her

Activity Level | I feel like I’m active on the dash at least twice a week, and if I’m not posting replies I’m able to lurk the dash on mobile and plot on discord. But, with the quarantine and finally getting into a rhythm, I think I’ll be able to get on the dash more often!

Timezone | The Twilight Zone jk it’s PST now!

Triggers | REMOVED

How did you find the rp?  | One day Pandora showed up in my brain and I couldn’t get rid of her. Now Hugo also lives there with his Catholic guilt and honestly it’s a nightmare.

Current/Past RP Accounts | Here’s Panda’s blog!

IN CHARACTER

Character | Helenus, Hugo Kim. Hu-go, (German); meaning mind. Kim, (Korean); meaning gold, iron.

What drew you to this character? | Honestly, the thing that struck me about Hugo was that he’s the guiding light for so many people - and it’s ironic. He’s the prophet of the people, telling them each Sunday to do well, to be good and then he turns around and commands the other Capulet soldiers to harm others. And honestly, I think there are times that Hugo questions the good word. His hands are stained with blood and it doesn’t matter how many confessions he sits through because they’ll be stained red forever.

I also love that despite his affiliation with the Capulets, he does hold sermons on Sundays. Religion is the one thing that he has left of his parents - his mother - and Cosimo can pry that from his cold, dead hands. There’s a sort of natural confidence Hugo exudes when preaching and it spills over into his missions. In his bio it says, “They flock and he guides them, a SHEPHERD to Cosimo Capulet’s people.” He’s someone that people will listen to regardless of whether he’s leading the mission or not.

But, the one thing that really stood out to me with Hugo is his devotion. Whether it’s to his mother, God, Halcyon, he’s 100% devoted no matter what. He puts the time needed to do a job well done and I think that’s something most people look over with Hugo. There is no person more devoted to the morals he’s bound to than him. It’s something that makes him stand out from the rest of the gang members.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

a. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. The Cathedral is technically Capulet territory, but Lawernce wandered in one night and let every sin fall from his lips, tethering the two of them together whether the liked it or not. This encounter is something that can and will tear Hugo apart. He’s bound to both the church and the Capulets - neither of which he ever planned on crossing. Watching him struggle between his faiths is something I would love to see happen on the dash.

b. Sister Saint Monica, you’ve got me on my knees. Halcyon, his personal angel sent from Cosimo. She’s his guiding light, his angel of mercy, the one he’ll pray to each night - and I would love to see how far he’s willing to go for her. How much blood will he spill in order to feed the person he sees as a God? And of course, how will that guilt manifest after he’s done it? How often will he find himself on the bathroom floor, shaking and sobbing from the faces that haunt his dreams and the souls that claw at his throat all for the sake of Halcyon?

c. Bathe me in holy water and erase my sins. Killing his own brother is something that Hugo has yet to forgive himself for. The memory of his parents on the floor, the gun in his hand, the sounds coming from his mouth after he pulled the trigger play on repeat in his mind daily. How does he deal with the constant onslaught of this? Does he find himself crying in the confessional over what he’s done or does he simply let the memory play out and avoid thinking about it? It’d also be interesting if another character knew what he did and used it as leverage over him.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | As long as he gets to marry Brat first, feel free to kill him. That can be the first and last thing I do with him, please just let him marry them.

IN DEPTH

In-Character Interview:

What is your favorite place in Verona? | We recommend looking at the location page and reading it over to figure out where your character’s favorite place is – if it’s not their own house/room.

He’s positive that the woman across from him expects to hear the Cathedral. But, the stained glass and golden pews have long since turned sour to Hugo. Now, they remind him of blood and guns and the rush of guilt that burns in his throat like bile. He thinks of the theater, how he and Albert used to hide underneath the seats to sneak into a second showing. The library, once a place that he was able to roam without hesitation and devour any book he desired, now stings in his memory since it became off-limits. Finally, the corners of his lips quirk up. “Twelfth Night Museum holds a dear place in my heart. I can’t say much about the attendees who show up at night, but during the day it’s beautiful.”

What does your typical day look like?

Hugo pauses for a moment, mulling over the words before he speaks. He glances at the watch on his wrist, then his shoes, and finally meets the eye of the interviewer. The interview is for a profile on him, a puff piece to lighten the city when all it knows is death and destruction. “Well, it’s Saturday. I host evening mass then head over to Phoenix and Turtle for the bread donation. My days are typically the same, depending on whether or not the farmers market is here.” He graces her with another smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. What he leaves out is that his nights are filled with the scent of gun powder and his fingers brushing eyelids shut, a prayer whispered under his breath.

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

How was he supposed to pick just one mistake? There had been plenty of missteps through the years that would certainly be labeled the worst. The stolen liquor from the bodega, the moans in the backseat of a car, the night he killed Albert. Far too many things have been deemed his biggest mistake. “Even I’m allowed to have secrets.” Hugo glances out the window and watches the couples walk by. They’ll have to try harder than this to get him to reveal what it is. “That one is between me and myself.”

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

His gut reaction is to say preaching his sermon. The words of the good book that fall from his lips and into the ears of the parish are nothing but lies - but now was not the time nor place to discuss that matter. “There are times I’m asked to stop helping those in need. I have to respect their wishes, but it’s not in my nature to walk away from those who need help.” He thinks of the dying who were left to bleed after he shot at them, of the unfortunate souls who end up injured by falling into debt with them, of the addicts who pump their veins with Theo’s latest experiment and can’t escape the warmth the drug gives them. Ignoring these souls only to have them haunt him later is the most difficult thing he’s done.

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

He nearly chokes as he takes a sip from the mug. As the interview continued, it seemed as if the questions were diving deeper and deeper into unsafe territory. Perhaps it would’ve been smart to let one of the emissaries approve the list of questions before he arrived. “As a man of God, I can only hope that no more bloodshed happens.” His lips press into a thin line. “Hasn’t our city seen enough?” His answer is honest, one that he never dared utter before now. The war his boss wages against the Montagues is one that he finds despicable. So much has been lost in the names of each family and yet, they continue to take more and more and more.

Extras: Bold of you to assume I don’t have any extras. Here is his mockblog, a Pinterest board, and as always, let me sprinkle some hcs here:

Hugo’s very into the arts. His favorite artist is M.C. Escher.

This man is not straight. Local disaster bi preacher is at your service.

There’s a photo of his parents tucked into his wallet so he’s able to carry them everywhere.

He does yoga whenever he gets the chance.

Hugo’s a huge Jimmy Buffet fan, I’m sorry but it’s true.

He’s also a huge Florence and The Machine fan so it balances out.

More often than not, there’s a bottle of cheap scotch in his chambers in the Cathedral. It’s hidden inside of a hollowed-out Bible.

#accepted #accepted: helenus

[musingmycelium]

blind faith

nsfw under the cut

Late nights are nothing new to Solas. The dull ache between his shoulders, the way the words begin to blur on the page before him. A veilfire candle on his desk doing little in way of helping him. Sighs as he realizes it isn't even truly late yet, perhaps only a handful of hours after sunset. Glances at the tomes he has yet to read, the many pages still left in the one he is currently working through. Raises a hand to his temple and prepares for a long night.

Until he hears soft footfalls behind him and Idrilla drapes herself across his back, arms over his shoulders. Warmth and the scent of cocoa enveloping Solas, an ease to the tension he carries. Almost nightly now she'll come his way, either just to sit with him while working on her own projects or to bring him somewhere with her. Both a welcome distraction Solas has spent far too much time thinking about.

Her hands on his chest and she starts to fiddle with his necklace. "You're so tense lately emma lath." Lips against his temple, wandering fingers on his chest. Heart doing backflips at her touch. How little it takes for him to be lost. "I want to help you relax but I need to know how you feel about something first."

A shiver as she withdraws her hands, the warmth of her retreating from him as she searches for something behind his back. Whispers of fabric and Solas doesn't turn around. Waits for her. Idrilla places a strip of black silk across the open pages of his book, her lips against his ear and Solas' heart stops completely. "I want you to focus on me. Nothing else. Are you okay with me blindfolding you tonight?"

Shudders, goosebumps on his skin as he reaches for the blindfold. Smooth silk under his fingers and Solas lets out a shaky exhale. Wonders. Closes his eyes as he thinks it through, imagines himself at her mercy. His racing pulse all the answer he needs. "I trust you."

Oh, but he does. Trusts her with every fiber in his being, with every breath he takes, and with every beat of his heart in her hands.

Light touches, fingertips brushing his cheeks. A smile in Idrilla's voice as she whispers against his skin, "Good. Come to bed with me." Hand under his chin, tilting his head up and Solas opens his eyes, meets Idrilla's burning gaze. Rises from behind his desk at her direction, blindfold still in his hands.

Follows her back into the room they share and shuts the door behind him quietly. Heat already beginning to crawl through his veins. Drinks in the long lines of her -the breadth of her shoulders, the curves of her torso, the fullness of her ass, and the muscles of her thighs. Starts when she glances over her shoulder, a smug smile pulling at her lips.

Idrilla takes the two steps needed to close the gap between them. So close Solas can feel the heat of her skin. One hand on his chest, fingers splayed over his heart. Curling against the linen of his tunic. Eyes on his, she waves her other hand and the candles in their room ignite. Glowing golden light on her dark skin, flickering flames in his chest. Solas burns for her, an offering at her pyre given in absolute faith.

Smile still on her lips as she takes the blindfold from his hands, the ghost of her touch on his skin sending sparks through him. His eyes falling shut, breath catching in his lungs as Idrilla places a tender kiss to each of his eyelids. Cool silk against his skin, darkness as Idrilla carefully ties the blindfold. Every heartbeat louder, the sweet hint of cocoa lingering on Idrilla skin richer, the electricity of her touch sharper with it on.

Gasping as her lips meet his. Cherry wine on her tongue and Solas is drunk on the way her kiss steals the air from his lungs. A hungry fire under his skin, Solas' world narrowing to the bite of her teeth and the softness of her lips. Her hands dropping to his chest, walking him back until his knees hit their bed. Drops to it as she tugs on the bottom on his tunic, her knuckles brushing and sending licks of flame across his skin.

Breaks their kiss as Idrilla pulls the tunic over his head, flushed skin revealed to candlelight. Pulse thundering in his ears and Solas can't catch his breath. Shivers as Idrilla traces her fingers over his skin, touch filled with promise as she makes her way lower.

A stroke of her fingers over him through his leggings and Solas' whole body jerks. Idrilla's laughter hot in his ear as she drifts up and curls her fingers around the top of his leggings. Pulling them off of him slowly, inch by agonizing inch. Drags her fingertips down, teasing touches to his bare skin, ignoring the hitches in Solas' breath and the way his hips squirm.

Exposed to her. Burning for her. The weight of her gaze as she places a hand on his thigh, spreading his legs and Solas knows his face is glowing pink. Idrilla kisses the corner of his mouth before withdrawing. The rustle of her loose shirt as she kneels before him Solas' only warning before she takes him in her mouth.

A ragged groan torn from him, the wet heat of Idrilla's mouth on his cock driving the air from his lungs. Flames under his skin and Solas can't help the slight buck of his hips. Vibrations against his length as Idrilla laughs, her hand on his thigh tighening to hold him still.

Solas shudders, forced to focus only on Idrilla, on the feel of her mouth on him. A lazy drag of her tongue, swirling it around the tip before she sinks back down. Hums her appreciation and Solas clutches his hands in the sheets. Darkness and building pleasure, nothing but sensation. Electric. Tips his head back as another moan slips from him, no longer truly caring about keeping quiet.

Leaking, fire in his veins and Solas' voice comes between gasps, "Idrilla, vhenan please I-" A desperate whine as Idrilla releases him with an obscene pop. Hot kisses pressed along his trembling thigh, a smile curving Idrilla's lips against his burning skin.

"Not yet."

Hands retreating, warmth dimishing ever so slightly as Idrilla pulls away from him. Every inch of him wanting, needing to follow after her but he can't see where she's gone. So Solas trusts, holds himself where she placed him, only the tremors running through him and the heaving of his chest to show how tightly Idrilla has him wound.

Waits, heart hammering and lungs burning. Aches. Hears Idrilla's annoyed huff followed by the whisper of fabric. Nearly choking on a gasp when she returns, her hands on his chest, pushing him back onto their bed. Her smooth skin against his, thighs straddling his hips.

Idrilla leans forward, not an inch between them. Fingers under his jaw, tilting his head as she claims his lips. Solas looses himself in her kiss. In the flames under his skin she ignited and in the faith he has in her to find him again.

"Do you know what you do to me emma lath?" Murmured against his lips, as reverent as a prayer. Idrilla trails her lips from the corner of his mouth to the line of his jaw, down the column of his throat as she takes him in her hand. Lines herself up and sinks down on Solas' cock.

His groan echoed by hers. Idrilla rocks her hips, seats herself fully with a needy moan. The slick heat of her, the press of her lips to his skin, the silk across his eyes blinds him to everything but her touch. Solas can't help but to reach for Idrilla, to search until her hands cover his and bring them to the soft curve of her waist.

A fire building with every rise and fall of Idrilla's hips as she rides Solas. Her breath falling in staccato cries in time with every thrust of Solas' hips, matching her pace as they burn together. Molten moments, no way of knowing how time is stretching, each heartbeat a lifetime. Nothing but sensation.

Idrilla's fingers lace together with his on her hips. Tangling together, melting together. Solas' rhthym begins to fall apart as the inferno under his skin, in his chest pushes him off the edge. Idrilla falling with him, gasping and squeezing his fingers with hers.

Smoldering heat, embers burning and fading. Idrilla huffs a laugh as she slides off of him. Lazy kisses to his cheek, his temple. Clumsy fingers coming up to his face, sliding under the silk to lift it from his eyes and Solas blinks in the sudden candlelight. The brilliance of Idrilla's sated smile brighter than fire. A different kind of warmth in the patterns she traces across his skin now.

A softness in her kiss. The taste of him still rich on her tongue. No longer burning, no desperate need behind the way Idrilla's lips curve into a smile against his. Just a simpleness, a desire to breath the same air. Solas, still molten, brings his hands up to cup her face as they kiss in the candlelight.

Faith rewarded. His offering accepted by her pyre.

Enveloped by the warm scent of cocoa still on Idrilla's skin, Solas tangles their legs together. A sated drowsiness entering their kiss. Idrilla breaking it to reach for the blankets at the foot of their bed. Drapes them over herself and Solas where they still lay wrapped up in each other. Idrilla sprawled over Solas, a welcome weight. She tucks her head under his chin, curling slightly to fit snuggly.

Idrilla hums sleepily and Solas smiles, wraps his arms around her. Presses a kiss to the crown of her head and thinks to find her in her dreams.

#solavellan #dragon age #dai #solas #so #some sub solas in this chili's tonight #bc im hella gay for sub solas and blindfolds and i do what i want #i tell myself at 12:46am because this took 14.56 billion years to write bc i #forgot #how to write #this may be revised later but not now bc i crave instant validation and i have no chill #lkjlkjkljlkjlkj #my writing #idrilla lavellan

[ventrue-rosary]

Fictober Day 10 - Administering Medicine

Healing spells count as medicine right? This is a prompt somewhat based on remade-Alina’s backstory

Ko-Fi 

The village of Rothwood is as miserable as its name might suggest. A mire of a city surrounding a dock of the most filthy and foul smelling water. Crime and poverty tun rampantly hand-in-hand throughout, and the village streets are slick with excrement, courtesans, sailors and mercenaries.

And with her mother Herath’s declining health,  the only solace Alina finds in such a town is the run-down and barely attended temple to Eldath.

A crumbling stone monastery that nature is slowly overtaking, withered vines, roots and ivy snaking their way up its walls. Two dried up rose bushes flank its entrance.

Abandoned many years ago, its interior is choked by dust, the candles burnt down to small wax puddles. The statue of the goddess Eldath placed in the very center of the temple is in a state of dilapidation, the smaller parts of the sculpture such as the ends of her hair and her fingers crumbled into pools of dust at her feet. Her right arm is completely absent. 

Alina kneels before the statue, hands clasped in prayer. ‘Oh Dear Lady of Peace and Protection, shepard us your children to health and prosperity, I beg of you. For we stand here only at your grace and mercy, we--’

She pauses mid-prayer when she hears the harsh scraping of stone against stone. Raising her eyes, she sees the statue of Eldath coming to life, moving her limbs to step down from the plateau she stands upon. 

A scream remains trapped in her throat as Alina trips backwards over her own feet, watching as stone becomes skin. The beautiful elven Goddess towers over Alina, kindness in her eyes. 

‘Welcome, my child.’

‘Are...are you real? Is this some trick?’ Alina sputters.

‘No trick, child. I heard your prayers, and I come to offer you my aid.’

Eldath bends over and offers one hand. ‘I see in you an oasis of all that is good in this sea of filth. May you be the salve that is needed against this evil rife in this place.’

Alina slowly reaches forward for the Goddess’s hand. When their fingers meet, a soft golden glow surrounds their hands, filling Alina with a comforting warmth not unlike a loving mothers embrace. 

‘Use these gifts for good...’ Eldath steps back, returning to unmoving stone once more.

Alina hurries out of the temple.

~

Running to her mother’s side, she places a comforting hand on her brow, noting the sweat-slick skin with concern. She takes her mother's slend hand between hers, and calls forth Eldath’s gift. Both their hands become encompassed in a soft golden light thats moves down the length of her arm, settling on her chest before dimming out of existence. 

Nothing to appears to happen at first. Then her mothers eyes flicker open, and meet Alina’s. 

‘Ali...Ali my daughter is that you?’

‘Yes, mother, it’s me,’ she half laughs, half sobs.

Her mother hand rests on one of her cheeks, which she covers with her own.

‘How are you feeling, mother?’

‘I’m not sure what you gave me, but I’ve never felt better.’

Alina whispers a small prayer in offer of thanks to Eldath. The use of magic leaves her feeling drained. Alina retires to bed early that night. 

Eldath appears to her in a dream that night. Her face lacks the usual kindness--instead her expression is neutral, almost cold. 

‘There is one thing I failed to mention,’ Eldath declares. ‘Your powers do not merely heal.’

‘What do you mean?’ Alina feels the growing dread gnawing away at her innards.

‘You cannot erase what ails people, merely transfer it.’

‘Transfer it to who?’ Alina asks, though in her heart she already knows the answer. 

With a unkind curl of her lips, Eldath vanishes, and Alina wakens in a cold sweat. Her entire body, thought swathed in bedding, feels cold. She pulls the sheet around herself tighter, but the shivering and shaking does not stop as the fever takes hold of her body.

Herath, penniless and unarmed with the knowledge of Eldath, could only tend her daughter with their meagre supplies of herbs and to try and keep her cool. As delirium takes hold, all the young girl repeats over and over is ‘I cannot heal, I cannot heal, I cannot heal...’

#alina lightshield #dnd #fictober #my writing

[just-another-flawed-creation]

nanowrimo excerpt

I blinked slowly and deliberately, but the creature didn't disappear when my eyes finally opened again.

Pale, cracked lips surrounded yellowed, decaying teeth. They were pulled back in the semblance of a snarl, but I quickly realised that they sat there naturally – revealing gums & teeth in a nightmarish grin. The creature spoke slowly, painfully, as if making the sounds was like chewing razors.

“You … called?” it asked, unblinkingly. Its breathing appeared laboured, chest rising and falling quickly, but at no time did it appear weak. Muscular, sinewy arms hung by its sides, fingers wiggling nervously.

“Why yes, “ I replied, “I wasn't entirely sure if you would come when I called, but here you are.”

The creature hacked and coughed, something I quickly realised was its interpretation of laughter. It looked me up and down, eyes as black as night, glossy and artificial.

“Here I … am. You knew … my name, and so … I come. Alas,” it crooned, and began to smile, “you seem to have … forgotten … the necessary … precautions.”

I looked down at the ground, clear of the circle & triangle designed to safeguard the practitioner, patterns I had traced dozens of times over the years, each time soliciting a response, but always a dull & uncooperative one. Tonight, they were intentionally forgotten.

“Any last … words … before I tear your … soul … from your corpse?” hissed the creature, leaning towards me ominously, hands curling into claws.

“Why yes,” I replied, “There is one word that springs to mind.”

The creature cocked its head in curiosity as I grinned what must have been an admittedly evil grin.

“Surprise.” I whispered calmly, and my hand shot out to grab the creature around the throat.

Its eyes widened, shocked at the sensation of human flesh touching demon rather than passing straight through. I gripped tightly and its lifeless eyes bulged. It reached up to grab my wrist but as soon as its gnarled fingers came into contact with my flesh, they began to smoke and burn.

A faint glow began to emanate from my wrist – the ultraviolet tattoo etched around my arm reacting to the attack and glowing ice blue, activated by something magical, giving off an eerie light of its own. The creature screamed and kicked, but my grip held true.

“You will tell me your full name creature,” I threatened, “and that of your ruler, or I shall rend your black soul from your body.”

The creature hissed at me again, fear and hatred fighting for dominance in its eyes “Never!” it gasped.

I squeezed harder, and drew a silver blade from beneath my shirt. At the sight of the dagger, the creature began to tremble and tears formed in its eyes.

“Nooooo” it wailed, “I cannot... I must not.”

“Answers, or a swift end creature?” 

The demon looked from the knife to my hand, and up into my eyes. By now, tears were freely flowing. If I hadn't experienced the trickery of its race so often, and at times almost at deadly expense, I would have felt pity for it. But not this night.

“Last chance. The answers I seek, or the end you fear.”

Whimpering, trembling, the creature thought carefully for a moment before closing its eyes and whispering “Into the abyss I condemn myself, I welcome Her black embrace.”

I sighed, disappointed, and pushed the blade effortlessly between its eyes and held it tight until the deathly spasms ceased. A quick prayer in Latin whispered against its mouth and I dragged the creature over to the fireplace and threw its lifeless body into the flames. The fire flared incandescent green for a second, the body disintegrating instantly, before settling back to its sullen golden glow.

“I'm going to have to consecrate more wood,” I muttered, “this is getting so monotonous.”

Taking a deep breath, I returned to the centre of the room. I held the blade loosely in my right hand and began the Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram. I drew the pentagrams in the air several times, each in a single breath, reciting the words like old friends, familiar and calming. As I let the blade fall to my side for the last time, I took a deep breath and intoned the words “It is done.”

The room regained some of its warmth, and grew a little brighter. I turned to walk to my chair, feeling tired yet strangely exhilarated, the opposing sensations oddly apparent in my legs, when I saw her sitting in my seat. She was more than beautiful. She was … and then it hit me. She was Angelic.

“My Lady,” I greeted her, and bowed deeply. “Would I be correct in my assumption that you are Anael?”

The woman stood to her feet, and I saw behind her the faint glistening of wings, as if made of the clearest, wafer-thin glass, only the flicker of the fire's flames accenting their outline & giving away their existence. She began to walk towards me slowly, a single word escaping her red lips: “Perhaps.”

I suddenly felt drunk, elated, so happy I could cry. It was Joy, pure and unadulterated, washing over me in pulsing waves, emanating from this woman. I staggered, beginning to lose focus, and pressed two fingers to my wrist, touching my unseen tattoo.

Palm out held, I uttered the words “Turn unto me, and have mercy upon me; give thy strength unto thy servant, and save the son of thine handmaiden.”

She faltered in her advance, the emotion lessening until it was nothing but background noise, like wind chimes that pealed laughter instead of chimes.

“You are strong, my little mortal,” her voice was thickly accented, husky and seductive. She smelled of honey and milk, and truly, I could imagine our ancestors mistaking this angel for Aphrodite. “However, your actions are not going unnoticed, and I fear you are not nearly strong enough to survive the coming retaliation. At least, not yet.”

“Yet?” I queried.

She nodded, a smile escaping her lips. “I have watched your experiments with interest, and you are the first I have witnessed in millennia that has attempted such a task. While others doubt your chances, I believe you are onto something. And I intend to help, despite being forbidden to directly intervene.”

“Forbidden? Are we talking age-old laws here, or something a little more specific to me?”

“A bit of both,” she replied hesitantly. “Shall we sit?”

We moved back to the seats in front of the fireplace – the Victorian wing chairs comfortable and reassuring, the high back and sides wrapping you in a vermillion embrace. As she sat back into the chair, I couldn't help but ask “Your wings? They do not, get in the way?”

“Not at all,” she willingly replied, “The nature of my wings allows them to pass freely through all matter, yet protect me or grant me flight when required. They can radiate with His Light or resonate with Her Joy. If required, they can even rain down His Wrath. Rather useful, don't you think?”

“Very. Although, it appears to me that they serve more as a weapon than anything else.”

At this observation, the conversation ceased momentarily, her eyes examining me, trying to gauge my motives. I took the time to examine the angel sitting across from me as well. I could have gazed upon her for the rest of eternity and never tired of her appearance. I thought to myself, somewhat heretically, God must have spent a fair bit of extra time creating her.

Her hair was the colour of honey, her eyes a flawless emerald green. Her skin was a pale caramel, her lips matched the chairs in which we sat. The symmetry of her face was perfect, and her body was that of an Amazon – strong, but feminine, her musculature enhancing her curves rather than detracting from them. The longer I stared at her, the more I became convinced she embodied the perfect woman. And then it dawned on me...

“You appear this way because that's the way I want you to appear, correct?”

She nodded, the smile resettling itself upon her lips.

“My true form is known only unto our Creators, but this discussion is not the purpose of our visit. My time here is limited, and we have much to cover.”

#nanowrimo #angel #demon #fiction #anael #magick