#*shudders for i cannot deny the truth*

[captainspiggbo]

#thats all i can say cause goddamn #so crisp so oh. . dare i say it? daddy? #*shudders for i cannot deny the truth* #dont speak german but i do now. . *ahem* FICK MICH #blue exorcist #ao no exorcist #mephisto pheles #thirst post #im so sorry but its his fault

[banquetwriter]

୨୧ distant love ୨୧

pairing: Rick Grimes ♡︎ fem!Reader

warnings: ୭̥⋆*｡ not edited, rick is taller than the reader, mentions of Lori being assaulted by Shane, and low-key some Lori slander (and praise too)

summary: ʚ Rick has fallen out of Lori and instead falls in love with you ɞ

Words: 1254

part 2

“I cannot keep you safe,” Rick says angrily. Your group has made it to the CDC, what seemed like a safe haven. “You don't have to Rick. You have a wife and a kid. A whole family, ok?” you said your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned away from you, rubbing his jaw. “Rick, what happened between us can stay a secret forever. You don't have t-to treat me differently or care about me,” you said trying to face Rick head-on.

He started to shake his head no. “What Rick?” you said starting to get angry. Everyone knew what Lori had done to Rick… hooking up with Shane. Something that didn't stop when Rick joined the group. He was frustrated and had pent-up anger.

And there you were on watch with him, just being your kind self. He lost self-control. Try as he might be couldn't deny himself those beautiful moans as he thrusted into you.

He had started to treat you differently. You could tell, Lori could and hell the rest of the group could too. He was much more caring with you, checking your wounds, and giving you extra portions of his food.

There was no doubt he had started to fall for you. Of course, he had. His marriage was falling apart long before the end of the world came, his wife fucking his best friend only made it worse.

You started to fall for him too, you couldn't help it. His strong dominant demeanor, and loving caring father. He had it all. But you knew the moment you said yes to him that there was a high chance of nothing real happening between the two of you.

You chose to ignore that chance.

But here he was now staring at you, jaw tense with anger. He didn't know how he could keep going like this. Feeling his heart squeeze with pain when he couldn't see you. When his arms weren't around yours.

“You cannot keep doing this to me,” he growls, stepping close to you. “Doing what Rick? I have done nothing to you. You came onto me!” I shout at him. He shakes his head and hands his hips. “I never meant to become between you and Lori. I have never ever asked you to love me or care for me ever!” I shout at him.

His face falls. “I was perfectly fine being only a fuck to you,” you said crossing your arms, tears threatening to fall from your eyes. “No. Don't say that about yourself,” he says, stepping up to you again.

You try to blink your tears back. God this was so embarrassing. The truth was you would love to be more to Rick than a hook-up buddy, but he has a family you weren't going to wreck that on a whim. “Please, I'm sorry but I haven't ever tried to make you love me. Ever. Ok? I knew what I was getting myself into, fucking a married man.” you said, crossing your arms.

Rick doesn't say anything, you take that as an answer enough. You let your hands drop to your sides, turning towards the door. His hand lands on your arm grabbing it. You look up at him, his eyes are full of sorrow and pain.

Your stomach turned as you knew what was going to happen next. He gingerly stepped towards you, you couldn't look him in the eyes. His hands moved towards your arms pulling you close to his chest.

He leaves a gingerly placed miss on the top of your head near your hairline. His right hand snakes up to your hair as his left-hand wraps around your waist. You tilt your head up to meet him for the kiss.

He whimpers in your mouth exploring your mouth. You shudder at his touch, pulling away from his kiss. “Rick we shouldn't… Lori and Carl… they aren't that far..” you say looking back up at him.

He knows you right? No matter how much he wants it to not be true, he shouldn't fuck you when his wife or child could find you. “Come find me tonight,” you whisper in his ear, before darting out of his room.

You walked down the hall of the CDC. You heard a commotion up ahead. You looked into the rec room and the sight horrified you.

Shane was attempting to assault Lori. You didn't like Lori, and Lori didn't like you. Nothing would ever stop you from helping her right now. You run up behind Shane grabbing his hair as best you could and dragging him off of her.

Between Lori pushing him off and your strength you're able to rip him away.

Shane lands on the ground glaring at both of you. “Leave!” you shout at him, fear and anger pulsing through your body. “Now! And if I ever ever catch you pulling this shit again I will fucking kill you.” I threaten. “Yeah alright,” he mumbles, sitting up and leaving in a huff.

You turn your direction to the terrified woman behind you. “You're ok, it's ok,” you mumble, catching her in an embrace. “Oh god.” she whimpers out falling into your arms, her sobs racking through her body. Tears spilling on your shirt.

You silently rub her back trying to calm her. She exhales pulling away from you, using the back of her hands to wipe her tears. “I'm ok, I'm ok honey,” she says looking at you with a warm smile. You felt like killing someone.

This wasn't fair for her. You felt sick for even being mad at her for what she did with Shane. It's clear to you that this wasn't what you thought it was. A sick man had used the grief of a woman and got into her pants.

There was absolutely nothing fair about that. “I'm so sorry Lori,” you said with pity in your voice and eyes. “Oh don't worry about me, I will be just fine,” she says with a fake smile. You nod not believing her. “Ok well if you need me tonight just tell me,” you say, patting her arm.

You felt so sick. You felt sick for Lori, for hating her, and for fucking Rick. She deserved her husband. You stole him from her. You felt ashamed. You needed to push these feelings down.

You turn to leave her walking to the exit of the room. “Y/n?” she called. You turn on your heel, “yes?” you ask, looking at her. “I know,” she says in a quiet voice. You felt bile fill your throat.

“My husband he-” she cuts herself off with a sad smile. He wasn't really her husband anymore huh? “Rick h-he is a good man. Take care of him for me will you? Do what I was never able to.” she says with a very sad smile.

Your face contorted with pain. “No Lori, I-I can't do that to you, to your family,” you say, putting your hand up. “No, listen to me y/n. He loves you, I see it every day. I didn't want to at first but I have no choice but to know ok?” she says, nodding her head.

All you can do is sigh. You turn away from her, You walk down the hall preparing to go back to your room. Rick stands outside his door “What's going on?” he asks, looking down at you, you stop slightly in front of him. “Ask your wife.” you quip walking down the hall.

#rick grimes x original female character #rick grimes x y/n #rick grimes x you #rick grimes #rick grimes x reader #twd #the walking dead rick #the walking dead

[madamekenobi]

Imagine being the wife of Daemon Targaryen. (+21)

***

When you look at this man, you cannot believe how fortunate you are. It isn’t only about the looks, even though to deny these don’t play a part in how attracted you still are towards him is to indulge in lies; but how protective he can be whenever you fly with him on Caraxes, whenever you accompany him at court.

Or how attentive he can be when you are sharing your day with him. Daemon Targaryen actually listens whenever your studies get your brain sharped—in truth, he is often horny whenever you and him have this moment talking about politics, philosophy, art… because he is also aroused by your looks.

When you are not well, he is the kind of husband who tends his wife. And he makes sure to leave his duties aside to be by your side. Saying nothing, but his presence says a lot.

These are your thoughts as you miss him a great deal. Daemon has been exiled again… probably for rebelling against that douchebag who attends by the name of Otto Hightower. And you had to stay behind because he assured you he’d not take long.

It’s been three days though and to sleep in a bed without the comfort of his body, the warmth of his skin against yours… is too dreadful. You are often anxious, considering pleading to the king to give his brother another chance, even if this means to take the risk of angering Daemon, for he is very prideful.

It’s when you, trying to busy yourself with sewing a new tapestry for your household, are told by one of the maids of your trust that Caraxes has been spotted.

“Oh praise the Gods!”, you exclaim, relieved. “Please ensure that all is set to receive the lord.”

And you are quickly having another lady to help you dress a better gown—perhaps the red one with details in black, his favourite colors—to welcome him properly.

The idea of how this night might end already gives you goosebumps, for it’s been a while since you and him haven’t done it—mostly because you’ve been engaged in philosophy studies and he, with wars waged against the Tetrarchy at Free Cities.

Your y/c hair is left partially loose—you tied a few locks in a short braid—, your delicate features are painted in light make up and your curves are reinforced by this beautiful long silk sleeved gown.

It does show some cleavage, the line of your neck to that of your breasts quite exposed—as you see yourself in mirror you blush at it, specially because your nipples are getting hard, eager to pop out to his mouth. But you, as a lady and his wife, know that it’s always better when you hold your desires back.

Right?

Heavens, you don’t know. Your legs shake lightly as your pussy begins to ache. You remember still how, before he went off, he reclined your back, spread your legs and slided his length, throbbing his cock into your womanhood. To recollect is to be bit by agony, for that night he smirked when hearing your screams going louder.

“Had I known how loud you could be, I’d have tried this position before”, he said then.

Another memory flashes back, when he caught you naked in bed touching yourself. You hadn’t seen him for a few days too—because he flew to see his brother— and here you were, moaning his name with your legs indecently spread and your fingers doing poorly the job he excelled.

And all so suddenly, he removed his clothes and laid back next to you, shuddering you as he helps you getting to reach your climax.

“Is it good? Thinking of me, does it make you good?”

That same day he replaced his finger with his tongue. And Gods be damned, you loved it. And you want it again. Even if he might accuse you of naughtiness.

Well, you once told him, how can one be his wife without being prompted to lust? And you swear you’d never seen this man blush before.

So here you are, holding back your fire, waiting for the reunion. You have an emerald necklace that he gifted you last Yule as well as a pair of rubies embellishing your ears.

By the time you get to the living room, Daemon, with his hair shorter, is impatient for his wife.

“Fuck, where is…?” And he is as silent as you are, as if you two are transfixed by each other’s presence.

“Daemon”, relief comes through as you run to his arms, there staying engulfed. “Three days never before felt so long.”

He smiles to himself when feeling your frame pressed against his, smelling your scent and hearing your voice—the sentiments there being expressed making his heart race.

The rogue prince presses a kiss over your forehead before cupping your face and finally kissing your lips, a reward for a painful, long waiting.

“My lady”, he smiles down at you. “Always loyal.”

“It could never be otherwise”, you stroke his cheek, eyeing him with the utmost devotion. “Three days and yet it felt like eternity to wait for your return. My prayers were my only comfort, the balsam to my aching heart.”

“A poetess”, he murmurs in awe, “with a soul that never ceases to inspire me love.”

Daemon gives a side crooked smirk when seeing his words paint a crimson shade on your cheeks, when seeing how bright your smile is. He then leans to peck your lips before whispering down to your ear.

“I’m looking forward tonight. You are gorgeous, my wife. All of this for me?”

His voice, a quiet whisper that contains a lot more than lets it show, gives you shivers. You lower your gaze before smiling rather shyly.

“Yes, lord. All of this to my husband.”

When you raise your eyes, you know you are lost. Daemon Targaryen has just pierced your soul.

***

“Finally”, he pulls you to himself, staying right behind you as he rests his chin over your shoulder, arms around your waist. “Finally a moment alone with you, Y/Nickname.”

You giggle softly.

“I’ve been looking forward to this…”

“If I remember well, you burn as bright as any dragon fire”, recollects Daemon, smirking when in reference to the first night spent together after the bedding ceremony where he deflowered you. “Especially where weak spots are concerned”, and here he whispers hotly in your ear, pleased to see a shiver running over your spine and how weak your knees are.

You hate to be so vulnerable before him, to be so easily read, but at the same time you love that he knows you so well.

You try to find balance at the nearest object nearby, which happens to be the window. As darkness grows outside, there is little of the landscape you can spot, although it hardly distracts you of your husband’s preying eyes.

As Daemon turns at you, he denudes you with only a gaze. He drinks of the view of you, pleased to find you in a struggle to hold back the long lust he—and only he—evokes in you.

His cock goes rigid in his pants as he watches your breathing going painfully slow, as your hands hold against the wall, as your body begs him to do what you both want him to do.

But Daemon wants to take his time—because when he does, oh the waiting will be worth it.

His fingertips begin to caress your features before slowly going to your neck.

“I love the colour you chose to welcome me tonight”, says the rogue prince, secretively smirking at how you notice his small details, much like he does at you.

“It pleases me to hear it so”, you tilt your head to the side, locking gazes with him. “All was done with this purpose.”

And in this moment his index finger slides to your mouth. A glint of mischief sparks behind his eyes as you open it and welcome it with your tongue in a very suggestive gesture.

“Mm.” He sighs almost inaudibly, aroused already. “You like it, don’t you? Ever since I taught you how it’s done… you’ve mastered it.”

“Like you taught me indeed, my lord”, you smirk back, eyeing him intently. Your hands are about to buckle his bell but he soon stops you.

“No”, Daemon groans as he pins you against the wall. “Wife, I play this game.”

“Better than I”, you aquiesce, willingly so.

He chuckles before leaning inches closer to you.

“Indeed”, and when his hands move from your waist to embrace you, before grabbing your hair gently, he kisses you.

His tongue gently comes after yours, pairing synchronously in perfect harmony. You dwell in the taste of sweet Dornish wine that mixes with yours, carefully minted after dinner.

And then it gets deeper. It gets passionate. You start to burn in fever, longing for his command, to be subdued to his will. Daemon knows you, even when your breathing comes out a different pace or how your hands slowly move to play with his now shorter locks.

He knows.

A devilish smirks paints his lips when sensing your impatience. He likes to take his time, though by now your rose scent drives him insane. It’s a particular rose. He knows it.

It’s as if a dragon calls another to mate.

He knows.

Daemon finally unlaces your gown. He needs to see your nude state, to devour your curves with his eyes. So he parts his lips from yours, pleased to find in your eyes that pledge he likes so well.

And you blush before his intent gaze. You promptly try to cover yourself, but the domineering man you call your husband gently parts your legs with his knee and firmly takes your hands to pin your wrists above your head.

“Daemon!”, you whimper like the wench you are.

“Yes?”, he licks his tongue around his mouth, already with a bone at the sight of you so exposed, your nipples so damn hardened. “Can’t I appreciate my wife?”

Your face goes pink with his words. You are at his mercy, you dare not to pledge liberty. But you begin to feel dropping wet in your legs. Rubbing one to the other, you try to show some control.

But Daemon knows he’s affecting you. And he likes the view. Oh, he does.

A sly smirk runs in his lips as he pulls your hair with one hand and wraps another around your neck, all the whilst parting your legs with his knee.

“Hmm. You couldn’t handle staying three long days and nights without me, could you?”, he whispers, aroused as you whimper at the pressure he makes into your womanhood.

Your mouth barely opens, forming an “o” as you flutter your eyelashes. The torture only worsens when you whimper due to the short distance he takes of you.

Because Daemon Targaryen starts touching himself at the thought of you. So ready, so undone… right under his power.

“It is most unfair to be unkindly treated in such a manner”, you protest, already salivating when remembering what it felt like to have his length throbbing in your mouth.

Daemon smirks still at you, locking eyes precisely as he releases his pressure.

“Is it?”, he then groans, pleased to be under your intent stare. “I thought you liked to watch.”

You blush once more at the reference of the day you caught him, perhaps unintentionally, on such a private moment. You were sent by the king to look after him—the prince hasn’t courted you yet, despite his openly flirting to you, so innocent back then—and you found him rather jerking at the library.

You could not look away though you froze when he opened his eyes and found you there, watching as he came undone. And to think all of what he did next…

Still gives you shivers even after these years.

“Do you like that, don’t you?”, he places his soaked index finger into your mouth, watching you with eyes dark with desire as you suck it, glinting with mischief when doing so.

You barely come to an answer as his mouth engulfs yours, colliding lips in a passionate and deep kiss. It is as if your soul is set alight, burning with something more meaningful than merely desire.

You are his and he’s yours. He knows it, he feels it too. Never before he’s been so tamed as he is now. This dragon who was known to many women down the capital, whether high or low born, are faithful to one woman now who is fortunate to be called his wife.

And you occupy such privileged position that certainly has some envious ladies grumbling on and upon—rumour has it that Rhaenyra Targaryen is one of those heartbroken ladies who never truly accepted that you are his lady.

This certainly does not cross your mind by now when his lips pursuit your skin, deliciously devouring your neck—his gritted teeth leaving bruises all the way.

“My husband, I need more”, you whimper louder, impatiently so.

He leans back to smile at you, that way you like him to—carrying a mix of bashfulness and cheekiness— before saying:

“My darling spoilt brat”, he chuckles. “What have I raised?”

A peck in your lips and the man finally lowers his kiss. At long last your lust is satisfied and he cups each nipple, devouring you like a famine man.

It feels so good to have his tongue twisting it around your pink nipple, biting it, taking his time there. You arch your back, you want to play with his hair, but he’s still holding your wrists, tightening the grip as if saying he “owns” you.

And you blissfully give in. Specially when he stops caressing your boobs and slides a hand to your feminine part.

So suddenly you moan louder. For the moment his fingers are inside you, clutched within, digging a deep path to your uterus, your chest gets heavier and it is as if you have butterflies in your stomach.

“Come to me”, he is now standing his nude body so close to yours that sweats are mixed. “Come. I want to hear you scream my name.”

One look is enough and you are crying out his name, finally released off that unbearable pressure that has been within you.

“Daemon…”

“Y/N…”

And with no waiting for further playtimes, your legs are wrapped around his waist and he finally thrusts his erect manhood within you.

Locked against the wall, you two move synchronously, breath to breath, body to body. The fire of a dragon burns all over you an it feels good to be burnt alive.

As his thrusts match with the moves of your hips, climax seems to approach. He pulls you to his lips, before gently lifting you up only to lay you down at the table and there fucking you intently.

Hardly surprises anyone awake by that hour at the castle to hear indecent sounds echoing through it. This only means how the prince is in a very good mood indeed.

***

Daemon watches you sleep peacefully in his arms. Both of you are in his quarters now, poorly covered by a silk linen sheet over your bodies. His eyes linger in your heart-shaped face, in how serene you look with your eyes shut.

He puts delicately your y/c locks behind your ear, making sure none make you uncomfortable in your sleep. The prince looks at you with a sweet, almost secretive grin in his lips.

He loves his lady. He missed her company, her laughters, her body, her wit.

The prince holds you tight against him, drifting to sleep himself. In his mind he replays the scenes of the day he discovered you and him loved each other.

Such sheepish smile only spreads when, resting a hand over your belly, he is struck with a feeling he’s having an heir anytime now…

#Daemon Targaryen smut

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- Part 2

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham fic, TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse etc.

---

"What do you see?" asks Hannibal, forcing you, by an immovable hand at the base of your neck, to stare at your reflection in the mirror. "Speak the truth. It won't shock me, nor should you be ashamed of it."

You have already attempted to close your eyes against the glass, and were gently threatened into opening them again. Now you force your gaze to unfocus, refusing Hannibal in a way that even he surely cannot discern.

He says your name into the quiet with a subtle, yet dangerous edge. It is so rarely used now that you jolt almost guiltily, unsure whether, like Will, Dr Lecter can be frenzied to strike you.

Hannibal's threat is more of a sleek, hunting animal, you think, cunning and serene; he can be cruel in a manner of exact and elegant genius, the bruising of the psyche, and the soul.

"Don't disobey me," he says. "You will not welcome my disappointment."

A tremble of doe-like terror wreathes you in its grasp.

"Doctor," you whisper. "I want to quit. I'll pay you the money my parents sent for me to come here; I'm not a child, and I don't need any of this. I'm not playing your game. Please let me go home."

There is certainly no chance that your family are aware of and approve of this treatment; it is torture under a clinical guise, a sinister, sexual sadism.

Still you cannot deny that the longer you remain here, the more you begin to see Hannibal and Will in the roles that they take within these walls: the strict, hard-handed father, the nurturing and gentle dad.

Each are relentless in their goal to reduce you to their supplicant doll, driving you further into the same hungering madness they wish to cure.

"You cannot leave here," says Hannibal, almost affably. "Your family unburdened themselves by releasing you to more comprehending hands. They think less of your wellbeing, and more of the weight that they no longer carry. Do you believe they would accept you back if you were not cured?"

"There is no cure," you say, bitterly. "You said it yourself. No cure, just recovery and maintenance."

Hannibal strokes the back of your neck, soothing you even as you shudder in repulsion.

"And do you trust yourself to do that alone?"

You don't answer, sinking miserably against the man at your back if only so that you do not fall to the floor in your despair.

"Tell me, little one," Hannibal commands, and his left hand comes down your shoulder, across your breast, tracing your hip with the ease of ownership. "What do you see?"

Swaying, crying, you blink at the horror in the looking glass, this imperfect beast in the arms of so evil and oddly beautiful a man.

"Failure," you spit. "It's disgusting."

Hannibal leans into you, breathing in the scent of your hair, and kisses your temple.

"I see a perfect little girl. Or else one with the potential to be."

You shake your head, certain that he is taunting you. That he is not repulsed seems an impossibility; Will certainly makes no attempts to hide his disdain, even when he fucks you.

"I do not lie to my patients," Hannibal insists. "With instruction, discipline, and loving guidance, you will become everything you should already be."

Warmth under your skirt; Hannibal's fingers cupping your wretched heat, pressing themselves into a self-loathing wetness, a sobbing response to his words.

"You shouldn't do this to me," you say, as always, repeated like a prayer, all frantic fervour. "You're my doctor. You're hurting me."

"It's what is required for you to change. Why do you cling to your chrysalis when it no longer serves you? There is no sustenance in it. You hold yourself here because it is safe. Because it is known. You have grown to love the illness like family."

He circles the heart of your folds with fingers that know you with the certainty of language.

"I suggest that you exchange the subject of your affections for those that will return it."

His lips are soft against your neck, an angel come down in a romantic painting, or fallen, rather.

Your vision of the creature in the mirror disappears into a prism of tears.

"You don't love me, really," you whisper. "And Will... he hates me."

Hannibal pushes you forwards, against the mirror, bending your form in a balletic motion. You are glad that you cannot see yourself in such close proximity to the glass, only the pupil of your eye, black and endless.

"He does not hate you," says Hannibal, softly. "He is gripped by desires that anger him, for he neither wants nor understands them."

Your legs are eased apart, and you whimper as a sudden thickness parts you like a scroll.

"Sometimes he watches you when you sleep," Hannibal tells you. "He finds such beauty in you, when you allow yourself to dream."

#manna fic #ao3 writer #dark fic #hannibal lecter #dark hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham mention #hannibal fic #tw eating disorders #tw anorexia #dead dove do not eat #darkfic #dark!fic

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Daddy is at an event all smiley because he finally caught you and tied you down in his basement with a reminder that nobody says no to him 😊

You know, I had to do a tiny little drabble for you, sly.

Behind the Scenes

Warnings: kidnap, deception, allusions to other dark elements.

The frigid air pickles over your skin, clouding from your lips into the dark, a shiver rising from more than the temperature. You heave as your teeth chatter, the thin sheet your only semblance of warmth in the pitch black. The metal beneath you offers little more as you squirm.

The cuffs bite into the flesh of ankle and wrist, a heavy collar around your neck similarly chained to keep you trapped. Even if you were not bound, there is no escape from these walls. You squint but see nothing, yet you know they are there. That they are immovable.

You shudder and close your eyes. You hear him, feel the gentle caress along your forehead, a memory stirring as the echo of his breath grazes your cheek.

“I’m sorry, baby, but you can’t be good,” his voice is gravelly, rough with restraint, “maybe one day when you can behave.”

You clench your teeth. Your instinct is fear but a spark of rage flickers beneath the helplessness. He’s insane. Deluded. There will not be one day. There cannot be. If that day ever comes, you would no longer be you.

A crackle tears through the silence. Your eyes snap open as a haze casts over you, hues blurring around you. You stare at the ceiling, confused. Slowly, you turn your head. The wall is lined with screens, at least a dozen, each one a different size but projecting the same image. It’s him.

Bucky.

James Buchanan Barnes. Heart throb. Paparazzi bait. Hollywood’s most wanted. 

Whatever’s written in those rags, whatever he recites in those carefully curated interviews, no one could ever suspect the truth. Who he really is is even more far fetched than the movies he stars in. One would laugh in your face, even if they saw you then, quivering and bound.

“So, James,” the interview with her overly large mic gushes at him, “the rumour is you’re taking a break from the big screen. Is there a special reason?”

He smiles, his blue eyes gleam at the camera, his chiseled jaw even sharper in the lighting. No wonder he’s famous, no wonder he’s on the cover of every magazine, no wonder you were gullible enough to fall for his stupid act. You sneer as you watch with dread, the vision of him smiling scalds you to tears. A master of his craft indeed, to stand there and pretend so easily.

“I don’t wanna spoil anything,” he smiles as he pushes a long lock behind his ear, giving a coy grin as his eyes skirt away, “you know, I wanna just wait and see how things pan out.”

“It sounds like maybe… there’s someone special?” The interviewer prompts.

He shrugs. A barely believable evasion, “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

You suck in air as your heart tamps behind your ears. You turn your head straight, the spectrum of colours pulsing over you, limning your body in a soft glow. You can only move your head enough to see the rise and fall of your chest. You drop back futilely and sigh.

“I can imagine there are a lot of broken hearts out there right now, James, but we are truly happy for you,” the interviewer preens, “all the best. A good luck tonight.”

“I don’t need luck,” Bucky’s voice slices into you, “I’m the type of guy, I don’t wait for good things to come to me. I go out and get them.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #drabble #ask drabble #marvel #mcu #winter soldier #avengers #captain america

[twst-drabbles]

Vil 19

Summary: Vil is convinced he is cursed, and yet, nothing can be done. He has to rely on others to tell if his face was normal.

(Eldritch AU, featuring Vil suffering! And, uuuuuh, yeah we’re dealing with some nasty decay here. Like, Vil’s face is rotting off, at least to his eyes.)

Everything was melting under his finger tips. The flesh slothing down, sagging not with age but as though the blood beneath was nothing more than acid eating away at his face. At first, Vil has screamed, tossing the mirror away as though it was the cause of this curse.

He even clawed at Rook when he came running in, claiming that his face was as beautiful as always. Who wouldn’t? How can you believe anyone that what you saw was just an illusion? That even his very sense of touch was fooled? Vil wasn’t called a liar, he knows Rook too well, but the implication was still there.

Nothing, I’m afraid. I can’t find any signature or curse that would induce hallucinations.

Vil was never one to ignore when he clearly needed help, especially in regards to matters of health. But nothing was found. No magic, no cruel prank, not even a gas leak. All of this, a product of his own mind.

His own, failing mind.

Nobody can know. Nobody will know, save for the chosen few. You, especially, cannot know.

Today, Vil loses vision on his right eye. It popped out of his socket, dangled over his cheek as it spreads its rot through a hole in his face, infecting his teeth.

“How do I look?” Muscle memory was all he had to use as he put on his make up. Even when revulsion throbbed and jutted low in his stomach, Vil ignored the loose flaps of peeling skin as dug his fingers in.

“Nervous, mostly” You replied.

Vil jumped and banged his knee under the dresser. He knocked his seven personal mirrors right onto the floor. All of them shattered. Fragile, fragile things, the shards reflecting everything he does not want to see.

You approached, and as though the shards were eyes of their own, they all shifted to you.

You’re not Rook. Where’s Rook? How can he trust the words of anyone if Rook’s not there to tell him?

“Whe—” The breath he took was too deep, but it was one he can hide simply by grabbing his throbbing knee. “Why are you here? Where’s Rook?”

“Running an errand. I’m here to take his place, as he requested.” You reached into your own pocket as pulled out a mirror. “I am to be your appraiser for the day. I trust my words will hold the same weight as Rook’s or should I look for someone else?”

“I—” You and Rook. To deny that the both of you are gaining a friendship would be idiotic. As much as Vil knows how Rook sings the praises of anything he sees, he also knows that he keeps a measured distance for the sake of just being an admirer. Rook isn’t careless and so Vil knows you’re telling the truth. “Then, continue on. How do I look?”

“As I said, nervous, on edge,” you popped open the compact mirror. And for the first time in days, Vil sees his clear, if slightly stressed skin. A heavy haze lifted from his head and spine, and suddenly he was able to see from both eyes. “Your mascara is off, but I trust you’ll be able to fix it. You can have this mirror.”

Vil drew in a shuddering breath. He glanced down, the shards still reflecting your face, eyes steady and clear of any doubts and suspicion. The same as always. Never faltering, never stopping, always going at a pace that suited you best.

No wonder Rook has taken to being around you. Everyone needs an anchor. Perhaps Vil can find one in you?

“I’ll clean up the shards after this,” Vil gently wiped away the mess on his face, voice stern in such a way that left no room for negotiations. These mirrors are his. It’s his fault to bear. “Leave the broom by my door.”

“Of course.”

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst-drabbles #twst-drabbles exclusive #drabble #pomefiore #vil #vil schoenheit #eldritch au #reader insert

[loopielupie]

Whumptober Day 30 - Bridal carry

A follow-up to Day 26 (linked for convenience)

When Xie Lian wakes, he feels woozy: disconnected from his body, like everything is on a half-second delay.

It takes him a moment to remember: Ling Wen, his exhaustion finally catching up to him, and San Lang coming to his aid right when he needed him. With a questioning sound that catches more painfully in his throat than expected, he reaches out, eyes fluttering open. Silk sheets glide beneath his fingers until they're captured in a cold grasp.

Xie Lian blinks up to find Hua Cheng stretched out on the bed next to him.

"Mmm San Lang, how long was I asleep?"

"It's been about eight hours, gege," he replies quietly. Xie Lian feels a pang of guilt that he's kept Hua Cheng all to himself for that length of time while he just slept, but the smile sent his way tells him he shouldn't as he asks:

"How are you feeling?"

In truth? Xie Lian doesn't feel as well as he'd expected after that long asleep. His head feels fuzzy and throbs with dull, sluggish pain. It's then that he notices Hua Cheng's fingers feel much colder than normal. He squeezes them reflexively.

"San Lang, are you ok?" he reaches up to press a hand to Hua Cheng's forehead but is met with a look of confusion that turns to concern.

"You have a fever," Hua Cheng says, copying the gesture. Xie Lian can't help but lean into it, relishing the suddenly welcome cold as he hums a distracted "oh". What is not welcome are the symptoms that make themselves known, as if summoned. Xie Lian's headache grows worse and he feels gooseflesh spring up under his robes as he shudders.

"It appears you might be right," he sighs, running a clumsy hand through his sweat-damp hair. His fingers catch in his disheveled topknot but Hua Cheng's coax them free. He carefully guides Xie Lian into his lap and he presses his face into Hua Cheng's neck, allowing the Ghost King to gently release his hair. A cool hand trails through it to rest at the base of his skull and Xie Lian can't hold back the tiny sound of relief. Lips press against his temple then, followed by the gentle rush of words:

"Would gege like a bath?"

Xie Lian cannot deny that it sounds blissful with how his robes are starting to cling to him with fevered sweat. But he's still unconvinced he would be able to stay awake long enough.

"This one will take care of it, gege can just rest. This one won't let you drown."

"San Lang," Xie Lian chastises with a gentle swat to his chest. "That's not what I'm concerned about."

I know you'd never let anything bad happen to me.

"Oh, but there are other concerns?" He can tell Hua Cheng is teasing him but he's not sure quite whether this is something to blush over or not. In the end, he settles for pressing a kiss to Hua Cheng's neck, satisfied by the way the muscles jump under his lips.

"You've spent hours taking care of me but all you have received in return is a very poor house guest."

"My husband could never be a poor guest," Hua Cheng retorts, easily. "This is his home."

It's a sentiment that still draws a depth of emotion from Xie Lian that he never expected to feel again. To have a home again, in a place but also a person. There's a lump in his throat so all he can do is nod. Hua Cheng seems to see past that anyway, if the way his smile crinkles the corners of his eye is anything to go by. He tilts his head in that way that always means he's talking to Yin Yu.

"The bath is ready, gege."

Xie Lian lets himself be repositioned and lifted, giving himself over to Hua Cheng's strength. They don't have to go far, but Hua Cheng takes his time and Xie Lian lets himself ease into being carried this way and the gentle sway of his gait. There's no embarassment anymore, not when it's done with such tender affection. When he tucks his face back into the crescent of Hua Cheng's neck, it's only an effort to be closer. Xie Lian lets his lips rest over where his pulse would lie and mouths a tender sentiment into the skin.

"Gege? Is everything alright?" Hua Cheng hums, but his tone is knowing, contented, edged in warm satisfaction. The words buzz through Xie Lian's lips and he smiles in kind, that same warmth blooming under his skin, despite the fevered chills.

"En," he murmurs. "Everything is fine, San Lang."

#whumptober2023 #no.30 #bridal carry #tgcf #fic #no tws #hualian #bathing #sickfic #softness #comfort after the hurt

[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [8] chapter ii, part iii

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

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summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

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chapter summary : the morning after. loki and his guard play a game of twenty questions.

recommended listening : silvertongue, young the giant

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Loki blinked, leaning back slightly on his heels.

"Ah. A trick of the light, I suppose. I have been told that my eyes appear bluer in brighter, clearer light. In firelight or evening, or in the presence of ambient magic, they appear greener."

She hummed in acknowledgement, eyes drifting to the armoured plates strapped across his right shoulder, her fingers dragging across the ridge of her collarbone like a sympathetic impulse.

"Except- I reviewed every piece of footage available from the moment you first arrived."

A strange unease began to creep through him, like heavy, noxious effluvium, alerting a premonition.

"No matter the lighting- in the Mojave, in Stuttgart, on the Helicarrier in multiple sections of the craft, in Manhattan- inside or outside, day or night- blue. Only blue. Until the Hulk attacked you in the penthouse of Stark Tower. From then on, I can find the shades of green."

Loki gazed into her, disconcerted by the eerie calm settling over her.

And then he made the connection.

Windows to the soul. Blue eyes. The confrontation at the Tower-

His thoughts pitched violently at the implication, like a ship capsized by a storm.

He should dismiss it, redirect her suspicions, but his mind had seized up in sheer panic, brittle and sharp as the broken edge of the Bifrost, leaving him suspended over the indifferent, cosmic maw of open space, adrift and anchorless.

She can't know- if she knows, if she even suspects-

"There is a visible symptom," she continued ruthlessly, even as she spoke on the crest a shuddering exhale, "of the sceptre's mind control. The irises turn a distinctive, highly saturated blue. It was confirmed with both Agent Barton and Dr Selvig. The effect was lost and their eyes reverted to their natural blue after the sceptre's control was broken- in both cases, by a powerful blow to the head-"

"Stop," Loki snarled, shredding the underlying desperation until it was mutilated beyond recognition. A dull pain throbbed behind his eye, a psychosomatic reminder of what was at stake if he failed, if he couldn't convince her that she was wrong.

She met his eyes with a slow blink. The outline of his frame subsumed hers like a cage, coiled like a spring-trap snare, threatening to snap shut on her flesh, butchering her.

"Am I wrong?" She asked softly, insolently.

Loki was silent for a long moment.

Then he dipped his head, and laughed, gentle and bitter.

"Oh, beloved," he murmured mockingly, his eyebrows pulling together in hollow sympathy. "Is this all it took? Pretty words and a trick of the light, and that is all it takes to convince you? To take a shadow on the wall, and cherish it into a delusion?"

"Tell me I'm wrong," she said, unmoved.

Loki pressed his hand to the cold curve of the glass, leaning in over her.

"My darling," he susurrated, tender as a skimming touch across her jaw, "my eyes were not the same blue of those under the sceptre's command."

It was the truth. One too direct for her to deny.

"I know."

That unbalanced him. She remorselessly seized the advantage.

"And I also know how the sceptre works. I was ordered to inspect it after you were first apprehended," she explained fluidly. "Its control doesn't replace a person's mind, it influences what is already there. Barton enjoys the efficiency of a clean kill, and the satisfaction of completing a mission. Selvig delights in studying and understanding the intricacies of the universe. The sceptre pulled those traits to the forefront because they were useful. It amplified them until everything else felt insignificant, and used it to make them pliant. They were being offered what they wanted and valued most, and couldn't think of a reason why they shouldn't accept. All they had to do was obey."

She hardened.

"I could feel it. Something about that sceptre- thinks. It has a sentience, a malevolence, infecting anyone within reach. I could feel it- pulling at me. Plucking at every emotion and impulse inside me, like pizzicato on a violin, testing what would make me turn. I almost-"

She cut herself off, the hand at her clavicle closing into a fist, knuckles straining bloodless.

For the first time since she had first arrived, she looked defensive, guarded, clenched in against herself.

Loki abruptly realised that she had never reacted to him that way.

She had never been unguarded, but from the start, she had wanted to be.

After a moment, the emotion simmered away, and her lip curled in quiet anger.

"I gave my report. Recommended a quarantine. It was dismissed as a low threat, since there was no danger of direct control," she quoted resentfully, "unless someone was holding it. Fury and the Avengers convened in the lab where the sceptre was being kept. There was a disagreement. It escalated, quickly. Too quickly, too intensely. They were at each other's throats within a few minutes. Minutes." Her eyes sliced across him, carving in deep curving arcs. "I can extrapolate what could happen over hours- days- months of exposure to that."

Loki watched her, his eyes flicking between hers.

"Ah. A shadow on the wall," he forced himself to wonder, the shape of his mouth turning pitying, "and guesswork?"

It was like exposing a cinder to pure oxygen.

The fire flared beneath the surface of her skin, the resolution coalescing in her eyes like clotting blood- and she abruptly turned away, striking towards her duffel bag where it was tucked at the base of the control terminal.

She rummaged violently through the bag, retrieving a notebook and forcefully flipping through it until she found the correct page, drifting back towards him.

"First: your condition when you arrived. Exhibiting extreme fatigue and symptoms of heatstroke- pallor, clamminess, unsteadiness, elevated pulse and respiration," she listed, clinical and precise. "And your encounters with the Avengers are proof that, like Thor, you are made of sterner stuff than the average baseline human. Whatever caused your condition, it was severe- more severe than any punishment you took here, given that your condition has improved since you arrived. Second-"

"What are you doing?" Loki interjected, quick and low, frictionless as a sheet of black ice.

She lifted her eyes from the page.

"Guesswork," she quipped, sibilants hissing like a brand on flesh. "Second. Your reaction to SHIELD's armed response team. Quick, reactive, hyperalert- centuries of battlefield experience and reflex, thrown into a blender with survival instinct. That wasn't the behaviour of an aggressor, that's someone being hunted, conditioned into expecting an attack and striking first. Strange mindset for a conqueror with an army at his back, no? Third: under the sceptre's control, at that distance, under those conditions, Agent Barton had no reason not to take the headshot on Fury. Instead, he aimed for his centre mass. Fury was wearing a bulletproof vest, which Barton knew, and he would have retained that knowledge under mind control. Barton is an excellent shot. He didn't miss. He chose not to take the kill shot- while under your command. Fourth: the entire incident in Stuttgart, but to start with," she said, bellicose and exasperated, "how no one else clocked that the device you used was mostly an illusion, I will never understand- the three auxiliary spinning blades were so unnecessary, where would you even get something like that-"

"I believe you will find that Dr Heinrich Schäffer is still under intensive medical care," Loki mentioned coldly.

"Ah, right- Dr Schäffer," she broke off, tapping the notebook against her arm, keeping her place with one finger trapped in its spine. "Curious that you remember his name. I would have thought it beneath you. Actually, I almost forgot it, before I re-read the report. Curiouser still is that his attending medical team will soon discover the damage to his eye and extraocular muscles was far less severe than anticipated. In fact," she said pointedly, cocking her hip, "it will be limited to a few shallow lacerations that will miraculously heal with no scarring. Almost as though they never even existed. I imagine that his memory of the incident will also become very vague- easily chalked up to a trauma response, of course."

Loki's jaw clenched.

It wasn't a casual insight. Her observations were too focused and too detailed to be anything less than the result of a purposeful hunt.

She must have known what she was looking for.

It wouldn't have been much of a challenge, at least for her, to find it once she was set on it; there was a surfeit of contradictions to be found under the surface, the illusion imperfect from hasty construction. He had relied on making it convincing enough that no one would tap into its depths, because they believed that no such depths existed- there hadn't been the time or the liberty to design redundancies, or craft anything that would hold under scrutiny.

For the most part, it had worked.

The woman before him was an unanticipated factor.

"Fifth," she said, holding his stare for a moment longer before flicking open the notebook. "You stole the iridium in the most painfully obvious, attention-catching way possible. Dr Banner and Dr Stark would have to be clinically braindead not to realise that Selvig was devising a method to stabilise the portal. Meaning that you handed them the opportunity to prepare a counterstrike on a silver platter. Sixth- your words in Germany, before Rogers' dramatic entrance. Look to your elder, people. Let him be an example." She looked up at him, brewing with a quiet fire. "I heard you. I heard what you didn't mean for anyone to hear. It's always darkest under the lamp, and a lie is the perfect place to hide a truth, who would suspect a villain's taunt of being in earnest-"

"Enough," Loki snapped dismissively, turning aside sharply and taking three quick steps away from the glass, as far as he could without hitting the wall, before swivelling back. "I tire of this pathetic scavenging-"

"Seventh," she spoke over him forcefully, no longer referencing the notebook, a strange frantic energy beginning to swirl up within her, "you may have trapped Thor in that cell and dropped him over thirty thousand feet, but you locked him in a glass cage with a nigh-indestructible war hammer that he can use to fly. Eight: you led the Avengers straight to you with your comment about a warm light for all mankind to share. Nine- like Barton, Dr Selvig somehow managed to retain enough control and free will to install a backdoor to shut down the portal- ten, the key to said backdoor was the powerful sceptre that you left lying around on the balcony of Stark Tower for Romanoff to stroll over and collect- eleven, the assault itself was so uncoordinated that I'm losing my mind, don't you dare tell me that you were actually trying-"

"Darling-" Loki hissed dangerously, stalking towards her.

"Twelve! I can taste your magic, you could strip the flesh from my bones in seconds, could wrench this cell apart and escape, but you haven't, you showed nothing of it during the battle in New York, so why- and thirteenth-"

She snapped the notebook shut and tossed it behind her with a clang, her breathing thick, hazel eyes like gold dust and open flame.

"The death toll. It's still being counted, but I looked, and focused. I nearly blacked out and managed to give myself a migraine, but I have my answer. And it is- miraculously low. Seventy-four civilians. Six from the national guard. From a city-wide surprise attack on NYC, population approximately eight-point-two million."

Coiled tense, Loki glared into her. She was trembling with adrenaline, visibly fighting against the rush, sketches of champagne hair cast about her shoulders, her decolletage stuttering as though she was fighting to drag in air, hot as a fresh bruise- and it hit him.

What he had seen before, that which she had kept supressed and firm in her grip, was not quite fear, not wholly.

It was desperation.

Suddenly, she laughed ruefully, stepping back and breaking open the space between them, lifting the pressure off his chest.

"Shit," she cursed softly, pressing the pads of her fingers into her browbone, "sorry. I'm being unfair, aren't I?"

"Unfair?" Loki echoed, unable to formulate anything else as a response.

She bit down on her lip so hard that, when she spoke again, he could see the indent in the reddened flesh.

"A question for a question," she murmured, as though reminding herself. "Truth for truth. Right?"

Her arms crossed, steeling herself.

"I know that I'm not human."

The admission punched a hole through Loki's chest.

Her fingers bit divots into her upper arms, holding the unscrewed parts of herself together.

"I was-"

Hesitation choked her.

Loki watched her close her eyes, throat working as she altered the words until they were forced to run smooth.

"Found. Under what you could call unusual circumstances. I had no memory of my past. All I knew was my name, that I wasn't human, and that I could see the truth in all things and couldn't lie. The man that I would come to call my father rescued me. He took me in. He raised me, kept entities like SHIELD from finding me. I was-"

A fond smile cracked her features.

"He called me his changeling child. His colleagues were- wary. Understandably. But it was never a concern for him. He would always say that being human was no guarantee of being good. In fact, they could be real bastards," she quoted with a nostalgic smile and a mimicked, neutral American accent. "Whatever I was or wasn't, it was irrelevant to him. I had free will- which meant I could make my own choices and form my own moral compass. He said that was infinitely more important than something as arbitrary as being human. He believed it so much that I began to believe it too. I made my compass. I chose a vocation. I fell in love with it, and I was damn good at it, and I began to think it would be alright if I never knew what I had forgotten. But then- there was an incident."

She pressed her fingertips into her sternum, her eyes distant, as though she could break the bone and reach into her chest cavity, groping and clawing the kernel of unknown out of herself to examine.

"I tapped into something inside me. Lying dormant, or- bottled up. A raw power. I was cracked open. I couldn't ignore it, or forget it was there. I couldn't unknow. It was there and it was strong and it- scared me. I couldn't call it a non-issue anymore. I needed to know what it is. What I am. I told my father. He was worried, of course, but he supported my decision. So I left. I went looking for answers. SHIELD was an obvious starting point. They took notice of my incursions, and started trying to track me, laid traps baited with false information or informants, but I was careful. I scrubbed through their archives, looked over every operation. I found nothing. But then- then. New Mexico."

Loki remembered.

Thor's banishment.

"It caught my attention. I investigated. I sensed the residual energy signatures," she said quietly, "in the scorch marks in the desert, in the crater of the impact site. And I recognised them. Somehow, they were familiar. I knew them even before I looked at the SHIELD report. Bifrost. Mjolnir. I knew that energy, even if I couldn't remember it. After so long of chasing nothing but shadows on the wall and tricks of the light, I finally had something. Anything that SHIELD had on interstellar artifacts and deep space research, I hunted down. I tracked the Destroyer to the SHIELD Headquarters in New York, and broke into the facility to examine it. I kept tabs on Dr Foster's research on Einstein-Rosen Bridges. I uncovered Project PEGASUS, out in the Mojave- and the Tesseract. The files from the forties, the eighties, the current research- from Howard Stark to Wendy Lawson to Erik Selvig. All of it."

She combed her hair back from her face, laughing humourlessly.

"Like I said. I was careful, before. But- I was so close. I wanted it so badly. I did something reckless. SHIELD found me. For three weeks I gave them nothing, but eventually they threatened to release my likeness to every major intelligence agency in the world." Her nails raked at the crook of her neck. "I'd been meticulous. My identity led to nowhere. But if anything could be traced to my father- even if it was the ghost of a chance, it was a risk I couldn't take. I decided to bend, instead of break."

That, Loki understood intimately. It was the decision to survive, to remain intact, against forces that would take and remake. It was the choice of shrewd pragmatism rather than naïve courage, a scalpel's logic to a sledgehammer's brute force.

Like wet sand, he watched her collapse into herself in one smooth motion.

"They put me in an airless metal box," she said hollowly, "and only took me out to work. A toolbox, I kept thinking. I was valuable, but they had to keep me contained. I only interacted with authorised personnel. I could count those on one hand. My movements were restricted. I was kept either in my quarters or the testing rooms, unless under armed guard and with my handler. Again, one hand. It was months since I had seen the sky. I had nothing but time to think, and rethink." She canted her head to the side, expression blank. "Three months ago, we were in a communal kitchen. Romanoff was cutting up peaches. She left the paring knife on the counter and she turned her back. It was an obvious test. They wanted to see if I would attack her, or palm the knife- or if I'd do nothing. If I could be turned."

She was perfectly still, eyes glazing.

"I used it to sever my carotid artery."

Loki lurched forwards in a convulsive half-step towards her.

Unseeing, she reached up and rapped at the column of her throat with her index finger, just beneath her left ear.

"Here. It was a clean cut. But Romanoff was quick. She pinched off the artery before I could bleed out. I spent a week in the medical bay. Over three hundred stitches."

She blinked back into herself, looking at Loki, and offered a clean, bright rictus of a smile.

Loki recognised that smile. He had worn it enough times, edgeless and numb as delirium.

"I get to see the sun now. And clothes that aren't identical jumpsuits. So that's nice."

Unbridled, unadulterated ire clawed at his insides, scaling the ladder of his ribs, his magic seething in accord, lashing at the surface of his skin and demanding to be unleashed.

Loki imagined simply unlocking it and allowing it to rage, corroding steel into rust as though by decades of saltwater, blasting the thick glass into fine sand, overloading the electrical cables in the walls until they snapped and popped like dislocated joints, then letting his magic find a culpable flesh target to tear apart like barbed hooks.

He could taste copper and iron.

"I should have forced Barton to take the headshot," Loki heard himself say.

Her laugh broke on the edge of a hysterical sob, swaying forward, head dropping and the sweep of her pale blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders to curtain her face.

"You're sweet," she choked out, pressing the heel of her palm against her eye.

"How long?" Loki demanded.

She took a steadying breath.

"August of last year," she admitted. "Well- July."

He performed a quick calculation through Midgard's standardised calendar. Nine or ten solar months.

"And how long will they keep you?"

"Until the project they have me working on is complete," she said noncommittally, lifting her head, face upturned just enough to force her curls to slip back over her shoulder like a snowdrift. "Projected for next September. Just over a year."

"Much can happen in a year," he said darkly, before he could rethink the words.

She pressed her lips together.

"Loki."

Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears, thick and precarious against the brim of her dark lashes, blurring out the clear hazel of her irises- but the rest of her held steady as sun-soaked marble, a strange contrast of vulnerability and resolve.

She had offered up herself, as collateral. She had effectively pulled off her vambraces and drawn the daggers from her sleeves, tossing them out of reach, unarmed, offering up bare skin and open veins and-

Pomegranate seeds, Loki thought wildly.

It was a Midgardian myth. While learning Latin and Greek outside of the translation of Allspeak, Loki had come across the damaged, earliest account of the tale that explained how the four seasons of the Mediterranean had come to be. In the centuries since the Homeric Hymn to Demeter had been put to page, the myth had been retold and reinterpreted within its blank spaces, where sections had been lost to the ravages of time, reframed in different contexts with the same template.

The most common variation: Persephone ate the pomegranate seeds willingly.

Loki's mind repainted the story vividly.

From a realm of gold and light and endless glory, a deity had fallen far, through a barren, unfamiliar world of death and darkness. In a chamber locked away from the sun, his captor came to him, her heart in the colour of the ruby jewels in the palm of her hand.

Stay, she entreated. Let me have you.

Loki could taste the tart fruit, splitting between his teeth onto his tongue like a sunburst, a consenting condemnation.

"What do you want from me?" He asked quietly.

She blinked, sending the gathered tears gliding down her face, and she scraped them away with the back of her hand roughly. A short, blunt laugh left her.

"You."

She meant exactly what she said. Loki could hear the stain of confusion, and self-loathing, and utter certainty.

He could only speculate on which part of him she had coveted for herself, had wanted to carve out of the whole, discarding the rest as refuse.

She smiled- a confluence of confidence and acquiescence- and squared her shoulders, sniffling away the remnants of her tears.

"I don't ask what I'm not willing to give," she said firmly, her voice abraded. "You only have to ask. You can have it."

She turned away too quickly, collecting the notebook to bury back within the duffel bag.

Loki refused to think on it.

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#a hollow promise #cross posted on ao3 #Spotify #marvel fanfiction #avengers fanfiction #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki x original female character #loki x ofc #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #loki friggason #mcu loki #post-avengers 2012 #fix it au #no beta we die like canon by my blade #writing #chapter update #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #ao3 link

[shannaraisles]

Don't Look - for @euryalex

A little bit of hurt/comfort angst and fluff for the lovely @euryalex, who is an absolute treasure to work with. Thank you, my lovely!

Don't Look

The moon rose high and full, casting silvered light across the quiet city. In a forgotten corner, tucked away from the thieves and the nobles and all those who were always seeking more, a mirror flickered in the glow of the moon, the reflection seeming to beckon the viewer closer. 

Tara stood before it, her face turned away from that reflection. She could not bring herself to look, knowing what she would see, unwilling to face the reminder of her weakness, her failure. Mutilation inflicted upon her person, at her own hand, by a being somehow less capable of compassion and care than the illithid that threatened them all. Bile coated her throat as she forced the memory of that terrible scene from her mind, refusing to face it, to recall what she had allowed to be done to herself. To acknowledge that she had more strength to defend those she loved than to defend her own self. It was too bitter to revisit, too raw to dare touch upon. Not yet.

“Dear one.”

The warmth of Wyll’s voice sent a shudder through her, even as he stepped from the shadows to curl an arm about her waist, drawing her into his unquestioning embrace. She stood stiff in the circle of his arms, unable to bring herself to reach for him, to accept the comfort he offered. How could she, when she had shown herself to be so unworthy of it?

“Tara, look at me.”

She shook her head, shivering in the grip of her own denial, her own pain, as the heat of his breath warmed her brow, as his lips traced undeserved kisses against her skin. His hands tightened on her, refusing to let her pull away even if she had the strength to try. 

“I am not leaving you to fall into this darkness,” he murmured. “I may not know the depth of the pain, but I know that facing it is where you can begin to put it away.”

“I can’t,” she began, faltering when he pressed a kiss to the curve of her cheekbone, so close to the evidence of her weakness. 

“That is not truth, dearest one,” he said, his voice deliberately low, gentle, but somehow determined. “It is not that you can’t, but that you won’t. And I do know that reluctance, at least in part. I swear to you, you can do this. It will not be easy, it may feel as though it is tearing you apart, but I will be here every moment. I will not let you fall from me.”

Hesitation filled her mind. Could she? Could she truly raise her gaze to his? Did she have any right to meet the eyes of a man who knew himself through and through, a man who seemed to have never told himself any lies and been caught in them? His finger gently curled beneath her chin, urging her head up, his own head ducking to catch her before she could flicker her eyes away from his. 

“There you are.”

His smile was just as warm, just as affectionate as ever. It was as though he saw nothing wrong with her; as though he did not even notice the ugly scar that crossed from her brow to her cheek, or the rheumy white of her damaged eye. How could he look at her and not flinch away? How could he stand to see her so ugly?

His grip on her chin remained, gentle but firm, refusing to allow her to hide from the warmth in his loving gaze.

“Tara.” Her name on his lips was tender, unflinching, denying her any hope of escaping from this loving intervention he had chosen to stage before she could sink too far from his grasp. “Talk to me. Give me the words you cannot say to yourself.”

She stared at him, her mouth working in impotent silence for one long, terrible moment. How did he know? How could he possibly have known that she could not say this to herself and truly mean it?

“I-I ...” She shook her head, her eyes flickering away from the unwavering honesty of his. “How can you bear to look at me? I’m hideous, and I ... I did this to myself.”

“No.”

His grip on her tightened imperceptibly, urging her to look back at him, to see the stern certainty in his face as he stared down her unkindness to herself.

“You are more beautiful in this moment than I have ever seen you before,” he said, already speaking over her objections before she could even begin to voice them. “No, listen to me. You may feel disfigured, and you have every right to feel that. But it does not take away from the beauty of the woman you are. Do these horns make me any less in your eyes?”

“Of course they don’t,” she rushed to assure him. “Wyll, you are beautiful to me, no matter whether you wear horns or not.”

“And yet you will not believe me when I tell you that you are beautiful to me, no matter the scars on your face?”

Tara faltered, unable to respond for an agonising moment, knowing he spoke truth to her even in these terrible throes of shame and pride and broken edges. She twisted in the circle of his arms, fingers grasping the worn leather of his vest.

“But ... I did this to myself!” She bit down on a wail, fighting back the tears that so desperately wanted to fall in the wake of what had happened in Aevan’s lair not so many hours before. “I was weak. I let him hurt me again, and again, and I did nothing!”

“Tara ...”

He gripped her shoulders, shaking her just a little, just enough to draw her attention back to him before he lost her into the maelstrom of her anguish.

“How can you say that about yourself?” he demanded, not harsh but not gentle. “Do you know what I saw in those moments? I saw strength. I saw selfless love. Love for us, for the friends and companions who are yours to command. You would rather endure pain, lasting damage, than raise a hand to those who choose to give you their loyalty and love. Do you have any idea how precious that is to us? To me?”

“Precious?”

He held her gaze, somehow managing to ease even closer into her embrace, to draw her closer into his, all the while refusing to allow her to look away, to hide the disfigurement of her face from his loving eyes. 

“No one,” he whispered to her, each word a tender kiss on the air, “no one has ever protected me as you did today. I do not see a scar, my dearest one. I see all your courage, all your strength, all the beauty of your noble soul, laid bare for the world to see.”

His lips, so warm and sure, laid a soft kiss directly over the lid of her colourless eye, and Tara felt the dam inside her begin to break. Slowly, with at first one sob tightly suppressed ... then another, and another, until at last the storm broke within and without, shaking her form, ravaging her calm, forcing all her pain and pride and broken self to the surface to be cleansed by the devastation of allowing herself consent to simply let it all go. She shuddered and shook, clutching to him, clinging to her only anchor in a storm not entirely of her own making, as her ravaged face twisted and contorted, sucking in huge, gulping breaths between ugly bouts of barking grief for what she had done and what she had lost. And Wyll was there through it all, holding her close, rocking her tenderly, giving her time and space and safety to feel it all and find her way back to him, no longer a slave to the petty cruelty of a man who now could never hurt her again.

Even after, as the storm passed, leaving her hiccuping and small in its wake, ashamed of her outburst and afraid to look up once again, Wyll remained, big hands stroking through her hair, down her back, gathering her close as he swayed to a tune only he heard. Offering kisses to her bitten lips, taking the unkindness of her words from her and returning them with the sweetness of his love. 

“You will forever be beautiful to me, my dearest one,” he whispered to her, each breath more of a promise than the last of the life they might now finally be free to pursue together, once the looming peril was done. “You have my heart in your hands, now and forever more.”

She hiccuped again, dashing the wetness from her cheeks as she looked up at him with a half-smile daring to make itself known on her face. 

“I think that would be rather messy,” she managed. “Better to keep it in your chest, where it belongs.”

Wyll chuckled, hugging her tight as she finally leaned into him, tucking her face into the crook of his shoulder as he kissed her hair fondly.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he conceded. “It would be a little distracting to have a beating heart thumping away in your fist while you’re busy staring down a merchant with a bad attitude.”

She giggled - just a little, just enough that the sound from her was no longer laden with grief or pain, nestling into the wrap of his arms with the sense that she was finally back where she belonged. Aevan had no place here. She would never let him come between them again.  No, she hadn’t looked into the mirror, and she wouldn’t, not for some time yet. But it didn’t seem to matter quite so much that her imperfect perfection had been marred. Time would change her anyway; this had simply accelerated a process that was going to steal beauty from her physical form eventually. So long as Wyll still wanted her, broken and bruised as she was, then who was she to argue? And if others had a problem with her appearance, then she could always tell them to do as she did ... don’t look.

#niamh's writing #euryalex #commission #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #wyll ravengard #oc - tara lunarsong #wyll x tara #wyll x oc #hurt/comfort #angst #fluff #tw: scars #tw: mentions of abuse #tw: mentions of physical violence #but with a happy ending #promise

[nirikeehan]

The Black Company Writing Prompts

All taken from lines of The Black Company by Glen Cook. (Feel free to switch up genders and fill in [X]s when prompting.)

This version is rebloggable! Feel free to use for your own prompt lists.

[X] is misery curdled, but also ancient and intriguing. Its history is a bottomless well filled with murky water. I amuse myself plumbing its shadowy depths, trying to isolate fact from fiction, legend, and myth.

His manner was not that of a street beggar, yet he looked like a lot of bad road.

“Care to illuminate what just happened?” “No.”

Those men whose stories I have uprooted are running from the law, not a tragic love affair.

I wish I could look inside them and unmask the darks and brights that move them. Then I take a quick look into the jungle of my own soul and thank heaven that I cannot. Any man who barely sustains an armistice with himself has no business poking around in an alien soul.

The cursing and weeping resolved into a scene fit to disgust anyone tainted with humanity.

War is a cruel business prosecuted by cruel men. The gods know [X] are no cherubim. But there are limits.

Whatever the upheaval in his life, it had left him living entirely in the present. He was compelled by the past and oblivious to the future.

“It’s a persuasive sort of nonsense. It hangs together in a certain elegant illusion of hope.”

These people said they were the good guys, fighting for the right, liberty, and the dignity of the human spirit, but in method they were no better than [X]. 

He exuded something that made me feel the way an arachnophobe might if you dropped a big hairy spider into his lap.

You know them better than kin. You had fought side by side for years. Not all of them were friends, but they were family. The only family you had.

He says he does not believe in history.

A dead soul now, maybe. He can make a man shudder with a glance. He exudes a stench of the grave.

Lately his mission in life has been to disapprove.

The planted rumor. The small frame. The touch of bribery or blackmail. Those are the best weapons. We opt for battle only when we have our opponents mousetrapped. At least ideally.

When you have the smaller battalions you learn guile.

He is fighting for everything men claim to honor: freedom, independence, truth, the right.… All the subjective illusions, all the eternal trigger-words. 

We are minions of the villain of the piece. We confess the illusion and deny the substance.

There are no self-proclaimed villains, only regiments of self-proclaimed saints. Victorious historians rule where good or evil lies.

“When is [X] going to show?” “When he gets here.”

Two blind armies, able to see nothing but one another.

Someday that great stone face is going to break. I hope I am there to see it.

I gathered we were going to unleash the dark side of human nature.

Something unusual was in the wind. Those in the know found it delicious. Though I could not guess what it was, I knew it would be slick and nasty.

The world needs places where men of all stripes and stations can step outside the usual strictures.

That went on for hours at a time, the movement of whetstone across steel sending chills down my spine. It was an omen.

I do not like alleys. I especially do not like them in cities like [X], where they harbor every evil known to man, and probably a few still undiscovered.

“Only a conqueror bothers to honor a fallen foe.”

I have hung armor plate over my moral soft spots.

They are complete barbarians, living out their cruelest fantasies, their behavior tempered only by the presence of a few decent men.

When you slice through the fog, you find that these two are friends.

The difference between him and the rest of us is that he is a little more of everything, a little bigger than life.

His moral agonies have become our moral agonies. His silent refusal to howl and beat his breast in adversity is ours as well. We prefer to speak with the metallic voice of our arms.

[X] has that knack, that energy, that impact of personality, to make men, more dangerous than he, shudder in his cold dark wind.

“Make it stop looking at me. Make it stop. I’ve been good. Make it go away.”

Sometimes my interest scares me. It gets close to becoming an obsession.

I had tipped the lid off a little box, just to see what was inside, and had found it filled with nastiness. The things I had read could not be unlearned.

Had I been less exhausted I might have jumped ten feet, screaming.

The softer, the more gentle he became, the more I felt I had to fear.

“Thanks. For a while I felt human again.”

A man cannot survive on hatred alone. Would he bother trying to survive what was coming?

I was scared. A man thinking that way could get a little flashy, a little dangerous to those around him.

“Don’t be so optimistic,” he said sarcastically. I shivered uncontrollably.

How many details will be lost in the oral histories I will have to collect after the fact? How many men will fall without their deaths being observed at all?

I am haunted by the clear knowledge that, in the end, evil always triumphs.

“The unwritten law of all armies. The lower ranks have the privilege of questioning the sanity and competence of their commanders. It’s the mortar holding an army together.”

The stars came out. They stared down with mockery in their twinkles, saying all our sweat and blood really had no meaning in the long eye of time. Nothing we did would be recalled a thousand years from now.

Her thoughts are delightfully straightforward, a refreshing contrast in a world filled with devious, prevaricating, unpredictable, scheming people.

No one will sing songs in our memory. … We are our only mourners.

I was almost neurotically anxious that some men had been lost and would be forgotten.

He could become the shadow in the darkness that all men fear, taking them one at a time, leaving only mangled remains to fill the living with terror. I envied him even while I loathed him.

“I’m not much on prophecies. They sound too much like superstition. But this makes me nervous.”

“Dream us a victory,” he suggested.

Part of winning is a downdeep certainty that, no matter how bad things look, a road to victory will open.

Sometimes you lie to yourself just to keep going.

My giggles became crazy laughter.

Soldiers defeated always overestimate the strength of their foe. That soothes egos suspecting their own inferiority.

The great comet is in the sky, that evil harbinger of all great shifts of fortune.

We are retreating still, toward our final appointment with Destiny.

My war was over and lost. All I wanted to do was run.

“Evil is relative. You can’t hang a sign on it. You can’t touch it or taste it or cut it with a sword. Evil depends on where you are standing, pointing your indicting finger.”

There are the physically dead and the morally dead. My comrades were among the latter.

I am not religious. I cannot conceive of gods who would give a damn about humanity’s frothy carryings-on. I mean, logically, beings of that order just wouldn’t.

But maybe there is a force for greater good, created by our unconscious minds conjoined, that becomes an independent power greater than the sum of its parts. Maybe, being a mindthing, it is not time-bound. Maybe it can see everywhere and everywhen and move pawns so that what seems to be today’s victory becomes the cornerstone of tomorrow’s defeat.

Characters like me don’t become prophets. Especially not from the wrong side.

#writing prompts

[waltwhitmansbeard]

turned my water into wine #6

see my masterpost for what came before this. this drabble takes place after chapter twenty-three of my fair lady. prompted by both @blorbologist and @tiamat-zx. inspired by @romeoandjulietyouwish's medieval au.

Vex cannot believe she is expected to perform her duties as usual as if she did not spend this morning watching her brother, her twin, her best friend, her other half, marry a princess in secret. As soon as the little ceremony was finished—so sweet, the two of them, flushed in the dawn light with the promise they'd just made to each other, yes, perhaps her heart of ice melted, just a tad—they'd all scurried off to wherever they were meant to be, eager not to get caught in the absurd circumstance they were just in. Vex climbed to her office in the guard tower in a daze, trying to wrap her mind around her sister-in-law, the princess.

Now it is nearing noon, and she must eat before she starves. As is her wont, she winds her way to Percy's study, a cat slinking through its familiar alleys, and finds him there staring at some ledger and very clearly not reading. She raps on the open door and startles him out of his reverie. "Can't imagine what's got you so lost in your own thoughts," she deadpans, throwing herself into a chair opposite his desk and snatching some grapes from his leftover breakfast plate.

He laughs, pulling his glasses off to rub at his eyes. "Yes, well..." The door is still open, and they must be careful. "It was an early morning, to be sure."

Vex is contemplating how to have the conversation in euphemism, but before she has to, Pike stomps into the room, slamming the door shut behind her. "Are either of you coming unglued as keenly as I am?" she demands.

Vex kicks the other chair in front of Percy's desk so it skids to face her. "Sit, Pike, and let us grouse about our truly ridiculous friends."

Pike clambers up into the chair. "It was not until I returned for my morning devotions that I realized what we'd done. If the sovereign finds out how we've participated in this..." She lets the threat of it hang in the air.

Percy sighs. "Yes, we have taken on a liability, that is for certain. But at the risk of sounding saccharine..." He leans back in his chair. "I shudder to think of the man I would have become had I not been so steadfastly loved by Keyleth from the moment of my arrival in Zephrah. Of course, my care, my education, my position in court are thanks entirely to the sovereign and his endless generosity, and I owe him my life and my loyalty and so much more, but...she is, as you said, my truly ridiculous friend, and I cannot imagine a world in which I deny her her heart's greatest wish."

Vex knows he speaks true. One of the first things he learned about him, in the earliest days of their liaison, was his ceaseless love for the princess. She worried, in fact, that his love was something romantic, something with which she would feel the urge to compete, but she could not have been more wrong. She knows now that Percy loves her like he loved the sisters he lost, and thinks of her with fondness and vigilance of an elder brother. And in truth, she is glad the two of them have each other, since they both lost so much at such tender ages.

"I, of course, feel the same about Vax," she says quietly. "The truth of the matter is, he has given up a great deal for me. I was..." She swallows thickly. "I believed the lie I told myself about my father, that some day, if I worked hard enough, if I behaved well enough, I could earn his affection. I was wrong, and Vax, gods bless him, knew the reality of his cruelty long before I did. His insistence that we leave saved me from untold heartbreak at the hands of that man so...yes, even though I still think this..." She drops her voice to a whisper, just in case. "...marriage with the princess will end in heartbreak yet, I will never be able to look him in the eye and tell him I do not support his wild pursuit of happiness."

"Well, perhaps this could be a good thing," Pike suggests hopefully. "Perhaps now, when word spreads of what happened, there will be more...leeway for unions between those of different stations." Vex keeps her eyes trained hard on the inkwell on Percy's desk, barely breathing. "Courtly negotiations are always so formal and rigid, and I should think we would all be better off if we could love without regard to wealth or title."

If Vex nods, she doesn't feel it. All she can feel are the pair of icy blue eyes boring into the side of her head that she cannot meet right now. "Yes, well," she croaks out—oh, curse her tremulous throat. "Be that as it may, right now we ought to be concerned with our present circumstance. Do think he'll hang us for our betrayal, or shall we live out the rest of our days in the dungeons?" She's attempting levity, but she can't keep the hollow tone out of her voice.

"Vex'ahlia," Percy chastises, and oh if that doesn't make her toes curl. As Pike buries her face in her hands with a groan, he rushes to reassure her. "Sovereign Korrin is a good and fair man. If anyone is going to die, it's Vax."

"Percival!"

He shrugs at Vex's outburst. "He's the idiot who fell in love with her."

He's not wrong.

Pike claps her hands together. "Alright, enough. We are now being the truly ridiculous friends. This is a day of joy! Our friends are wed, and they are happy, and we are happy for them, regardless of what the future holds. Yes?" The question is pointed, demanding agreement.

Vex chuckles. "Alright, Pike. Yes, as foolish as my brother and the princess are, I am happy that they are happy."

"Agreed." Percy pushes from his desk and stands. "Come. Let us find Keyleth and Vax, and we'll have our lunch together, and we will remind our friends how happy we are."

Pike hops off her seat and makes for the door. As he rounds the desk, Percy reaches out to snag Vex's wrist. She looks to him, confused, and when their eyes meet, there's something in his that she cannot identify. They look at each other half a moment, Vex's spine suddenly tingling with some strange energy, and then his hand and his eyes are gone, and he is following Pike from the study, and she is left there, strangely warm and confused.

#remember when i said you weren't getting two of these today? #well bitch cALL ME RAISHAN BC I AM A DISEASED DECEIVER BABY #critcal role #critical role fic #cr fic #vaxleth #vaxleth fic #vaxleth au #vox machina #vox machina fic #vox machina au #tlovm #tlovm fic #my fair lady #my fic #turned my water into wine

[blackjackkent]

OK, I need to pause here shortly but will continue soon (tomorrow maybe?) - however, Springy informed me that there is followup conversation from the owie of the last post that would happen after we rested.

Kept getting attacked by wolves trying to sleep in the forest, so I had to port everyone back to the pocket plane in order to get a night's rest. But sure enough...feels time!

It is hard enough to sleep in the pocket plane as it is. Caden and the others find spaces to curl up in the imposing shadows of the strange, horrifying statues that line the place and all do their best to get a little rest. But before long, in the eternal twilight, Caden becomes aware of the soft, muffled sobs from Aerie nestled in at his side.

He rolls over, cups her face in his palm, reading the desperate grief in her expression, the agonized need to act, to do something to make it all right again. And fear stabs through him as well, because he does not want to let her go from him, because the idea of facing what lies ahead alone is terrifying. But he also cannot bear that lost, forsaken sound in her voice, and he does not know what he can do to protect her from it.

She wrenches away from him, sitting up, burying her face in her hands. He rests a hand on her back, aching for the pain in her voice. He knows -- or at least hopes with all the intensity that he can muster -- that that creature that mocked them so was only a beast that knew nothing of the truth of what had happened to them. It sought out their weakest points and tore them apart; that was all it was.

But how can he make her believe that when she is still so deep in the pain it caused?

He tries, voice gentle and low, as soothing as he can make it.

Her shoulders have been trembling with sobs, but under his touch and the softness of his words, they begin to still. Slowly, slowly her breathing starts to steady out. He says nothing else, just lets her process through the feelings, moving his fingertips in slow circles over her back, carefully avoiding the places where he knows the scars of her wings still sit under her shirt.

Finally she draws a heavy, shuddering breath inward and turns to look at him, and he is relieved to see some of the animal panic has retreated, the grief receding to something manageable.

She puts out a hand, brushes her fingers over his lips, along his jaw. Her eyes close and she squares her shoulders, sighing.

He catches her hand in his, puts it to his lips, presses kisses along the palm and up the curve of her wrist, gentle soft touches bringing her back to herself. If she had truly decided to go, he would not have stopped her. But he cannot deny his relief that she will not go yet.

Perhaps together, one day. We will go together and see the land she came from...when all this strife is gone and buried...

He frowns slightly, then reaches out his arms and pulls her into his embrace tightly. She snuggles close, pressing her face into his chest and letting him envelop her protectively. It's certainly not all over, not yet. But this is all he can do, for now...

#bjk plays baldur's gate 2 #caden of candlekeep #1000 hugs for aerie as well pls #poor kid :( #ok pausing but more tomorrow most likely #i'm so slow :P but i'm really enjoying continuing with this

[jeeperso]

D&D Quotes Without Context

Revenge of CHAOTICA! Edition, Episode 2

Mr. Phillips: "Now to be fair we did warn you that belt sometimes reacts weirdly with races that can't grow hair." "Fear, no, I don't fear you. Enraged at you for your agent destroying our ship, seething at being subjected to capture like this, and wondering how long you have had an empire up here." “Oh, you must be new. This will be fun.” "You are ever the image of poise and terror." Fiver says, "Have you lost weight? Gained weight? New hair style? Something is different." Fiver pulls out a bag of alfafa and begins munching on it. "Where-did-you-get-that?" "Trade secret." "You have access to hammerspace storage, don't you?" "I cannot confirm not deny." "Oh he's going with the truth, always a bad decision." She is in fact calmly chewing. She just has resting birch face. "Come on now. Look, every good con artist knows when to hold em and when to fold em. There has never been a better time for folding than right now. Its down right origiami time up in here." "Natural causes or rite of conquest?" “Yes.” "Put the rabbit in his own cell. I believe Helmut is still sore about the jock strap incident.” "Stay-strong-Fiver. Live-proud." "I don't do either of those things and you know it." General frost snaps the coin out of the air. “March.” "It's-November!" "Remorhazi? Remorhazes, what's the plural for Remorhaz?" "Burning icy white death." You manage to burn through one of the bars on the door and look up to see a Guard staring at you. “Really?” "I get bored, I tinker with things or melt stuff. I'm an artificer." "Hey Robbins. We breaking out already?" "Yeah-new-guys-have-tools-built-in-them. Crazy-huh?" Moonpaw stares at the downed guard, then at her paw. "What the fuck did that stoner do to me?" "I'm fine with whatever method doesn't result in our horrible demise." “I promise nothing.” "I meant currently." "Aww, I was having such fun dismantling a jail cell, I haven't done that in centuries." “Good.” She leans down and pokes your forehead, and there’s a brief stabbing pain. “Just go to the moon of Gigantia. I’ve already put the rest in there.” Thunderchild winces: "Ow... usually when I have a headache like that around a beautiful woman there's a lot more alcohol involved and it's the next morning." "We'll take this oddly quiet and confused thri-kreen with us, too." "Hello. I am Hiveguard." "AH!-ITS-ALIVE!?" "I was holding still to conserve body heat." "Hello, Hiveguard. General Frost needs somebody to escort us prisoners after Gary's head exploded." "I am pleased to do so!" Thunderchild follows trying to not make it too obvious that he's checking out General Frost's ass as he does. She has a cape. And is in armor. It’s still magnificent. Fiver: "Any day you don't die is a good day." Moonpaw: "First sensible thing I've heard my whole life." Thunderchild: "You've been sapient all of how many days, lucky kitty?" "Be vewy, vewy quiet. We're sneaking out of an enemy fortress." Fiver shudders, "Don't do that. You sound like this bounty hunter I've tangled with before. Hard to say whose worse, him, the crazy gun slinging dwarf, or that egotistical Kenku wizard." "He-sounds-despicable." "Wizard. Always wizard: they give you existential dread without asking." "Funderful? Funderful!? How-in-the-world-is-anyone-supposed-to-guess-Funderful!? What-kind-of-password-is-one-you-cant-guess!?" "A...good one?" “Please leave before I’m rendered insensate by your lunacy.” Moonpaw is already on-board, as that is the smart thing to do. Thunderchild: "Ah, damn it. Okay while I will not admit any responsibility for last time, this time its DEFINITELY NOT MY FAULT!" Moonpaw: "Why is my life turning into a series of events which I have no control over?" Thunderchild: "Welcome to sapience, it's a b---- and a half most days." "I feel like Frost would have known in advance if the planet she sent us two was scheduled to be blown up." Thunderchild: "No it's probably just a giant ship eating space monster... Also just a heads up we might be about to be eaten by a fucking Astral Leviathan." And a voice rings in all your heads. Ah. Mortals. Always the optimists. "AH!TINGLES-in-my-brain." Thunderchild: "Do I just have a sign on my head that says "come on in, everyone welcome"? I feel like I'm having a lot of things in my mind other than me today." "Yea, Kydora, as I travel through the shadow of death, thy rod and thy bosom, ye comfort me." Your fledgling goddess cannot save you here. I have summoned you all for a purpose. "I'm going to make a list. You will be on it." I do not care. Be it Strength of arms, open revolt. Succeed or have your bones scattered like the rest. Robbins: "How-about-we-ruin-her-credit-score?" YOU WILL DO THIS, OR FACE OBLIVION NOW! Moonpaw: "I would like to face oblivion later." "I will teach him to grovel properly, Great One. The Church taught me that, at least." Katt singles out a dorky looking red crown and dons it first. And lets out a contented sigh, as if reunited with herself. "Rule number one of El Araihah: 'Thou shalt not sell other living people, for people be not cargo.'" Finn sets down into an open spot, you can see a small crowd is already forming. Thunderchild: "Hopefully that's not an angry mob. Usually those form when I need to leave a port, not when I just arrived." Moonpaw: "Then stay on the ship." Fiver: "You know if I had a nickel for every cat who knows martial arts I've met, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but its weird it happened twice." OOC: Silvercat before MJ gave them sapience. MJ: "I gave a cat sapience."

MJ: "I gave a cat sapience." Fiver: "You ruined a perfectly good cat is what you did. Look they have anxiety." OOC: Also at some point it's going to hit Thunderchild that if he doesn't get Melfina back the rest of the Treasure Island crew are going to murder him. Especially Magnus. I don't care if he's dead. OOC: Also now we have a kitty ship. Lots of cats felines this campaign. GM OOC: Wait until you meet the ones that ride Space Hamsters. Imagine if Lion-o dressed like Geralt of Rivia and rode a giant hamster. The hamster is still named roach.

#dungeons and dragons #dnd 5e #quotes without context #spelljammer #Revenge of CHAOTICA! #cats

[quickquirk]

Many years had elapsed during which nothing of Combray, save what was comprised in the theatre and the drama of my going to bed there, had any existence for me, when one day in winter, as I came home, my mother, seeing that I was cold, offered me some tea, a thing I did not ordinarily take. I declined at first, and then, for no particular reason, changed my mind. She sent out for one of those short, plump little cakes called 'petites madeleines,' which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted scallop of a pilgrim's shell. And soon, mechanically, weary after a dull day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid, and the crumbs with it, touched my palate, a shudder ran through my whole body, and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary changes that were taking place. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, but individual, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory--this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me, it was myself. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, accidental, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I was conscious that it was connected with the taste of tea and cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could not, indeed, be of the same nature as theirs. Whence did it come? What did it signify? How could I seize upon and define it? I drink a second mouthful, in which I find nothing more than in the first, a third, which gives me rather less than the second. It is time to stop; the potion is losing its magic. It is plain that the object of my quest, the truth, lies not in the cup but in myself. The tea has called up in me, but does not itself understand, and can only repeat indefinitely with a gradual loss of strength, the same testimony; which I, too, cannot interpret, though I hope at least to be able to call upon the tea for it again and to find it there presently, intact and at my disposal, for my final enlightenment. I put down my cup and examine my own mind. It is for it to discover the truth. But how? What an abyss of uncertainty whenever the mind feels that some part of it has strayed beyond its own borders; when it, the seeker, is at once the dark region through which it must go seeking, where all its equipment will avail it nothing. Seek? More than that: create. It is face to face with something which does not so far exist, to which it alone can give reality and substance, which it alone can bring into the light of day. And I begin again to ask myself what it could have been, this unremembered state which brought with it no logical proof of its existence, but only the sense that it was a happy, that it was a real state in whose presence other states of consciousness melted and vanished. I decide to attempt to make it reappear. I retrace my thoughts to the moment at which I drank the first spoonful of tea. I find again the same state, illumined by no fresh light. I compel my mind to make one further effort, to follow and recapture once again the fleeting sensation. And that nothing may interrupt it in its course I shut out every obstacle, every extraneous idea, I stop my ears and inhibit all attention to the sounds which come from the next room. And then, feeling that my mind is growing fatigued without having any success to report, I compel it for a change to enjoy that distraction which I have just denied it, to think of other things, to rest and refresh itself before the supreme attempt. And then for the second time I clear an empty space in front of it. I place in position before my mind's eye the still recent taste of that first mouthful, and I feel something start within me, something that leaves its resting-place and attempts to rise, something that has been embedded like an anchor at a great depth; I do not know yet what it is, but I can feel it mounting slowly; I can measure the resistance, I can hear the echo of great spaces traversed.

“Remembrance of Things Past”, Marcel Proust 

#marcel proust #remembrance of things past #childhood #madeleine #sadness #past #present #memories #quote #extract #literature #lit

[coolstorysister]

Lyric starters 7

Are you coming?

I know a place downtown, babe, if you wanna go.

You will like it.

I'm made for you.

We can't deny it.

I'll give you your roses.

All my life's led to this.

Now I see what I've become.

I always had doubted that I could ever be someone that mattered.

Destiny's calling me.

I cannot give up hope.

I hadn't planned on leaving.

You haven't been back home for days.

They shudder at your name.

You don't really want to hear the truth, do you?

All you ever want is to be right, even if that means you gotta lie to do it.

There's no one who ever has done better at making me feel worse.

There's nothing that ever did quite kill me more than what you did.

You're the winner!

You have the nerve to miss me?

I was only trying to survive your chaos!

Well, look at how it's paid off...

The truth is bulletproof.

There's no fooling you.

Me and who you say I was yesterday have gone our separate ways.

I know I used to be fun.

I used to be young.

I've had a good run.

It's not worth crying about.

Those wasted nights are not wasted. I remember every one.

The warm nights are coming soon.

You'll be just fine.

The sunrise will come again.

You've gone too long without a smile.

I think it's time you found another reason to stay for awhile.

You should stay for awhile.

If this lasts forever, I'll be just fine.

I'll be just fine.

You are the sunlight.

Now look how far I've got!

You talk like someone else.

I think you'll notice when things become different.

Less becomes more because the weight is too heavy.

I won't be home for the rest of the night.

You might hate my words but you know that I'm right.

You know that I'm right!

This is your life! There's no way to run from it.

I only have the one complaint at the moment.

Haven't heard from you in a couple of months.

I'm all fucked up.

I'm sensing some undertone.

I'm right here with all my friends.

I know we're through.

Can't hear my thoughts...

It's a bad idea, right?

Fuck it, it's fine.

Can't two people reconnect?

I only see him as a friend.

I know I should stop, but I can't.

Were there signs I ignored?

Can I help you not to hurt anymore?

There are things that we can have but can't keep.

You're angry, and you should be! It's not fair!

Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it isn't there.

Doesn't seem to matter what I do...

I'm always number two.

No one knows how hard I tried.

I have feelings that I can't explain.

Where I see love, she sees a friend.

I wanna know what it's like to love.

Is it a crime?

I'm no dreamer.

I'm enough!

I'm great at doing stuff.

[yesimwriting]

To Be Alone

VAGUE SPOILER WARNING FOR SHADOW AND BONE BOOK SERIES-- I try hard not to mention why the Darkling/General Kirigan is the bad guy so that I don’t spoil anything,, but the reader finds out that he lies about his identity and that he’s super sketchy/not a good guy (again,, I avoided as many specifics as possible to keep it from being spoiler-y)

Warnings: lowkey manipulation, kissing/makeout, slight fingering

A/n y’all drove me to this lol,, pls be nice!! This is the closest to full on smut I’ve ever written!! Ahh I’m lowkey scared to post

Summary: the reader finds out something about the Darkling/General Kirigan, he finds a way to convince her to stay 

--

No amount of evidence will ever be enough to convince me fully. A part of me will always hold onto unjustifiable doubt because a part of me hopes that if I hold onto the lies tight enough they’ll turn into the truth. But that’s not how the world works. 

General Kirigan. Ravka put its faith in him. I put my faith in him. I did more than that. I pushed aside my reservations and doubt in order to try and comfort him when he spoke of loneliness. Was all that a lie as well? 

No. I can’t afford to think of the emotional side of it all, because if I do I may find myself incapable of moving from this spot. I don’t have time to reflect on it all, to try and unravel hopeful lies and manipulative truths. That can be done when I’m not here. If I stay here, he’ll know I know and he’ll stop me from...what? What am I supposed to do next? I could find someone with some level of power to warn. 

“There you are.” Kirigan. I’m turned towards the window, not facing him, but there is no weariness or malice in his voice. He has no reason to suspect my suspicion. “Are you unwell?” 

Calm. I need to pass as calm. Not turning, I force myself to ignore the endearing hint of concern in his voice. “No.” I can hear his measured footsteps. “Why would you think that?” 

“I haven’t seen you all day,” he’s directly behind me now. If I turn, I’ll practically be against his chest. “And you didn’t come see me last night.” 

Oh. I knew it was a mistake to begin to pull on such a small thread so close to when he expected to see me, but it kept gnawing on me. That doubt. That tiny thing I couldn’t ever let go off. “I fell asleep.” No--I cringe at my impulsive response. He knows how difficult it is for me to fall asleep. “Yesterday was just really...draining.” 

In an easy movement, he places his hand on my shoulder. It’s a silent request for me to turn. Exhaling, I obey. Why? I could lie to myself and say that I’m listening to him in order to kill his suspicions, but the effect he has on me is undeniable. Even before touching each other became a casual thing on his part, my body wanted to react to him. 

He’s quick to cup my face, tilting my chin up slightly so that I can’t avoid his gaze. “What troubles you, little dove?” A nickname for when he’s feeling particularly gentle. Thoughts of the evil he has to be twist my stomach as my face flushes. Kirigan’s thumb brushes over the corner of my bottom lip, stalling as I fight the urge to melt into the contact. I meet his tense gaze cautiously. “You said nothing could make you look at me differently.” No. There’s no way he figured out my change with one look alone. I’ll deny it. I’ll do what I need to do to be convincing, and then I’ll manage to escape. His grip on my shoulder tightens. “Don’t you dare lie to me again.” 

The urge to snap and point out the sick irony of him telling me not to lie at him almost forces me to break. His gaze starts to shift away from me--towards the half packed escape bag I’d been in the middle of constructing. I stretch my arms forward, desperate to keep his gaze on me and away from what I can’t explain. 

Kirigan’s free hand moves to pull my hand off of his cheek, but he pauses, eyes shutting in peaceful contentment. “What do you know?” 

I expected his words to be angry, to border on violent...but he just sounds tired. Please, Saints, let me be wrong. “Is there anything to know?” The only reaction I get is the slightest stall of his breathing. “You said you didn’t want to be alone anymo--” 

“I don’t.” The harshness of his words almost coax a small flinch from me. 

Swallowing back the knot in my stomach, I exhale slowly. “A part of not being alone is being honest.” 

His eyes finally open. I don’t dare move as he moves my hand off of his cheek so that he can brush his lips against my knuckles. I suppress an embarrassing shudder. “You wouldn’t have stayed--if you knew you wouldn’t ha--” 

No denial. I can’t--I can’t do this. “You know what the worst part is?” I can’t believe I’m about to say this. I can’t believe it’s true. “I might have.” Those words break something in me as I force myself away from him. The lack of contact leaves me more frozen than ever. “I might have! I might have been able to bear all the monstrous things you’ve done if you had just--” 

“What?!” He meets my outburst with one of equal power. “You might have stayed regardless?” The way he scoffs leaves me feeling like a wandering child. “You might have still looked at me like I hung the stars in the sky instead of like I’m the darkness they fight against?” I stay silent as he steps forward, quick to hold my chin in place with his long fingers. “I couldn’t risk you on possibility.” Kirigan’s gaze is so intense, a part of me is surprised that shadows don’t come at me--drowning me in darkness and him. “And don’t think me foolish enough to believe that someone like you would understand that I have to do what I’m doing--” 

“Have to?” No--how did I almost let him lure me back in so easily. I pull myself away, approaching my open wardrobe. “That’s not past tense.” He’s still--he’s still actively hurting people. Why had I been so stupidly naive to think that maybe this was all history? “I--I can’t do this.” 

Each step towards the exit of the room chips away at a piece of my soul. “You’re not walking away from me,” his strong grip is on my arm in a sharp instinct, “I won’t--I can’t be alone again.” 

I swallow back the lump of emotion in my throat. “You already are.” 

His eyes are pleading, pools of frightened adoration. “No--no,” he steps towards me, not releasing his grip on my arm, “You’re hurt that I lied, but now I’ll never have to lie to you again.” I push against his grip. Kirigan doesn’t release me. “Y/n,” my name is a lament from his lips, “Please.” 

My eyes round out as my heart leaps into my chest. “I used to think that you were only touched by the darkness, but now I’m not sure you can tell where the darkness ends and you begin.” His grip just barely falters. Maybe it’s acceptance. 

I shift weakly, a softer attempt to escape. His grip tightens even more than before as he tugs me forward. The reminder of his physical strength leaves me frozen in shock. I can’t read his expression, but something about him has darkened. When I don’t pull away again, his thumb brushes up and down my forearm. The silkiness of his touch is warm temptation. I inhale slowly as he moves his other arm in order to touch my shoulder. The contact is almost shy. 

“Kirigan,” my voice betrays me, breaking as his fingers trace down my collar, “What--what are you doing?” 

He tilts his head, taking in the way his touch rids my body of fight. “Nothing, really.” His voice is low, supple in its assuredness. “You’re the only person who has ever seen me--and for you to leave me after that.” 

“No,” I try to step back, but my body freezes as he toys with the collar of my dress, “What I saw--what I found out--that wasn’t you.” 

“It’s who I have to make myself be,” he whispers, “I’m doing what needs to be done.” 

“That logic can earn you a lot,” my words are careful, “But it cannot earn you me.” 

His hand brushes past my neck, finding the root of my hair. Kirigan pulls on it slightly, forcing me to expose my lower jaw and neck. I’m still as he leans forward, warm breath fanning across my skin. I fight against a shiver in vain as his lips brush down my skin, only stopping as he nips the base of my neck. I can’t help the small sound of surprise that escapes me. 

“Are you sure about that?” Blood rushes to my face, motivated by both embarrassment and something else. “Little dove, don’t ruin us.” His touch is warm, but his words leave me with an uncomfortable chill. In an attempt to escape the coldness, I half-press myself into the trail of soft and desperate kisses he’s leaving down my neck.

Kirigan pauses, exhaling slowly, and I feel some mental strength return to me. “There can’t be an us--not like this.” 

“Y/n.” He never uses my name. “You are the only light I know.” His words steal something from me as he pulls away enough to look me in the eyes. “I can’t handle the weight of solitude anymore--it’s worse than the dark.”

 I am unflinching, watching him with a markman’s care. Kirigan takes my silence as a positive. I don’t move as his gaze drops to my lips before he presses his own together. I don’t move as he destroys the distance between us like it’s some type of unbearable weight. His lips meet mine with enough force to bruise my face. The surprise of it gives him the chance to coax my lips into parting as his hands move to either side of my face. My body reacts without my permission, letting him deepen the kiss. Every time I find some kind of free will, Kirigan pushes it away with some kind of tactful lull of his tongue. Keeping his control, Kirigan ends the kiss by grazing sharp teeth against my bottom lip. 

I’m left panting. “You’re--you lied, Kirigan--I--” 

“You told me once you could never see me as a monster.”

“I said that to a version of you that technically doesn’t exist.” 

The grief in my chest and desire in my stomach twist in a nauseating way. Kirigan’s eyes watch me patiently, a pain similar to my own reflected in them. “Who I am when I’m with you is less fictitious than any identity I’ve ever given myself.”

The vulnerability in his voice is as alluring and distracting as the kiss. I find myself thinking of the warmth of his mouth against my skin. He had kissed me like the cure for ancient solitude could come from me. I think he had a point, because now that he’s not touching me in that way I feel the familiar tugs of cold emptiness. 

“I don’t understa--” My words are cut off by his lips brushing against mine. 

His touch is soft, but it’s far from shy as he draws out the kiss. It’s an attempt to keep me on edge, to keep me wanting him enough to push past my doubts. “Y/n,” there’s a reverent quality to his voice, “I--” Kirigan grabs the collar of my dress, pulling me to him sharply. His kiss conveys things that neither of us truly understand. “Don’t go.” 

I don’t want to. The realization is a cruel wave crashing against my chest. “You lie to everyone, you lie to me--you--you hurt and destroy and I--” One of his hands brushes against the hem of my dress. “What are you,” the words are supposed to be sharp, but my resolve melts as his hand presses firmly against my thigh, “Doing?” 

“You know me,” he draws out each word as his fingers graze towards the inside of my thighs. The cool metal of his rings are practically ice against my flushed skin. “Little dove, trust me.” 

My nails dig into my palms as I try to ignore what he’s doing. “I did and you betrayed me.” 

“I couldn’t lose you,” he whispers, thumb inching up my inner thigh.

I press my lips together, fighting against a natural reaction. “You did lose me.” 

Kirigan’s eyes darken as his grip on my thigh tightens. “We’ll move past this.” He’s both pleading and assured. “I think I know how to make it up to you.” He trails his hand up my thigh swiftly, stopping with his hand on my lower hip. Shamelessly, he toys with the hem of my underwear. “The only thing that’s really changed is that now I’m touching you like this.” 

The only thing I can do is gape at him. He’s a villain, his hands are coated in unnecessarily spilled blood, and I am helpless against his slightest touch. I should try pushing him away or at the very least resist his blatant advantages. His fingers brush down my underwear, stopping at a growing wet spot. The knowing look he gives me burns my core. I try to keep my expression hard in a final form of protest, but when he presses his pointer finger against me all the resolve in me is shattered. 

My eyebrows draw together as a small sound escapes me, “Kirigan.” I can’t tell if it’s praise or a warning. 

He pauses, hand retracting slightly at my whining. “Y/n,” his other hand cups my cheek. I lean into the contact without permission from my body. “There is only one name that I have not given myself and only one name I want to hear you breathe like that.” His thumb traces my lips softly. I don’t move as he leans forward, turning his lips towards my ear. 

“Aleksander.” His name is nothing more than a breath, a stolen heartbeat on his lips. 

He presses his fingers against where I’m the weakest again. My hips grind forward instinctually, desperate for more contact as he kisses the top of my jaw. 

“Aleksander.” The name escapes me in the form of a broken moan. Speaking it feels more intimate than the way he’s touching me. 

There’s the slightest pause in his consuming actions. “Again,” he breathes, “Say my name again.” His request is so soft it feels like he’s more at my mercy than I am at his. 

My eyes shut as his teeth graze my neck. “Aleksander.” At the sound of his name, his teeth brush against my skin harder than ever. 

When he starts to pull away, I reach out desperately, grabbing his kefta. “I thought you wanted to leave, little dove.” 

No. No. He is not going to get me to agree to stay by giving me something as intimate as his original name and by denying me his touch. “Please.” 

He reaches for my hand, pulling it off of him cruelly. “Do you want to stay with me?” 

I know which answer will get me what I really want, but I’m not sure which answer is true. Do I want to stay with him? Even after knowing what he’s done? “I don’t want to leave you.” The vulnerability of the statement cracks at my heart. He turns away from me in order to face the wall. I take a tentative step towards. “But I’m not sure what I want matters.” 

In one quick motion, he’s yanking more forward and pressing me into the wall. “Of course desire matters,” his body is pressed against mine almost entirely, “It means something.” He brushes his knuckles against my cheek. “It means you could choose me.” 

What could I say to that? I part my lips to speak but he silences me by pressing his lips against my jaw. I offer no protest as he starts touching me the way he did earlier. I’m more desperate now, more needy and okay with that. His fingers slip past my underwear testingly, hesitating before finally entering me slowly. 

“Aleksander,” my voice is so needy I’m not sure it’s my own. 

“I want you to say my name like that again,” he whispers, kissing down my collarbone as he begins to press his fingers in and out of me faster, “And I want you to say my name casually,” his pace doesn’t slow, even when I begin to let out indistinguishable whines, “And I want you to say my name while you’re falling asleep,” his touch becomes more aggressive as his words become more sincere, “And I want you to say my name every other way there is to say it.” 

The bundle of nerves in the pit of my stomach grows until there’s nothing else for me to hold onto. I finish with a sharp gasp. The feeling of euphoria is only intensified as Aleksander begins to kiss up my jaw before finally pressing our lips together. 

I break the kiss first, desperate to breathe. Have my legs been so shaky this entire time? Aleksander lets me recover, resting his head against my forehead. “I’m tired of being alone.” 

I imagine all the foul acts he’s committed and all the bad he wants to bring. I picture all the innocent blood he’s spilled. I see all of it--every horror and dark deed he’s ever committed. But I cannot see me leaving him. Maybe that makes me a monster, maybe that makes me an idiot...but I can’t do it. 

Slowly, I move to drape my arms over his back in a loose hug. “You’re not alone, Aleksander.” I’m not sure what that signifies, but I know it’s true. There has to be good in him. No one capable of such warmth can be pure evil. “I choose you.” 

#the darkling #the darkling x reader #the darkling imagine #the darkling x you #shadow and bone #shadow and bone show #shadow and bone netflix #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone imagine #sab #sab imagine #general kirigan #general kirigan x reader #general kirigan imagine #aleksander morozova #aleksander morozova x reader #ben barnes #darkling x reader #darkling imagine #the darkling x reader smut #general kirigan x reader smut #my works #x reader