#lace skull knitting

[perkypics]

Skulls of Fortune and the Good vibes, 100% combed cotton lace knitting made on a Brother kh930

#laceknitting #lovelace #skullpattern #skulls #lace skull knitting #digitalknitting #brotherknittingmachines #brotherkh930 #machineknitting #knittingmachine #tricotosa #ratatatata

[ratatatata-milano]

skulls of the fortune and the good vibes · 2022/08 100% cotone pettinato

#lace knitting #lovelace #skulls #skullknittingpattern #fucsia #pinkyarn #pink #digitalknitting #brother knitting machine #brotherkh930 #machineknitting #knittingmachine #ratatatata #tricotosa

[suugarbabe]

hiiii sorry for being late but congrats on 1k followers that is gen soo amazing!! ur writing is so well done <3

I was wondering if it was alright if i requested a lorenzo berkshire x fem reader enemies to lover smut, but like its more like they are still enemies always comparing grades and bickering over who is smarter but they have like i guess jealous or rough sex eventually. I am totally fine with any story line, thank you :)

the pain of the edge of the desk digging in to your hips was lulled by the filthy words Enzo was whispering in your ear. You weren't sure how you always ended up like this; blouse half torn open, red marks scattered around your breasts that will soon turn to deep purple hickies,; your skirt bunched around your waist as Enzo repeatedly thrust into you, his bare chest pressed to your back, his lips ghosting against your ear.

"Merlin, you're such a whore f'me, aren't you, Angel?" He laced his fingers through your hair, pulling back from the base of your skull so you were both upright. Enzo never let up his brutal pace and the new angel had the tip of his cock hitting that spongy part deep inside and had your eyes rolling back.

"No words, hmm? Funny, you had such a smart mouth on you earlier," you could practically hear the smirk in Enzo's tone and you wished you could hex it right off of him; if only his cock didn't feel so fucking good.

You tried your hardest to muster up something, "Maybe I have n-nothing to say because of your l-lack of performance." You knew your words didn't sound convincing, but they apparently got the job done when Enzo pulled out of you, grabbing your hips to turn you around and up on to the desk so you were now face to face.

Enzo's mouth were on your neck as he entered you again, a pathetic whine leaving your lips at the action. You felt him smile against your skin, "That's it, angel, that's the sound I wanna hear, not your fucking voice."

"You're such a fucking dick, Enzo," the sentence came out more like a moan, but you were far past caring. Enzo grabbed hold of your throat, forcing your to look at him as his nose brushed against yours, "Yeah, I am a dick, but you fucking love it. Love pissing me off, riling me up just so I'll fuck you like no one else can. You're ruined for any other guy, angel. You're. All. Mine."

The last three words were punctuated by hard, deep thrusts from Enzo that finally pushed you over the edge, your back arching, pushing your chest further into Enzo's, mouth agape and euphoria washed over you. With two more thrusts Enzo was spilling himself inside you, coating your walls as his hips sputtered.

Enzo pulled out slowly, watching as his cum started to slowly drip out of you before taking his two middle fingers and pushing the mix of your releases back inside, curling his fingers a few times just to see your body jolt in front of him.

You grabbed his wrist, stilling his hand. "Fuck, Enzo, don't be a prick," as much as you wanted to ride his fingers towards another release, you had to get back to your own dorm. "C'mon angel, give me one more, I know you want it, I can feel you squeezing my fingers," his cocky tone made you clench around him once more, hips bucking involuntarily.

It didn't take but a few more curls of his fingers before you were coming again, teeth sinking into the meat of Enzo's shoulders to help muffle the loud moan you let out. "Fuuck, you bitch, you bit me," Enzo took a step back before smirking a little before licking his fingers clean.

"Something to remember me by, since you always leave them for me," you were hinting at the marks always left scattered on your chest as you buttoned your blouse back up. You straightened your skirt before walking towards the door, you turned back to him with your hand on the handle.

"You remember the rule," you pointed at him, eyebrows knitted together. Enzo held his hands up, "I know, angel. We tell no one." You nodded in confirmation before opening the door and heading back towards your own dorm.

#Lorenzo berkshire x reader #enzo berkshire x reader #enzo berkshire smut #lorenzo berkshire smut #enzo berkshire x you #lorenzo berkshire x you

[milkbreadandtadpoles]

soup!sukuna

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆˚🐾˖°⋆｡°🎧•‧.₊˚🐰‎₊˚⋆⭒｡⋆୨୧˚˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆˚🐾˖°⋆｡°🎧•‧.₊˚🐰‎₊˚⋆⭒｡⋆୨୧˚

snippet: 2k depicting the first time reader and soup!au sukuna hookup. he's less than nice, but you're into that. modern au!! idk if it's college or whatnot, u decide (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ reader is neutral, described as having a vagina

warnings: pnv ladies and germs, rough sex ig! slapping and spanking and some degradation if you squint. sukuna being a total ass and reader playing him like a fiddle and making him question his stamina. not edited yet cuz im on that "im so proud" high

author's note shiiii: oh hello, it's me again. i am ill (i have been ill for a week), and i guess suku the gr8 has gotten to me. so pls enjoy how i think he is in my little brain. all characters are over the age of 18, and if you are reading this and are not, silently show yourself the door <3

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆˚🐾˖°⋆｡°🎧•‧.₊˚🐰‎₊˚⋆⭒｡⋆୨୧˚˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆˚🐾˖°⋆｡°🎧•‧.₊˚🐰‎₊˚⋆⭒｡⋆୨୧˚

There’s a harsh smack on your ass as you crawl across the bed. It has you stumble and squeak; a helping hand forcing you to arch, lay and stay against your mattress. Another high pitched noise has Sukuna chuckling above you, palming the growing erection with his other hand. You turn around and gulp. 

Sometimes boys don’t lie. 

“You’re so hot.” He says quietly, baritone in his tone still noticeable. You laugh, and his brows knit- the fuck are you laughing about? 

There’s a push in you, forcing your spin to dip gracefully, deviously and deliciously. You sprawl your arms in front of you, fingers rubbing against one of your blankets. He’s admiring you, you can feel it. Those deep, savory eyes, colored like a cherry wine underneath the yellow ambience of your lamp, graze over the lace outline of your cotton panties. 

“Thanks.” You hum, biting your bottom lip saturated with gloss and balm. No need to compliment him back, he knows he’s devastating. 

He reaches out to grope and smack each of your cheeks haphazardly. You purr; his hand covers so much of you. There’s a lopsided smirk on his face, it’s apparent as he yanks the material off. Lazily, you crawl out of them, since boys can’t be bothered to take them off further than the back of your knees, and reposition yourself. 

Large, gruff hands degrade you- one of them molding against the entirety of your skull to press half of your face into the bed, the other rubbing his spit onto his dick and getting ready to align himself with the opening of your pussy. 

Boys. 

“You gotta finger me first.” 

Sukuna’s upper lip curls, looking at you like you’re all work. The feeling doesn’t fade when you openly roll your eyes. Don’t you get it, girl? You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last. So just lay there and- 

“I texted you about it. I’ll literally tear,” You add. 

“Alright.” He bites, unwrapping his fingers from around the base of his cock and nudging one of the digits against your slit. And holy shit you’re tight. Sensitive. Those eyes catch the slightest curl in your toes, the purse of your lips and furrow of your brows as you feel him out. 

And shit, he kinda wants to see your face strewn up. 

Sukuna nudges his middle finger between your legs, lips parting in realizing how tight you actually are. You were right. 

if we hookup you gotta be gentle first, im tight 

and not in the cool way

You hum lightly in satisfaction, something he never though the enjoyed hearing, letting a sharp gasp emit from your lungs as he selfishly adds his index. Thighs shut, Sukuna has to remove his grip from your head to inch them back apart to watch your pussy clench and flutter around a percentage of him. 

“Slower.” Sukuna raises his brows at your demanding attitude- he’ll have to fuck that out of you later, but relents regardless, carefully twisting two joined fingers in and out of your walls that are already squelching and wet. 

What bitchy comment you made pays off immediately, the sound of a saccharine sweet moan he pulls from you making his dick twitch. There’s a pellet of want in his sternum, something he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager who groped a pair of tits in the locker room for the first time. 

After a few minutes of dragging sweet sounds from you, he experimentally pulls his fingers out, more than pleased to see your eyes open and peer at him with indignation. You huff, rubbing your socked feet together in silent anticipation. 

You open your mouth to protest, only to cut yourself off with a high pitched whine as he urges three of his fingers, much bigger than any other boy you’ve had (but you won’t tell him that) back between your pussy. Preening against his touch, you move your hips back to meet at his knuckles. 

Sukuna laughs once, and again when you clench around his fingers at his amusement. 

“Oh.” Is what you say, all watery and whiny when he thrusts one, two, three, four times in rapid movements. It catches you off guard, and you squirm. Your fingers grapple at your sheets, face twisting to hide from his penetrating gaze. He’s enamored with your face, the way it pinches in delight. 

“Are you gonna cum?” 

You laugh amidst a pleasured whimper. 

“No- you can fuck me now.” 

Whatever face he made, you choose not to see.

He grunts, laying a smack against your pussy and kneading the fat of your hips while he aligns his. Slowly, just like your bratty, bossy ass said, he eases the tip of his cock between your plush thighs, your hot, tight walls. You pinch your face, focusing on being relaxed, letting out a garbled whimper as he sinks himself to the hilt. 

The notion of him pulling out (before slamming back in, as all men do too quickly), has you reaching a hand out and nudging at his stomach to stop him. 

“Slow.” You reprimand. 

“Shut the fuck up.” He thinks he's gonna cum.

Sukuna graces you by easing in and out twice, dragging out a soft, sweet hum from you before he rolls his hips in a dangerously fast notion. He likes it when you squeal in surprise. Maybe if you’re not as bossy the rest of the time, he’ll look you in the eye and speak to you casually the next time you're at the basketball court with Uraume.

The tip, all angry and red just like him, pushes against your cervix. You get to squirm for a quick second before both of his hands grab at your hips to push you down, to shut you up, to keep you still. A small, uncomfortable giggle bubbles in your throat, peering at him out of the corner of your eyes. 

How your eyes are slit, the way you’re expression is lidded and enchanted, has Sukuna grunting and thrusting against you harshly. Your lips, all glossy and annoyingly cute, curl into a satiated smile, parting a mere second after as he pulls out all the way just to bully himself back in. 

You sink into the bed, back arched to practiced perfection. 

“That’s right,” He breathes, fucking into you at a pace that forces your jaw slaw, “There you go.” 

Your lashes flutter at his words go straight to your gut, hearing the petulant smack of him against your clit, the plush of your thighs. He inches closer, and you gasp as he knees you further apart and forces himself even deeper. 

Thumbs nudge at the dimples in your back, pressing against them as he forces your hips to fuck against him. The fat of your ass squishes against his lower abdomen, and you swear he’s so thick you can feel the outline of one of his veins in your walls. 

“Shit.” You cry, pushing yourself upright to stay steady against the forceful thrusts that threaten to knock your head into the metal bed frame. Sukuna shakes his head, moving his hands and leaning over to push you back down. 

Breath leaves you, and you whimper when you feel his hands against your cheek, the back of your head, shoving your face into the sheets again. 

“Sorry.” The whisper in your voice as you hiccup a moan that has Sukuna shaking his head once more in disbelief because he’s about to bust. He pulls out, forcing himself to fucking not, taking one of his hands (don’t worry, you’re still coerced down with the other) to give you an angry smack on your ass. 

You’ve never heard a man growl like he just did. And well, you’ve been around the block. It’s strained and jarring and fucking hot, the way Sukuna does it in warning. 

A minute later and he’s shoving himself back into you with no warning, making sure you stay right here as he pinches the chunk of flesh on your cheek. His palm is flat, forcing your lips into a dirty pout that muffles any noise that bubbles between them. 

“Mhm,” He murmurs, impressed that he didn’t cum right then and there when he caught sight of your watery eyes looking so pornographic, “Keep your mouth fucking shut.” 

Sukuna’s good, you’ll give him that. So you try, only to be obscured and mushed into a babbling mess the longer he fucks into you. It’s overwhelming, the way his cock stretches you out. Your walls flutter with relief each time he teases you as he pulls all the way out, only to be devastatingly, pleasurable split open with the harsh, nipped roll of his hips. 

There’s a slap to your cheek. And you hum. 

“Oh,” He goads, “You like that.” 

You’re nodding, and he’s flipping you over, yanking you and pushing right back into you. It makes your head swim as he grabs your face between his finger, squishing it and molding it like clay. Your lips pucker like a little, helpless fish, wondering for a split second if he’ll kiss you. 

He doesn’t. You don’t mind. It feels better than a kiss when he releases your face only to reel his hand back and slap you so hard across the face your ears begin to ring. 

Sukuna likes that dumb look on your face, gripping the dips of your waist so he can fuck himself harder into you. The gasps and wiggles, the way your small, manicured fingers wrap around his biceps has the sharpness of his cheekbones flushing with color. It brings a brief look of annoyance to his face, because he’s on the verge of cumming again. 

Your nails dig into the muscles of his upper arms, lips parted and face pinched in that sweet expression as you gaze at him with a disbelieving look at how deep he’s hitting. 

“It’s too much, let me flip over-“ The begging falls of deaf ears, a large hand decorated in thick ink wrapping around your throat to finally fucking quiet you. Sukuna doesn’t let you worm away, pushing you into the bed to keep you right where you belong so he can pummel you to his own orgasm. 

That look on your face- blissfully fucked out and controlled, face warm, it’s too much for Sukuna’s stamina. He pulls out, hissing under his breath as he busts all over your stomach. It squirts across your smooth skin; part of him wants to smear it and rub it in.  

And you laugh. Breathy and choked, reaching up and wiping your eyes from the tears of being choked a millisecond from passing out. Sukuna unwraps his hand from your throat, giving you a supportive, congratulative pat on your cheek. 

“Why are you fucking laughing?” You're weird and cocky.

You wave him off, turning and pulling open a drawer in your bedside table. Rummaging, you pull out a package of wet wipes, opening it for the two of you as you clean yourself off and toss it in the trashcan by your bed. And shit, to Sukuna, you look more well prepared than him. 

He takes one and cleans himself off. You pull up your panties and yank over a shirt large enough to come to your knees. The braids in your hair are frizzy, your bottom lip wet and chewed from your own vacillation. 

A satisfied smile smears across your face as you re-balm your lips, Sukuna eyeing your incurious face as he yanks on his boxers and joggers. You lay flat on the bed, giving yourself a minute to bask in the recently-fucked high. 

“Thanks.” You murmur to him as he pulls on a white shirt. Black ink teases through the sheen fabric, and you watch with an apathetic hunger. 

“Sure.” 

He’s grabbing his keys, and you’re walking him out the door. Sukuna looks at the socks you’re wearing, the same socks tracing up and down his lower back as your legs were wrapped around his torso; he entertains the idea of feeling it again. 

“Bye! Drive safe.” 

“See ya.” 

You shut the door behind him, a giddy, exultant smile on your face as you trail back to your room so you can call your friends and tell them about how good you were just fucked. How hot he was. That is was Sukuna, that guy who knows and hangs out with Choso. But you’ll text him first. 

drive safe! I had fun. Let me know if you wanna do it again. ଘ( ˊωˋ)†

He texts you ten minutes later, home.

the fuck is that?

#jujutsu kaisen #ryomen x reader #jjk ryomen #jjk x reader #ryomen sukuna #jujutsu kaisen ryomen #sukuna smut #sukuna x reader #jjk smut #jujustu kai #ryomen sukuna smut #sukuna x you #sukuna ryomen x reader #welp! #there she is #happy friday and happy mf new year #this is so self ship bc this was me lmfao #enjoy ladies and gents #my works

[luvv4j4ybe11]

Js thought of a real good lo’ak Drabble so now I gotta share it with the pookies🥰

Smut under the cut, ‼️MDNI‼️…Enjoy the Drabble😚

Perv!Lo’ak stealing your panties while you clean your room, so you punish him for it…

Cleaning your room while lo’ak is sitting on your bed, and while separating your clothes you mindlessly place your panties right next to him. Not even thinking twice about it, while he was thinking of which pair he wanted to ruin with his cum the most.

As you were turned around, he quickly grabs the pretty purple pair of panties with a rhinestone shaped heart on the right side of them and stuffs them into his loincloth before you could notice.

You walk towards the bed to put the pile of socks and panties away before realizing one of your favorite pairs is missing. Immediately putting two and two together you look at lo’ak, who has a shit eating grin plastered on his face.

“Lo’ak.” You demand, not even needing to specify on what you were asking of him.

“Mamas.” He retorts, looking down at your small frame with hooded eyes.

Slowly you place your hands on his thighs, rubbing them up and down. “Wanna tell me where my panties went, babyboy?” You coo, making his tail sway excitedly and ears twitch at your tone. “Mhm, no clue, mama.” Smart-ass. He thinks he’s so funny.

“Oh, really?” You replied while slowly crawling into his lap, tracing your hand down his toned stomach,then to his v-line, and then into his loincloth. Feeling the lacey fabric of your panties against his hard on, your faces inches apart.

He shudders at the feeling of your soft fingers against his dick, making him whine lowly. “Then what’s this, sweet boy?” You question, dangling the lace on your pointer finger. A soft blush appears on his face, mind already hazy from the sound of your voice and feeling of your soft, wet pussy rubbing up and down his cock steadily.

Before he could answer you shove the fabric into his face, making him moan at the scent of you two mixed together. You take his loincloth off quickly, pulling your shorts to the side in the process too.

You press your warm puffy lips up against his dick, the juices leaking from you making it way too easy to slide up and down against him.

He whines and squirms under you pathetically, tail thrashing around violently the more you rock your hips against his sensitive cock.

“What a dirty boy. Can’t ask mommy nicely to have her panties? Couldn’t control yourself, huh?” You taunt, guiding his tip toward your greedy hole. His cock twitches and jumps at your words, letting out helpless little muffled sobs of ‘please’ and ‘I’m sorry, m-mama!’.

You sink down onto him slowly taking him right back out, doing the same thing over and over until he finally comes up with words in his foggy brain. He taps your hips frantically, letting you know he wanted to speak. “P-please mama! Fuck!-Please I’m sorry-ah!~ for taking your panties without-hah~asking, I won’t do it again I promise.” He cry’s out, brain short circuiting from the feeling of your cunt squeezing his weeping tip so tight.

You let out comforting coos and praises of “it’s ok, sweet boy” and “so good for mama, aren’t you?” , making him let out a stream of content purrs.

Without warning you slam down onto him, both of you moaning loudly at the feeling of his huge cock filling up your small pussy to the brim. The pace you set is ruthless, using him to reach your high, causing him to let out the prettiest noises and pleas. The feeling of being used proving wayy too much for your sweet boy.

Obscene skin slapping nosies and lewd moans filled the room, the both of you getting drunk off of each other because of it.

You glance at his face to be met with a completely fucked out expression, he was looking at you but his eyes were completely glazed over with pleasure, mouth hanging open slightly, brows tightly knit together and ears pinned to his skull. You could even see a faint gleam of tears on his waterline, oh so close to spilling over from the stimulation you were giving him.

Beautiful wasn’t even the right word to describe him right now, he looked completely breathtaking to you.

His tail wraps around your thigh tightly, one of the telltale signs that he was close. You giggle softly before rasing two of your small fingers up to his puffy lips, pressing them into his mouth firmly. Almost immediately he gets to work, tounge dancing around your fingers sloppily. “I know, baby, I know. Need you to be a good boy and cum for me, ok? Can you do that for me?”

His cock twitches rapidly at your words, breathing turning erratic and hips stuttering before he spills his warm, sticky load into you. You moan softly at the feeling of being even more full. Your pace turning quick and sloppy as you get closer to your peak.

Tears spill over his face as the overstimulation hits him, gripping your hips desperately as you use him to get yourself off. “P-please..no..no-fuck!~hah..m-more, mama. Please..” his tone was soft and breathless, making your demeanor melt slightly. “Awh, you poor baby. Mommy is just so mean to you, isn’t she?” You tease, clenching around him harshly just to see his eyes roll back into his head as he buck his hips up into you.

The sight makes you moan softly before you wrap your hand around his throat to kiss him passionately, his hips messily trying to match the pace of your hips. The feeling of his tip kissing your sweet spot makes both of you cum instantly, moaning and panting into each others mouths feverishly.

Once you finally recollect yourself, you slide off of him. Grabbing the your panties to rub them against your spent cunt, completely covering them in both of your juices.

Lo’ak is still completely out of it, looking at you with a disoriented expression. You glance at him with a loving smile before rubbing the slick fabric against his sensitive tip, making him whimper at the sudden stimulation.

You leave a trail of kisses from his lips, to his ear before nipping at the tip of it gently. “Next time, just ask, babyboy.” You say innocently before placing a sweet kiss to his cheek before you continue clean your room.

Leaving him a dazed, spent mess, cock still hard and twitching against the purple fabric.

~

~

~

A/N~ Not my best work but that’s ight🤷🏽‍♀️ there’s better things to come bookies I promise 🩷 also I lowkey half proofread this, so mb if there’s mistakes😕 but this is probably one of the last things you guys are gonna get from me before I (most likely) go ghost bc of midterms and essays I have to do. But after that I’ll start writing all of the ideas I have🩷. Also may have based the panties in this off of my own so, do with you want with that😉 stay safe and hydrated bbys💞

𝑫𝒖𝒄𝒆𝒔🫶🏽,

𝑳𝒖𝒗𝒗4𝒋4𝒚𝒃𝒆11~

~

~

~

Taglist: @etherial-moon-blog @criticallybella @xylianasblog @plooto @tallulah477 @blue-slxt @hotdsworld @itchaboi-itchyboy

#avatar #luvv4j4ybe11 #atwow #avatar the way of water #loak sully #avatar 2 #atwow loak #lo’ak x female reader #lo’ak x human reader #lo’ak sully smut #avatar lo’ak #lo’ak sully #lo’ak smut #lo’ak x you #lo’ak avatar #lo’ak x reader #lo’ak te suli tsyeyk’itan #lo’ak x fem!reader #lo’ak x y/n #avatar smut

[madmaudlingoes]

No idea when I last posted fiber nonsense here, but I've been knitting furiously and

Shawls, guys. Who knew?

[Image descriptions: three photographs of knitted shawls. The first fades from black to red and has a lace trim with skulls in it. The second fades from blue to green and has tiny gold beads worked into it. The third is pale yellow with a leafy lace pattern.]

#knitting

[rhiannswork]

c. walker || bugged mac

a/n: sorry i’m fixating, i’m so in love w charlie walker help pls ignore this quick and horribly written blurb. (this is so bad 💀)

warnings: stalking, perv!charlie (but what’s new), umm charlie and reader r in fact dating.

after movie night with your family, you returned upstairs. you had dozed off on the couch alongside your father and brother, making it quite late when you finally went back to your room.

you made the choice to slip into your pajamas. sifting through your dresser, you picked out a tank top and some plush pajama bottoms.

you quickly unbuttoned your shirt, in a rush to remove it, followed by your bra that you pulled off over your head.

"where the hell did i put my clothes?"

you glanced around almost as if your clothes had grown legs and walked away. your eyes settled on them resting atop your office chair. you grabbed them from the chair and smoothly slipped into the soft pink tank top.

you removed your pants with the same urgency as your top. slipping into your skull-patterned pajama bottoms, you tied the white strings into a neat bow.

you picked up your laptop from the desk and then plopped onto the bed. laying out on your side, you propped your head up using the palm of your hand.

a buzz from your phone caught your attention, reaching over to retrieve it from the nightstand, you glanced at the screen, you noticed that charlie had sent you a message.

“you really shouldn’t leave your laptop open, there are creeps out there.”

your brows knitted together as you read the message repeatedly. had charlie not been the love of your life, his words would have had the cops outside his house in seconds, but you were well aware that his intentions were harmless.

“creeps such as yourself?”

to be fair, it did spook you a little. closing your laptop, you shifted onto your back, holding your phone above your face as you lay there.

“don’t stop the show baby :(“

you couldn't help but chuckle at his remark; he was truly quite helpless.

“u have two legs, walk over here and u could see all this irl.”

you and charlie are incredibly lucky to live in the neighborhood. yet, even if he had to travel miles, he'd do it to see you. the fact that he can be at your side in mere minutes adds to the convenience.

you approached the window and unlocked it, making it easier for him to climb in. not long after, you heard a series of gentle taps on the glass.

"come in~," you purred, your tone laced with allure. you laid back on the bed, propping yourself up against the headboard.

“am i too late?”

#charlie walker #rory culkin #charlie walker x reader #charlie walker imagine #charlie walker oneshot

[ghouljams]

I think the shop keeps need to unionize. The Fae boys are just too rambunctious and trouble makers (thinking wayyy way back to when König first got kicked out of Lieblings shop). They need to have a united front against these boys!

Maelstrom I love you so much and have written entirely too much for you. Writing Mal and the Witch's interactions is just so fucking fun.

Witch does some magic for Mal, and they enlist Liebling to form a shop keep union. Also some Price pining at the end.

Mal and their shop belong to @maelstrom007

You sit on Mal’s store counter, a heavy pendulum hanging under your hand. It swings lazily, the ring hardly moving from where it’s settled around your finger. You like coming to Mal’s, it’s cozy. The wards all buzz pleasantly, familiar and comfortable, and all the various knits and bundles give the place a warmth you don’t get anywhere else. Plus the company is good.

“He really shouldn’t be able to just pop in,” You hum, studying the brass sphere as it moves in small circles.

“And yet he continues to,” Mal replies, flipping through their ledger. You hum again, watching the pendulum go from its soft circling to a swaying back and forth as the shop door opens. You snap your wrist up and the chain jerks the sphere into your hand. “Not him,” Mal informs you, you let the pendulum drop back down.

You ignore the pickup conversation happening next to you, focusing on the shop’s wards. You can feel them fitting together like puzzle pieces. They’re snug, and shouldn't have any room for anything to slip through. Your instrument isn’t catching on any holes in the magic either. It would be nice if wild magic wasn’t so personal. You wince, thinking of the unfriendly magic you’d experienced recently. You’d never felt your wards do something like that. Maybe Mal needed something similar. The shop door opens and closes as you press the heel of your hand against your forehead.

“Maybe we need shopkeeper protections,” You mumble without thinking. Mal looks up from notating their list.

“What happened?” 

“Customer recently tried to wipe me,” You swallow, shake your head, let your hand drop back to your lap. Mal’s brows are furrowed with concern.

“Are you still-”

“No it’s all out now, but it was-”

Both of you jump as a mass of smoke and shadows collect and pop in the middle of the shop. It feels like a small vacuum being filled all at once. You stare at dark eyes behind a skull mask, smell smoke, that man is too damn big to be appearing like that in here. Mal is clutching their heart, fingers tight on the counter. The pendulum under your open palm swings frantically in all directions. 

“You!” You point your free hand at the man. He points at himself questioningly. “How’d you do that?”

“What?” He asks. You look at Mal who is slowly pulling themselves together again.

“Apparate,” They supply helpfully.

“Apparate,” You tell the man.

“Who’s asking?” His voice is gruff, in a way you’re sure someone else might find charming. You, however, find it to be avoiding the question. You fish a small chunk of smoky quartz from your pocket and chuck it at him. He catches it out of the air before it can hit him. Focus stuck.

“C’mere a second,” You wave him over. His eyes narrow behind the mask, flick to your pendulum and then the floor. He points at the chalk circle you’d drawn around the counter.

“You’re a witch.”

“Correct.” He looks at Mal.

“You hired a witch?”

“Hired is a strong word,” Mal glares at him, “She volunteered.”

“They’re making some lace for me.” You explain. The man gives you a “who asked” look. Rude. You jerk your pendulum up into your hand and stuff it into your pocket, pulling a strip of vellum and a pen free. You start transcribing runes and sigils on it, waving the man towards the counter again. After a moment’s hesitation he sighs and walks forward. “So how’s the apparating work? Is it a displacement? Are you filling a void? Slipping through a crack? What is it?”

“Can I pick up my order?” He’s ignoring you. That’s fine, you can feel the wisps of his magic in the circle without him explaining it. It almost reminds you of Price’s magic, the loose threads of it airy and shifting. You try to hone in on the vacuum feeling from earlier, drawing a circle around a few runes. Your magic plucks at his inquisitively, protected enough by the circle to be curious.

Mal marks the pickup down in their book and reaches under the counter for the neatly folded parcel. You glance at the bundle, try to feel the intention behind it. 

“You know you can use the front door,” Mal grumbles.

“Where’s the fun in that?” The man unfolds the pink knit fabric and sighs, “Dammit Love.” Despite the tone you can see his fingers rubbing one of the little bunny ears on the onesie fondly. You wonder if he’s got a baby at home. Then you’re stuck wondering who the hell would give this man a baby. You fix your intentions and get back to your work.

You finish your scribbling as he hands Mal payment. You read over your makeshift ward digging through your pockets. You thought you had some tape in here somewhere. No dice. You shrug and reach for a pin off the cushion on the counter, stabbing it through the top of your vellum strip.You’re just as quick to stab it into the shoulder of the masked man next to you.

“What the fu-” He pops out of the shop as the wards kick in. Mal blinks at the previously occupied space.

“Huh,” They settle the stack of gold coins on the counter, “Can I get a few more of those?”

You shake your head, “that's one of a kind sorry, but I think I’ve got how he’s slipping the wards. I’ll tweak them so he can’t pop in anymore.” You hop off the counter and scuff out the chalk circle to start your work.

“Maybe we do need shopkeeper protections.” You glance over your shoulder, watching Mal grab a broom to clean up the rest of the chalk now that it’s inert.

“What, like a union?”

“Or like the mafia,” Mal shrugs. You don’t think either of you would make a very good Don, but it’s a good idea.

“I think we’d need more than just the two of us,” You move one of the hanging knit samples aside to chalk in a few extra sigils on the wall.

“There’s the red bar nearby, and that flower shop,” Mal counts off.

“Plus the craft store,” You tap your chalk against the wall, “Do we just- What? Distribute fliers?”

“Unless you have a better idea.”

“I gotta go to the flower shop later, I’ll ask the owner.” Mal hums, you think it’s their annoyed hum. “You don’t like the seer?”

“Your chalk is trying to burn my floor,” They tell you instead. You nearly snap your neck turning to see what they’re talking about. Sure enough the remains of your circle are sparking angrily at something.

“Shit, what now?” You ask the chalk, hurrying to see what’s catching your magic before it does any permanent harm.

-

König is coming out of the shop as you make your way towards it. You give him a wide berth, not eager to get caught in his wake. You can feel the snap of magic at his heels, sparking against the shop’s threshold. He hardly pays you any mind, singularly focused on whatever is driving him out. You slip into the shop and take a full breath of the floral air. The shopkeeper is sort of dazedly picking through a bowl of rings.

“Where’s your guard dog going?” You ask, not used to the big guy being outside of the shop. You honestly thought he might be living in the back room. 

“I don’t know, we had a fight,” She sighs before shaking her head and giving you a confused look, “Sorry, dog?”

“Oh is he- is he not this place’s guard?” You glance around the shop, it doesn’t have any wards, you assumed the big fae was the ward.

“He’s my boyfriend?” She frowns, scrunching her face up. You think maybe you���re not close enough friends to have asked in the first place.

“Ah, well that makes sense I suppose.” It doesn’t. You don’t know how the fuck she could be dating that thing. You thought she was a seer, does she not- You know what, it’s not your circus.

“Can I help you with something?” There’s a polite level of snark in her tone, enough you could brush off if you weren’t paying attention. Right, you forgot how prickly this seer is. 

“I ordered a bundle of poppies,” You don’t really know how to pitch the union thing. You wish you had business cards. You often wish you had business cards.

“Don’t suppose you put a name to that order,” She grumbles, flipping through her ledger.

“Nope,” You pop the ‘p’, “might be under Witch? Or some variation of that.” This is why you like shopping at fae-adjacent businesses, the magical consideration. You don’t get nameless orders at the usual human shops. She taps the order line and goes to pull a bunch of flowers from one of the nearby cases.

“You’ve been here a few times, yeah?” She asks, setting the bouquet on the counter as you fish your wallet out of your overstuffed spell bag.

“You remember me!” She nods.

“Yeah your, uh,” She frowns, squints at you, or around you, “magic, I guess, is sort of… recognizable.” You bite your tongue to keep from asking what that means, what it looks like. You try not to be jealous of seers, but…

You hold out your hand, “I’m- Well, actually Witch works, that’s what the others call me.” You can almost hear the dial-up tone coming from the seer as she stares at your hand.

“I never know what to introduce myself as,” She says, taking your hand, “One of my friends calls me Lieb?” You shrug and release her hand after a quick shake.

“I can call you whatever you want, since we’ll be seeing more of each other you might as well be comfortable.” You tug your credit card free of your wallet, when you look back at her she’s staring at you, confused.

“Why would we be seeing more of each other?” Oh my God, you completely skipped over asking about the union.

“I’m- well me and Mal,” You stop, “Do you know Mal?”

“I pickup König’s orders from them sometimes.”

“Great,” You nod, “Mal and I thought it would be smart to have a little shopkeepers group.”

“Like a book club?” She frowns.

“Or a Union? What’s with you people?” You shake your head, doesn’t matter, “We can standardize rules, put some shop protections down-”

“Enforce bans,” Lieb mumbles, thinking aloud.

“Yeah, if you need to ban someone, sure.” You’ve never had to ban anyone from your place, although that might be changing quickly. You wonder if Mal’s ever had to ban anyone.

“Ok, I’m down.”

“That’s it?” You ask in disbelief. She shrugs.

“Sure,” She reaches to pull a few rings from the bowl on the counter, you’d recognize the scent of iron anywhere, “I could use some protections now that my dog is banned.”

-

"I think that just about does it for cross shop policies," you tap your pen against your notebook, reading over the various rules you three have been working on all evening. "Anything else we need to cover?"

"What to do with banned patrons," Lieb says. Despite her thorns you've found her proposed rules to be surprisingly reasonable. 

"Did you ban someone?" Mal asks, tipping their head curiously. Lieb nods and holds up her phone with a crudely drawn face on it. At least you think it's a face. "König? What did he do?"

"Is that important?"

"It's good gossip," Mal shrugs, "what do you want us to do about your ban? Ban him from our shops too?"

Lieb's eyes sparkle, her smile devious. "Would you?"

You and Mal look at each other. You're not likely to see the big guy in your house, but you know Mal's work when you see it. A ban from Mal might hurt as much or more than a ban from his girlfriend. Plus it could be funny. You both seem to come to that conclusion at the same time.

"If I banned Ghost would you ban Ghost?" Mal leans forward, clearly interested.

"Sure.” Lieb shrugs.

"I wanna ban Gaz," you chime in. Mal gives you a look.

"I like Gaz."

"He tried to wipe me."

"Oh," Mal nods, "yeah, banned."

"Anyone else?" You ask the group. Mal and Lieb both think for a moment.

"Soap?" Lieb asks hesitantly, "I think that's his name: spooky, kinda electric, hangs around artsy folks?"

“Doesn’t come in my shop,” You tell her, since the description doesn’t ring a bell.

“Mine neither,” Mal agrees, “But he can be banned.”

You jot down the names in your notebook with short descriptions. A banned list is smart, easier to keep track of if there’s more than one shop keeping an eye out for them. It’s a tidy list, four fae that should be easily convinced to follow the rules. You can ask Price later about how to enforce the list, there’s probably a trick to it.

“Do we need time limits on the bans? I can’t imagine you’re going to keep your boyfriend banned forever,” You catch Lieb’s attention from where she’s typing rapidly on her phone.

“A month?” She proposes, “At least for the less personal bans. I’ll let you both know when I unban König.”

“I can do a month,” Mal looks at you and you nod. A month is fine. Mal stands from their seat and pats their legs, “Cool, well, if that’s everything, I wanna close up.”

You glance at the walls, feeling the wards wrap around you. You’re glad to feel they’re working properly, especially with the new changes to them. Lieb scrunches her shoulders up to her ears, apparently less happy with the constricting wards. It’s always felt like a too tight hug to you, but it’s your magic. You expect it’s drastically less pleasant for others.

You usher Lieb out to let Mal close up, and offer your friend the promise of a meal soon. After all, it’s been a while since you hosted them.

-

Price stares at your list with an unreadable expression. He’s leaning against your wall, as is his wont, his elbows propping him up as you sit on the brick beside him. You’re stripping herbs into a little clay bowl, picking the leaves off and waiting for him to finish his thoughts. Your rules already have Mal’s fae stamp of approval, but Price is the one that’s best at bending them. If anything has too glaring a loophole, he’ll find it. 

You’d planned on telling him about Gaz’s ban after he read over everything but it had spilled out of you as soon as you saw him. Luckily he’d fully agreed. He seemed almost relieved to hear it, you thought he’d be upset at having one of his friends banned. It’s an unexpected treat to hear Price take your side. You’ve been smiling to yourself about it since you handed him your rules list.

“These apply to me now too?” He asks, breaking the comfortable silence between you. You finish plucking the leaves off a sprig of rosemary and settle the bowl next to you so you can wipe your tired fingers on your apron.

“You’re not a customer,” You tell him. Price’s eyes sparkle with some fond mischief, you’re sure it should make you wary, but you’ve put a lot of thought into this. He isn’t a customer, and has never made himself out to be. If anything you’re trade partners, passing goods back and forth over your fence.

“Smart girl,” His praise never fails to make your stomach flip. He turns your list of rules over, his eyes sliding over the banned names on the back. “What’s this?” You can see the hint of a smile starting to form on his lips.

“Banned customers,” You lean to read over the short list. Price glances at you, or part of you. His gaze flicks to your chest before he clears his throat and pushes off the wall to stand upright. He keeps his eyes fixed on the paper in his hand. “I thought you might be able to help with how to enforce it.”

You look up at him through your lashes, and he’s sure you know how sweet you look asking for his help. He’d grab you off the wall and take you home if he didn’t think you’d put up a hell of a fight. Price understands all too well why the fae steal pretty things like you. If you weren’t so well guarded he might’ve already had you hidden away. It would be easier like that. Another fairytale for the books, another fae without a care in the world taking what it wants when it wants to.

If he didn’t know you it would all be easier. He might’ve been satisfied just stealing you then.

He keeps his eyes on your list. Pretends to think it over so he doesn’t have to look at you. Perfect, maddening, you. Honestly, if it were anyone but you handing him this list he might laugh, hell he still might. His whole team banned from three shops in one stroke, and him desperately glad not to follow the rules. “No touching” how could he ever survive that?

#oc: Witch #oc: Liebling #captain john price #captain price x oc #this is so much OC work #I have more in the works too #Threat and Crybaby fic that I cannot stop writing #Witch absolutely knows what she's doing when she looks at Price like that #menace witch #she's innocent but she isn't stupid #Mal and Witch gossip club adding a new member lol #price x oc #john price x oc #fae!Price #1fae1

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Moon Above And Stars Beside Her

Me, rising from the dead after a hundred years to post fic? It's more likely than you think! These specific characters were laser-targeted and lovingly crafted to activate every single one of my neurons and I am immensely grateful for them. Please enjoy the result of me endlessly rotating them in my mind ever since I met them.

Be warned that this fic is pretty much made up entirely of spoilers for Act 2 of the game.

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Ketheric Thorm, Balthazar, Withers, and a smidge of Selûne herself Length: ~11000 words Rating: M, for canon-typical violence and sexual content

Hurt/comfort, dealing with trauma, an overabundance of righteous anger, a smidge of Came Back Wrong, and some pretty complicated and peculiar parent/child issues.

Summary:

What of the gnawing in thine holy gut, the rage clawing up thine throat? A great weight, inclined to tip the scales once more. Which way shalt thou cast it? When you had nothing else, caged in darkness, you learned to cultivate your anger like the finest of crops. And yet there seems to be so little for you to reap.

The Nightsong is no more and Dame Aylin is returned to her most holy duties. Isobel Thorm is free of her grave. How they handle their past, present, and future is, perhaps, up to them.

Also on AO3.

—

Moon Above And Stars Beside Her

"And what of thee, god-child, moon-graced, silver-blood?"  

It is the Scribe who addresses you one entirely unremarkable evening, looking up from his scroll to arrest your gaze with his deathless one. They introduced him, a camp guest most unexpected, by some nonsense name you cannot even call to mind. But you would know him anywhere. And so you stop in your path, as you are bid, and listen. 

"A tipping of the scales most severe: thine mother freshly spared mourning her daughter, her dark sister's triumph snatched away at the very last moment." 

"You have guided these adventurers well, Scribe," you incline your head in respect and a small measure of thanks.  

"I do not guide," the grave-wind voice is raised just enough to convey something resembling annoyance at a minor inaccuracy he simply must correct. "I offer what services I am bound to, nothing more."  

You arch an eyebrow at him. "And yet you wish to speak to me, who did not ask any service of you." 

"Yes," he responds, and leaves it at that for a few moments that feel like an eternity. A timescale he is used to, one would imagine. 

"Dame Aylin. Thou art a curious creature, I admit - immortal, yet appearing in my records many times over. Moreover, thine fate stands indelibly entwined with one whose name has been freshly struck from the archives in a manner most uncommon and highly questionable." 

A tension floods you as you realise he talks of Isobel, and your hands tighten into fists at your sides.  

"What of her, pray tell?" It comes out more curt than you intended, perhaps, but the words are spoken before you can properly settle on them. 

"She lives, and shall do so for the time that is given to her, as it is to most. And still," he nods, unnervingly calm, all taut paper-thin skin, a being of unlife if you've ever seen one, "thou wouldst cleave thine malefactors in twain and rejoice in their screams. Thou, who burnest so deeply to reflect back upon them every spear-strike, every lash, every cut, every shattered, twisted bone and sinew, every drop of blessed blood they dared spill."  

You breathe in a leaden breath, knit together as you are, the divine birthright of your Mother lacing your scars with shining gold, proclaiming that the testament of your newly ended immeasurable suffering is something to be proudly displayed. You know the marks on your face glisten in the firelight much like the woven gold that decorates his skull, his sunken cheeks, as he looks upon you half-expectantly.  

"I would, and I do," you can but confirm through grit teeth. 

"What of thine anger? What of the gnawing in thine holy gut, the rage clawing up thine throat? A great weight, inclined to tip the scales once more. Which way shalt thou cast it?" 

"I would destroy them. I would scorch the very traces of them from the world. Some, I already have - as you are doubtlessly aware, Scribe. Much like they tried, and failed, to destroy me." 

"Or did they?" There is the infuriating calmness again, and a question meant for no answer, or perhaps merely a word of caution aimed at you. 

His withered countenance is as utterly illegible as a weather-worn tombstone, but if this was meant to stir hated doubt in you, it does. For you have grown well aware it is not just the bright, righteous blaze of justified anger that fuels you now, but something relentless that stings and cuts you as it wants out, out, out. This is not the way of Protection, of Devotion, of measured Justice. This is not the duty you were once sworn to, the sacred oath that has resounded in the marrow of your very bones since the first breath you ever drew upon this land. No, it is something new, and yet Vengeance has served you just as well - better, perhaps - in this brief time you've been free. 

"For all their infernal efforts, I have pieced myself together over and over and over again. It is my nature to do so, not a choice to be made, nor a conscious effort. Their betrayal and their sins against me are but a chapter in my tale, nothing more. My task is not done, and for as long as it is so, Dame Aylin will not stop, will not falter. You know this as well as I." 

The calm of the tomb refuses to be disturbed in any way, least of all by your tirade. "And yet, along the way, a piece of thee was lost and replaced with another, ill-fitting. Many stand to win from this, as many stand to lose." 

You frown as you scrounge around for a reply, and find yourself lacking one. He looks not at you, but into and through you, and it is uniquely discomfiting.  

The Scribe raises his hand in dismissal, and offers solemn parting words. "A godling thou art, but no god. It is in thine nature, too, to wonder, and question, and change in response. As it is in mine to observe, and take note, and stand witness to the weaving of fate. Forget not: thou art not near as tide- and cycle-bound as thine divine moon-mother." 

- 

You are given little time to contemplate the Scribe's weighty, ominous statements. Yet another comes seeking, coveting, poaching. Craven-clever mouth full of honeyed praise for your "gift" and only ever wanting to take, take, take, all for himself. 

How dare, how dare he, how dare they how DARE--  

A thousand echoes of deaths upon deaths swarm and you take the vainglorious fool, lift him bodily up and-- 

He breaks upon your knee like a dry kindling scrap and your breaths come loud and half-choked and heaving. What was once a vile wizard is now nothing and for a moment, the briefest, most fleeting of moments, neither are you. 

Until the world rushes back in, exhausting in its sheer weight. There is no glorious, triumphant rush of battle-roused blood singing through you. Vengeance didn't taste sweet. It didn't taste like much of anything.  

When you had nothing else, caged in darkness, you learned to cultivate your anger like the finest of crops. And yet there seems to be so little for you to reap. 

As the sounds of the city far, far below slowly fill the enchanted tower, competing with crackling magic and bubbling potions and a complete absence of words spoken by any of your present companions and allies, all you can pinpoint whirling within you is a rising despondency. 

One more, and then another, and another after that, extending before you all in a line, down the endless, endless years that await you, immortal and eternal. Magus or sorcerer or ruffian or necromancer or halfwit charlatan, it won't matter much, will it? Because they will try. 

Do you dare ever again let your guard down for even a few precious moments of respite, when another villain with designs on your person could be lurking, scheming just around the corner? 

Worse yet, far more chilling - what if they, conniving, decide to aim their ambitions at a different target, at your soft underbelly, and come for Isobel in turn? 

When you draw yourself out of the crowding thoughts and return to camp at long last, subdued, tired, painfully aware you are far removed from your usual mighty bearing, hours have flown by and the sun has already set. Isobel is there, and for a moment that is all you know. She is there, and whole, and alive, and it is all you can do not to drop to your knees once more and offer prayer upon prayer of gratitude. 

She looks at you, eyes brimming with a potent mix of concern and questions, then rushes towards you and wordlessly takes you by the gauntleted hand to the small sanctuary you've carved out for yourselves in the midst of your newfound allies: a simple tent, a soft, warm rug, a comfortable enough cot. A small washbasin Isobel keeps filled with conjured, moonlight-laced freshwater. 

"It was a glorious victory, my love, worry not," you rush to reassure, though even you can tell your heart is not in it. "Yet another villain slain, his devilish designs denied -  as has become the habit of our merry retinue. The battle has tired my mind somewhat, that is all."  

You can see the doubt writ plainly on her face, but it is no lie you tell her (never, never could you bring yourself to lie to her). It is more that… you do not know the reason yourself, or, rather, that it feels too manifold to ever encompass in simple words. 

"I wish you would give yourself time, Aylin, let yourself rest," Isobel says, soft, endlessly caring, achingly perceptive, and only slightly disapproving. She starts taking your armour off piece by piece as you sit on the small campaign stool you appropriated recently, then dampens a washcloth to wipe the traces of recent battle from your face. "Please. You endured more than a hundred years of horrors I can scarcely imagine."  

You grit your teeth at the mention and try, foolishly, to hide from her the tension that runs through you at the mere evocation of the thought. She palms your cheek and tilts your face to look up at her - her, standing above you and yet barely exceeding your height, though you remain seated - and oh, how you adore the sight! 

Isobel frowns as she notices a scrape on your temple, slightly singed in a near-miss from one of the mage's commanded elementals. It is nothing, you want to insist, no need to fuss over it, but you know how to recognise a battle lost before it has even begun. "In Her radiance, you are made whole," she murmurs, and you feel the familiar tingling and slight warmth of the gash knitting itself closed. 

Her incantations are perfect and as subtly melodious as ever. There is healing even before her spells take hold simply by the fact she is here. It is Isobel's touch that has ever been a balm when you returned from a skirmish, feathers ruffled, just as it is now when you feel burning echoes of abuse tear through you at some unintended motion or runaway thought. 

Satisfied for the moment, she dips the cloth in water again, and runs it gently over you, in a cycle as regular and comforting as that of the Moon itself: brow, nose, cheek, jaw, neck, then brow again, and again. For a little while the gentle, refreshing, cleansing caress is the only thing that exists in your world, and you let go of the death-grip you only half-consciously had on her other hand. 

"I confess… I hate to see you throwing yourself back into the fray like this. I understand why, and that it is necessary, but…" she trails away and pauses for a heavy moment, cloth in hand. She resumes, more determined, now scrubbing at a stubborn mark on your chin. "I wish it didn't have to be so soon. Duty or not, you shouldn't have to. You should be allowed to recover in your own time, to heal in peace, until you are ready." 

You cannot help but bristle at that. "You would deem me unfit for my purpose? My duty and my self are so entwined, it is not possible to have one without the other - would you call into question a sword's place in battle?" 

"Listen to yourself," Isobel snaps, harsher than you can ever remember hearing her, stopping her ministrations and standing tall to face you down, cheeks reddened. "Can't you hear what you sound like? Like a misguided Sharran, making yourself out to be nothing but a tool to be used and used and used until you are useful no more!" 

You gape at her, useless, wordless. "Isobel…" 

"Yes, you are the resplendent Sword of the Moonmaiden, performing great deeds in Her name… but you're so, so much more than that, and I treasure all that you are." The words are so impassioned and so openly honest you are struck silent in pure awe. Isobel, clutching a dripping, bloodied washcloth in the middle of a patched-up tent, might as well be a queen making proclamations before her devoted court assembled in a lofty palace. And oh, devoted you are, endlessly, endlessly. This can never change. 

"My Aylin, my angel. You always have been, and always will be, and if it takes me years to remind you of all of these things I know you once knew, I promise I will." Her palm is back on your face, a gentle caress that soothes many wounds long invisible, never healed. 

She speaks her promise as solemn as any vow you have ever made, and you bow your head to kiss her hand.  

"There is no need for recklessness, after all," Isobel smiles, the slightest wry twist to it, as she tips your chin back up, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead and murmur against your freshly washed skin. "The Moonmaiden's shield is mine to wield. You know its strength, the blows it can take. Let it be a sanctuary for you as well. Give me - give yourself a chance. Slowly, step by step - there is time." 

You have time, she is correct, even if you've never managed to have a very good grasp of it. All the time in the world, and then some. 

Isobel does not. 

You've already lost her once, had her ripped from your arms by whims of fate, or rather something far more sinister. There is no way to know, but you suspect, oh, you do. Your Mother's dark twin schemes ever on, and Moonrise, beacon that it was, surely seemed to her a provocation, Ketheric Thorm a crown jewel to be poached, and Isobel, your Isobel, a mere means to an end. 

Isobel, brought back, a miracle paid for so very dearly. It would be foolish to count on another. 

You stand up and reach over and almost crush her to your chest in an embrace - one she returns not a moment after completing her surprised exclamation. You hold her and hold her and allow yourself to lose track of time again. 

- 

Moonlit, timeless, subdued in her glory, you listen to Isobel recite the Words as she pours fresh milk into the small silver ritual bowl before her.  

"Our Lady of Silver, whose light falls upon us all, hear me."  

Her reverent voice is barely above a whisper but carries impeccably, harmonising with the gentle bells and chimes surrounding the private little altar.  

"Sheltered by Your radiance, guided by Your hand, I come not to entreat, but to reaffirm." 

Motes of moonlight buoyant around her dance in the rhythm of the prayer you've heard and repeated so often it feels like breathing itself. It would feel stranger not to join in, so you do, if only in your mind. 

- 

Ever-changing, ever-returning, as the silver Moon waxes and wanes, so too does life.  

- 

You lurch back into awareness in a place you have never seen before, but that you recognise without a shred of doubt. The utter absence in the dark dome of the sky above you, the storms that swirl and rage all around, the assault on your ever-heightened divine senses - the reek of the Shadowfell feels like it has sunk its claws into your lungs already. You shudder, then startle, scrambling to stand when you realise your armour is gone, your sword nowhere to be found. 

Your feet are bare on the cold, cruel rock; your mind reeling, disoriented. Half-blinded by the glowing runes that encircle you, your tunic still stained with the fresh blood of your latest, very recent death, you come face to face with the two men you made the mistake of believing and turning your back on mere moments ago, in what must have been a different pocket of the dark realm.  

And so, the last time you see him for what is to be more than a hundred years, Ketheric Thorm locks gazes with you and wordlessly draws a dagger. Then he cuts his palm, deep and deliberate and unflinching, and your own muscle and sinew feel the slice. 

The hideous grin of savoured success on his pet necromancer's face upon witnessing your startled, pained reaction chills you to the bone. It is then, perhaps, that you begin to grasp the scope and shape of what they have in store for you. 

You try to rush at them, charge and claw them into submission with your bare, bloodied hands if needs be, but the boundaries of the sickly-bright rune-inscribed circle flare up, the cage tightens around you, phantom hands grasp and wrench and restrain and keep you in place, your foes and would-be tormentors only just out of reach. 

"What are you doing, you dog ?" You roar at Ketheric, your insides twisting at the sight of the dark disc newly burnished on his armour, Sharran symbols adorning his brow, his chest. "Oathbreaker! How dare you conspire against Dame Aylin, against Selûne herself! How dare you so betray Isobel--" 

A heavy gauntlet smashes into your jaw as soon as the beloved, yearned-for name leaves your lips, and Ketheric's voice rises above the ringing in your ears. 

"You do not get to speak her name, thief. I am the one betrayed, abandoned. By your witch of a mother who hoarded my misguided service for far too long." 

Ketheric steps back and calms, somewhat - or merely restrains his rage into something crueller and colder, while you recover enough to speak.  

"Shar will not help you, Ketheric Thorm. Oblivion does not heal, does not mend - and oblivion is all she offers. But what she will ask of you in return will damn you forever." 

He waves a claw-armoured hand in mock-dismissal of your warnings. 

"Do what you will with her, Balthazar, as long as it doesn't impede my Lady's plans. Break her, if you can. Let her rage and pace and fume and rot, if not. But I want her to know," he steps closer again, so close, almost close enough to touch, if not for those accursed hands holding you back, "when our Dark Lady's acolytes come calling, when her wretched silver-stained blood fuels the creation of an army the likes of which the world has yet to see - I want her to know and never forget: it was on my orders." 

You calm your breathing enough to answer, the burning rage within you forging your words into steel - the only steel you can aim at him, for the moment. But the tides will turn, as they inevitably do. "The Moon shows many faces. Our Lady of Silver is ever-changing. You should be careful, traitor, lest the Hunter's Moon marks you as Her prey." 

Ketheric scoffs, unimpressed. "Let her try! Let her come, let her send all her legions after me, when she would not lift one holy finger to help me when I needed it most, for all my decades of faith and devotion. No, you will see," the quiet conviction in him is chilling to behold, in all its sheer wrongness. "This place, this bond, will sustain me, and it will take everything from you, piece by piece, until you whine and cry and beg your moonwitch mother for salvation. And when you are met with the same merciless silence as I was, perhaps I will consider it payment enough for the precious hours of my daughter's presence you dared steal from me, interloper." 

You cannot reach him to wrap your hands around his worthless, treacherous throat and wring. But the trap, the cage, is imperfect, and you spit silver-flecked blood at his face easily. 

He flicks his cheek clean, all dismissal, then motions to his foul, death-reeking companion to come forward. "Start with her wings. She has no need for those anymore." 

"I would be delighted, General," comes the sickening, rot-sweet voice of Balthazar from somewhere behind you, along with the deceptively gentle sound of him tinkering with his ghastly tools and implements. "How very appropriate, how symbolic, to start by clipping our little bird's wings." 

You roar your rage at Ketheric's back until he is out of sight and your throat is raw and bloody and capable of nothing but a hoarse whisper. You strain and pull and beat your wings in great gusts with all the desperate force you can muster; you burn, entire, with a scorching radiance unlike any you've manifested before. But the newforged bonds persist, and drag you down, down, down, merciless, until you see and breathe nothing but dust, the magic of one of the caging runes stinging against your cheek as the sounds of what can only be termed butchery fill the stale air. 

It is the perhaps unfortunate attribute of your particular strain of immortality that you are obliged to feel every wound, every hurt, every blow that seeks to lay you low. That you rise to fight again only after you have been truly felled. That your memory is one made to suit your long life - blade-sharp, exact, and infallible.  

You lie there afterwards for a long, long, quiet while; unmoving, though the spectral hands loosened their grip and vanished along with Balthazar, a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year ago. There is too much pain still, you think almost idly, feeling quite far removed from your own self. Too much for any of it to have been a killing blow.  

It is the first time in your storied existence you dare to think of death as a possible mercy and wonder if you might ever welcome it. 

- 

Let all on whom Selûne's light falls be welcome if they desire.   

- 

You do not see Ketheric after that, except in gory fantasies produced by your mind's eye. But you do get to know, intimately, each and every battle he deigns to fight personally, each scrape and cut and bruise and jab, arrow and spear and sword - all unseen, but far from unfelt. 

Then comes the steady stream of misguided Sharrans, would-be Dark Justiciars.  

You try to speak to them, at first. Reach out. Try to make them see their terrible error while retribution might still be within their grasp. 

You fail, each and every time. And each and every time you pay for that failure with a death. Some of them are more decisive about it, quick, almost merciful. Some stretch it out, savour it. Some can't bear to meet your eyes. 

But all of them, in the end, do it. And you choke back to life over and over and over again, knit together anew, as the murmurings mount. 

Descend to her. Look upon her. Listen to her.   

Kill her.  

You remember the first time you died: out on a quest taking you through a steep mountain pass, falling into an ambush, peppered by poison-tipped crossbow bolts. You remember also the slight fear, the uncertainty of what exactly would happen to you - the fact of your Moon-blessed immortality until then only a suggestion, a curiosity somewhere in the back of your mind. 

You remember the gradual change into certainty over several misadventures and the ensuing determination - you were indestructible! Indomitable, as befits the Sword of the Moonmaiden, put upon this earth to enact Her will. Who would dare stand before you, resplendent, eternal, uncowable? 

And you remember the long, slow slide into being utterly used to it, down in these seemingly bottomless shadows, stuck on another Sharran spear, listening to your own blood drip drip drip as the darkness grew even heavier, laced with increasingly triumphant whispers. 

- 

As we turn to the Moon, we trust She will be our true guide.  

- 

Exhaustion overwhelms even the most righteous of furies, and you fall into a fitful sleep now and then. You dream of Isobel, soft, warm, brilliant, alive, and it makes the cruelty of awakening all the worse. 

Balthazar comes, sometimes, your most frequent and most despised visitor by far. He delights in letting you know how much time has passed - impossible to tell, in the umbral pocket of your prison. Regales you with tales of Sharran tyranny being visited upon the land and the people you were sent to watch over and protect and guide, your one mission and the purpose written into the very blood flowing through your veins. And yet you did nothing but fail. Precious Isobel, dead; Ketheric, lost, determined to tear down with him the world entire. 

Balthazar rejoices in the disgust you cannot help but bear openly upon your face as he expounds on his experiments, hands unbound by any trace or suggestion of morality and propriety and with Selûnite victims in abundance. He crows endlessly over his successes, his sick triumphs - but oh, none as impressive as you!  

He does much worse, later, and you learn you do not need a tongue to curse him. 

You know nothing can come of it but even more pain and sick retribution, yet you goad the corpse-rotted bastard every chance you get. The necrotic embodiment of every foul undead creature you would have wreathed your sword in radiance for, if only it were at hand. Whom you would have longed to smite until nothing but ash remained. 

There is nothing else here. Empty shadows, as befits the Lady of Loss. A void without and within, yours to fill with gnawing, searing, holy wrath. Nothing left to sustain you but the thought of a long-distant but inevitable escape and vengeance.  

One day. 

"I keep a tally just for you, Balthazar." You pace the infuriatingly familiar bounds of your cage, precise in your steps in order not to trigger the wretched closing in, the grasping-- 

He looks up from the stitching he is doing, morbid handiwork on some poor Moon-devoted stonemason he wanted you to see. "Aylin! I did not know you cared so." 

"Why, yes," you bare your teeth at him in mockery of a smile. "When your little spell inevitably fails and this game of yours runs its course, I will come find you first. I will tear you apart, limb from mismatched limb, into your grave-robbed constituent parts. And then I will mince them further, until there is one rotting morsel of you for each and every hurt you have ever visited on me." 

"You will find," you prowl closer, just out of reach of the necrotic claws, "I have an excellent memory." 

Infuriatingly, the corpse only smiles, laughs in your face. 

"I was expecting just a touch more creativity, but then I suppose that has never been much of a strong point for you moon-followers." 

You scowl and swallow back a growl and want only to provoke him further, itch to make him react, to make a mistake. 

"So very boring and predictable. Painfully straightforward. Laughably easy to trick." 

He waves a hand and conjures a muddy image of the lost Selûnite child you were made to chase down here what feels like a lifetime ago, the perfect bait they contrived just for you. 

"You were nothing, Aylin. A meat-headed little errand girl for your useless mother. I, well, I have made you into a treasure." 

Balthazar's smile splits the corpse-bloat of his face. The stench makes you want to gag, makes you yearn for the duller senses of one not trained from birth to be a paladin.  

"As thanks, let me leave you with a thought you will doubtlessly appreciate. Do you know, I wonder, how very little it would take for you to be freed? What little effort I had to invest to ensure your captivity? One friendly touch would break the confinement spell, a mere moment of kindness. Nothing more." 

He steps forward, waving your clawed shackles into existence. Then he moves as if to pat your head or caress your face - but instead pulls at your hair, whipping your head back, and sneers. 

"How lucky for both of us you will never find such a thing here. There is not the slimmest hope of reprieve, not for you." 

And for a hundred years, he is right. 

- 

The Moonmaiden will never allow us to bear a burden we cannot carry.  

- 

The burning flare of indignant rage sours somewhere deep in your belly along the way. You are not of Ilmater's stock, made for the rack, proud to endure all pain, indignities, and abuse, for oh, good things would come to those who waited! With idle waiting you were long done. There was no glory to be found in suffering. No, you were made to be a beacon soaring through the sky, driving away shadows and fear and doubt, illuminating with the stark, silver light of your Mother's truth all the myriad lies your foes so loved to wield. 

What have they done to you? When it might be easier to ask what haven't they, over the months, years, decades, uncountable. Tongue, eyes, wings, heart. Yours to lose, all of it, when it was never theirs to take. And then, darker still - what use it all, when your heart's love had gone already? Isobel, most cherished of all, taken so suddenly and cruelly - you always knew you were going to be painfully parted, for your nature made that an inevitability. But not so soon. Not cut so short so abruptly, when she had so much still to give, and do, and be. When you were supposed to watch her grow old and say goodbye slowly and gradually with every precious day. 

You try to fill the hours between deaths with something kinder: memories of her gentle smile, her soft touch, her grace and her wit and her light. But all you can picture here among the accursed shadows is the beautiful, heartrending serenity of her laid on her bier, awaiting her final rites. 

Your own words to Ketheric resound in your mind. "Dear Isobel," you whispered, reverently, words you now know fell on deaf ears, "in my Mother's care at the Gates of the Moon, no doubt, with noble Melodia by her side. One day you shall be reunited on the silver shores. One day, my mission will be deemed complete, and I will be released from my duty… and I shall be permitted to join you." A tentative, tender smile to the bereaved father, and a hand on his shoulder. Trying to meet the man's grief with your own and perhaps thus relieve both your burdens. 

In a kinder world, you could have mourned your mutual loss together. But it wasn't to be. Instead - this. Instead, you, here, caged, tormented, made to carry more than just the hurts visited upon Ketheric's flesh and bone. Though in your mind it seems it has all done little to soothe his own pain, instead merely doubling it and vomiting it back into the world. 

Your contemplation is cut short by a sudden agony. This in itself is nothing new - Ah, you think, Ketheric has run afoul of a Harper's blade or a druid's claws again. You know enough from Balthazar's boasting to distract yourself with dreamed-up possibilities, a comfort as meagre and thin as the rags that clothe you. As if you could will his own hurts back onto him.  

No, the pain is nothing new. But there is something different about it this time - it feels like it has no end, it does not ebb, and you take such a very, very long time to die. And when you awaken again, the crushing in your chest continues, then stops so abruptly you feel like you can breathe for the first time in years. This was clearly no normal battlefield injury and it makes your entire being burn with hope that, for all the unusual suffering it is foisting upon you, it means that something shifted -- 

That perhaps, somehow, miraculously, even with leeching off of you, fat and silverblood-gorged, Ketheric failed. Was defeated. 

That perhaps your torment is reaching its end, and soon enough some enterprising hero, a fellow Selûnite perhaps, will find themselves guided into your prison to help you pry the bars wide open-- 

And then, a roar. A quake of the very foundation of your unseen cell so strong it knocks you down, and a surge of darkness and fury greater than anything you've ever seen. An entire storm of shadows, howling, screaming with a thousand enraged voices, ever-wretched Shar's above all, rushing up and up and up and blasting through the black dome that stood for the sky in this abyss.  

You dare not think of what this could mean: the Shadowfell pouring out its umbral essence over the world so suddenly and violently. 

It is a moment, perhaps, of ultimate weakness - for a precious few seconds you had the nerve to think it might finally be over, but instead… this. 

"Hear me, Mother," you rasp out against the ground stained over and over with your own blood, unable even to lift your head and address the words up high, where they belong. "Hark, Moonmaiden Selûne, Your blade is dulled, stolen. Your will delayed, undone. Your daughter… begs for Your aid…" 

"I need… I pray… a boon. Bless me with Your help, so that Your bright sword can once again be lifted as an instrument against the darkness. At Your service, as I ever must be, I incur this debt gladly. Let us answer this invasion with all our might." 

There is no response to your prayers. Not a glimpse of your Mother's ever-changing face. Not a single droplet of silver moonlight penetrates these shadows, and no other voice reaches your ears. 

The thought rises, unbidden: is this what Ketheric meant? 

There is no shadowy shroud of Shar that a moonbeam of Selûne cannot pierce. You have staked your entire being on this belief, a thousand times over. And yet not a mote of light reaches you in all your years of captivity, and you, curse you, you wonder. The swirling shadows whisper and tickle your mind and your very soul and you despise this intrusion but-- 

If she can, and yet she does not - does that mean she does not want to? Does not care to? 

Among the wild shadowy storms and the gusting winds and lashing lightning, the silence is deafening. When you repeat your prayer, a year later, then a decade, there is still no answer. 

An incredible loneliness stretches before you, a nothingness so profound and so very, very long you think you might even miss Balthazar's rancid presence. 

And then, a sudden crushing in your chest again, and an agony exploding behind your eyes. Mercifully brief, as far as these things have gone before, but igniting such unspeakable anguish in you that you bellow and pound your fists against the ground until they are raw and bloody. For you know this can only mean one thing: the cycle is starting anew after all this time, and what you took for Ketheric's defeat had somehow only been a temporary setback. 

- 

As Your starglow soothes and bolsters, so we promise to aid our fellow faithful, and guide those whose path is not yet clear.  

- 

You've flown over these lands countless times, but now, as you rush forward to your long-promised reckoning, you might as well be flying over one of the hells. The ruin and desolation drains away even the heady rush of newfound freedom, the sheer relief of feeling the wind on your wings once again. 

It is hard to reconcile the shadow-swollen horrors below you with the magnificence of Moonrise Towers as you once knew them, striking pillars of faith without question. Reithwin itself and the land entire have changed, twisted, in the end but a mirror to the devotion of their ruling family.  

There is nothing here of what you remember, nothing left of the simple, blessed life you got but a taste of, not even an echo to be found of all that you once came to treasure alongside your beloved. Fields and orchards you helped work; vineyards you helped bless; fine, silver-wrought fountains you helped make ever-pure, all in your role as your Mother's emissary. 

Ketheric Thorm, now False twice over, in whose throne room you stood in audience, promising your fealty and your aid, as recognition for his family's long list of deeds in Selûne's name. 

And Isobel, his daughter, still fairly young for one of half-elven descent, but an accomplished cleric in her own right. Her mother's daughter through and through. 

The first in Reithwin to stop being star-struck when faced with you, made of far sterner stuff than she might have at first seemed, and insisting on meeting you as an equal. Wise, caring, and skilled. And achingly beautiful, with a soft face and rosy cheeks meant to be bathed in the gentlest of moonlight. 

It was odd, but meant to be - clearly part of some plan you happened not to be privy to, but had no desire to question. 

- 

All love alive under Her light shall know Her blessing.  

- 

Isobel, living and breathing before you, is a miracle if you've ever seen one. 

Isobel, still hurt, bruised from what you are told was a kidnapping attempt ordered by her own father - you bristle, and bite it down. 

"It is nothing," she insists when you belabour the point, and you want to chastise her for never thinking of herself enough, even after a century, always putting her own wellbeing last, knitting everyone else's wounds closed and leaving no salve for her own. 

Instead, you take her face between your palms, trace her cheeks with tentative fingers and carefully, carefully tap into the healing magic you've ignored for a hundred years. The face of the Moonmaiden is ever-shifting - the fierce, warlike guise of martial prowess is but one of many in Her exalted repertoire, and so, too, in yours. 

Then, in the privacy of the spacious upstairs room granted to Isobel as the haven's pivotal goddess-touched protector, the very embodiment of the Last Light, you do the same for the rest of her.  

Her body is warm, though she complains of a coldness she cannot be rid of. 

You fall before her, on your knees as if in supplication, as has always felt like the most natural thing in the world. Face buried in the softness of her bare stomach, a dam in you breaks, and you weep for the joy, the relief beyond all hope, of her real and breathing and whole before you. 

She leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head, like a benediction, hands running through your hair and cradling you ever so softly until you regain yourself. 

"My darling, my angel. I can hardly believe you are here." 

In this, she speaks for the both of you, and spurns you to action. 

"Then let me banish all doubt," you murmur, trailing kisses all the while, reverent hands on soft thighs. "I would taste of you, my love, if you allow it." 

There is a fleeting moment of hesitation that was never there before as her hands and lips still. But then her shiver becomes one of anticipation as she murmurs into your ear. "I welcome it." 

It is yours, then, as ever, to do as you are bid. 

You wish to touch every inch of her, impress upon her again and again in a thousand kisses the affection and adoration welling within you inexhaustible. You crave to recommit to memory what you once studied and learned like the most fastidious of students. You need in a way you never have before. And she obliges - no, answers, just as eager and driven by your age-long separation, though her experience of it has been so wildly, incomprehensibly different. 

The sounds you draw from her (familiar, dearly missed) are like a balm, a private song you were certain you would never hear again.  

You hold her as close as is possible, and she returns the favour. Her caress is familiar, warm, healing in ways few things could ever be. After the hundred years of emptiness interspersed with biting, death-inviting pain and foul, crushing hands holding you in place, after unspeakable things visited upon your body, your person, a gentle, loving, careful touch is a treasure unmatched. The sharpness of the contrast makes your throat tighten. 

"Isobel," you breathe into her shoulder, neck, and can think of nothing holier to say than her name. 

She holds you entire in her gentle hands, heart and soul and body, and whispers fervent vows to never let you go, never allow you to feel hurt and harm again.  

Isobel is slight compared to you, small and soft, for your strengths have ever lain in different areas. Treasured and safe in the circle of her arms, in the sanctuary of her embrace, finally, finally, you find rest. 

- 

You are back in your circle-cage, face down, limbs leaden. 

The bloated corpse-face of Balthazar leers over you and you launch upwards, swipe at him, near-desperate to drive him away before he continues his wretched work. Aching to make him pay for every insult he has dared commit upon your blessed flesh. 

Only to find yourself gasping, gulping down cool night air, seated on the bed in the pleasantly twilit room on the upper floor of the Last Light Inn. 

You focus for a moment and effortlessly as ever manifest your wings and take stock of yourself. You know you have not escaped unscathed, unchanged, but your strong limbs are still there, as if nothing had ever happened. Shoulders wide and sturdy, downy feathers, wings. Every sleek vane and fine bit of plumage in their place, pearly white-silver and perfect.  

Yet any human rosiness that used to reside there is long gone out of your skin, grey like marble, criss-crossed with precious gold. If you look down, there is a severe, pronounced crack lying right above your heart. It makes sense, of course, if you think on it, though you so desperately prefer - try - not to. 

And the dream - nightmare - insists on sinking vestigial claws into you, leaving you with a burning, torn sensation between your shoulder blades. 

Isobel stirs beside you, and you curse for having woken her from such hard-won and rarely granted serenity. She sits up, sleep-cottoned, and traces gentle fingers down the tensed, trembling part of your back, though you have said nothing. But Isobel, wise, insightful Isobel, always seems to know at least part of what ails you. 

"One of the Flaming Fists encamped here... a traitor. Marcus," she speaks somewhat haltingly, cautiously. "We were all struck by his betrayal, but I... when I saw him, when he came for me, when he was sent for me..." 

Her eyes meet yours, almost reluctantly. 

"He had wings. Hideously warped, blackened, rotten things, but..." 

A question is raised, a mirror of one you've asked yourself, during long hours-turned-days of morbid contemplation in your prison. 

"Balthazar. He got them from that wretch Balthazar." 

"And he got them--" Isobel cuts herself off, fully awake and alert and wincing at the confirmation of her fears. 

You swallow, throat parched and burning as if the screams from then still scrape against it. Harvesting, he called it. 

"He got them from me." 

It is simply not something to be thought about. The bile of wrath rises, crawls up your throat instead, and you spit out words almost in a growl.  

"He has been dispatched, I trust? The traitor?" 

Isobel understands.  

"He has, of course," she rushes to reassure. "Jaheira and the Harpers made quick work of him and the horrible creatures he called to his aid." 

You hum, move to sit back against the headboard, then change your mind as soon as it touches your skin. "It seems I have much to thank High Harper Jaheira." 

Your hand is still tightened into a fist in the coverlet, and Isobel reaches over, pries it open, to hold it ever so gently between both of her palms. 

"We both do. We'll see them all come morning, exchange tales over breakfast. Outside, perhaps, in the sun, at long last." Her smile is as bright as this promised dawn, but there is a note of silver-filigree steel behind it. "We can thank her then. Make sure she knows she can count on us through whatever is to come." 

She reaches over to cradle your chin, tugging you down, and kisses you softly. "Let us get some more rest, my love." 

The both of you slip back under the moth-eaten but soft covers and she burrows insistently into your side, under one wing. You lie - and, blessedly, sleep - on your stomach, Isobel's arm thrown over your lower back in that perfect balance she is mastering of being reassuring while not calling too much to mind. 

- 

When we are beset with shadows, You mend our hearts with the silver thread of Your radiant loom.  

- 

You let Isobel braid your hair, one idle evening in camp. You can sense she is just as starved for simple contact as you are - her hands seem restless, even more so than usual, and flit over your back, shoulders, arms... so you let her occupy them, as she perches in your lap and peppers you with kisses, and speaks not a single word. 

There is no mirror at hand to see her handiwork when she is done, but she looks pleased with herself, and with you, and you feel like this should be... enough. 

But another memory stirs and inches through, of the times you knelt, crouched, sat in that glowing circle that your world had seemed shrunken to, and, for want of anything to do with your hands (now past punching, past clawing for the freedom that was out of their reach) you set to braiding your hair, as if preparing to don a helmet and march off to glorious combat. It was something to do, and pretend. 

You undo the braids as soon as Isobel falls asleep. 

- 

The city, that meeting point of fates, draws ever nearer. 

Isobel's cough comes and goes. Nothing as bad as the fits that sometimes awoke her while you were still in the cursed lands, but it persists, frustratingly. 

"Isobel, I--" you barely get to begin to voice your concern before she brushes you away. 

"Please, it's nothing. Don't worry about me, dearest." 

"I find I cannot," you state simply, as it is a very simple truth. 

"I- I don't want to burden you. You've enough on your plate as it is." She gives a small smile so forced you almost feel insulted. "It'll pass, I'm sure." 

"Burden…? Isobel," a mess of words past her cherished name stick in your mouth, awkward, nigh indignant, and you take a moment to calm and order them. Simple and earnest is what you settle for, in the end. "Isobel, my love… You are first in my thoughts, always, you know this. I would gladly bear all your burdens if I but could, if you were to allow it - each and every one." 

She frowns, shakes her head, and you hate that you seem to have somehow displeased her. "That's just it, isn't it? I don't want you to. I don't need you to. You've born more than anyone's fair share." 

"Ah, but Dame Aylin is hardly anyone, is she?"  

You aim your most winning, blinding white grin at her, but fail to induce the reaction you were once used to getting on a whim. No blush or giggle hidden behind a dainty palm at your deliberately overtuned charm being pointed at her, no smirk and tease in return.  

No, Isobel is subdued, troubled, and, most vexing of all, everything you say seems to only serve to make it worse. 

There is something new behind her eyes, too, those beautiful, wise eyes that won your heart entire the first time you met them. A darkness, you would dare call it, a shadow not unlike the curse once fallen upon the land. A question, a yearning for some understanding that never seems to come, a futile grasp for something in an emptiness that was not there before. 

"Please, my love," you say with the utmost tenderness, reserved for Isobel alone, "do not hide your heart from me. You know I cherish it as if it were mine own." 

"I haven't felt… myself," she haltingly begins in answer to your plea, as you step forward and encircle her, first in the embrace of your arms, then in the shelter of your wings. A treasured sanctuary saved for the two of you alone. 

"I cannot… the death, it clings, I..." 

She buries her face in your chest as she struggles to pick out words one by one, plucking them out like painful thorns. You let her rest tucked under your chin, restrain yourself to quietly running one gentle, slow hand through her hair. 

"I am afraid," she settles on, finally, almost a whisper, hiding still, refusing to look at you. "I am afraid there is no fixing this wrongness I feel day after day, that's been… in me, over me, ever since I awoke. That something has been taken from me, and now there is no way to remove this vile mark that's been left on me instead, whatever it is. Not even by the grace of the Moonmaiden." 

She shivers, and you tighten your hold on her, even as the sentence after that tears into your very heart, sharper and more jagged than any Sharran knife. 

"I am afraid, most of all, that no matter how much I pray or plead, that whatever I do to try and prove myself worthy, I… cannot be. Ever again. I will never be worthy of Her light again. Or of yours." 

"No," it comes out far rougher, angrier than you ever intended, ever wanted to aim anywhere near precious, beloved Isobel - not at her, never at her. But she is wrong, because it is an impossibility, unthinkable, ridiculous to even suggest. Her, treasured, cherished, held high above all in your regard, and lofty in your Mother's. 

"Please, Isobel," you move a half-step back, if only to make it possible to cup her face, tilt her chin up and look at her. "Do not ever, ever think such a thing again. You could never be unworthy, not you. Not you." 

The hitch is back in her laboured breath as she moves to protest, the haunted look shadowing her eyes. "How? How can you be so sure?" 

And that is the question, isn't it? Your love for Isobel and faith in her intertwined, utterly certain and utterly relentless. Like the rage that sustained you through a century of torment, settled heavy and deep in your bones. You don't know any other way to feel, to be. 

"I will prove it to you, I will drive away any shadow of any doubt. Her light, through me. For you alone, Isobel." 

She acquiesces, at least, to being led over to the bed and sitting down. You lower the shoulders of her tunic. Place a gentle, reverent kiss on the revealed skin, trying to press in with it all the love and devotion you desperately need her to be aware of. 

You lay a hand on her bare back, palm flat and flush with warm skin. The rush of joy and slight disbelief that she is once again yours to touch is still fresh, and yet the familiarity of every freckle, shift of shoulder blade, and light shiver of gooseflesh is ancient and deep and right. From the outside it is the same, perfect, unchanged Isobel. But you believe her unquestioningly when she says something is wrong. 

A mere moment of focus has a silvery glow bathing the room, unwinding from underneath your fingertips and sinking into Isobel's back. She breathes in deeply, breathes out, then in again, shifting under your touch, until she seems to find at least some relief. 

"Thank you, that's…" she murmurs, barely above a breath. 

There is a dawning, deeply saddening comprehension rising in you - Isobel, insisting on pouring all her heart and soul into taking care of you, healing and protecting and doting on so devotedly, driven not just by your love most mutual, but also by fear. By a desperate need to prove herself worthy of Selûne's grace again, prove her return to life was not a horrifying mistake. Chasing redemption where none was ever needed, not for her, clinging to the thought like a lifeline. 

"Whenever, whatever you need of me, however many times." You allow your fervour to seep into your voice as you feel your eyes burn, and continue trailing moonlight-dipped fingers down her back. "If you but say the word, I will provide what relief I can, I swear it, until you are free of any shadows haunting you, or until there is no light left in me - whichever deigns to come first." 

Isobel smiles wryly, turning to steal a glance at you over her shoulder, a tiredness in her that she has only ever shown you alone. "I promised I would take care of you. And yet here you are, taking care of me. After… after everything." 

She knows enough not to specify. Even this brief almost-mention is enough to make a darkness creep at the edge of your thoughts, but you swallow it back hastily, and focus only on the treasured countenance before you, on brushing stray silver locks behind her ear with your free hand. 

"A fair and just exchange, I would think, if you are amenable." 

Isobel hums something that is neither agreement nor disagreement, then turns to face you fully, sombre in the circle of your arms.  

"I always thought that when the time came, I would be ready," she begins, slowly, as if every word was a trial. "Foolish and naive of me, probably. But I thought I knew what to expect, what I would have awaiting me, after a life of service. The City of Judgement, as awaits us all, and then, hopefully, and - I pray - deservedly, an audience in Argentil after being Claimed." 

She stops, swallows, looks at you so pleadingly you cannot help but pull her back into your embrace. 

"But instead…" you hold her tighter as she shudders, "...nothing. Darkness. A void." 

Nothing. Like the black hole of your prison. And it seems fitting, for a moment, that fate has decided to match you in this, too. 

"It is I who failed you. When it truly mattered, when it was of most consequence, I wasn't there. And you… you were lost to me. To us." 

A small frown furrows her brow as she grasps around for something, anything. "I don't remember." 

"Perhaps… perhaps that is for the best," you exhale, half-sick of dredging up shadows you would prefer remain buried. "My own memory is prodigious, and yet how I wish I could forget much of the past century."  

But Isobel looks at you longingly, searchingly, and you oblige, at least for a little bit, calling to mind what should have been the darkest days of your long life. "For all our efforts, we were never able to capture your attackers - the cowards struck so suddenly, fled so swiftly. You were laid in state, for a while. The entirety of Reithwin mourned - the Silverbrow Priestess conducted the funeral services most beautifully. The very Moon, full to bursting, cried over it. And your father…" 

Your throat seizes up. Her father, your tormentor. A wretched man you feel the two of you have to speak of, some day. The man who gave the world Isobel twice over, but selfishly, impossibly, wanted to keep her all to himself both times. 

Her countenance grows steely and determined in a way you have yet to get used to. "My father was lost to me far before he died at your hand. I mourn the man I remember, not the monster you killed. A loving, kind, generous man, who should never have been capable of such horrors as Ketheric brought down upon my home, upon you. And yet... if I was all that was keeping him from such a fall, I cannot help but think--"  

Isobel's voice cracks and you wonder when, in your absence-captivity, he stopped being Papa and became Ketheric. Your anger towards him tastes bitterer still. 

And you think of Isobel, fleeing her own grave and the twisted visage of what was once her beloved father. Dragging her own burial shroud across a land of shadow and horror, full of echoes of a life half-remembered. 

Isobel, alone, convinced of your demise, mourning you as you endlessly mourned her, both of you unknowing. 

Isobel, left to desperately and single-handedly guard the only meagre surviving pocket of her childhood home, doomed and destroyed by her father's violent, misaimed grief over her own death. A pillar of light in an all-encompassing darkness and one final, crucial defence against it, without even a fair promise of hope or future to sustain her.  

It sounds, at first, like a noble task you would think worthy of a cleric of Isobel's most excellent calibre. But you can't help but think it a test of devotion far too harsh, and entirely superfluous. Such incredible weight to place on any one person's shoulders. And for what? 

Needed and necessary she once called herself and her efforts when you asked, insisting on dismissing it all in a way you perhaps understand entirely too well. 

Perhaps, together... you, hollowed, and her, overflowing. And, in turn, her aching for something that is missing and you fit to burst with wrath and vengeance and violence. Perhaps there is hope yet, and healing to be found for both. 

Together. Only ever together. 

- 

We trust in Your radiance, Moonmaiden, even when it is out of our sight.  

- 

The battle you were waiting for is over - won, by most reckonings, but not without great cost. What is left of the city now needs care and careful restoration. There are still stray cultist enclaves to root out, remnants of the illithid army, as well as mere opportunists who always show their vile selves in such circumstances. As part of an array of unexpected, colourful allies, you make short work of them all, whenever any come to light.  

But rebuilding takes precedence, as does healing, and Isobel has taken point among Selûne's devoted in a way that is nothing short of awe-inspiring. The situation seems altogether more suited to her talents rather than yours at the moment, so you follow her readily, without question, and provide whatever aid you can. 

It is a cycle as old as time, after all, as reliable as the phases of the Moon. Building, destruction, rebuilding - the world will always need both of you. 

But tonight is the night of a full Moon, and Isobel has gone to conduct the requisite rituals with the rest of the Selûnite encampment that has been so welcoming to you. Isobel, death-touched but untainted, no matter what she may fear, will excel in whatever role they set out for her, of this you are certain. 

You, on the other hand, have begged off, your own communion awaiting you elsewhere. 

Your path leads you away from the outskirts of the city and up into the hills, your back turned on the Chionthar. Through remnants of farms and hunting lodges, up and up to cliff and brush and down again to sparse woodland, your steps are guided, as is your birthright. 

It is becoming easier to hear Her voice once again. She does not always speak in words, but Her presence She makes felt.  

And so you stop in a clearing, before a pond, crystal clear and fed by a jolly, clamouring stream. It is quiet, otherwise. Peaceful.  

You dismiss your armour, letting it dissipate into motes of moonlight. You remember with a touch of warmth and immense fondness how sweetly Isobel would pout whenever she did not get to take it off you piece by piece.  

The air is crisp and the water, once you touch it, is almost icy. The moonlight on your skin cleanses and soothes, combining with the chilly water into a refreshing blessing. It is the sensations of the world that you so dearly missed during your captivity, that you now allow to rush over you, all at once. 

It is the first time in over a hundred years you stand and behold the full silver face of your Mother, the trail of Her Tears beside Her, and wonder, idly, if She shed any for you.

Please, you beg as you step into the pool, without shame, without words. A kinder fate for Isobel, this time. 

A kinder fate for the land she still calls home.  

A kinder fate for me.  

The cool silver water seeps into every crevice of your being and washes away with it some ichor of darkness you didn't even know still clung to you. You lie back and let yourself float, the rush of water in your ears drowning out even the small nighttime noises of the clearing and surrounding woods. In the soft waves you hear your Mother's voice, and She sounds kind, inviting, forgiving. 

Why, you want to ask, why would you allow…  

There is new dampness on your cheeks, and you realise haltingly that it is tears. "Hello, Mother." 

The light of the Moon is caring and compassionate, and bathes you in love. It is the only embrace She has ever been able to give you, here. It is almost enough to forget a century of sorrow and the cries that went unheard.  

No more, She says. 

Rest, the murmur continues, soft and sad - a familiar melancholy, though not one you would expect during a Moon so full and bright. Earned, a hundred times over. My Sword, tempered to perfection. My Daughter, put through trials undeserved. Lost to me for so long. You are welcome here. Safe. I would have you know peace once more.  

"Not… not yet. There are still too many, I cannot--" You sit up, rivulets of water running down your face, following the crevices of your scars. It is unlike you to struggle so with your words. You proclaim and vow, you do not stammer and hesitate. 

What would you have for yourself, then, daughter mine?  

"I would seek and extinguish the tyrants, the oppressors," your hands tighten into determined fists as you channel and reflect all that has been done to you, aglow with silver, wings unfurled. "Those who would bind, capture, enslave, who would subjugate and rule another for their own gain - let them sleep with one eye open. Let them know: Dame Aylin sees their deeds and offers no mercy." 

Your cause is righteous, and I bless it as my own. But a burden should be shared. And you are not the only champion at my call.  

It is true, of course, and you grasp the intent, but you cannot help but bristle. You may not be the only one, but surely you are the most-- 

--fearsome? Reliable? Accomplished? 

Doubt creeps in, that most rare and hated of sensations. There is a shift, then, into a plea for you to understand, from a mother to her child. 

A broken sword can accomplish little. And even the finest steel has a breaking point. Do not too eagerly seek your own.  

You sink back into the pool, water up to your chin, as if bowing in acceptance. 

If you crave a task, I task you: offer aid in healing and rebuilding, and thus rebuild yourself. Worry not - I will call upon you when the time comes. But for now, shore up the bulwark within you.   

A smile, a tender grace. 

And let each and all know yours is a blessed union.  

The last fading words leave you puzzled for a few moonlit moments. And then Isobel is next to you, bare and glowing and embracing you, holding you to herself as if she will never let go. 

"Isobel," you start, a host of questions forming on your tongue, but she places a finger over your lips. 

"Guided back to you, as you were to me. As I promise I will be, for as long as I can."  

A shiver runs through you at the undercurrent of steel and sheer devotion in her sweet voice. 

"Then I vow I will never let myself be torn from your side again. And any who seek to part us will meet a swift end by my hand." 

You spoke such promises to each other once already, what feels like a lifetime ago, even though it should by rights have been nothing compared to your eternal years. It is a heavy lesson to have learned so well in breaking them, though - that no tomorrow can ever be guaranteed. Not even for you. 

Not near as tide- and cycle-bound, the Scribe had said, and you wonder at the recalled words. No endless rise and fall for you, then, perhaps. No waxing and waning. No rote repetition of tragic history in this world changed and strange, but instead something altogether new, hewn by the two of you. 

Isobel takes your face between both her hands and kisses you, putting a swift end to your reverie. 

In response, you pick her up out of the water, twirl her around, splash the both of you back down happily. Your smile turns into a grin, then a laugh, open and simple, and her giggle is crystal-bright and utterly free of the grasp of the grave. You feel lighter than the feathers you leave behind like a snowy trail. 

You hold her and kiss her again and again and again and allow yourself to lose track of time. 

#baldur's gate 3 #dame aylin #isobel thorm #aylin x isobel #bg3 #fanfiction #bg3 spoilers #oathkeeper writes things #my fic #i love them and wish them all the succor in the world #cross-posted on ao3 if you prefer to read there #poor unprepared me starting the game salty that they didn't let me play my aasimar paladin staple

[olivyh]

I straight up thought this was a jamil blog at first. Anyways I'm going to make that a little more true.

Jamil x reader but I really liked the language barrier thing you did, so here's something like that.

The whole magical translator thing breaks. That's it. That's the fic. Do what you will from this point on.

A/N: It might as well become a Jamil blog at this point haha! I'm surprised at how many jamil lovers there are here (not that I'm disappointed, he's one of my fav charas!). I aoso just found a made-up language generator online bc I'm too lazy to come up with new words ;;;;; Also, I didn't know how to make this seem so, but all of the italicized lines are in Arabic! If you/your mc speaks Arabic, then it's in the twst universe's version of Arabic!

Jamil groans softly as sunlight seeps through the curtains which sway in the breeze and cast the room in dimmed reds and golds. The person in his arms shifts slightly, likely awoken by his sudden movement. He hushes them gently, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of their head, smiling softly when he notices how they bury their face in his chest and their grip on his waist tightens.

"Good morning, my love," He whispers, running his hand along their side gently as they giggle from the feeling. They shift slightly in his arms, gazing up at him with weary eyes, still glazed with sleep as they rest their head on his bicep, fiddling with the edges of his tanktop with their deft hands.

"Veex quekninv-" Jamil snorts.

"What does that mean?" He chuckles against their hair, only to pull back when their face is laced with confusion, eyebrows knitted on their forehead as they tilt their head slightly.

"Ftuh?"

"Baby, it's too early for this," He sighs, sitting up and stretching finally. His door is swung open and slams against the wall with a loud thud, making him let out a sharp gasp as the peace of the morning is broken by the heir of the Al-Asim fortune himself, looking much more distressed than usual.

"Jamil!" The other boy rushes towards the bed, panting softly. "Something's wrong!"

"What?" Jamil sits up, swinging out of bed with an agility only obtained from years of protecting the boy in front of him from assassins and intruders. He reaches for his magical pen, instinctively pushing the boy and his lover behind him as he glares at the doorway. "Stand back."

"No! Not that!" Kalim pulls his arm back, audibly gulping. "Something's wrong with the whole school! Nobody can understand anyone else!"

"W-what?!"

"Yeah! I tried to talk to Azul and-"

"Azul?!"

"Just listen!" Kalim shoves his phone in Jamil's face as the other boy tries to smother the annoyance that threatens to burst from his chest, a migraine already forming at the base of his skull.

"Azul?" From the speaker sounds a series of clicks and hisses. "Azul, this isn't fucking funny. I'm serious, stop trying to get Kalim involved in your-" More clicks, this time sounding annoyed laced with a long hiss at the end. Another voice joins the fray, this one Jamil can only recognize as his teammate's. Floyd's clicks are much quicker and louder, with more sharp hisses and chirps thrown in. "Just hang up."

"That's the mer language!"

"I know-" Jamil sits on the edge of the bed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It was a prank."

"It's happening all over the school. I was only able to speak with Leona, but apparently the whole school is struggling. I can't uderstand Cater or Lilia at all-"

"Like they're speaking another language?"

"Yes!"

"Ftuh uko chea vachj juchinv? Ftuh'j veinv en?" His lover sits up, placing themselves beside him and running a worried hand over his arm.

"It's okay," He speaks slowly, trying to convey as much as possible to them. He makes a little 'ok' symbol with his hand. "The spell is broken." He points towards his magic pen, followed by a shake of his head as he stands, hrowing on his sweatshirt as he allows his magic to fix his hair.

"You think it's really broken?" Kalim asks.

"Why are you worried?" Jamil retorts, harsh even to his ears. He takes a deep breath. "You speak enough languages to understand everyone decently."

"B-but-" He gulps and shakes his head. "We can't understand them-" Kalim motions towards Jamil's lover, who stares at them curiously. "Shouldn't you be more worried?"

"Of course I'm worried," Jamil admits. "But it'll be back soon. We can understand each other fine."

Kalim nods before leavng the room with a soft apology. Jamil turns to the other student in the room, watching them button their shirt and adjust their blazer.

"My love," They mutter. "Good morning. Good. Tired. Cook. Dinner. Damn. Stupid eel." Jamil grins. A part of him feels elated at the prospect of them picking up his mutters, attempting to learn bits of his language. Another part feels guilty that he hadn't learned any of theirs.

"Understand?"

"Understand. Little." They make a small motion with their fingers as he chuckles, pulling them close by their waist and pressing a kiss to their lips, hoping to convey all his unspoken thoughts, words that have to wait until the spel is back in place. He pulls away from them for a moment, looking towards the open door and sighing. Jamil looks back to his lover and they nod, already rummaging through his drawers to pull out the clothes they started leaving there ever since they'd first started dating (a constant reminder that they always had a home in Scarabia).

He throws on his uniform, giving his lover a small wave as he leaves the room and allows them the extra time to get ready in private. Jamil takes note of the near chaos of Scarabia- some students speaking in one language only to recieve an answer in a completely different one. Some students had resorted to using over-the-top hand motions to get their points across, loudly shouting one word in their native language while acting it out in some odd impromptu game of charades. Out of the corner of his eye he takes notice of Kalim attempting to communicate with some of the students who spoke the same language as him (although Jamil noticed how much the heir was struggling, getting one language mixed with another and forgetting who spoke what). Jamil mentally prepares himself for the day ahead, knowing all too well that he would be heading back to his room at the end of the day defeated with a headache that could split mountains.

The boy couldn't help but worry about how the day would play out, repeating imaginary scenarios over and over in his head. The pit in his somach grew as he became increasibgly anxious about how him and his lover would communicate. Would it go as smoothly as it did this morning? Were they truly able to understand each other without a single word spoken?

As he puls out the cuting board, he couldn't help but allow his mind to wander to what could be, what could happen due to this spell.

Relax, he tries to tell himself, you're overthinking things again, the reasonable side of him argues. The other side, the one that needs to have every moment planned and every breath counted, tells him otherwise, taunting him as he slowly slices up the vegetables and places them onto a separate plate.

Warm arms around his waist pull him from his stupor as he jolts, tuning to see the student in question burying their face between his shoulder blades. Their grip on him tightens as he twists and attempts to embrace them, only to be met with their shy giggle.

"You-" He sighs, chuckling and ignoring the heat that creeps up his neck. He wants to ask them what would happen if someone saw (it was all an act, they both knew. Nothing would truly happen to him if someone saw just how soft they made him) but he knew it would all be in vain.

They separate from him for a moment, grabbing a knife of their own and helping him tear and slice the vegetables. The kitchen is filled with the soft sound of the knife hitting the cutting board, dull thunking in the silent room. Occasionally they would shift and bump their shoulder into his, making his head turn as their eyes would meet for a split second. So many words spoken in two languages, each one alien to the other person.

In that moment, those words warped through translation, spoken in the same breathless gasp that they shared when their eyes would meet and the others' lips would quirk in a small smile before continuing what the other was doing.

Soon they fell into a comfortable, silent pattern. Jamil would shift from one side to the other, and his partner would weave between him and the stove to reach something else. They would both be met with nothing more than shy brushes of the hand or the breezes that would graze the other's face as they would move a little too quickly.

Soon enough, they had an assortment of dishes for all the Scarabia residents, all lined up on the massive table that sat in the middle of the kitchen.

Jamil looks over to his lover as they smile, placing the final knife in the sink as they turn to him and smile so brightly he swore even the sun as it shone through the open window had dimmed in comparison. He smiles softly, holding their hand in his own gently and kissing the back (he hoped that communicated enough thank you's for all their help).

Their shy chuckle was enough to lift his spirits as he held them close, winding one arm around their waist (an action they once told him reminded them of a snake surrounding it's prey, something he was once embarrassed about, until he believed it to be a protective action more of anything).

Pressing a kiss to their forehead, the nagging voice in the back of his skull was silenced. They didn't need to speak the same language to understand one another, their routines and actions spoke loudly enough. Jamil wished he'd been more confident in that fact, a small part of him disappointed in his thoughts.

"Jamil!" A shrill voice called from the living room, making the other boy groan loudly. "I invited Azul over to help us understand our Mer students and he's on his way!"

"Are you kidding me?!"

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst fanfic #twisted wonderland fanfic #twst oneshots #twisted wonderland oneshots #jamil viper #jamil x reader #jamil viper x reader #twst jamil #twst jamil x reader #jamil twst

[skxllz]

(I'm listening to thick skull by paramore ft julien baker as I write this)

tw; depression, depressive episode, psychotic break

raindrops pelted bluntly against the glass of the window, splattering like the cold blood of a dead animal.

“ have you ever felt... sad? ”

marko looked up at you from the book he held - the diary. your diary. he had swiped it from your vanity when he first entered your room. now, he was lying on the futon across the room; just lined up right from your bed. “ what? ” the blonde asked, confusion lacing his tone. his brows were even knitted together.

“ sad. ” your voice held an empty undertone to it while you sat upon your window's sil, a perfect spot to sit and watch the show fall in the winter. but as of right now, you were busy watching the rain splat against the ground, the gloominess of the weather fitting the foggy look behind your eyes perfectly. “ have you ever been sad, ‘ko? ”

marko slowly turned his head to looked at you, then. his neck was craned backwards, so to him, you looked as if you were upside down. his arms lowered to rest the open diary against his chest. “ where is this coming from, babe? ”

you had been a little off the entire time he was here, but he didn't think anything of it. you often had mood swings, sudden emotional changes - he thought, maybe, it was one of those nights.

he was right, but very wrong.

you had run out of medication the day prior.

“ I feel as if I want to jump out the window. ” you spoke coldly, eyes fleeting between the ground and your shaky hands. “ I just... I don't want to be sad anymore. It's like a permanent epiphany. ” your lips had begun to quiver, finger tips curling inwards, until the dull ends of your nails were digging into your palm.

instantly, marko rolled off of the couch, only to stride quickly over to you until he was kneeled by your side.

he went to speak, but you did before he could, “ I feel as if I'm realizing, all the time, I'll never get better. ” a shaky inhale was taken, while you stared down at your bare feet. your toes were turning purple from the cold; such bad blood circulation you had. “ these thoughts will never go away, they'll always be here. I'll always be here; struggling to accept that I'm not worthy of living, or— ”

“ baby- angel. ” your teary eyes turned onto marko as he grabbed your hand closest to him. his expression bores pain and concern; those usual happy, gleaming eyes of his holding nothing but hurt now. “ stop, ” the blonde spoke softly, the usual playfulness of his tone gone. it weighed down with raw wariness. his other hand -that had been pinned to his knee- reached up to cup over the chilly back of your hand. you felt so cold...

“ firstly, you know I hate when you talk about yourself that way. ” you didn't say anything to that. instead, you avoided eye contact- but marko forced you to look at him again by squeezing your wrist. his hues were stern; but not a scary stern, more concerned. “ secondly, you're not unworthy of living. you're the most precious thing in this world- to me. to david, dwayne, paul. even michael. ”

a beat of silence passes, before marko continues speaking, “ which leaves me wondering why you'd think such a thing, let alone say it out loud. ”

you were quiet, not wanting to speak anymore. your thoughts were everywhere- so were you. It was terrifying, so terrifying. what if he'd hate you? what if he currently does, and is just dealing with you? so many possibilities- so, so many.

“ y/n. ” blinking, your mind cleared just enough... just enough to look up, and see your mate sitting directly in front of you. he squeezed himself into the other side of the windowsill. even though he looked cramped, even though it was humorous, you still didn't crack not even a smile.

“ don't get caught up in your head again.. ” marko whispered, now taking ahold of your other hand. he squeezed them both.

it was such a small gesture, but your favorite source of comfort. you loved hand holding; he knew this. marko was trying to ground you.

“ .. that's hard... ” you mumbled back, eyes darting, “ so very hard. I'm scared, marko. ” you still couldn't look directly into his eyes. he noticed, but didn't comment on it.

“ babydoll, ” his frame shifted so that he could become more comfortable. then, he learned down, pressing a kiss to the back of each of your hands. “ I'm here.. ” each of his thumbs locked over your fingers, only to gently massage them; slowly working downwards. “ I'll always he here. I won't go anywhere - not while you're like this. ”

“ but- ” you panicked almost immediately. more tears stung your eyes as you bolted forward; knees tucking under your behind. “ you'll still leave? ” a sniffle broke through. “ even after I'm better? ”

marko frowned, his eyes widening. he had realized his mistake. “ no! ” he was quick, moving his arms to wrap around your waist. your body trembled, but he still moved to lift you until you were in his lap. “ no, never. ”

lifting your legs, you maneuvered them over his thighs, only to wrap them around his waist. he glanced down momentarily- but then his gaze was right back on your tear stained, blotchy cheeks. “ angel... ” you slowly, but finally lifted your head to look up at him. a smile managed it's way onto his lips. “ I'll never leave. not in your darkest moments, not in your lightest. I'll always be around. we'll always be here for you. ”

slight disbelief lingered in your eyes, he could see it. but... he knew, as well, you were thinking it over. “ do you promise? ” your voice came out as quiet as a mouse, an edge to it- but, thankfully he could hear you.

marko grinned. “ I promise. ” he held out a pinky towards you; other arm keeping a secure hold. “ pinky promise. ”

you sniffled once more, but managed your own small smile.

lifting your hand, you hooked your pinky with his. “ pinky promise. ”

“ good girl.. ” marko kissed your forehead tenderly, letting his eyes fall shut.

“ there's no need to ever feel scared, princess... your family will always be by your side to scare those monsters away. ”

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #marko tlb #marko the lost boys #marko x reader #tw: depressive thoughts #tw: depressive episode

[bwabbitv3s]

Spooky Season Knitting

Hello fellow yarn crafters. This is going to be my first spooky season after having learned how to knit. I have created a list of patterns that to me have the vibes of the season. One of these I will likely have on my needles for the season or try to get done to wear during the season.

Cowls

Noctuidae - A short cowl with colourwork to with large and small moths. Has instructions for an optional liner to hide the floats. Fingering weight yarn, paid pattern.

Initiation - A double sided cowl, with different designs on the inside. Uses two colour colourwork to create a bird skull motif with a geometric design for the reverse side. DK weight yarn, paid pattern.

Spooky Season - A cowl with colourwork to create crescents and eyes. Has instructions for making it either short, tall, or long to double wrape around your neck. Fingering weight yarn, free pattern.

Autumn Doodle - A stripped colourwork cowl with bats, pumpkins, candy corn, and skulls. Pattern has other motif designs in the description but no examples knit you can see. DK, Lighter Worsted, Sport weight yarn, paid pattern.

Sweaters

Let's Play Murder - Floral and Skull Wallpaper style yoke sweater. Uses stranded colourwork, short rows, and is knit in the round. Pattern has instructions for one size, womens medium, and suggestions for altering it to different sizes. Fingering weight yarn, paid pattern.

ASTRAEUS - Moon, crescent, and star like design yoke sweater using colourwork. Has instructions for both a DK and Fingering version of the sweater. Several different sizes of the sweater and bonus cowl pattern. DK or Fingering weight, paid pattern.

Little Scorpion - Scorpion design made using stranded three colourwork. Yoke style sweater with several different sizes of the sweater. Fingering weight, paid pattern.

Let's Boogie - Ghost and candy corn yoke sweater with eyelet designs. Stranded colour work with three colours. DK weight yarn, paid pattern.

Other Items

Autumn Doodle Cup Cozy - Offers four designs for the cozy. DK or Fingering weight, paid pattern.

Wa na na na na na na na Bat Shawl! - Large triangle shawl with bats made using yarn overs to create a psudo lace design. There is an errata for pattern for an error in the border. Fingering weight, free pattern.

Dancing Batty - Wrap or short triangle scarf style shawl. The bats are made using yarn overs to create a psudo lace design. Fingering weight, free pattern.

Witch Hat - A simple witch hat that is worked flat and seamed. Super bulky weight yarn, free pattern.

#knitting #halloween #spooky season #halloween knitting #knitting patterns

[asharaks]

these torn constellations

820 words tw: self-harm, torture, sex wyll/the dark urge, kressa bonedaughter

A woman leans over you and tells you she loves you.

One day, you took a knife to your face and carved yourself open, lips to throat. You laughed as you did it, your Father's light filling the wounds, your Father's blood filling your mouth.

Today, she opens you throat to groin, starting at the very tip of your scars. You laugh (you think you laugh) as she does it, your Father's light gone from you, spilled red on the glistening floor, holy communion gone to waste.

One day, you'll lie in a warm bed with a man who loves you. The sunlight will fall on his skin and you will fall on your knees for him, time and time again, a worship untainted by blood.

Today, you lie on a cold table, and a woman leans over you and tells you she loves you. Her hands reek of death, and the darkness around you is no match for the darkness within, writhing-wriggling-squirming, clawing and crawling, and she takes the hand you raise for violence and she laces her fingers with yours

(and if you had the strength you'd break those fragile bones to splinters)

and she kisses you on the forehead, carrion-breath rancidsweet on your skin,

(rip out her tongue at the root and watch her choke on blood)

and she murmurs, “Hush, sweet one-”

(something so satisfying about killing necromancers: they always die screaming)

and when you look down you can see the carvings on your ribs (the Given), discordant with the ones on your face (the Chosen), the flutter of your lungs and you find yourself

searching

staring

looking for the red for the itch for the hole the place where He lives in you (and your blood spills over, wet and rich and dark in her hands) and

One day, you killed a man three times. Opened him up so pretty, teeth in his throat claws in his gut watched him bleed out squirmingscreamingsobbing: felt your Father's love, an offering received with grace. You took that love and you took his body and you filled him with it, brought him back through the dark to your waiting hands (jugular knitted back abdomen closed smooth) and you

Today, she tuts over your writhing carcass and smoothes your hair back from your sweating brow and she stitches you up with a surgeon's care (hands on your stomach on your thighs on parts more intimate more inside) and when she's done (when you're closed) she leans in and kisses your cheek and she says: “I'll see you tomorrow, special one.”

One day, he'll kneel before you and tell you he can see into eternity. You'll feel the carvings on your ribs, and the violence in your hands, and you'll (wish you'd died before you ever met him) (wish you'd died on the crashing nautiloid) (wish the tadpole swallowed you whole left nothing but meat and tentacles no soul no heart no mind) tell him there's a god in my blood and He won't let me

Today, you die. On her table, your heart stops beating. On her table, your body turns to (stillblessed still Chosen) meat, your Father's favour soaking into the spongy ground. Your Father's blood stops flowing (stops whispering), your Father's love dries up (a murderer murdered, a saint martyred)—

—and in His place, she calls her own god, and he drags you back through the dark to her waiting hands.

One day, you'll kiss him. When the fathergod is bled from you, when your hands and teeth are yours once more, you'll be able to kiss him. It won't change the way you want him

(violently, breathlessly, completely)

but you'll be able to touch him without fear, kiss him without blood. You'll learn:

he likes to talk while he fucks. Gasping, airless, punchedout pleas, his voice an anchor in the split of your skull. You'll learn:

he worries about you. About the things you make yourself do for him. The chore of his body, a fist clenched tight around you; the burden of his desire, your own body wrought for a bloodier purpose. He says, you don't have anything to prove to me, and you, so much to prove you'll never manage it, say:

(I want you so bad my teeth ache with it)

kiss him hard, kiss him until he moans, because the hunger isn't gone

(radiating out from the marrow to the muscle)

isn't changed, just blooded, now, teeth filed down until you can bury them in his neck and he (doesn't bleed) just bruises, pretty and willing, arches his spine and

(let me in let me in let me in)

opens for you, and the only thing in your blood is fire and

(I want I want I want)

love, splitting you open, splitting you in two, a scalpelblade down the core of you until the only anchor is your hand, laced in his.

(One day, you knew.)

(One day, you'll die.)

(Today, you die.)

#tia: i am desperate to be loved #kressa: I love you:) #tia: #honestly she's one of the most fucked up characters in the game. to me. kind of obsessed with her #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #tiavyn #writing #wyll #wyll ravengard #the dark urge #the dark urge bg3

[eyes-inthe-dark]

Hi Hello I actually make things sometimes

I don't know if anyone who follows me is interested in this stuff bc I very rarely post things from my own life, but I decided to be a little more active on here besides reblogging funny shit regarding my current hyperfixation.

So, here is the (incomplete) crafting diary of a neurodivergent trans person surviving christmas with the family and the dark and dreadful times (winter) in general by making shit! with my hands!

First: fiber stuff

I picked up tablet weaving over the last few months of 2023 and made my first pair of somewhat mistake-free shoelaces over the holidays! Only got the pattern completely right on the second try with the red but both laces now get to add a fun little detail to my shoes.

Next I tried a more complicated pattern and experimented a lot, hence the irregular pattern and troubleshooting at the start of the band. I'm now repurposing it as a camera strap and I learned a lot from it tho.

My current setup is basic cardboard tablets (I had to make extra ones so I had enough for the last band with 30 cards), tying the warp to something sturdy like a bookshelf, and sitting down with a backstrap belt on the other side of the room. I used thin wool yarn for this, which stuck to itself quite a lot, but not too much to be unmanagable, and I really like how the finished product feels.

If anyone's interested, I could make a longer post on how I made the shoelaces, I think it's a very beginner friendly project.

I managed to get my hands on a drop spindle and gave that a try, but I ran out of wool after making a very small amount of very chunky yarn and am currently working out where to best get sth local. It was fun tho!

I also finally finished the knitted scarf that has been in my wip pile for... approximately three years? I started it when I was still in school, feels like an eternity ago. It's just a simple (although very long) red wool scarf, but it keeps me nice and warm in this cold, harsh- *checks weather* ...5°C and neverending rain.

Next up: woodworking!

Noodled around with my grandpa's old dremel that we still had lying around, which resulted in this truly terrifying weapon:

Behold! I named it Toothling. It's great for poking friends and family when they least expect it.

This was more of a test run to see if it all still works and to try out doing small scale work with wood, now I gotta think of something fun to make. (I say, as if I didn't already have 50 different ideas)

Before that fuckery, I made this magnetic dice box/rolling tray for my lovely partner's birthday.

Though I don't feel like I can take credit for working the CNC magic on this, I did all the hands-on work with the sanding, assembling the magnets, shellac coating, and whatnot. I'm pretty sure wood is some sort of fruit tree, since it smells strongly of what I suspect might be plum or cherry.

Last but sure as fuck not least: embroidery

This I actually get professional instruction for at uni. I've kinda lost patience for it atm, but mostly because I cannot resist making unnecessarily complicated pieces with tiny little stitches and then am forced to finish it because I do actually kinda need to pass this class. My lecturer keeps telling me not to go so detailed, yet I have proven resistant to her good advice. But, I figured if I have to make two full pieces of embroidery to be graded on and put hours of work into, I might as well choose designs that I can turn into patches for my jacket:

Catha and Ruidus! I love me some big moon little moon imagery. The prompt was to incorporate most of the techniques/stitches we've learned so far. Added the little gold chain stitch around ruidus for the arcane latticework. It came out a little wonky shape wise, but I love it nonetheless.

And my most recent wip, a stained glass window design with the Ninth House skull and Gideon's sword behind it, to feed my current Locked Tomb obsession.

And that's it!

#fibre crafts #embroidery #tablet weaving #tablet weave #weaving #wool #handcrafted #woodworking #if you wanna call it that #Eli has a life #and needs sth to do so i pick up random crafts i see people do on the internet #critical role #locked tomb #art #dnd

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Forbidden Lessons V

Forbidden Lessons | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

The Lord sayeth, fuck it up!

Warnings: age gap, abuse of power, unwanted touching, coercion, drinking. Y'all know I do it dark and spicy. You have warnings, use them.

Thots, comments, screaming, and feedback are welcome and highly encouraged. Thank you!

Your head spins as you lay across the bed. You close your eyes to keep the room from tilting. The acrid flavour of wine lingers on your tongue as you hold back another belch. One glass has you upended, off-kilter and adrift. 

“Pet,” Professor Laufeyson drags his fingertips along your hairline, “relax, it will pass.”

He traces along your cheek and around your chin, tickling your throat as you blow out an alcohol-laced breath. His touch is hot, tingling over you as he trails along the curved collar of your sweater. He jostles you as he slips down beside you.

You open your eyes and turn your head, shocked to find his shoulders bare, his bicep bulging as he feels along the cable knit of your sweater. He wears only his trousers as he lays on his side, gaze drinking you in as he follows the path of his fingers closely. The tuft of hair at the center of his chest is laced with silver, leading down to the soft lines of his torso; a hint of muscle across his natural trim silhouette.

Your eyes roll back again as his hand crawls over the rise of your chest and down your stomach. He tugs at the bottom of your sweater until the cool air chills just above your waistline. You murmur as you brace your forehead, trying to stop the swaying of your body on the tide of drunkenness. One glass isn’t meant to be so potent, he said so himself.

He pushes your undershirt up with the bunching wool and cups his hand over your bra. He lifts himself over you, gently guiding your legs apart as he kneels between them. You grasp his forearms as he frames your chest, thumb rubbing along the edge of your bra.

“What–”

“It’ll help, pet, please, you must remain calm,” he soothes, “your head hurts, yes?”

You nod and grumble, a pulsing in your temples as thickness pools in your skull. His hands glide up the swell of your breasts and slips his thumbs beneath the cotton to rub your nipples, a twinge deep inside draws a moan from your lips. He teases until they’re hard, slowly retreating down your torso.

You babble as he carefully unbuttons the top of your faded jeans. You catch his hand weakly and whimper. What is he doing?

“Shhh, pet, you cannot sleep in these,” his hands brush along the top of the jeans and he curls his fingers around the fabric. He pulls them down as he backs up, freeing your ankles as your head lolls. “That’s it, darling, I only mean to look after you.”

He moves between your legs again, gripping your hips and trailing down the crease of your thighs, grazing the edge of your underwear. They’re unflattering, no trim, high-cut, meant to be unseen. You bring your hands to your chest groggily, covering the crooked cups of your bra.

He gently pulls on the elastic, easing them down, tugging them from beneath your bottom. You squeak and bat at him blindly, covering your eyes as your vision swirls. Stop! You wish the room would stop. You wish your head would stop. You wish it would all just slow down.

Your underwear twists down your legs, hooking from a single ankle as he rolls them down. His fingers stretch around your sides and he drags his palms down to your pelvis. You murmur as warmth flows over you from, tingling through you.

“Professor…” you gasp as you clutch his shoulder.

“Pet, it’s okay, I only want to make you feel better, you want to feel better don’t you?”

“I… don’t know,” you quaver.

“Just like before, pet, yes? When I used my fingers,” his lips brush your pussy and you twitch, “close your eyes, pet, and relax.”

Before you can protest, he delves coolly between your folds. The heat sparks and zips up your spine, curving it as you dig your heels into the mattress. You gulp and squeeze the taut muscle of his shoulder as he laps steadily, slowly, until you squirm. 

You lift your heavy lashes, head bobbling as you look down at him, his face buried against you. You whine and drop your head back down, writhing as he hums into you. Your hand wanders carelessly to the curls at the nape of his neck and tug, lacing into the strands.

He nuzzles you, twirling his tongue around your bud, toying with you expertly as he groans, his hand slipping down your leg and disappearing beneath him. You bend your neck as you try to see past your body, his hand under his body as he moves it in a rhythm. He pants into you as he carries on his cloying motion with his mouth.

You mewl as your breath picks up, the plucking of his tongue urging you to the precipice. You teeter on the edge before plunging into the carnal release. You grasp the back of his head as you orgasm, the bed shaking faster as he moves his hand rapidly beneath him.

You shake as he devours you, coaxing you down from the high and slowly raising himself on his knees. He grunts as you blink at him dumbly, watching him stroke himself over you, his pants at his knees as he tense and huffs. He falls forward, holding himself up with one arm as he drones and pumps furiously.

Ribbons of heat lace over your torso, dripping down your hips and spattering onto your thighs. He slows as his breath encases you and shudders. He leans in to kiss your cheek, rubbing his tip along the slimy mess across your stomach.

“Lay back and let me clean you up,” he slithers as he raises himself to kneel on the bed, “we’ve an early morning and you are well in need of sleep.”

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #ask drabble #drabble #dark drabble #dark!drabble #mcu #marvel #forbidden lessons #professor!loki

[killingthecringe]

🧠 Pick a character (Shadow and Amy), and I'll tell you my favorite headcanon for them.

Hmmmm.

Amy: My favorite is the "Amy is part echidna" headcanon but I've gone into more than enough depth on that.

I do like the headcanon that @ppeachx3 has that Amy's home life pre Sonic and Co isn't a happy one. There's too much evidence for her having some serious abandonment issues (that Sonic + co make worse, sometimes).

With that headcanon, Amy being as loving and sympathetic and almost naive as she is makes a lot of sense. Of course she's going to reach out first to everyone, of course she's going to wait for others to catch up. She's been the person falling behind and she clearly hated it. She is just so full of love ans directs it at the people who need it (like shadow for example)

Shadow: @w0lp3rtinger has a headcanon that has just burrowed into my skull ans won't get out.

That Shadow didn't really know Maria at all. That everything he remembers are fragments of her memories ans his, manipulated by Gerald and by his own wishful thinking.

This headcanon physically hurts me in the best way. They have a much better post explaining it somewhere on this website.

Now for some bonus stupid ones:

Amy can do any kind of fiber craft you can imagine. Knitting , crochet, needlepoint etc etc. She can make lace.

Shadow has chao flock to him easily because he's emanating so much chaos energy they think he's one of them. Or at least something akin to them.

#ari's asks #thank you for the ask! #also i love my friend and their many headcanons and i am stealing all of them