#''ready for the colors to burn to gold and crumble away''

[rpmemes-galore]

taylor swift : reputation album ... sentence starters

"Are you ready for it?"

"No one has to know."

"Call it what you want to."

"I wanna be your end game."

"Is it cool that I said all that?"

"I don't like your little games."

"I'm just gonna call you mine."

"Now all he thinks about is me."

"For you, I would cross the line."

"I let them think they saved me."

"My castle crumbled overnight."

"I'm doing better than I ever was."

"Look what you just made me do."

"But, darling, it's going to be okay."

"Gold cage, hostage to my feelings."

"All my flowers grew back as thorns."

"You should take it as a compliment."

"Touch me and you'll never be alone."

"You and me, we got big reputations."

"Reputation precedes me, in rumors."

"But what can I say? You're gorgeous."

"I don't wanna be just another ex-love."

"Don't blame me, love made me crazy."

"Stay here, honey, I don't wanna share."

"Oh, damn, never seen that color blue."

"They say, 'She's gone too far this time!'"

"I'm yours to keep and I'm yours to lose."

"You've ruined my life by not being mine."

"They fade to nothing when I look at him."

"Say my name and everything just stops."

"Just think of the fun things we could do."

"I never trust a playboy, but they love me."

"Maybe I got mine, but you'll all get yours."

"So why'd you have to rain on my parade?"

"The taste of your lips is my idea of luxury."

"I'm one call away whenever you need me."

"If a man talks shit, then I owe him nothing."

"Do the girls back home touch you like I do?"

"I don't trust nobody and nobody trusts me."

"But if he's a ghost, then I can be a phantom."

"It was the best of times, the worst of crimes."

"Knew he was a killer first time that I saw him."

"This is why we can't have nice things, darling."

"I once was poison ivy, but now, I'm your daisy."

"Only bought this dress so you could take it off."

"You're so cool, it makes me hate you so much."

"I'm a mess, but I'm the mess that you wanted."

"The truth is, it’s easier to ignore it, believe me."

"And there are no rules when you show up here."

"I made up my mind, I'm better off being alone."

"If life gets too good now, darling, it scares you."

"Even in my worst lies, you saw the truth in me."

"I don't regret it one bit 'cause he had it coming."

"Every love I've known in comparison is a failure."

"'Cause for every lie I tell them, they tell me three."

"I'm so furious at you for making me feel this way."

"Honey, I rose up from the dead, I do it all the time."

"Younger than my exes, but he acts like such a man."

"He really knows me. Which is more than they can say."

"They're burning all the witches, even if you aren't one."

"And therein lies the issue, friends don't try to trick you."

"You know I'm not a bad girl, but I do bad things with you."

"Wondered how many girls he had loved and left haunted."

"Some boys are trying too hard, he don't try at all, though."

"Your love is a secret I'm hoping, dreaming, dying to keep."

"They say I did something bad. Then why's it feel so good?"

"I don't like your perfect crime, how you laugh when you lie."

"Is it too soon to do this yet? 'Cause I know that it's delicate."

"Did you think I wouldn't hear all the things you said about me?"

"My reputation's never been worse, so you must like me for me."

"They got their pitchforks and proof, their receipts and reasons."

"This is how the world works: you gotta leave before you get left."

"I've made mistakes and made some choices, that's hard to deny."

"You asked me for a place to sleep, locked me out, and threw a feast."

"You promise people the world, because that's what they want from you."

"We can't make any promises now, can we, babe? But you can make me a drink."

"In the middle of the night, in my dreams, you should see the things we do, baby."

"Please, don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere."

"And all at once, you're all I want, I'll never let you go… King of my heart, body and soul."

"I'm sorry, the old (name) can't come to the phone right now. Why? Oh, 'cause she's dead!"

"I'll be there if you’re the toast of the town, babe. Or if you strike out and you’re crawling home."

"There I was, giving you a second chance. But you stabbed me in the back while shaking my hand."

"I've been breaking hearts a long time and toying with them older guys. Just playthings for me to use."

"And I know I make the same mistakes every time. Bridges burn, I never learn... at least I did one thing right."

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Daenera Velaryon returns to King’s Landing with the intention of bolstering her mother’s position and reminding both the Greens and nobility that Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the throne. She has a specific goal in mind: to be a constant source of annoyance to the Greens and is willing to play the political game without hesitation.

However, what catches her off guard is the way Aemond gazes at her and seems to relish in her suffering. He openly expresses his desire to bring about her downfall, her ruination.

This situation leads to a tense game of cat and mouse, with each move escalating the already high stakes. Will their precarious situation crumble as the dragons soar above, or will fate intervene?

After all, love often demands the sacrifice of duty, just as duty can sometimes lead to the demise of love. Characters: Aemond Targaryen X OC, HOTD characters.

Chapter 8: Schemes and Artisans

AO3 - Masterlist

A theater had been erected amidst the lush gardens of the Red Keep, its semi-circular structure complemented by the captivating backdrop of the vast expanse of the sea. The structure was a mix of marble and limestone, ornately carved, and had been built during the reign of Jaehaerys and Alyssan. 

Daenera had arranged three elegantly sets of tables on the balcony, offering a splendid view overlooking the stage and the sea. Her invitations had been extended to esteemed guests, including Tris Caswell, the second daughter of Lord Merryweather, Kaylys Merryweather, Lady Fell, and Lady Sylvie Rosby. An invitation had also been extended to Queen Alicent, but that had politely declined, much to Daenera’s delight. 

The early morning had been spent making the last preparations. The tables were filled with cakes and fruit, a colorful display of abundance and wealth, with the possibility of being watered with some of the finest wine Westeros had to offer. Daenera had chosen a colorful dress of orange and gold and her hair were braided in the traditional Targaryen way, keeping it from blowing into her face.

She was standing on the balcony, listening to the ladies talk among themselves excitedly, already indulging in the wine. The sun shone brightly and were it not for the shadow the stretched out fabric provides, they would surely have burned. 

Jelissa hurried into the middle of the theater, her steps clicking over the pale stone. She looked up at Daenera, a bright smile on her lips. “We’re ready!” 

Daenera nodded in acknowledgement. 

Jelissa hurried away, letting the guards at the gate know that they could open. She then sprinted back to stand with Joyce by the side of the rounded stage, the table in front of them filled with leather pouches, brimming with unspent money and the promise of more to come. 

A mass of people filed in through the gates. People of all colors, backgrounds and skills. Some were from Lys, some Essos, some Pentos. There were Westerosi singers, artists and musicians. Daenera smiled as they gathered by the backdrop of the ocean, all looking up at her expectantly. 

“Welcome, my artisans!” Daenera greeted loudly, letting her voice carry out into the theater. “I am Princess Daenera Velaryon, daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon.” Her eyes were sharp as they filtered through the mass of people, lingering on the few that displayed some sort of scrutiny to her words. “I’ve always enjoyed the arts of music and dance, and with my return to the capital, I found myself able to finally show patronage to the thing that I love.” 

It wasn’t the entire truth. While she enjoyed music, song and theater, she wasn’t as invested as some other ladies were to the arts. But the thing about artists was, that they traveled throughout the continent, singing their song, acting in plays, telling their stories. And such things held sway. 

It was a tactic Queen Visenya herself had once used. 

“My mother, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, Princess Rhaenyra, has tasked me with finding artists to patronage. She too is a lover of the arts. We wish that you bring the joy you give us, out into every corner of Westeros. We wish you to sing your songs, play your tunes, and tell your stories to the people. That is our wish.”

And it wouldn’t hurt to sing a little something about her. 

“Now, please, show us what you’ve got!”

Daenera looked down at Joyce, giving the maid a nod, who nodded back in acknowledgement. Joyce called out the first number as Daenera took her seat, picking up a grape and propping it into her mouth. 

The first artist was a singer. He began with high appraise to Daenera, telling her about his adventures, where he had been, who he had sung for. That was the dreary part of the whole thing. She wasn’t interested in that, all she wanted to know was whether they could sing and what they’d sing. 

The Bear and The Maiden Fair seemed to be a favorite among the singers and musicians. Each time it was sung, it lost its appeal, until Daenera would rather listen to Aemond call her a bastard than listen to it once more. 

By the time they had reached number seventy seven, more than half the songs had been The Bear and The Maiden Fair. One third of what was left were Maids that bloom in spring, and the rest after that False and the Fair, and Flower of Spring and Little Flower. 

It was then an older man stepped out into the middle of the stage, a lute kept close to his breast, dark beard kept and freshly shaved. At the corners of his eyes were crows feet and a deep line cleaved through his forehead. He bowed to the princess and her company. “I am Samwell Tradd, my princess. I have played the cold seat of the North, to the sand dunes of Dorne, but I have played for none other as important as your mother, the good princess, Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

This piqued Daenera’s interest and she stood from her seat, carrying the cup of wine with her to the railing of the balcony, which she leaned against with her forearms, squinting in the sunlight of the afternoon. “You played for my mother?”

“That I did, Princess,” Ser Samwell Tradd confirmed. “It was a pleasure to play for her.”

“What did you play?”

Samwell Tradd chuckled to himself. “ Under the Dragon's eye.”

Daenera grinned. 

“She made me sing it… two dozen times over,” Samwell told the princess. “She would not hear another, only that, until my hand cramped and my voice was raw, and even then, she bid me continue.”

“Then would it not suit you if I asked you to play it again?” Daenera responded with a gracious smile. 

“For you, The Realms Flower, I will play it again.” Samwell Tradd plucked a few strings on the lute, humming to loosen his vocal cords, and then began to sing. 

She fled with her ships and her people,Her heart broken for those she could not save.Nymeria, fearless and wise, led with determination in her eyes. With ten thousand ships, she led her people’s flight, Across the Narrow Sea, seeking a new life. 

Under the dragon’s eye, they sailed so far and wide, Nymeria and her Rhoynar, their hopes and dreams allied. Through hardships and trails, their spirits remained high,Bound by a destiny, under the dragon’s watchful eye. 

Through stormy seas and treacherous tides they roamed, Leaving behind their homeland, their past disowned. With strength and resilience, they faced each new day, Guided by Nymeria’s wisdom, they found their own way. Through shifting sands, they found their place, United under Nymeria’s willful grace. 

So let the tale be sung, of Nymeria’s nobel quest, Of the Rhoynar’s journey, their resilience put to a test. Under the dragon’s eye, their spirit never broke, A testament to courage.

Under the dragon’s eye. 

“…Under the dragon’s eye,” Samwell Tradd finished. 

Daenera exchanged a knowing nod with Joyce, who discreetly handed the singer a pouch filled with jiggling coins. It carried more than mere currency, it was a symbol of her endorsement, and more significantly, Rhaenyra’s endorsement. Unspoken expectations were attached to the weight of those coins, urging the singer to spread the good word of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Realms Delight, and the Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne. 

While some noble houses disregarded the significance of the common folk, Daenera recognized their importance. After all, it was the small folk who dutifully paid their taxes, who ensured the smooth flow of goods, who tirelessly toiled to create the fabrics and wines that the nobles delighted in. Though unaware of their latent power, the small folk held a sway over the very fabric of society. 

And with the small folks' support, they could sway their lords and ladies. 

By the time the sun had dipped down behind the horizon, Daenera’s head was buzzing with wine, sun and song. Fragmented lyrics sailed around her skull, not able to gather enough strength to become a full song. Lady Fell had left the younger ladies to their own devices, citing exhaustion. Daenera couldn’t blame the older woman. 

“Have you heard about Prince Aemond?” Kaylys Merryweather said, fanning herself with the fan, her cheeks flush with the wine. She smiled covertly. They were all leaning back, enjoying the otherwise quiet. Daenera had called it quits, telling the remainder of the performers to come back on the morrow. At the mention of Aemond her head propped up again. 

“That someone tried to poison him?” Lady Sylvie Rosby quipped behind her own fan, crumbs littering her chest from all the cakes she had indulged herself in. Kaylys Merryweather and Lady Rosby shared a look.

“I heard that it was an allergic reaction,” Tris Caswell interjected. 

“An allergic reaction? Please, that is the excuse you use for covering up poisoning,” Kaylys Merryweather criticized. “Someone poisoned his sword.”

“Do they know who did it?” Daenera inquired, her voice raw and tired. 

Lady Merryweather shook her head, her blond strands whipping over her shoulders and back again. “They have no idea. Some say it was a failed assasination-,”

“Oh please,” Daenera groaned at the grotesqueness of that statement. If she wanted him dead, she very well would have used something else, something less obvious and that left little to no evidence. An assassination with poisoning, should either be quick or drawn out over time, the ladder creating less suspicion if the poisoned had a history of illness. No one would suspect a thing after a long bout of fever and illness. People simply dropped dead of that. 

“A scorn lover then?” Lady Sylvie suggested. 

“Or Aegon,” Tris proposed. The women all nodded in silence, thinking. “Aegon is known for his absurd pranks.”

“But would he harm his own brother?” Lady Sylvie asked.  Aegon would most definitely harm his brother for his own amusement , Daenera thought. 

“I saw his hands. They were swollen and red, the poor thing. The Maesters said that they’d itch and burn for a few days, and there was little they could do.”

“It’s just awful,” Lady Sylvie continued in a huff. “If the princes aren't safe from such attacks, then we’re all at risk.”

“I severely doubt you are at risk, Lady Sylvie,” Daenera cut in. “Why would an assassin or prankster target you?”

Lady Sylvie blinked at Daenera’s cutting words. Daenera wouldn’t entertain her with pretends of importance. Lady Sylvie might be a lady, but she wasjust a lady. She was neither heir nor the first born. Her brother was more of a target and her father even more still. Her words seemed to have struck a chord and Lady Sylvie glowered. 

“I personally think Prince Aemond is quite handsome,” Lady Merryweather continued, ignorant to the tension. The second daughter to Lord Merrywhether were betrothed to one of the lower houses of the Reach, the name of which eluded Daenera. The Lady was five and twenty, a crone by small folks' accounts. She was allowed to dream though. 

Everyone stared at her.

“What?”

“He's been maimed,” Lady Sylvie chided. “He’s a one eyed prince. And have you seen the scar? It's so grim and disgusting. If it had been me, I would have flung myself from the highest window in the Keep.” 

You may yet do that .

“I think he’s handsome,” Lady Merrywheather reiterated. “And strong and tall. I can overlook the scar and maiming for the handsome side of his face.”

“You’ll have to sit at his right side then,” Daenera muttered, head throbbing with the subject of Aemond and ‘handsome’ in the same sentence. If the cutting edge of a knife was handsome, then she supposed Lady Merryweather was right. “Or perhaps it’s best to sit where he cannot see you.”

“What do you think he’s got hiding underneath his eyepatch?” Tris quietly asked. 

“Not his eye,” Daenera responded, bored with the conversation. 

They ended the evening not long after, scattering to the winds while the servant’s cleaned up and prepared for the day after. Daenera had dismissed her maids after presenting them with a piece of cake each and kind words for a job well done. Jelissa had been extremely excited, rambling on about her favorite singer, while Joyce teased her relentlessly. Daenera watched them go, turning on her heels to take the long way back to her quarters, heading through the garden. 

The rose bushes barely managed to overpower the smell of the city. On days where the wind came from land, it was especially rough. But on this day, the gods had graced them with a mild sea wind. The sky turned golden as the sun disappeared below the horizon, the last rays keeping the gardens from falling into shadow. 

Daenera took a deep breath, trying to clear her heavy head, rolling her stiff neck from spending the day on her ass.  

“You’re quite creative, I have to give you that,” Aemond’s voice split her quiet apart, the sound like a pick beating against stone, splitting it in two. 

Daenera’s shoulders immediately tensed up and she breathed out an annoyed huff. “You’re out of the infirmary.”

“Poisoned sword,” Aemond hummed, approaching her. It was strange to see him here, in the gardens, surrounded by soft beauty. It had been just as strange to see him in the sept, though there the heavy smog had coiled around him, curled up the nape of his neck, hung around him like a cloak of shadows. Now he was bathed in golden light that made him seem wholly unholy. 

He was no man of flowers. He was a sword, meant to cut, to stab, to bleed one dry. A weapon. 

“If it were poison you’d be dead,” Daenera corrected him. “Or severely sick. As I’ve heard, you must have had an allergic reaction to something.”

His scoff was sharp and dismissing. “An allergic reaction?”

“Those sometimes take a few days to recover from. I believe you’ll be back to your pristine state before the feast.” 

Her gaze flickered across his face, trying to decipher his intentions, though the wine clouded her thoughts. From his cheekbones down to the curl of his smirking lip, she studied him briefly before refocusing on his eyes, masking the curiosity clawing at her insides with thinly veiled sympathy that bordered on mock pity. “Does it ich terribly?”

Daenera squealed when Aemond gripped her arm, pulling her into one of the alcoves of the garden. They were totally enclosed by an overgrown pavilion, the vines climbing up the columns, to spread across the roof. She balked at him, ripping her arm out of his grip, noting the bandaged hand. “What are you doing?!” 

“You vicious little cunt,” Aemond sneered, his face contorting in disdain. 

The wine not only made her cheeks flushed but it dulled her senses as well. “Mmm, call me that again, I rather enjoy it.”

Aemond’s eyes were all fire and ice. They burned with an intensity she hadn’t yet seen, with something utterly terrifying and vicious. Something with teeth and claws and breath of fire. “I should punish you, and tear you apart.”

“What are you going to do, bend me over the knee like a child?” Daenera taunted him, flipping her braid back to its proper place, her eye glaring daggers at the prince. “If I remember correctly, you were the one to start this. You burned me. Or have you forgotten?”

Daenera raised her bandaged hand and provocatively waved it in front of his face. He had burned her writing hand, and she had retaliated by making it itch so intensely that he might desire to peel off his own skin. All she had done was to respond to his initial transgression. They could have maintained their distance, preserved civility, but he just had to bother her.

With a mocking expression, Daenera glanced down at his hand, then back up at him. “Oh, was it your swordhand? Can’t have a little fun without it?”

“Do you believe I won't retaliate?” Aemond bit at her. “Do you think I’m oblivious to your schemes?”

Daenera blinked. 

“Talking with Caswell, befriending his daughter, the musicians. You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

“I have no idea what you’re alluding to,” Daenera feigned ignorance. 

“Surprising, I must say,” Aemond taunted with a sly smirk. “Your feeble attempts are bound to fail, I will make sure of it, Lady Strong. ”

Aemond advanced towards her, a predator stalking its prey, his teeth appearing sharp as fangs in the warning light. Shadows enveloped him, accentuating his sharp bone structure, tracing delicately over his features. In the dim light, he became the embodiment of wickedness. There was an inherent darkness within him that would forever resist any semblance of light of purity. 

It was as intriguing as it was frightening. 

Her back collided with a stone column, and the tendrils of the overgrown vines brushed against her bare shoulders, entangling with her hair. She swallowed, feeling the dizziness intensify from the wine. 

In an instance, Aemond’s hand clasped around her jaw, his fingers digging into the delicate flesh of her cheeks, reminiscing of their encounter in the sept. Her eyes widened, and she fought against his grip, attempting to push him away as her heart picked up speed. 

Aemond absorbed her strikes against his chest as if they were nothing, a menacing growl emanating from deep within him, gradually morphing into a coarse chuckle. “I’m only giving voice to what is so plain for everyone to see.”

“That is treason!” Daenera growled. 

“It is the truth, is it not?” Aemond asked amused at her anger. “ That’s why you play your little scheme with the lords and ladies, so desperately hoping to forge alliances in case your mothers imprudence comes to light. Should it not be my sweet half-sister who’s out here, tirelessly forging those alliances? Shouldn’t she be the one fighting tooth and nail to secure her own place as heir to the throne?”

“Aemond,” Daenera warned. 

“It’s what they’re all thinking,” Aemond continued maliciously. “Along with wondering whether you take after her.” 

Daenera tried to pry her face from his grip, but he held fast. 

“They’re all wondering whether a marriage to you is worth the risk. And weather you are as impudent as your mother…” Daenera beat against him, growling at the insult. “They think ‘will she carry bastards and try and pass them off as true borns’.”

The scent of smoke and crackling fire surrounded her as Aemond drew nearer. With each beat of her heart, a surge of heat cascaded down her spine, coiling in the depths of her belly. Her gaze darted between his piercing blue eye and the eyepatch, as if they would tell her something she didn’t know, and then lowered to his lips, drawn into a sharp sneer. Her heart shuddered in her chest, her gaze burning with intensity.

“I am going to ruin you,” Aemond vowed. “I’m going to ruin you, consume you, destroy you.” 

In a fleeting instant, his gaze descended to her lips, carrying a wicked and malicious gleam, brimming with both hatred and an unnameable, devastating force. His thumb brushed against her lips, a menacing gesture that threatened to smudge the lip tint she had applied to accentuate one of her redeeming features. If her mind had been clearer, she might have sunk her teeth into his thumb. 

Aemond’s pale locks tickled the exposed skin of her bosom as he leaned in, his breath scorching against the delicate shell of her ear. “I’m going to destroy you and win this war.”

He abruptly released her and Daenera pushed him away from her, breathing heavily and forcefully, eyes ablaze with indignation and fury. Who did he think he was?

She sneered. “I will take out your other eye before I let you destroy me. Two can play at this game. And if you burn me, I will burn you.” 

Once again, Daenera found herself feeling from the suffocating presence of Aemond. Clutching her skirts tightly, she propelled herself forward, each step one of panic and determination. The corridors of the Keep blurred as her hurried steps echoed, giving rise to the feeling of the ghosts laughing at her. 

King’s Landing had become a treacherous maze of power and deceit, and Aemond embodied the shifting tides of its dark underbelly. His transformation was undeniable, a chilling embodiment of calculated malevolence and an untamed chaos. He was an unpredictable storm she had to venture through. 

As Daenera ascended the stairs, the weight of realization settled upon her. Aemond’s presence had already begun to creep under her skin. She would have to root it out and shield herself from it, but she had a sneaking suspicion that the seeds of darkness he had planted wouldn’t be so easily removed. She supposed it was a challenge she would have to accept.

[cherrybombfangirlwrites]

WIP Playlist Tag! 🎧

tagged by: @tisiphonewolfe thanks!

tagging: soft tagging @space-writes @mr-writes @winterandwords @mjjune and anyone else who wants to play!

rules: post 4 songs from your WIP playlist + the lyrics that speak most to you

I used my playlist for The City is Ours and shuffled it for fairness, also I forgot how much of the songs in my writing playlists don't have words 😅:

Broken Crown - by Mumford and Sons; I'll never be your chosen one / I'll be safe and home, tucked away / ... / I'll never wear your broken crown / I took the road and I fucked it all away / Now in this twilight, how dare you speak of grace /

The Fall - by Imagine Dragons; Maybe I'm broken / Maybe I'm wrong / I could've spoken sooner than I should have / ... / Ready for the leaves / Ready for the colors to burn to gold / And crumble away

Traitor - by Daughtry; I'm not a criminal / I'm not the villain / Yeah, this is personal / A drive-by killing / Your guns are loaded / And your lies are the bullets / So here is the trigger / Go ahead and pull it, now

Panic Room - by Au/Ra; It's making my skin crawl / The silence is so loud / The lights spark and flicker / With monsters much bigger / Than I can control now / Welcome to the panic room / Where all your darkest fears are gonna / Come for you, come for you / Welcome to the panic room

[little-miss-moonshine]

flying too close to the sun

(tiny note, I wrote this in late february and didn't post it. a month later, I wrote about the flowers again, but I think I should validate my initial emotions and post this. )

the flowers you gave me on tuesday stand straight and proud on my desk, in the apple juice bottle you bought me on thursday, rinsed and dried on friday. their purple petals glare down at me as I cry at my desk, loud sobs and soft whimpers permeating the stale air of my room. I have often given, but never gotten, flowers. in our relationship, you gave me many things, but never flowers, and never your heart.

the flowers, like you, are slightly oxymoronic. someone once told me that when flowers are given with love, they take longer to wilt than ordinary flowers. the flowers you gave me rest atop dried, crumbling, rotting stems, but the flowers themselves are as perfect and purple and pristine as the day you gave them to me. the colors seared themselves into my memory when you handed them to me, the fallen angel: skin shadowed, blue eyes alight, golden hair made into a halo by the lamplight. like the flowers, simultaneously dead and alive, you are simultaneously beautiful and terrible. my greek god, a force of nature, a being of kindness and cruelty in equal measure.

indeed, that is how I loved you: as something to be awed by, to be worshipped. I worshipped you like holy light, loving you without condition, without limit, and without expectation. you looked down at me from the pedestal I raised you on, something like pity in your eyes. you protected me, I cherished you, and we called that enough. that, in itself, is an impossibility; people go where they find love, and rarely love without receiving it in equal measure. as such, my love, although I treasured you as a crown jewel, it is now your turn to treasure the nuggets of gold, of my love, in your memory, as the world treats you the same way that you treated me. indeed, I still love you, but now, I open my arms and embrace the hellfire of your gaze. you know what they say, the hottest fires burn blue.

so what do your oxymoronic flowers have in common with you? like the flowers, you show me love and care right alongside your casual indifference. holding me, caring for me, forehead rested against mine to calm me down, but telling your friends that I was just another girl. brushing the hair from my face, kissing my cheeks while I called out your name in nightmarish sleep, yet scrolling through bumble as I clung to you for dear life, seeking you even when unconscious. you kept telling me you weren't ready for the commitment of love, but that you care for me so, so much. here's what I think: you loved me silently. subconsciously. you can push it down, run away from it, and hurt me in the process, but you can't escape it. no matter now incapable of commitment you think you are, you can't deny how you feel. the sad part is that it was enough for some time, but just as you're starting to understand, I'm starting to lose hope.

you left this morning without a word, just wrapping me in your arms for the briefest of moments. some would call me stupid, in the throes of illness, coughing blood onto my floor, calling you in the night just to ask if I can sleep on your floor, knowing full well you'd come to check on me out of concern. call me if you need anything, and I'll be there, you said, and you probably meant it. I hate seeing you hurt, you said, but why would you do as you did if that was true?

I hate to be helpless, my love, but I love being with you. I wish you'd throw me a lifeline, tell me everything I want to hear, but I know you won't. doesn't stop me wishing, though.

I wish it ended there. I wish I was the kind of person who could get closure like that. yet, here I am, at midnight on a sunday, unable to move because of the pain in her legs and stomach, and I am calling you.

[sunfoxfic]

Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.

— Robert Frost

(ID: A digital painting of Catwalker from Miraculous Ladybug. The shot is a redraw of the scene where Catwalker stands in front of the moon, holding one hand out and smiling gently.)

Thought of this poem. Thought of Catwalker. Had a breakdown. Bone apple teeth.

[emometalhead]

"Ready for the leaves. Ready for the colors to burn to gold and crumble away."

[dilftaroooo]

hi! can you please write a nsfw oneshot for dio brando x fem! reader ? to be a little specific; can you add a boss/assistant dynamic & corruption kink? tysm ( ◠‿◠ )❣️

mmm corruption kink. thats absolutely my fav, anon 🤤. i'll be more than happy to write it for you. enjoy!

(business office au)

you gotta earn it. (boss!dio x secretary!reader)

word count: //1.7k+//

synopsis: you want that raise? then show mr.brando what it is you're willing to give up to him. it's only fair.

tw/tags: dubcon, nipple play, corruption kink, size difference (not heavily mentioned though), business attire, afab reader, cute virgin reader.

"No."

Those words left you speechless; stiff in your spot as you looked into piercing, yellow, eyes. He said it in such a nonchalant manner, you don't think he even took a double take on your question. You spent so much effort to muster up the courage to ask your boss the question that you dread to be answered - but not in this way. He must have made a mistake.

"'No'...?" You echoed.

Dio leaned back in his seat, eye contact never faltering as he crossed his legs, burgundy colored dress pants ruffled at the movement. He tilted his head in a mocking manner as one well groomed eyebrow raised upwards.

"Oh dear. Perhaps my beloved secretary has gone deaf? I shall repeat myself once more: 'No' meaning, 'No, I will not offer you a raise.'"

Your fist clenched as you try to fight back the tears of humiliation and neglect. Why? Why did he refuse you? You worked so hard for him and you knew he knew that. So why won't he give you this raise? Leave it to Dio to crumble up your acts of valor and throw them into a fiery pit.

Trying to regain your composure, you speak up,

"But, sir, Why? I've done so much for you these past couple years; schedule your meetings, review your records and documents, compose orientations for newcomers. I even make sure to make your coffee each morning - a long black with two shots of expresso."

Your eyes were becoming wet. You were on brink of breaking down and crying right in front of your boss. You don't even think he was the slightest bit convinced by your retort. All he did was observe you with a wicked smirk plastered on his face. There was no change in his features but, reluctantly, you resume.

"Please, Mr.Brando. Please give me this raise. I-I'll try to do better for you! Just tell me what it is I need to do. Please, I'll do anything, Mr.Brando."

Dio stiffened. It was that keyword that gained his attention: 'anything'.

"'Anything', you say?" You nod and a flash of his white teeth glimmered from the building's colorless light on the ceiling. His chuckle was deep. "Think before spouting careless words such as that, my little mouse." The small squeak emerges from his office chair as he gets up, approaching your meek figure and you cower at his nearness. His fingers gently grasped your hair and you notice how well kept they were - manicured with a clear polish and decorated with gold rings. You didn't miss the Rolex watch wrapped around his wrist.

"Such pretty hair," He lightly plays with your mane before tightening his grip and hoisting your head up, forcing you to look directly at him. "You don't mind if I tug on it do you, love?" He adores the wince you let out, eyes scrunched close with pain.

"Ouch! Mr.Brando, Please stop-"

"Oh but you said you would do anything for me, remember? So I'm allowed to use you however I please. You want a raise, don't you?" Your face burns when his lips feather against the skin of your cheek. You heave out a low sigh at his deed. Dio deliberately consumes your reaction - savoring it like the smoothest red wine.

"Have you ever been fucked before, dear?" The amorous question made you whine. This was just too dirty. You shake your head for an answer.

"N-No, sir."

"Really? You've never been touched before? No one has ever pounded that filthy, little, pussy of yours? Tsk, tsk, tsk - What a shame. Looks like I have to change that." He lets go of your scalp but your head never moves, eyes still on his frame as you process his words.

"Wait, Mr.Brando, please. I've never- oh!" You were put to an abrupt stop when he picked you up from under your arms and legs before setting you down on his desk. It messy with scattered documents he found frivolous and purposeless, there were much more important matters at hand.

Tearing off your white dress shirt and bra in a blink of an eye, he gave your mounds a carnivorous stare, gulping at your nipples swell at his glance. He wasted no time kneading them. You let out a moan from his heated touch. It was foreign to you.

"What a lewd sound you made just now, Y/n. You like this, right? I barely even started." His fingers teased your stiff buds, pinching and pulling at them.

"Ngh- No, Mr.Brando..."

His touches were blunt and straightforward, they were rough as he assailed your fragile body. He was fervent to take it to the next step. He lifts your legs up to take off your pencil skirt.

He lets out a delighted sigh beyond seeing your choice of underwear. "Lacy panties? Was my little mouse expecting this? Getting all dressed up for your boss. You're such a nasty fucking girl."

"That's not true! I was in a rush to-"

"Excuses, excuses. That's all I hear from you. Shut up and take your panties off. I want to see how wet your cunt is." You obeyed under his stern tone - slowly stripping off your red-laced panties. You still had your legs closed, ashamed to show him your untouched flower but Dio pried them open by your knees. Your heady scent instantly fills his nose and he takes this time to observe your pussy, you were soaked - vagina pulsating, waiting for anything to be plunged inside, trimmed hairs placed on your pubic area, clit swollen with excitement. It was remarkable.

"Look at you, throbbing so greedily." He puts two thickset fingers in your sopping pussy without warning." An invevitable moan escaped your lips when he applied pressure to your g-spot.

"M-Mr.Brando - mmmm - that spot, you're hitting that-"

"Quiet, little mouse. As much as I love to hear you scream did you forget the setting we're in right now? I hate the idea of someone seeing this pretty pussy other than me." You pitch your voice down an octave - not too fond of the idea of being caught by your coworkers (especially by Jonathan).

His digits rapidly thrash inside you, bodily fluids flew everywhere. "You're making such a mess all over me. So sloppy. I have no doubt that this is what my little mouse wanted. Your grip is so firm around me." Your small hand cover your painted lips. You didn't want anyone to hear you but Dio was making it all too hard, he was hitting all of the right spots within you.

Pulling his fingers out, he unzips his flyer and sought out for his cock. His length was huge, you were unsure if you should even continue. His member intimidated you. Dio knew you were on edge, he softly coos at your expression.

"Aw, don't worry, sweetheart. You'll only feel a slight pinch." Aiming his shaft to your entrance, you recoil once he plummets inside of you, tip kissing your womb. What you felt was more than a pinch. it was easily comparable to being stabbed in your nether regions. Tears flowed from your eyes.

"Pull out! Please, it huuurts!" Your cries were ignored as Dio continued slamming into you like no tomorrow. He covered your mouth with his large hand, muffling your wails.

"Ah- You feel that? My cock jabbing at your womb?" His thrust slow down so you can feel every inch of him - veins feeling more prominent than before. "That's how deep I go inside of you. This tiny body of yours can't handle a cock like mine. Ha! And would you look at that, I can even see your stomach bulging from my dick. How filthy."

He traced his fingers along the bulge forming near your abdomen. He rams in you relentlessly. You gripped the sleeves of his business suit, wrinkling them while doing so. Dio was fired up by the calls of his name leaving your lips, making him go at a, almost inhuman, pace.

Vulgar slaps of skin filled the room and you were both close to coming. Dio's hot breaths reached your ear and his thrusts losses its initial tempo.

"You're a few inches away from getting that raise, sweetheart. Just let me fill you with my seed." He bites the crevice of your neck - his teeth were sharp.

"Mr.Brando-! I'm gonna come...Agh- Mr.Brando... D-Dio!" Said man met his high after his name was yelped - relieved to let himself go, his cum spurts deep in your walls. You came shortly after by the feeling of him filling you up. Both of you sigh.

He hoists himself up off of you to put his dick back in his pants and fix his attire. You grimace at the slimy fluids now sticking between your legs. Dio scoffed. "Consider yourself lucky, little mouse. You finally got that raise you so desparately wanted. What's wrong with a little cum in you, hm?"

A bit irritated, you get dressed as well, getting ready to leave his office. But before you can exit, he turns you around to face him, eyebrow lifted in question.

"Leaving now? Have you forgotten what to say?" You assume he wanted some form of gratitude from you for giving you a raise.

"Thank you, Di-

"Hmmm? Did I fuck you so dense you forgot who I am to you?" You blush at his smile.

"T-Thank you, Mr.Brando."

"Good girl. Run along now." He slaps your ass before you leave.

"Dio, why do you smell like sweat? The only thing you do is sign papers and present at meetings." Jonathan frowned at Dio's pungent scent. The man chortled at Jonathan's exasperation. If only he knew what happened behind closed doors.

"Don't worry about it, JoJo. A little boy like you wouldn't understand."

"We're the same age, Dio."

"Oh yeah. You're right. You have such the resemblance of a child that I must've forgotten." Dio teases. The both head to the parking lot of their company to call to it a night. Jonathan clenched his teeth.

"I do not! Just what in the hell were you doing in your office? Working out?"

Dio roared out a large laugh at the word akin to what you and him did earlier today.

"Yeah.. you can call it that."

this fic belongs to @dilftaroooo

[booppooo]

Body Guard: Chapter Four

Abby Anderson x Fem! Reader Series

AN: heyyy, how y'all doin... anyhoo I hope this chapter meets ur expectations, enjoyyyy

Warnings: blood and injury, murder, infected, lethal weapons, swearing

Word Count: 2632

-

June 12th, 20 hours remaining

Abby was quick as she traveled through the buildings and down alleys. Y/n found herself struggling to keep up and it didn't help that Abby didn't mind to check on her. Not even a simple look over her shoulder. Y/n knew Abby had every reason to ignore her, and the thought made her slump over and slow down (this and the fatigue from little sleep and food).

The soldier was driven now not by fear of her leader dying, but by the irritation of Y/n's poor choices. Now her primary goal was to get this mission over with to be rid of the doctor lagging behind her, as selfish as that was. Her shoulder burn and stung from the hack-job that was her stitches and the growing infection. However, her pain was an after thought and surely would never come up in conversation with Y/n; she could see the physician now.

"Not much farther." Abby informed with the first words that had been spoken in hours. Y/n stayed silent.

They had gotten to the roof of an old building and were able to gage a portion of Seattle. Though it may never return to the hustle and bustle it harbored decades ago, mother nature's makeover was far more encapsulating. The way vines and leaves seemed to swallow structures, and how streams and rivers flowed through the destruction done by FEDRA, it was something of a beautiful disaster. Abby had seen it a hundred times and still she couldn't help but watch it for a moment, just a moment.

"We don't have much time."

Y/n's voice was quiet and cautious, afraid if she said the wrong thing in the wrong tone she'd be thrown from the roof. Abby's faint grin scrunched back into a scowl as she watched Y/n climb down the latter. She was right, time was running out, but hearing it come from Y/n made it more aggravating.

The hospital was just out of reach. The soldier knew they'd be back at the base by now if they had been given a truck and a few more men. If Isaac made it through this surgery, Abby hoped she'd be getting a little more than 'top soldier' treatment. From Y/n's perspective, she just hoped Isaac would make it, no need for the gold star. The doctor seemed to gain some confidence by taking the lead. Much like Abby, she didn't bother to glance back, not when the hospital was this close. She almost hoped Abby would speak up about it and say how she needed to keep behind her just to strike up some banter. But the blonde kept quiet and jogged behind her, it wasn't like she'd take a wrong turn now.

-

Months ago the hospital had been swept to gather supplies. The stadium, as well as other outposts, were running low on just about everything and needed just a quick pick me up. At that time, there wasn't a reason to venture into the lower floors that had been lost to the infected, there wasn't a reason to risk losing men.

Abby held the second set of keys to all the outposts and kept them stashed in the bottom of her pack. She unlocked the chain keeping the hospital secure and readied her pistol for any unwelcome intruders. Again, Y/n was on her heels every step of the way - feeling as if they had gone too long without some excitement.

She fumbled with the list in her pack, "Okay, we need-"

"It's going to be either in the ER, ICU, or trauma, that's all that's left."

Y/n frowned at Abby, though she couldn't see it, and stuffed the list in her pocket. It was becoming more and more clear how hopeless their friendship was.

With their masks on they began rummaging through the abandoned waiting rooms and hallways leading to the three units. Y/n searched for anything remotely medical while Abby searched for straggling bullets and supplies to make pipe bombs. Though Y/n was under the impression she had seen the worst of it on her date with the stalker, Abby knew that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Y/n watched as Abby stuffed a single bullet into her pocket, "Seriously? One bullet?"

The blonde remained silent.

"How do you know it's still any good?" Y/n pressed.

Abby shot a look at the doctor, but all that could be seen were threatening eyes piercing through her mask. So, Y/n took the hint and they carried on into what was left of the emergency room.

-

15 hours remaining

The gas masks were already hazy from heavy use and old age, this mixed with the spore filled air, visibility was low. Once again, Abby turned to Y/n with her stern eyes and instructed her to stay close.

As they traveled from room to room they stripped them of what they had left. In the process they came across some med kits that they were both hopeful had the desired supplies, but were only met with an empty box. In the process a few clickers and stalkers were put to rest, nothing out of the ordinary for Abby, except for Y/n essentially clinging to her.

They crouched behind a bed and listened closely to the clicker stumbling and, well, clicking. Abby held a bloodied finger to her mask and Y/n nodded, it was the last clicker and would be easy to dispose of if they were silent. With her shiv in hand, the soldier silently glided across the floor getting closer and closer...

Crash!

Y/n gasped and scrambled, her face draining of color. The clicker screeched and whipped around with its flailing arms, landing on Abby. It's mutated mouth closed in on her neck as she did all she could to push it back. Her shiv did little now that she was using both her hands to shove and smack away it's clawing fingers.

I'm not dying here! Abby thought.

With a mighty shove and a grunt, Abby managed to buy herself just enough time to re-grasp her shiv. Her jaw clenched and her teeth bared as she prepared herself for the next attack, all she could hear was her heart thumping in her ears.

Therefore, she failed to hear Y/n sprinting around the room for a weapon. She nearly came up empty until she remembered the pistol that had been snuggly tucked in her jeans. Without a second though the doctor fled for Abby, and within the window in which Abby managed to create space between her and the clicker, Y/n fired her shot.

Then another. And another.

Then her gun stopped firing bullets and clicked every time she pulled the trigger with a trembling finger. She was like a broken record, tugging and clicking.

As her heart steadied, senses such as hearing and touch returned. Abby heard the clicking and finally gripped reality as she looked up from the deceased clicker. Droplets of blood had splattered onto Abby's mask but she could still clearly see a shaking Y/n amidst the darkness and spores. She reached over and snatched the emptied pistol from her loose grip.

"The hell is wrong with you!?" Abby hissed at the surgeon.

Y/n hadn't even noticed her vision was blurred from the tears in her eyes. Abby's voice was distant and fuzzy.

"I told you to stay put so shit like this doesn't happen."

The blood pooled around the clicker and seeped over to Y/n's boots. It ran slow and thick from the dead body. She was fighting for a full breath.

"Are you even listening?"

Abby's boots stepped into the dense puddle and obstructed the view of the body. Her voice was clearing up.

"You..." Y/n choked out, "You almost..."

Abby furrowed her brows and tilted her head to meet Y/n's eyes. They were dark yet wide.

"I could've lost you."

Abby could see the agony in her eyes, the absolute terror. She would scoff any other time seeing as their dynamic was nothing but snarky comments and eye rolls, but Y/n was shaking like a leaf and her words just barely made it past her lips.

"Uhm.." Abby was unsure, "Let's keep going."

A quick look over Y/n's shoulder and Abby could see where the commotion had come from, the ceiling had collapsed some right where Y/n sat. Even more reason for them to kick it into high gear.

Abby guided Y/n from the room by her shoulders. She was much smaller than Abby, most people were, but she never got to feel how much smaller people were than her. Most of the time she was lugging another soldier packed with muscle, but this time she had her arm wrapped around a frail surgeon, something she hoped she wouldn't have to do again.

Once they returned to the hall, a long, streaky trail of blood lead straight toward the exit. Surely it wasn't them, they had spent their time fighting their battles in designated rooms. Whatever it was that did this was nothing but trouble. However, all that was left to sift through were ambulances just beyond the blood ridden exit - just their luck.

The building vibrated and more ceiling crumbled at the sound of a booming, guttural roar. Not a click, not a screech or even a scream from a bloater or shambler - a threatening, dangerous roar. 

[l4verq]

fight back | b.b

bucky barnes x enhanced!reader

in which bucky won’t lay a hand on you no matter what :(

tags : a little brawl, fluff cause icanthelpmyself, mentions of blood, john walker (idk if we're supposed to like him now ??) bucky is a cat lady okk

fic : one shot

a/n : inspired by that scene in the final ep of tfatws when karli is screaming at sam to fight back lol😳

|| gif by @unearthlydust ||

-

one world, one people.

you repeat it in your head one more time, when he comes into view, vibranium gleaming onyx with loops of gold.

you know that he knows you’re here, back to the wall a few feet away, peeking at him.

he doesn’t know that you let him know.

doesn’t know that you laid out a trap and just like the foolish mouse, he walked right into the lion’s den.

although you’re not sure who the fool actually is, when you meet his eyes, knees almost buckling at the sight just cause of how long it’s been without them.

“y/n.” he breathes out, almost in disbelief.

it’s been fourteen months since he woke up to an empty bed and a handwritten goodbye letter folded in a clean white envelope, tucked under a pillow still marked by the soft indentation of your head.

fourteen months since you took off in the dead of night, pulling your- his hood over your head, the cold wind nipping at your skin, almost like it was punishing you.

maybe, it saw what you did.

oh, but fred definitely saw what you did, that damn cat always followed you two around even though it’s owner was the blonde next door. her name wasn’t even fred, bucky came up with it after the third time it snuck into the apartment.

he swore he hated it but always seemed to have a treat lying around in case it did come.

and it did, a lot. neglected by it’s owner, it chose to seek comfort in the couple next door, and sometimes a meal or two.

“sorry, no treat today bub.”

fred scowled - honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if an actual human was living in it - mewling as it came up to you for the usual chin rubs and cooes.

you sighed, caving into it’s antics, squatting to pet it.

cradling it’s head into your palm, she was purring, a very uncommon sight. fred doesn’t purr, she scratches and hisses at anything and everything that moves.

“you’re particularly nice today.” you commented, getting up. it mewled even louder this time but you turned on your heels and headed for the stairs.

you were already late.

your legs picked up pace quickly, easily crossing multiple blocks over in a few long strides owing to the blue serum coursing through your veins.

though your mind remained stationary, fixated on a single face, how it’d crumble at the sight of the letter, how he’d probably end up hating you.

“took you long enough.”

her auburn locks were tied into a loose braid that curved around her neck, the tip sat just below her collarbone, a piss poor job held together by a thin maroon colored band.

it was quintessentially her, the lack of utter patience to spend two minutes looping three knots of hair one over the other.

you jogged over to the other side of the black suv, noticing a stark white rectangle where a liscence plate should be.

“he’s knocked out cold,” you asked as soon as you grabbed the door handle open, “how?”

lazropthalein.

it came in the mail in a brown package, no return address. bucky wasn’t home, he had a scheduled therapy session down the block.

just a pinch is enough.

the text from the unknown number read.

it had no odour, a clean, white colour to it that blended in seamlessly with the flour.

“you baked without me?” bucky gasped, dramatically, hand covering his gaping mouth. his other hand carried two plastic bags, filled to the brim, a purple razor was poking out the top.

he even had to drop the poor bags on the floor, just to emphasize the utter shock he felt.

“i got bored.” you giggled, wiping the countertop with a wet cloth, remnants of flour on the sleek marble turning goopy under it.

“traitor.”

“it’s just cupcakes.”

“still a cake.”

you sighed, “you’re a five year old.”

he huffed, trudging towards the living room, shoulders hunched to really hone in on just how devastating this was for him.

“don’t i get a hug?” you held your arms out, making grabby hands, following him.

apparently, the devastation was to the point where he had to bring out the big guns, the sad baby blues.

the act lasted for another minute? at best. hours later, he was happily munching away.

“i know why it tastes so good.” he moaned, smacking his lips.

your smile faltered a little, did he kn- no, there’s no way he could have known. you burned that little plastic bag as soon as you dumped a pinch in.

“yea?”

he grinned, popping the last bit left in “it was made with your love.”

“how did it work?” your voice rose several octaves higher, amplified further by the cool, silent night.

drugs and sedatives don’t work on supersoldiers yet a certain blue eyed one was back home, unmoving even if you screamed right into his ears.

“dr wilfred, he invented it. the power broker wanted something to balance out our,” she flared her hands at both of you, “super-soldierness, so that we don’t have an upper hand when all’s said and done.”

would the either of you even be alive when all was said and done?

“look, i know you didn’t want to do this but james, he won’t understand. he’s not one o-..”

“yea, can we jus- let’s just get out of here.” you get in beside her, whipping the seatbelt over your torso.

the car was stuffy, felt like a choke around your neck that only seemed to tighten more and more.

“if we go now, there’s no coming back.” she glances at you, hand curled over the gearstick ready to position it in place.

she was giving you an out, one last chance. karli was a lot of things and having a heart inside that cold, bitchy exterior was one.

“i know.”

you sunk deeper into your seat, the hoodie had a faint smell of burnt toast and that cologne which was on sale, almost half off if you cut out the taxes.

it smelled like him, too much like him.

until it didn’t after a few days. but you still slept with it, just outright refusing to wash it despite karli’s snarky remarks about hygiene.

hygiene could go fuck herself, for all you know.

compared to the motels and basements you guys shifted around in, that hoodie was a doctor’s scrubs.

when the moon hung low on the black sky, you tried not to think about him too much. the silence didn’t help, you needed something to drown out your thoughts. that’s when the ‘socialising’ with the other flag smashers started. they were nice.

nice cause you were the leader’s little sister. but also a huge fucking liability because of a certain supersoldier hot on their heels in search of you, ruining every goddamn plan so their niceness was.. limited.

karli was a natural when it came to it, all of it. the talking, rallying of supporters - fuck, she just had a way with words. she could make you believe she hung up the stars in the sky.

probably how she convinced you that holding a room chock full of council members hostage right smack in the middle of nyc was a good idea.

the only idea, more precisely.

you guys had the upper hand, more than a handful supersoldiers at your disposal, capable of taking down the entire military force if you so pleased.

the only playing card they had was one supersoldier, who was better off distracted, kept off the field.

so who better to send to do the deed than the love of his life.

“fred had a baby. multiple babies, spawn of the devil if you ask me. always running around, thrashing the place up.” he takes small steps towards you, slow and calculated, as if a lion stalking around a prey.

“you shouldn’t be here.” you lie through your teeth, a tiny white compared to the ones that’ve rolled off your tongue before.

“i think the neighbours call me a cat lady now,” his eyes shift around and he leans in to whisper, “they haven’t even seen my knitting skills yet.”

“stop.” you think you said it or much rather whispered it, your voice was failing you. he’s getting close, too close for your liking so why aren’t you backing away from him?

“fred misses you, you know. she wonders where you went.” he smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

the hairs on your neck shoot up, a slight twitch of your brow. the way bucky’s ear perk up, you realise it’s not just you and him here anymore.

someone else has arrived.

“i’ve got it handled, john.” bucky turns around, plants him directly infront of you, blocking john’s view of you.

sure enough, it’s john limping in, a nasty gash across his chest.

your blood runs cold because this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

john isn’t supposed to be here, he’s supposed to be fighting.. oh god. you notice the various splatters of blood on his cowl, on his boot, on his shield.

it’s too much blood from a guy who’s barely bleeding.

“really? i was thinking you should do more than just talk.” he spits on the ground and wipes his mouth.

you notice, the spit’s all blood too.

“i’m giving you a chance to walk away, right now.”

john snorts, leaning sideways to get a view of you, neck craned out.

“and leave this prize all to yourself?” he grins, “i’d be an idiot.”

“you have a death wish then.” you lift your chin a little higher, praying your quickening heartbeat doesn’t give away your calm exterior.

john whistles, grimacing as he straightens, “so, she does talk.”

you scowl, crossing your arms.

he’s in bad shape. he has no chance, not that he ever did even in his best shape. he knows that too yet he’s still here. that sends a chill up your spine.

“go, i got this.” bucky tips his head, glancing at you.

“i don’t need you to save me.” you hiss at him, which comes out a little harsher than you intended. an apology dies in your throat as he flinches just the slightest.

“trouble in paradise?” john’s barely finished saying it before he’s reached behind his back and swinging the vibranium

you hear it before you see it stopped mid air by a gloved hand. then you charge.

it’s all a hazy mix of blue and red until your fist connects with his jaw, sound of something breaking ringing in your ear.

something pulls your waist back, a grip far too strong to be just flesh.

“go, i’ll ta-..” bucky’s barely said anything before an upward cut from john connects to his neck, violent coughs ensuing.

you grip john’s arm before he’s even retracted it back, jump up his back, settling around his neck and twist until you hear a crack and a bloodcurling scream following suit.

he whips his head back right into your stomach, seizes that moment when the wind knocks out of you to pull you by your hair off him.

“i told you to go.” bucky growls, kicking john right in the shin that makes him kneel and you almost fall off but you keep your fingers tightly looped around john’s hair, pulling as hard you can.

but he’s relentless.

your head hits something hard and you realise you’re on the ground now, legs loosely around john’s shoulders, him also on the ground.

it’s like the both of you realise at the same time but you’re quicker. your legs tighten around his neck, against the spot where a thick neck muscle throbs. he claws desperately around, straining for oxygen

soon, his hands lull down, the dull thud on the ground confirming his unconsciousness.

“are you hurt?” bucky’s hovering over you, seemingly unfazed by john’s neck in a chokehold by your legs right now.

you reject his hand he extends and push yourself off the gravelly concrete on to your feet.

“this was a mistake.” you trail off, saying it more to your own self.

you weren’t the lion, you were the stupid fox who thought it was.

stupid enough to believe you were over bucky and that everything wouldn’t come rushing back as soon as you laid eyes on him.

he whips you around by your hand and before you know it, he’s already caught your other fist heading for his sternum. you barely feel the grip, it’s soft, just so incredibly soft and fits so right.

you hate it.

rage bubbles inside you, mostly at yourself. partly at him because he’s not screaming at you or slamming you against the wall or jus- anything.

you wrench your hand away, land a swing which he does nothing to block. his grip on your other hand loosens and he still does nothing when another hit to the jaw leaves him staggering,

instead, he looks at you softly as if resigning himself to your anger, to let it simmer off.

“fight back!” you scream, outstretched palms pushing him back.

he stumbles a few steps back, hands reaching out to yours resting on his chest, fingers intertwining yours tightly.

“stop.” it’s a soft plead, tears spiking the corners of his eyes.

“hit me!” you’re practically begging at this point, thrashing your arms around.

his hands grapple at your shoulders, bringing you to his chest, “it’s okay.”

he smells so sweet, just so sweet that you almost believe him.

“i drugged you and i left you and i-,” you inhale sharply, “i killed so many people, bucky.”

the last fourteen months had escalated quickly from doing what’s right to doing what’s needed, lines blurred between moral ethics and survival.

“it’s okay.” he repeats, hand patting your hair, gentle and soothing. your body betrays you, sinking into his touch, his warmth.

“you should hate me.” you whimper.

you wouldn’t blame him if he did. you doubt he could hate you more than you already did yourself.

he pulls back, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “i couldn’t if i tried.”

god, why does he have to be so.. bucky?

frustated, you spit out, “this? this was a distraction to separate you and sam.”

you don’t say it but it’s understood, understood that you wouldn’t have met him if not for it.

the inner corners of his brows angle up slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips, “i know.”

your breath hitches, if he knows then wh-

“then, why..?”

you finally look up at him, vision blurry because of the stupid tears pooling at your eyes.

his thumb wipes away a tear dribbling down your cheek, the coldness of the metal a clear contrast to the warm moisture, “you know why.”

-

a/n : this one’s been sitting pretty, collecting cobwebs in my drafts so thought i’d take it out lol, also haven’t been posting fics in a whileeee cause im dumb and i’ve been working on multiple things all at once lol yea this is me rambling and also i just wanna say that i. love. folklore. sm. that whole album has me crying and sad and just :((

[cheekygreenty]

Little Witch - Part 21

The Darkling x Reader

The atmosphere in the Palace was welcoming and enjoyable yet you couldn't help but dampen the mood of those around you. Your smiles were visible fake, your laughs as forced as the diplomacy of the evening. It was hard to focus on anything but the Queen's request, you could still feel her cold touch on your hands, could still hear her voice as if she was standing next to you. Some would say being in the presence of the Royals was a blessing by the Saints, but to you it was a sudden blight; a curse.

The duties and obligations you had were out the window now as you looked for the particular head of red flame hair, completely ignoring the Kerch ambassador and his slurring words of trade agreements.

Did Genya tell her General that the charming Lantsov Prince was soon to be wed to the Deputy of the Second-army? Or did she keep that part to herself? You had a feeling it was the latter given Aleksander's behavior earlier but what if he knew- What if his obedient spy told him everything and he was looking at your predicament as an opportunity, even though it would hurt you to the core and shatter your moral values. There's nothing he wouldn't do for more power.

'Deputy Y/L/N, I presume?' A man in a military uniform adorned with colorful medals approached you from the side, silently shooeing the Kerch man away and taking his place despite your obvious air of hostility. You were in no mood for diplomacy.

'The one and only.'

'So I have heard.' You could make out the smallest tinge of an accent reminiscent of a Fjerdan rhythm through the spoken words. His blonde hair and long beard tell-tale signs of his druskelle service and enough for your anger to flare. 'Tell me, what kind of Grisha are you?' You didn't miss the disgust dripping from the word as he forced it through his teeth. No doubt he hated himself for being here.

'A powerful one.'

'More powerful than the Sun-Summoner?'

'Much.'

'I won't forget that.'

'I hope you don't. Tell your people too, it'll save me some time and perhaps some lives.'

'Is that a threat Deputy?'

'Yes' He snorted and looked around the lively room.

'Fjerda isn't here to fight tonight, we're here to party. I thought it would be the same for you, no?'

'I don't keep peace with people who wish my kind dead.'

'Neither does your General. But the West, I'm not too sure they're on the same page'

You bit back the urge to smack the tall man stone-cold. The West was a tricky situation that had been playing heavily on your mind for as long as you could remember. Although it was Ravka, Grisha were no longer safe there. Zlatan was coercing with the Fjerdans to capture Grisha in exchange for military backup and as much as it angered you to keep the First-Army General alive, it would create a whole other problem if he was found dead.

'West Ravka is Ravka. All Zlatan is is a mere General of the First-Army. He's no King.'

'You would be surprised. People would listen to a stableboy if he spoke of truth and justice.'

'And would Fjerda back him up too?'

He smirked and gave a nod of his head in amusement at your raging eyes. 'You drüsje get so worked up over words. It's actions that matter.'

'Not here in Ravka. Remember where and what you are. Then think of what half of this room can do to you' Without so much as a goodbye, you walked away from him with a huff and continued looking for Genya. You hadn't even seen Aleksander make an appearance yet but you didn't think you wanted to see him, not after your conversation with the Queen.

We wish for you to marry my son

Every time you thought you had shaken the haunting request, it came back with a shiver up your spine. It went against everything you ever believed in. You hated the crown, the Lantsov line, you hated the Ravka they created. But this didn't feel like something you could reject. It wasn't a proposal, it was an alliance.

You turned your head to the doors and watched as Zoya clambered up the stairs in her stunning blue silk kefta. Behind her, a Suli performer climbed up on her silks as if it were all she'd ever known. Her body swung gracefully and smoothly, not batting an eyelid at all her observers. It was memorizing and distracting, something for which you were thankful.

'Haven't you got some Dukes and Ministers to babysit?' Zoya appeared beside you, eyeing up the empty glass in your hand.

'Let them roam free for the night'

'As long as they're not groveling over me'

'Because your presence is so much more captivating than the Sun-Summoners' You rolled your eyes and made your way to get a new, full, glass.

'Thank you for finally admitting it'

'Where's Genya Saffin?'

She made a face and took a glass to, bringing it up to her lips and taking a small sip.

'With Alina. Why?'

'Oh nothing, just some details to hash out about Marie attending dinner' You covered up. 'I spoke with a Fjerdan dignitary. He had no problem hiding that West Ravka is coming to their aid.' Zoya was a good soldier and a great tactician, if you were to tell anyone such sensitive information, it would definitely be Zoya.

'I overheard a Zemeni ambassador say they were spotted at Zlatan's rallies. He's raising his ranks whilst our own coffers run out. We can't afford a war with each of our borders'

'Try telling the King that' The Lantsov King. Nikolai's father. Nikolai.

'Saints are you alright?' Zoya looked at you with wide eyes, then to the broken glass crumbling in your hand. You had been clutching it so hard you managed to smash it and slice the palm of your hand.

'Oh umm- I need a moment' You disposed of the glass on a nearby table and basically ran to the nearest washroom. Crimson red blood dripped slowly from your fingers as you tried to keep it from staining your kefta while you closed the door behind you.

This was the first moment since your talk with the Queen where you were alone. Truly alone, no ambassador looming over your shoulder or a Duke at your side. Alexander, Alina, and Genya were still nowhere to be seen and the demonstration would begin shortly but all you wanted to do was stay in this tiny and stuffy room, shut off from everything. You washed your hand down with water, hissing in pain as the water tinted red and carried away the signs of injury. The quarters were quiet and calm, a stark contrast to the liveliness in the hall not often seen in the Little Palace.

The Little Palace tended to be quiet, but the Grand Palace was different. The Grand Palace. The winter home of the Lantsovs. Nikolai. Marriage.

The gentle tears came like a surprise, rolling down your face with grace. 'Fuck me' was all you could say as your head rested on your uninjured hand. You still felt exhausted and overwhelmed now even more so but you liked to think you hid it well. What good was a Deputy in emotional turmoil at a party full of political vultures?

The door to the small space suddenly opened and none other than Genya Saffin walked in with ease only she possessed. She looked at you in shame then fixed her attention on her shoes, not meeting your broken gaze.

'I take it you spoke with Tatiana?'

'Why didn't you tell General Kirigan?' You sniffed and wrapped your hand in a handkerchief, not bothering to wipe away the tears that you continued to cry.

'I felt it wasn't my place'

'Why?' Your voice cracked, slightly distracting you but the meaning to your question was obvious. Why me?

'She wished to squelch his bastardry rumors with your standing reputation.'

'Does he know?'

'She wrote him, but he has yet to respond.'

'Why not Vasily? Is it to make sure a Grisha never sits on the throne?'

She stayed quiet, toying with her sleeve. 'She says you have the air of a false Queen but the mind of a demon'

'Nothing new there' You laughed and straightened up, using the handkerchief on your hand to pat your face dry, diminishing any last sign of your weak moment away. 'Is Alina ready?' She looked at you with pure pity on her face, the compassion bursting on her face busting at its seams.

'Yes. Last I saw she was with the General.'

'Thank you Ms.Saffin'

***

You didn't mean to miss the demonstrations, but you took your time walking back to the main hall anyway. It was only when you saw the darkened room and searing light did you stop dead in your tracks at the door. Alina stood there on the podium, the image of a Saint. Her black and gold kefta shimmered in her light beautifully, illuminating her face and smile. She was glowing. Her powers had brought her not only luxurious life but good health, something everyone prays for. The black looked well on her too. It set her apart from the sea of bright keftas and gowns. In a Palace full of Grisha and powerful members of society, only Alina and Aleksander wore the black keftas, not even you wore it tonight and it made you feel surprisingly insecure.

He stood to her side, enthralled by her show of strength and skill. He was fascinated with her, it showed in his eyes and on his face but it definitely wasn't a facade. Even watching them from afar you could see that he looked at her as if she was his Sun, the only thing capable of lighting up his night sky.

You didn't know how to look at her. Everyone around you was worshipping her, whispering silent prayers to Sankta Alina: the Sun Saint, but you stayed frozen and still. You were never faithful to the Saints, they never listened to you, so what good would pledging your allegiance to Alina be if you knew Aleksander planned to extort her?

The whole room was kneeling now, heads bent down in symbols of submission yet you stood. No doubt you stuck out like a sore thumb, but a leader does not bow to anybody, not even the Saints. He momentarily turned his head to look at you but his eyes were far from the softness he gave Alina. They spoke more than his smooth words ever could yet this time the silent exchange did nothing to soothe your muddled head.

A tap on your shoulder caused you to break your burning gaze away from the summoners and to a guard instead.

'Deputy, we have 2 First-Army soldiers who claim to have found Morozova's Stag' The Stag. Just my luck.

'Tell the General, I have no business with the stag' You waved him off and returned your stare back to the room, scanning the crowd like a hawk when her eyes caught yours. Queen Tatiana was looking through to your soul, demolishing any confidence you could muster at that moment.

Marry my son.

----------------

Part 22

Taglist (tell me if you want to be added to the Little Witch taglist!!) @theonelittleone @searching-for-gallifrey @0-artemis @lostysworld @xceafh @fire-in-her-veinz @patdsinner33 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @wizardwheezes @aleksanderwh0r3 @tomhollandisabae @hotleaf-juice @justmesadgirl @exo-1204 @houseofdupree @oberonpascal @eireduchess @lunas1x1 @adoringb @grisha-of-shadow-bone @rosiethefairy @carlywhomever @allisjustok @keepdaydreamingbb @luciadiosa

[dcbutinamrev]

laurloch meeting for the first time perhaps?

Of course! Requests always open!

***

Eighteen-year-old John Laurens sighs as he stares up at the building before him. He presses his lips firmly together as he shifts his bag onto a comofortable position. He readies his hands, rubbing them together before finally gripping a brick from the wall in front of him and lifting his right foot. He reaches his left arm up an inch higher before finally fixing his right foot on the brick. Laurens stares at his goal a few feet above him: a ledge that connects to the brick building. This is where he usually sits in the early mornings or late evenings to clear his mind, to give himself some time for him and just relax.

Laurens grins as he grunts, shifting his body a little over to the left as he lifts his right foot and arm before shifting his body again over to the right as left foot moves up an inch, followed by the arm. His bag thumps against his back with each step he takes as he climbs the brick wall, his fingers burn against the bricks, his muscles straining. But his face remains determined and stern, his jaw clenched as he huffs and puffs.

Laurens glances over to his left where ledge connects and grins. Only a few inches now. Not feet. Laurens grimaces as he lifts his other foot up, fixing it into the brick, some chucks of the brick crumbling onto the streets of Geneva below him. The sun sizzles, causing Laurens to feel a bead of sweat trickle down the side of his face and down towards his chin. There's a faint, cool breeze blowing by, but not enough to fully cool him. Birds crow in the distance and flap their wings across the clear, cloudless rich blue sky. People mill around the streets below him, some chatting and laughing, carriages being wheeled by horses, the wheels clattering against the cobblestone streets, the horses whinning as they come to a stop.

Laurens holds his place for a moment, trying to catch his breath as he glances down below him, watching the other citizens of Geneva go about their day, children laughing and squealing as they race down the sidewalks, chickens gobbling about as they chase after them, the dogs barking with their tails wagging. Men laughing as they sit in front of a tavern, holding out a glass of wine or beer, taking an unhealthy swing. Women in beautiful, flowy, colorful dresses ranging from pink to violet to blue to gold roam about the streets, some having their arm looped through their husbands as they walk or others just stand near the market, giggling discreetly as they eye something. Gossiping to one another.

Laurens rolls his eyes at them before continuing his task, huffing and puffing with each step he takes. Once Laurens has reached the ledge, he wraps his arm around the edge of the building before swinging his leg around so his back is pressed against the edge. Laurens huffs and puffs again, closing his eyes gently as he rests his forearm on his forehead, trying to catch his breath. Laurens opens his only to glance up at the sky, thankfully no where near the sun. Laurens pouts a little, his bottom lip puckering out.

"Wil it ever rain here?" Laurens grumbles to himself as he swings his bag around to place it in between his legs.

He unties it and rips it open, searching for his sketchbook, his ink pot and quill. He mutters a breathless, "Ah ha" when he finds it, zips the bag shut and leans against the edge. Laurens sighs, relieved now and he runs a hand through his honey colored hair, glancing down at the streets below him. Laurens eyes a couple of women chatting to one another lively, spies a couple of men laughing, some whistling to get their horses' attention. Laurens chews on the inside of his cheek, furrowing his brows as he wonders which to sketch out.

Laurens brings his knees up to his chest and flips the book open, unscrewing the inkpot lid and dipping the tip of his feathered quill into the inkpot. Laurens bites his lip. He begins, as a warm up, to sketch his mother, a vivid vision he alway keeps in his mind. He starts off with her eyes, since those seem to be the easiest part for him. He frames out the irises and the pupils, the little dents for the bridge of the nose. Laurens frowns. His least favorite part or the one that's most difficult for him to sketch is the lips.

Laurens tips his head up to meet the sky again before sighing heavily and glancing back down at the paper before him. He chews on the corner of his lip as he draws a straight line with his quill. He refreshes his ink and draws a slight larger curve at the bottom of his mother's lip and a thinner curve barely visible for her upper lip. Laurens then defines her cheekbones before framing out her face. Once that task has been completed, he then does her neck and shoulders. He only does from the neck up. Laurens flicks his quill around as he does her hair, pulled up into a high bun with a few curls dangling in front of her ears. He creates some dots on her earlobes to show her earrings before creating her necklace next and some part of her dress.

Laurens sighs when he finishes, leaning back against the ledge and staring at his drawing, his chest squeezing as he remembers his mother. His sweet, beautiful, trusting, kind, caring mother who loved him more than the world. Laurens blinks his eyes and shakes his head before quickly flipping to the next page.

He glances down at the streets again, wondering who to draw next. Perhaps that woman over there with the purple hat and white feather in it? Or that man over there under the tavern with the rocking chair, his glass of wine in hand? Or those two children in the distanace playing what Laurens thinks is hopscotch.

"Hey!" a voice suddenly shouts, startling Laurens from his thoughts.

Laurens yelps, his book and quill fumbling around in his hands. He breathes fast in and out, his heart thumping as he holds his items to his chest. Laurens frowns, glacing around him with his brows furrowed together.

"Hey!" the voice calls again.

Laurens glances down as he sees a man perhaps around his age, maybe a year older with slick, dark brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail, a black ribbon securing it and a tricorn hat perched on his head. He wears a dark blue coat with a navy waistcoat and tan colored breeches with stockings that come up to his knees, his black boots up to his shins. Laurens stares into his eyes: an emerald green, a beautiful shade of green. A green Laurens has never seen before.

His chest squeezes and his stomach twists.

"You! What do you think you're doing?" the man below him says, his voice distant as he places his hands on his hips. He raises an eyebrow.

Laurens doesn't say a word. He just stares into those eyes, his heart fluttering.

"Well?" the man presses. "Come on, now! What's your name, kid? You have family around? What are you doing up there? How the hell did you get up there?"

Laurens opens his mouth to say something, clutching onto his book close to his chest. His feels his cheeks becoming unusually warm.

"I..." Laurens begins, but he can't seem to find the words.

The man grins. "Come on down, now. You'll hurt yourself."

A pause.

"The name's Kinloch, by the way," the man--Kinloch--says. "Francis Kinloch."

Laurens swallows as he seems to relax, his tense shoulders slumping and he smiles wide.

"Laurens," he says. He clears his throat as he presses his lips together. "John...I'm...John Laurens..."

"My!" Kinloch gasps. "John Laurens?"

Laurens nods.

Kinloch grins. "Well, I've heard much about your father. An aspiring man he is. And he's lucky to have a son like you."

Laurens grimaces, though he tries not to show it. Yeah...lucky me...

"What are you uh...what are you doing here, kid?" Kinloch asks.

Laurens scratches the back of his neck. "Oh, um...my father sent me here to Geneva to search for schools. I'll be schooling here for a couple of years too."

"Really?" Kinloch gasps. "Well. I'm schooling here in Geneva."

"Really?" Laurens says, blinking his eyes.

Kinloch nods. "Yep. I'm uh...I'm at Eton."

"Me too," Laurens mutters, his voice feeble and shy.

Kinloch stares at Laurens for a breath before offering his hand. "Why don't you come on down? You'll hurt yourself and I don't want your father blaming me for his injured son."

Laurens couldn't help but giggle as he nods and packs his things away before he climbs on down. He grunts when his feet reaches the sidewalk, dusting his hands together as he turns around to face Kinloch. Kinloch freezes, his eyes widening as he sucks in a breath.

"Mr. Kinloch?" Laurens says after a moment of silence between them.

"My...Laurens...you have...such...such beautiful eyes..." Kinloch whispers. "A rich blue...blue as the sky. I've never seen eyes so beautiful and vibrant as yours."

Laurens feels his cheeks grow warmer as he shifts on his feet. "Um...I...I thank you, sir."

"Please, call me Francis," Kinloch says, extending his hand out. "A pleasure to meet your aquaitence."

Laurens smiles with his lips pressed together as he shakes Kinloch's hand firmly.

"Call me John."

Laurens sighs as he watches Kinloch turn around and guides him throughout the streets of Geneva, giving him the history of some of the buildings, telling him his childhood, about his future. But what Laurens finds most entrancing in Kinloch's apperance, are his eyes. That beautiful shade of green: not to light not to dark. Just right in the middle.

Laurens smiles and nods appropriately duringt he conversation. His heart flutters and his chest squeezes as Kinloch meets eyes with him or when he laughs or smiles.

Laurens doesn't understand this feeling, but he knows for certain that never in his life has ever been so helpless.

[the-wolf-who-kissed-the-moon]

• Randvi x female reader 💋

• Warnings: adult fantasies.

a sapphire for your heart, part VI.

Oh, sweet Lilith,

How temping is your sin;

The Devil's arms pry open,

And I jump right in.

If damnation came after that kiss, you’d welcome it. Your knees felt weak and tingly, making it nearly impossible to pull yourself free from that woman's hold. You could feel her chest heaving, moving against you, stirring you up. The warmth of her lips lingered on your mouth, a sweet distraction, yet at the same time it fueled your desire to appease her.

She wanted a treasure, and you were ready to dig all the way down to the core of the earth to fetch it.

The marble floor of those sacred ruins felt cold and lifeless beneath your feet. Even though you were quite disheveled from sharing that brief moment of passion with Randvi, you never doubted your ability to feel that mystical impulse of gemstones yearning to be found. As you paced about the old, dusty tiles, you allowed your body to steadily relax and seek that natural pull of the soil and its riches. You begun to feel it – a very low vibration; but not from underneath. By instinct, you tilted your head back to look at those tall pillars, and Randvi’s gaze followed your own. She said nothing for now, giving you room to express yourself.

The faintest lull of precious stones encouraged you to climb those dilapidated ruins to the very top of the highest pillar. There it was; a strange energy calling for you, infiltrating your body through the tips of your fingers. You were swift as a deer and light as a feather on the tip of your toes, flowing gracefully towards your aim.

“Careful!”

A sweet velvet voice called from below. You glanced down to see a worried frown on Randvi’s lovely face, and you smiled.

“I’ve done this before.”

You reassured, but she walked beside you on the safety of the ground, ready to catch you in case you’d fall – what a heartwarming thought. This magnificent warrior had all her attention on you. Just when was the last time someone had cared so much for your well-being?

How you longed to be back in her embrace, to drown in the warmth of her chest and the sweet scent of her skin. But your focus was on your treasure, your determination impenetrable, even by such powerful desires. The pillar was cold to the touch, unbreakable and strong – but there was one particular area in that ancient marble which stood out.

“That’s enough Sapphire, you don’t need to look further!”

Your Viking goddess called again, with nothing but well-meant worry in her stern tone.

“Are you concerned for my safety?”

You jested as you produced a small hammer from your pouch.

“Of course! Now please climb down, I don’t trust these pillars.”

“Oh? Is it the pillar or me that you do not trust?”

You grinned at the sound of a frustrated sigh; Randvi paced about the floor, her head tilted to watch your every move, and her strong arms ready to cushion a fall which never came.

Large pieces of marble crumbled under the slightest hits of your hammer. The wall was a soft decoy, hiding a small hole the size of a man’s fist. You listened for any movements within; any trap someone might have used to ward off thieves. And when you were sure no scorpions or snakes were coiled inside the crevice, you slipped your hand right in.

“I found something!”

You announced as you steadily pulled your arm out of the pillar, with your fingers tightly wrapped around a small, old bag.

“What is it?”

Randvi’s sweet voice echoed from below. The worn-out piece of cloth was hardly something to behold, but you felt a pulsing energy within. And when you opened the bag, you were almost stunned by the brilliant colors of shimmering gems.

“It’s... a key.”

“A key?”

But not just any old key; this piece was an artifact, a treasure you have only dreamt to find. It was fairly the size of your palm, all made of pure gold and studded with rubies and diamonds in the shape of runes. It burned your skin, sent shivers up your spine, and whispered to you in a tongue you did not understand.

“Are you alright up there?”

Suddenly, you were brought back to the present. You tucked the mysterious key into you bosom pocket and reassured Randvi that you were on your way down.

“I’m fine, I promise.” Gently, you called. “I have something for you, though.”

And as soon as you found your footing on the ground, you presented your find to her. The sight of that sacred key brought forth an expression you never thought you’d see on those beautiful, stern features. Randvi was completely breathless, shocked and amazed. You felt her soft palms cup over your own, gently prying the key from your hold.

“Freya’s tears…” She murmured. “Sapphire, this is a great find – this is extraordinary!”

There was more than awe dancing across those godly features; she way exhilarated, almost relieved, and you knew that artifact must’ve had a deeper meaning to her than just the value of the gold. You bit back a smile as you witnessed spring bloom over those somber eyes you fell in love with; and that’s when you remembered -

Ache-filled wails in the night, by the river.

It was hard and painful for you to picture tears on those rosy cheeks. You felt a spark of hatred for ‘Sigurd’ and ‘Eivor', albeit you had no solid proof they were directly responsible for Randvi’s secret heartache.

“Is it… something personal of yours?”

You inquired curiously, hinting at the key.

“No, much more important. Had I known it was here, I would’ve demolished these ruins long ago.” She answered with a hint of excitement as her dazzling gaze found yours.

“How did you know…?”

“I just do.” You glanced at the sacred item in her palms as you ran the tip of your index finger along the precious diamonds and rubies. “I had no clue it was a key; I only felt the precious stones… calling me. It was faint, because they’re rather small. Yet loud enough for me to hear them.”

All Randvi did was nod slowly as she beheld your unique talent and the way you spoke to her.

---

A feast was to be held that night in honor of your find. The little village buzzed, song and excitement already filling the evening air. Somewhat bothered, you retreated to that little pond to sit on the mossy bed and be alone with your thoughts. Perhaps you should’ve been more interested in finding the roots of such a valuable item, yet your mind seemed to obsess over one thing only – that kiss.

Were you wrong to wish for more? Did Randvi desire it as well, or perhaps she’d done it in the heat of the moment? Regardless, the memory of her soft mouth was embedded on your lips, and you could still taste her sweet passion at the tip of your tongue. Your chest ached for her, yet you found no courage to go and meet her now, when she was in the midst of joyous celebration together with her clan.

The night was yours to ponder, and so you drifted into a light slumber where you allowed your sinful fantasies to come to life. How soft her skin must’ve been beneath those velvet layers, how gently you’d caress her chest, her plush, womanly mounds. The sight of her nude before you, divine in all of her brawny glory, with rust hair flowing freely down her broad shoulders.

You sighed as you pictured yourself straddling her lap and worshipping her chest with slow kisses whilst her strong hands would caress your thighs. Closer, closer, where you burned…

“Sapphire? Is that you?”

With a sharp inhale you abruptly sat up in the mossy bed and quickly dusted dry blades of grass off your hair. Your cheeks were hot red, but thank God for the darkness of the night hiding your shame. Randvi was right there, in the flesh, and the sound of her velvet words only stirred your arousal.

“Yes, it’s me!”

You called as soon as you trusted your voice. Her heavy footfalls drew nearer and you turned your head away as you pretended to smoothen the wrinkles in your tunic. She crouched down next to you.

“Is everything alright? We were waiting for you in the longhouse…”

“Ah, I’m sorry – ...it’s the smoke.”

A fitting excuse which worked the previous night. Randvi did not insist, already accustomed to your need for solitude at times and you were grateful that she understood. But when she stood as if to take her leave, words spilled before you had the chance to think.

“Randvi – “

She turned at your call.

“…there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

-          To be continued…

*part VII.

[rithalie-sideblog]

The daughters of Dracula

When Vlad Dracula first hears the prophecy he laughs and bellows with a voice that shakes his castle to the bone. 

Him? Falling in love with a mortal woman? Inconceivable, unheard of, simply a figment of an old man's scribbling imagination.

But then Vlad Dracula starts to think. And wonder. Because for all of his wealth and goods he managed to accumulate he was born a beggar and a thinker, as such happens when one learns life on the streets.

Prophecies have power.

So Vlad Dracula devises a plan. To make sure, he won't fall for the novelty that is a mortal woman, much less give her a son to fulfil the damned prophecy.

The first step he takes, he scours the village for his prey.

Mortal women, of all height and weight, from the plump daughter of the baker to the muscled heiress of the mercenary group. He kidnaps them from ungrateful families and bargains for them and soon his castle is filled with women's voices, their whimpers and terrified sobs. 

He avoids the young ones, as pretty as they might appear because Vlad Dracula might be a monster, but even he had rules by which to live his immortal life.

He never harms the women, despite their hostility and suspicion towards him. He leaves them be for the longest of times and watches as they slowly make the castle their home.

The women clean the spider webs, dust the old forgotten rooms and chambers. 

As they slowly grow more bold, they begin to take down the most horrid paintings from the walls, wash their clothes in the well in the middle of the cursed garden, stringing lines of laundry between the sculptures of demons and gargoyles.

Vlad watches it all happen from his tower, curiosity taking over him as he waits. Observes. Studies.

Finally, one woman seeks him out.

A pretty one, with her hair the color of honey, tangled way past her knees with her unable to cut it without any sharp object.

She demands a knife with a trembling voice and desperation laced with fear.

"Give it back soon." Says Dracula in his velvet voice as he gives her a dagger.

The woman never takes her eyes off of him as she backs away from the room, weapon held tightly in her hand.

By the end of the next week, most women have their hair cut, or braided into something new.

The honey-colored woman comes back with the dagger, placing it delicately in Vlad's outstretched hand. 

And she stays to talk.

A few years pass before most of the women warm up to Dracula, even if for him, it hadn't been much more than a blink.

They smile at him when he passes the corridors of his once gloomy castle, some wave to him, kneeled over the freshly planted potatoes in the gardens that once hosted the most exquisite of Louvre's hedges.

They come to him for his judgement, they trust him with their pleas and for his part, Dracula does his best to judge fairly. Years after Dracula's decision, the first woman wishes for more. He does not chase her away, even if his dark heart remains unchanged, curiosity driving him dangerously close to the edge of destiny's sword.

Vlad wonders if he should kill the woman before she can give birth to his descendant. If she were to bear a boy, the prophecy would come true and everything Dracula had done would have been for naught.

"It's a girl." announces one of the women as she comes out of the birth chamber, hands covered in blood up to her elbows. Vlad tries to not stare at them much as the relief washes over him.

A daughter, no son to slay him, no vengeance to come forth from his mother's mistreatment.

His plan is saved.

There are two more births that follow, and with each child being born a female Vlad grows more confident. Convinced he managed to beat the prophecy, he once again disappears into his tower.

He meets his daughters sometimes.

Pretty creatures, not a flaw to be seen on them. With hair the color of honey, mahogany and obsidian, they look at him with eyes of crimson and sunlight and moonlight, their sharpened ears uncovered proudly in the safety of his home, his vast galleries and libraries.

Dracula goes down deep into the guts of his castle and brings up the jewelry, old dress materials and sewing kits for them to use. He does not care what they do with the gift, but something like pride flashes in his eyes as he catches a glimpse of them covered in gold and silk.

As they grow, they get more and more bold, coming to his tower and asking questions about the world and life outside their castle.

Their Inquiries rarely go unanswered.

Dracula begins to let the mortal women go, the youngest of them past the age of her prime now. Some of them leave, but some of them stay, unwilling to uproot their lives again and comfortable with what they learned. Dracula begins to travel, living his years free of the burden of the prophecy, confident that his fate has finally been changed.

So when an angry woman shows up at the door of the castle, a three-year-old with crimson eyes' hand, gripped in hers, it comes as quite a surprise.

Dracula kills the woman, for she was not one of his, one of them, despite the claim she made upon Dracula's paternal role in the child's life. 

The daughters that greeted her warmly once she arrived had not known such violence before. They lick their lips and wrangle their hands at the sight of blood before them, and when Dracula sees that he gives them the woman's body to feast upon.

The boy is spared, if only for the foolishness of one of the women who rushes him outside when the carnage begins. 

He runs and when Vlad finds out about it, he flies after him in hot pursuit, but the boy is nowhere to be found. The prophecy protects him and fate is on his side and no matter where Dracula looks he cannot find him.

No harm befalls the woman who helped him, but upon hearing about the prophecy she weeps, for she did not know what calamity she brought upon her host. She leaves the castle in shame.

Three daughters of the Dracula grow hungry for blood, their beauty shining in its ethereal light brighter than before. Vlad feeds them and begins to teach them. Slowly but steadily he allows them entrance upon his dark and shrunken heart. They become his confidants as Dracula admits his defeat against the prophecy, preparing for the final act of the play. 

If his daughters showed promise even unattended, they shine with brilliance under his attention. Soon the castle is alive with the sound of magic, verbal disputes and turned pages.

When the child, now a man fully grown, comes back, bearing the Alucard title, Dracula steps forward to battle his destiny. He makes his daughters swear not to join him, and stay far away from the fight, for he had made arrangements for his knowledge to live on in them were he to fail.

Alucard is strong, but not as strong as his father.

He is quick, but not as quick as Dracula.

He is vengeful and drunk on the prophecy's promises, but not quite as desperate as Vlad is.

And yet, what finally brings The almighty Dracula to his knees is the fact that Alucard isn't quite as honorable as him.

When the edge of Alucard's blade rests against the honey-haired daughter of the Dracula he stops fighting.

After many years of undead existence, his daughters became his legacy, and he refuses to lose even a slight part of it.

Dracula's pause gives Alucard a chance to defeat him, and as he does that, all three daughters cry out in anguish.

Dracula's body caves in itself and turns to ash, and as Alucard lifts his fist in triumph, ready to claim the castle and all of its wealth as he was promised, he is met not with the radiant smiles of the saved woman but with weeping and sneers. The woman may have hardly loved the monster who kidnapped them, but his presence meant safety. It meant freedom to pursue what they desired, no mortal husband or any kin present to dictate their lives.

Three daughters of the Dracula weep the loudest, and through their tears they growl and hiss, blind in their rage. They chase Alucard out of the castle, the man unable to defend himself against their fury.

The brown and dark-haired ones stay on the stairs of the castle, but the honey-colored one chases Alucard to the edge of the woods, red droplets of blood flying from the spot where he threatened her. She almost gets him, her claws marking the tree, behind which he ducked with three deep lines.

And when the dust finally settles and the castle stops trembling with the sobs of the grieving women, they all come together to plan.

The rumors grow, ones of an imposing castle deep in the woods, that one day disappeared from all maps. 

Some say it's still there, just concealed with the magic of a really powerful witch, no matter what the church claims about having burned them all.

Others think it crumbled to the ground, unable to stand any more without its master there to keep it together. 

The Vatican claims to have destroyed it in the name of God, the village men grow bold enough to boast about the treasure they supposedly stole from there.

Alucard's tale grows, even as the man shrinks into itself, once his prophecy has been fulfilled and his sole reason to exist finally slayed. 

Very few remember Vlad Dracula's daughters, but there are traces of them left in the history.

Hushed female voices telling each other stories over the fire. Tales of the place where husbands' heavy hand won't ever reach. 

Rumors of libraries and workshops where all the knowledge is at your fingertips, your fate finally yours to choose.

Whispered clues to find the farthest tree on the south of the main road, its bark marked with three fine lines in the shape of the hand, and to march three hundred steps north of it.

And finally, three names to call forth when you reach the clearing, given to their daughters by the desperate mothers who wish for a better life to happen upon them.

Do you know the names? 

Did you ever have to call for them, deep in the night, three hundred steps away from the tree where a daughter almost avenged her father's death?

Don't you know the heart of greed and entitled desires? Have you ever heard of self-fulfilled prophecies? Didn't you see the hate in the eyes of the people?

Don't let them know.

Whisper the daughters names in the night, gain their strength. 

And don't let the world know where we are.

[samsa19]

day 4 odazai angst week

hmm yep. it’s going to be such a good fucking idea to post this shit fic on the internet for all the internet to see. 

so this is my totally uninvited submission for 

odazai angst week day 4: Ghosts | Loneliness || Hurt/comfort 

Here’s the event source! 

He sees them. In the air, in the corners of his darkest eyes, in the tracing outlines of things that he once thought he knew.

In the petals of a florist’s garden on his way to work; where the faded, wilting edges of a hydrangea flower remind him of the flowing blue of his eyes. He stops to stare, crouches down, searching for that brilliant azure that must surely be hiding somewhere in the multitudes of hues. Through a flurry of his perception he catches in his eye a very brilliant, a very flowing- blue.

“Are you looking for something?” Dazai looks up to the sound of the voice. An earnest storekeeper fidgets sheepishly at his side.

Her hair is bright auburn.

Dazai smiles. “Do you mind if I take this flower?”

The storekeeper leans over. “This bouquet?”

He chuckles, and picks out a stem delicately. “No, just this one.”

“Ahh… we can’t allow individual stems from already arranged bouquets, I’m sorry…”

He lifts his eyes innocently to the girl’s, the way he knows would make her go scarlet. “Even if I pay the price for a full bouquet?”

The girl looks down immediately, flushed. She blurts out: “Th-that would be 50,000 yen, sir.”

Dazai laughs again. “Alright. I’ll take it.”

The storekeeper watches, entranced, at the man humming along the street with a single hydrangea between his fingers- wondering what about that one flower deserved such an admiring stare.

***

In the silhouette of his pupil- the way the fingers clasped so gently the hilt of the gun.

Atsushi’s back is bent as he gets down to pick it up; nimbly and lightly, almost hurriedly, as if he was holding a bomb yet to explode. And in a way it was. Had they been only moments late, it may have taken a life.

Dazai notices the tension in his figure, and walks up to him. “Something wrong, Atsushi-kun?”

“It’s always heavier than I expected…” Atsushi smiles uncomfortably. “I don’t think I can ever get used to this, because I’m always used to having my claws as weapons.”

“What makes your claws different? I’m sure they weigh about the same, combined with your limbs.”

The boy looks back at his mentor and scratches the back of his head, weighting the gun as he tilts it cautiously. “I don’t know. There’s something so… Inhumane about it?” He grimaces.

Atsushi’s figure perks up, suddenly remembering the job he has to do.

“Right. Dazai-san, could you show me one more time how to take it apart?”

“Sure.” He leans over.

Dazai takes the gun in his hand. He moves his hand swiftly to unlock it brashly, ram its parts back the only way his hands know- then he stops.

He glances at Atsushi’s hands. They’re at the same position as his own. Ready to imitate.

And for a split second, it pains his heart a little. His eyes flicker.

Slowly, he starts moving his hands again, but this time, differently.

Dazai’s eyes had caught and burned into memory every curl and twist of Oda’s hands as he unloaded his gun. So gentle, yet swift and subtle. Those scarred knuckles and palms had no justice for the way he handled such a weapon. A tool for killing. A tool he had lived with; a tool that he knew he had a choice for.

Atsushi watches in admiration, the way the fingers glide through the crevices and handle the parts. It made it seem as if the gun weighed nothing.

“Wow…! I- didn’t know you could do something like that so nicely.” Atsushi stares, equally amazed as the gun seemed to piece itself back together.

Dazai smiles. “I learned it from a very special person.” He plops the gun back in Atsushi’s palms. “Here. Let me show you.”

He guides young hands around harsh metal joints. All the while, Atsushi thinks there’s something a bit sad about his mentor’s eyes.

They finish quickly. As Atsushi thanks him, Dazai smiles. He says, “Learn it well, Atsushi-kun.”

He closes his eyes.

“You might teach it to someone else one day.”

***

In the coast away from the bright lights of Yokohama’s nightlife, walking along the sea when he catches just a whiff- just a breath- of him.

His pupils shrink. He turns back, only to be met by the roaring wind of the sea. Dark hair flies back, and his senses are assaulted, eyes closed shut by the mist of saltwater.

By the time he opens them again, it’s gone. Cast away forever with the crashing waves of the ocean.

The dark, sole silhouette stands there, unmoving, staring at something that should be there.

Dazai reaches out. He outstretches his fingers to a distant horizon, knowing it’s futile as it is to reach for something that’s not there- but he grasps desperately. And he closes his eyes again.

The only sympathy, from the chorus of the waves.

Eventually he composes himself again. He opens his eyes, faces the glimmering, yet stormy ocean. The stars glitter subtly, the few piercing lights in the dark sky ever strong, unfaltering.

And the sea is alive.

Crash after crash of water on rocks, on sand, on each other, but all composed by the single, serene ocean. How violently the sounds orchestrate when one lends their ear by the most delicate senses- and yet, how easily it would be missed by the cacophony of murmuring sounds in life.

The epitome of peace, of serenity, of relentless emotion- Dazai thinks.

Are you there?

Dazai’s footsteps track into the sand. Shallow, yet complete, trailing to the waves.

Are you- still alive?

Would you still be alive? Somewhere?

The starscape and glistening waves blur through tears.

Can I find you in this sea? In the stars? In the air?

Is there a way- somehow- to turn back time, to go back, to do anything, to-

Where his ankles are soaked in water, he crumbles.

…

The waves only continue to flow.

***

At some point or the other he ends up on the couch in his apartment. From the edge of his waking conscience he can sense the sticky saltwater of his clothes, the mess of his hair, the cold and lonely air of the room.

He rubs his eyes. They’re sore.

The parting sunlight accompanies the morning, sliding silently into his vision. On the window to his right he can see the gold threads lining the grey buildings, windows slowly brightening from the rising sun.

Dazai falls back. He lays a hand over his eyes. He wasn’t ready. Not today.

He wasn’t ready to live another day, in a world where he was gone.

Dazai knows them. In the colors of the grey shadows- the taste of bitter blood- the sounds of running footsteps and fleeting life.

He knows the ghosts.

oh god if you got this far thank you so much for reading this p.o.s have an amazing day 

[emometalhead]

"Ready for the leaves. Ready for the colors to burn to gold and crumble away."

[squimari]

The Exchange

In which Tubbo lost his last canon life, and Ranboo makes a sacrifice.

/rp, non-canon

tw; colored text, caps, angst, mention of death/loss of a canon life, tnt explosion, swearing

also let’s pretend techno isn’t in prison/he gets out at some point (he’s not in this fic)

Ranboo quietly slinks through the prison, obsidian walls appear shadowless, the invisibility potion allowing him to slip through the security. He teleports occasionally to his require destinations.

He downs another potion of fire resistance quickly, trying to catch his breath.

He’s distressed. He recounts past events leading up to this moment.

Clouds of smoke and piles of rubble decorated the area once known as Las Nevadas. Ranboo, after thinking about what he had done searched for Tubbo, realizing he never knew his whereabouts before setting off the TNT.

He long abandoned Wilbur in the button room, choosing to pause his reflection in favor of finding his husband.

This was all his fault.

“EVERYTHING WE WORKED FOR, EVERYTHING WE BELIEVED IN.”

“I DID THIS ALL FOR TUBBO.”

“THE THING THAT I BUILT THIS ALL FOR DOESN’T EXIST ANYMORE.”

“It’s over.”

“It was never meant to be.”

He remembers searching forever in the calamity, only to be greeted with a heart dropping message on his communicator.

Tubbo blew up.

He remembers studying the redstone contraptions of Pandora’s Box for this very day.

The keycard that he stole from Sam— and the guilt that came with it.

The anguish, the days of mourning.

A hand traces the burning scars upon his face, carved deeply into black and white skin.

Ranboo finally makes his way across the lone path to the cell, pulse rapid and hands clenched around the axe of ender.

Lava melts off of his form as the invisibility potion wears off just in time to reveal himself.

Dream is sat against the wall, head pressed against the obsidian. His eyes dart to Ranboo, and he raises an eyebrow.

“You’re back.”

Ranboo nods. “I am.”

“Are you even allowed here?”

He pauses, before gripping the axe tighter.

“N-No…”

Dream suddenly sits up in interest, resting an arm on his knee. His smile grows wider.

“Oh? Should I call—“

“I want to bargain with you, Dream.” Ranboo says curtly.

“What for?” He plays dumb. His smile stretches sickeningly. He knows what happened.

“I need…” He swallows. “I need you to revive Tubbo, please.”

“Why? What’ll I get out of it?” He’s pushing for more. He boredly watches the half-enderman crumble.

“Please. Please. I’ve made a terrible mistake. I need him back.” His voice breaks. “Dream, I beg you. I’ll give you anything.”

Dream chuckles.

“Now now, don’t say anything you don’t mean…”

Ranboo frustratedly grips his axe.

“Stacks of netherite, gold, diamonds… Discs… Weapons…” He pushes the axe of ender forward.

“I’ll take something of value, yes.” Dream cuts him off.

“W-What is it?” Ranboo feels his stomach dip with emotions, relieved he’ll take the deal, but nervous for what it will be.

“I can’t tell you.” He says, adamant. Ranboo nearly cries.

“What? Why? Dre—“ He begins.

“Do you want to revive Tubbo or not?” He flatly questioned, as if he was offended by Ranboo’s judgement.

“I do, but… Well…” The pit in his stomach grows.

“Then allow me to take my payment. You’ll see anyways.”

Ranboo prepares his enderchest. Dream scoffs at it, but allows him to present it anyway.

Dream readies himself, standing up and raising both hands. He tilts his head down and closes his eyes. Ranboo looks at his enderchest, and looks back at Dream.

Ranboo hisses as a flash of blinding light fills the cell. He feels his skin burn.

Ranboo slowly opens his eyes. Dream stands in front of him, huffing and sweating.

Ranboo observes the room around him.

“What…”

“Go home, Ranboo.”

And so he does.

Ranboo finds himself barely staying steady as he distraughtly makes his way towards Snowchester. His breathing is uneven. He can’t sort out his emotions.

He knows Tubbo is back, so why is there still despair?

Is it leftover grief? Perhaps it’s going away.

He doesn’t know.

Using one big hand to push the door to his home, the other clutches his chest.

“Tub.. Tubbo! TUBBO!” He cries upon the sight of his loved one, shakily moving forward.

Tubbo doesn’t respond. His eyes overshadowed by shaggy brown hair. He smells of gunpowder and iron.

“Ranboo…”

“Tub—“

“What the fuck happened.”

He’s taken aback, yet thinks he understands the young mans aggressive response.

“I-I know… I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just needed you back and everything s-so I asked Dr—“

“No, Ranboo.” His tone rises, he’s breathing rapidly.

“Where the fuck is Michael?”