#Darkling Snippet

[author-a-holmes]

Heads Up, Seven Up Tag Game

Thank you for the tag @coarsely <3

Rules: Share seven recent lines you've written. Tag up to seven people (Or more, or less, Whatever you're comfortable with ^_^)

Gonna share some from Darkling today, so I'll pop it under a cut so that people can avoid spoilers.

And if this doesn't FEEL that close to the end of the story, that's because it's not. I've been working on adding an extra chapter between the current chapters 12 and 13 ;-)

Tagging forward to; @authoralexharvey @sleepyowlwrites @amewinterswriting @talesofsorrowandofruin @isabellebissonrouthier @cwritesfiction @theunboundwriter

And anyone else who wants to play, consider this an open tag ^_^ <3

“Then you must learn to fight as a vampire would.” “I’m about as good at that as [Redacted] is!” Booker snapped, and Lizzy flinched, surprised at the bitterness to his voice and although Olwen didn’t recoil the way Lizzy had, she went very still. One eyebrow arched slowly, and Booker backed down almost immediately, running both hands through his messy hair. “You want to place a blade in my hand and teach me to kill,” Booker muttered, and Lizzy’s breath caught as the pieces began falling into place. “And I… I can’t even lie and say I want you to. I don’t.” “Booker?” Lizzy asked softly, waiting until he looked at her, before reaching out unsteadily to touch his mind.

[author-a-holmes]

It took me longer than I thought to find, actually. Apparently, Lizzy is gradually getting a better handle on her anger! Which I'm happpy about :D

Darkling Spoilers beneath the cut. Darkling Snippet. Character Name has been Redacted and replaced with "E"

"No," she said slowly. "No, because... because he'd have told us." She glanced at E, frowning, "You'd have told me..." The flinch she saw had her voice trailing off, and her mouth falling open in shock as hurt hit her in a wave, washing away the mixture of emotions she'd been tasting from the rest of the room. "E...?" She desperately wanted him to deny it, but he wouldn't even look at her, and Lizzy stepped away from Booker and closer to the cowering vampire. "E," she pressed again, "is he right?" "You don't understand," they pleaded, eyes fixed on the floor. "You don't know what he's capable of." "I know he has my mum!" Lizzy's hands snapped up before she thought through her actions and shoved at E, sending the vampire stumbling back. They staggered, but didn't respond and Lizzy lifted her hands to strike out again, but then Andric was in front of her, arms curling around her and she sank into his chest, hurt and anger spinning through her, making her heart ache.

writing tip #3589:

when was the last time your protagonist had a good yell

[mama-qwerty]

Feeling antsy with ao3 down for maintenance? Looking for something to read (or reread)? Wanna revisit something you liked but forgot about?

LOOK NO FURTHER

Take a gander at my Snippets and Shorties - catch up on what you may have missed, or reread some past faves.

[madamebaggio]

Notes: Previously...

***

“I’m very happy to see you all back, gentlemen.” The therapist said. “It’s important to keep working on yourselves.”

“I’m just here because Obi-Wan keeps forcing me to come.” Anakin said immediately.

Kirigan arched an eyebrow at him. “You were in flames, screaming ‘I hate you’ to him.” He scoffed. “That sounds dramatic.”

“Says the ‘make me your villain’ guy.” Anakin growled.

“Gentlemen.” The therapist hurried to calm the situation. “Remember we aren’t here to judge each other.”

“We are not?” Thranduil asked, a goblet of wine in his hand. “So I’m not sure why I’m here.”

“Do we need to remind you again of the situation with the dwarves?” Daemon sneered.

“Do we need to discuss incest again?” Thranduil threw back.

The therapist took a deep breath in. “And you, Loki? You’re very quiet today.”

“That’s a miracle.” Anakin grumbled.

“Stop whining, Skywalker.” Loki snorted. “It’s unbecoming.”

“But you are quiet.” Daemon narrowed his eyes. “And you’re never quiet, unless…”

The therapist became alarmed. “Loki! No scheming here.”

“Ye of little faith.” He smirked.

[author-a-holmes]

Darkling Spoilers beneath the cut ^_^

She was almost sure Andric hadn't slept. Despite laying beside her on the bed, his arms curled around her, and eyes closed. Breathing steady and perfectly still, it was that stillness that made her think he'd been awake the entire time. He'd only stirred when the sun began lighting up the hotel room. She'd kept her eyes closed as he moved near-silently around the space, but she'd not been able to keep her breath from catching when he'd paused beside the bed and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. By the time she'd flicked her eyes open, the vampire had blurred from the room, and Lizzy had been left with a thundering heartbeat and a note on the bedside table letting her know he'd be back before lunch and to stay inside the hotel.

Share an excerpt that includes the words "space" or "universe."

Check the reblogs to read others’ responses!

If you’d rather make your own post, no problem!

Click here for more “share an excerpt” tips.

[rebornofstars]

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous.  Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it!  And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

i was tagged by @starwolfie! thank you!

my wiplist as of 30/8/24:

the cursebreaker

the primordials

strawberry

sing me to sleep

fruit bats (series)

lu hunger games au (series)

yestermorrow (name pending)

RIV DONT ASK ABOUT THIS ONE

stationary point

darkling i listen

out in the woods we rot

peter parker on reddit

200 hyoi pears

sepfember (yay!)

fan joy july (sadly i dont think it will ever be finished)

before the rain stops

cursebreaker!spirit

uhhhhh.... those are all my wips i guess..... hit me up if you wanna chat about them xx. i might have to be cryptic for some because of spoilers though... im gonna go grab some breakfast now and then get back to working on ch20 of cursebreaker hohohoho. love you guys 💞💞

and now for tagging time! the fun part! i can't remember who has already done this or not, so! no pressure to respond! @rosehipandroots @crazylittlejester @noorahqar @savimatteo2810 @jellyfishvibes @not-freyja @musical-chan @zarvasace @tashacee @a-manicured-lawn @artemistorm @serbii @nancyheart11 @across-violet-skies @needfantasticstories @elle-rosewater @anime-obsessed @hotcheetohatredwastaken .... if any of you are working on some juicy wips right now, please consider me SUPER interested 👀👀👀

[author-a-holmes]

Proud Of Tag Game

Thank you @oh-no-another-idea for the tag! (Here)

Tagging forward, with no pressure to; @kittensartswriting, @vesper-roux, @shellyscribbles, @charlesjosephwrites

@moonscribbler, @dyrewrites, @winglesswriter, and anyone else that wants to play, consider this an open tag <3

How to Play: Post a snippet you’ve written that you’re pleased by/proud of and tag some friends

Darkling Spoilers Beneath the Cut, proceed at your own risk <3

One eyebrow arched slowly, and Booker backed down almost immediately, running both hands through his messy hair. “You want to place a blade in my hand and teach me to kill,” Booker muttered, and Lizzy’s breath caught as the pieces began falling into place. “And I… I can’t even lie and say I want you to. I don’t.” “Booker?” Lizzy asked softly, waiting until he looked at her, before reaching out unsteadily to touch his mind. He let her in, but his emotions were almost overwhelming. The pain, the regret, the self-disgust over the way he’d ravaged Olwen’s mind. But there was more buried there. More than Booker’s natural dislike of fighting, or the fears she’d managed to pull from him when he could hide parts of himself in the shadows of the night. But this tremulous fear; this was about his parents.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Fate vs. Choice - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Jinx has a decision, and a deadline.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Six o’ clock. Late evening.

The Cathedral of Progress.

Lanterns burned in their iron-scrolled brackets; the shadows cut flayed patterns on the granite walls. In the nave, the acolytes chanted, cloaked and cowled. In their palms, the lit tapers cast long, lean shadows across the stone floors. Their voices were a mechanized hymn: harmonized down to the smallest atom vibrating in the air. There was no music riding the currents. Only silence, draping a veil of total stillness over the congregation. Perhaps even eternal damnation, to those who dared trespass.

Jinx didn't give a ripe toot about damnation. She'd already fallen from grace: the moment she'd set a wind-up monkey loose to rescue her family, and jinxed them instead. Her own jinx, since that fateful night, was an inevitability, and a long time coming.

Now, at nineteen, she was the living, breathing epitome of it.

The harsh sweetness of coffee cut through the chants. Jinx cracked an eyelid open; for one long giddy second, the world spun in a sickening circle.

Then it righted itself. Or Viktor did: a cool hand clasping hers.

“Wake up, Jinx.”

Her eyes fluttered open. She lay, starfished in an indolent sprawl, in sweetgrass that swayed as if under an invisible caress. The aroma of lilies was ascendant; twilight had deepened their perfume. The night-garden was tucked into the courtyard at the heart of the Cathedral, abutted by a small cemetery of granite.

Under the surreal refractions of a stained-glass dome, it was a wonderland: teeming with long-dead saints, and the perfumes of late-blooming flowers, all a-glow in holy light. Upon closer scrutiny, the holiness inverted into the uncanny. Every plant, aspirating beneath the multicolored rays, was revealed to hold an almost numerical symmetry: logarithmic spirals of orchids, geometrically-profound petunias, grid-patterns of clovers all fractaling in golden ratios.

As if every organism—from soil grain to leaf tip—had coalesced into life under the touch of a divine hand. Or a very obsessive mathematician.

Or—both.

Then there was the tree.

It was a prehistoric sycamore of darkling wood: five times the height of the average Piltovan oculus; three times as broad across. The branches fanned out into spokes as big as a ferris wheel. The ends of each spathe, splayed wildly under the skylight, erupted into iridescent blooms. They were nearly gem-like in their purity: their crystalline petals glowing in colors of multicolored amethyst, chrysoprase, quartz, topaz, ruby. The canopy spread over the entire garden; the roots curled deep into the bedrock.

By nightfall, it gave off an eerie luminescence: bathing the garden in an ephemeral glow. By daylight, it cast a rainbow halo across the grounds. Its fragrance changed constantly: one minute pungent as wormwood, the next citrusy as lemon zest, another woody as cardamomh. Insects swarmed about its roots; butterflies flocked its boughs. Some even swore they'd spotted faeries dancing in rings beneath its shadow.

The hallucinogenic effects were, by Viktor's accounts, an ur-example of magicoreality: an object, space, or phenomenon that is created through the combined imagination of multiple entities. It was real, because they believed it real. And vice versa.

Like a mobius strip blossoming into being.

Viktor's acolytes had transplanted the tree—roots to stem—from Singed subterranean laboratory. Something in the soil of the Cathedral's grounds nourished it with unique potency: the tree flourished where naysayers, Silco chief among them, predicted it would rot. By the first month, it'd become the centerpiece around which every botanical beauty revolved. By the sixth, it was the brilliant heart of a preternatural paradise: creepers, ferns, lilies, ivies, marigolds, all erupting in a palette of purest life.

By the tenth?

The tree was worshipped as an entity unto itself. It dominated the cultists' rhetoric; it haunted their reveries. It was rumored that Janna herself had breathed life into its veins, rescuing it from the brink of collapse. Pilgrims from the depths below, voyeurs from the heights above, arrived in droves to seek the sheltering boughs as if for the same restorative breath.

And under those twirling branches?

They were never the same again.

Formerly pallid patients were rumored to stagger from their sickbeds, sit beneath the blossoms in solemn ceremony, then unfold from their atavistic comas miraculously reborn. Like larvae metamorphosing into butterflies.

From devolution to evolution.

But though the tree restored a measure of life to its devotees, its own was an hourglass suspended between grains. The fruits hanging off its branches evoked a spectrum of incandescent sea-shells washed by whitecaps onto arid shores. They were entirely inedible; ash and air. And as soon as they fell, their shells fossilized: petrifying into stone-crusted facets within minutes of detachment, before dissolving into inert dust.

It was the tree's perpetual paradox: the promise of life, forever beyond reach. And death, ever-encroaching at its heels.

In its shadow, Viktor, the most devoted disciple of one, held court weekly with the most notorious apostate of the other.

"Wake up, Jinx."

Viktor's hand, freed from its tight leather glove, squeezed hers. His fingers, long and thin, held a delicate strength: there were calluses, velvety, at the tips, and a roughness along the heel. A scientist's hands, evolved into a healer's. Tonight, Jinx saw ink smudges on the knuckles. There was also a tiny nick, from wielding a scalpel during the evening's surgery on a young boy's ruptured appendix.

The boy was safe. Tucked into a cot at the infirmary, with the others under Viktor's care: each dosed with enough poppy-milk to see them through the night. The boy's mother, one of the dozen souls who'd flocked to the Cathedral seeking the Machine Herald's aid, had wept at her son's restoration, kissing the hem of Viktor's robe in a show of gratitude.

It was a scene that Jinx had witnessed, over and over again, during her visits. And it never failed to unsettle.

Devotion, undiluted, had that effect. Especially when it was devoid of desire.

Daily, scores of souls passed in and out of the Cathedral. Each brought with them a problem, a poison, a plea. Each, Viktor addressed in their turn: salving their sores, purging their pustules, and bestowing, with a steady hand and a soft voice, his personal brand of salvation.

He never charged for his chem-modifications. Even the most complex, which took months to design, were given for free.

His payment, his only payment, was everything.

From the start, he’d made plain that his services were offered on a strictly non-partisan basis, and would cease immediately should any faction in Zaun attempt to co-opt his work. Except that was a lie. Everyone knew, in Zaun's hierarchical honeycomb, Viktor had no love for politics. But he was fiercely political: his sacrifices, solely and exclusively, were for the elevation of Zaun's future.

It was his singular obsession: the evolution of the present into an age of transcendence, and the eradication of the past into obscurity.

Viktor hated the past. A past that’d left him broken, disfigured, discarded: an imperfect specimen, unworthy of survival.

The same past, which had yet forged him.

And Jinx, his muse and mirror, who'd been reborn in its bloodshed.

"Jinx," Viktor repeated. "Wake up."

His hand squeezed hers, then let go. A moment later, a metal cup was pressed into her grasp.

The warmth radiated; Jinx's flesh drank it up. The coffee gave off its curls of aromatic steam: a nutty blend of chicory root, black chocolate liqueur, and the sweet whiff of anise.

Diluted, as always, with sweetmilk.

Viktor, his own cup balanced precariously between two fingertips, reclined with an easy elegance in the grass. His staff lay within arm's reach: the undying habit of a boy whose mind is always five steps ahead, but whose body is forever falling behind. Everywhere, leather-bound books were scattered, some facedown with cracked spines, others bristling with raven's feathers that doubled as bookmarks. An inkwell glittered, half-empty, on a stack of maps scribbled with notes.

In this garden, Vitya was ever-studying, ever-searching. Never satisfied with the knowledge already in hand, and the miracles already in motion.

Something he and Jinx shared in common.

Reclining on elbow, Viktor sipped from his cup with the other hand. Then he plucked a notebook from the pile, stirred through its pages with a fingertip, and resumed writing with his cockatrice quill: a rapid series of symbols that, unfurling, imprinted themselves in a secret pocket of Jinx's brain, and the darkest recesses of her heart.

Destiny: charted beyond the stars.

Jinx sat up, knees tucked against her chest, and drank from her cup. The flavor was just as it should be: bitter chased by sweet, complexity balanced by simplicity.

Viktor's handwork: the paradox distilled into metaphor.

Just like the garden, where every blade of grass grew exactly the same height, and every flower, in its arrangement, was a repetition into infinity.

Sipping, Jinx's eyes flicked from bloom to bloom. Then, she noticed:

A single blossom out of place.

A lone iris, curling its way from between the tree's roots. It was sly as an intruder, bright as a fallen star.

The same hue as Powder's wishful blue eyes.

Jinx's lips curled. Tentatively, she reached out. Her fingers traced the blossoming petals. They were silky, smooth. Almost too flawless to be real.

"Is this place," she whispered, "alive?"

It was only half-joking. During each visit, she could never escape the sense that the garden—multiform, deviant—was suffused with a spiritual awareness sister to sentience. And the tree, gathering them both under its protective penumbra, was rooted right to the crux of Zaun's stony heart.

"Not exactly," Viktor replied, without looking up from his notes. "Not by our reckoning. More a kind of... meta-life."

"Meta-life?"

Viktor, dipping the quill in its inkwell, shrugged.

"This tree is but a reflection—an iteration—of something larger-than-life. Something of a piece with the city's vital flow. A conduit of sorts."

"Like, what? A portal?"

"Perhaps," he said, and absently rested a palm on his leg, the site of his first augments. "Or perhaps a lens. Something which reflects, refracts, magnifies. An imperfect metaphor."

"Serpent's tongue. Apple's flesh. Devil's promise."

"Precisely. A system of shorthand within which meaning can be imparted, and context given."

Jinx's eyes lingered on the flower: a star's winking light, buried under layers of soil.

"What's the point, though?" she wondered. "I mean, yeah, I get it: a symbol's powerful. But if you're trying to forget the past—"

"Forgetting is not the same as erasing," Viktor corrected, patiently. "And what good is a symbol, Jinx, if no one knows what it stands for?"

Double-edged question and double-pronged answer: classic Viktor.

Sighing, Jinx returned to her cup. The coffee, cooled, had lost its bite. She drained it anyway, then let the cup rest in her lap. Her eyes, half-lidded, took in her companion.

He was still garbed for his duties: a mauve linen robe with a high collar, its sleeves rolled up, the hem draping past his knees. It was a garment, once, meant to conceal. Now, it served a purpose quite the opposite. Its folds bared the armature that held Viktor together: once emaciated, now elegantly streamlined beneath a segmented exoskeleton of synth-plates. His bad leg, encased in gleaming obsidian augments, now held the flexile precision of muscle, and the springing strength of a steel cable.

The fusion was seamless: the stuff of futuristic fairytale. When he moved, it was with an almost regal glide. As if, somewhere in the gaunt structure of Viktor's frame, there was an ancient drop of royalty, finally emerging from its hardscrabble shell in a blend of princely asceticism and common-born resilience.

Under the tree's canopy, Viktor's pallor was offset by his deep-hued robes. The effect wasn't peaky so much as pearlescent. His untidy curls tumbled freshly-glossed along his shoulders: the barest delineations of a beard teased the contours of his jawline. The sum total was neither masculine nor feminine. Only androgynous; ethereal.

Transcendent as stardust.

The rim's of Jinx's eyes burned. Why was it that even at their closest, Viktor seemed as if he was dissolving into astral orbit, a beautiful moon drifting farther from reach?

And why did Jinx feel herself hurtling on an opposing trajectory: crashing to earth with fatal velocity?

The wind, still unseen, sawed gently through the tree's branches. Its blossoms whispered: the susurration of silk sheets, or a lover's sigh. Jinx found it fitting that, though the Cathedral of Progress was, technically, the building's newly-christened designation, ordinary Fissurefolk referred to it, unofficially, by a different epithet.

The Resurrection Root. The Everbloom. The Glass Garden.

And the most popular—

Der Wunschbaum.

Ur-Nox for Wishing Tree.

Except Ur-Nox was a double-edged sword. It was the language of the ancients; Mages and Guardians who'd lived in the time before Zaun had ever been. Their language, therefore, was the language of enchantment: one half lofty, the other half sinister. Wish, for instance, was rooted in the word Wunschet: to want. To desire beyond the bounds of reality.

But it was also rooted in Wählen: to choose.

A wish could be a heart's deepest desire unlocked. Or it could be a will to power: to take what you want, no matter the cost.

And me? Jinx wondered. What do I want?

And what will I give to seize it—or throw it away?

At her silence, Viktor stopped scribbling. His eyes, deep-gold, met hers.

"All right, Jinx?"

"Y-Yeah."

"You should wake up."

"Don't wanna."

"No?" Scritch-scritch went the pen, runes blossoming in its wake. Distantly, Jinx heard the acolytes singing, a ghostly engine of harmony. And—could it be?—Sparky's yips, cutting through the choir: a dissonant counterpoint. The greedy mutt, somewhere, was begging for treats. "If you do not wake, how will your Name Day be celebrated?"

"Multitasking's a thing. I've always been a pro."

"You are terrible at multitasking."

"Am not!"

"You fell asleep during the surgery."

"You told me not to interrupt. So I closed my eyes. But I was listening. I always listen."

"You were drooling." And, closing the notebook with the coordinates plotted inside, he set it down. In a single graceful movement, he'd shifted closer. Close enough to touch his thumb against the corner of her lips, where a grin had stolen in. Viktor's own lips, palely-parted, were a few inches away. "You look like a child when you sleep. Peaceful. It is... rare."

"I was havin' a sweet dream."

"Oh? Tell me."

"A night full of stars. Wishes a-popping like fishes. And a beautiful boy." Her voice, at half-octave, came breathless. Always, his proximity did that to her: an unravelling of everything she held dear about herself. Like deja vu—except more desolate. Dying, when you longed to be reborn. "Except he won't wish me a Happy Name Day. He won't even gimme a kiss."

At that, Viktor smiled: a slow, secret curl that was yet the saddest expression in the world.

"Perhaps," he murmured, "he is a fool."

"Yeah?"

"And a coward." The thumb, tracing the full jut of her bottom-lip, was cool as snowfall, and as chaste. "Because he knows, deep in his heart, that you are still a child. The child he sees when you sleep. And because, despite whatever tradition or legality declares, you are not yet a woman. Certainly, not the woman who, once she comes into herself, will outrace him, and his grand designs, and fly off on wings of stardust."

"You talkin' about Silco?" Jinx quipped. "'Cause, no offense, but he's no competition. I can outrun that fossil anytime."

The levity fell flat. Viktor's golden eyes, augmented to their depths, lost their imperceptible luster. A moment later, his hand retreated, as if it'd never been.

"I know," he said, "that this is only an interlude."

"You think so?" Jinx, impulsively, caught the hem of his sleeve. "Pretty harsh frame to put 'round forever."

"Forever means little in a cosmos of infinite permutations."

"Not so long as we're still us, right?"

"A conundrum in itself." He didn't withdraw, exactly. Only laid his fingertips over hers, knotted into his sleeve. "Are our mirrored selves—in the physical, in the quantum—so very different at their crux? Is one less worthy, less agentic, than the other? Or are they simply two sides of the same coin, flipped endlessly, until the universe collapses on itself."

"Yikes. Talk about buzzkill."

"I am not a man for platitudes, Jinx." The smile, sadder, stayed on the surface. "Not will I feed you falsehoods, in hopes that the future may hold more than the present."

"So you say."

"So I mean." And, surprising her, he caught her hand in both his own: a tender clasp. "We've pledged our spirits as one. We've plotted our course. Escape velocity is inevitable. But the path ahead will not be easy. Not for either of us. If anything, it will be harder, given what we must renounce to see the destination through. And I—I cannot be sure—"

A crack in his faultless equilibrium. In turn, Jinx felt her own fragile serenity evaporate.

"Sure of what, Viktor?" she said, with quiet ferocity. "That I'll change my mind halfway? Chicken out before the starting gun goes off? Let Silco dictate my choices, like I've always done?"

"No, Jinx, no."

He shook his head; the curls danced, a ribboning cascade of cornsilk. There were silver streaks beginning to thread at the temples. Thirty-three, and a full-grown man where Ekko was still shedding the last vestiges of boyhood. But moments like this, it struck Jinx that Viktor was, at his core, even younger than Ekko. Two orphans prematurely thrust into roles before their time: the savior leading his flock to the promised land, and the savant saving souls that the world would sooner crush underfoot.

But both, in their hearts, still children. Still seeing Jinx, and what she'd become. But never, ever seeing her for who she was: the girl, not the legend.

The woman, not the jinx.

"Never that, Jinx," Viktor said. "Never would I think so little of you."

"...But?"

"It's been difficult, these past months, for us to speak frankly."

"Vitya," Jinx said, a touch exasperated. "We're speaking now. Aren't we?"

"We are." A squeeze, gentle, on her fingers. "At risk on both ends. But I have never once doubted your commitment. Your passion far exceeds mine; far exceeds whatever designs I may conjure. The world will be a better place, with you striving to make it so. My only fear is that, if you choose this path, yours will be the lonelier one."

"Lonely, how?" The ghost-prick of tears. "We're bonded, aren't we? Even if it's not what either of us planned—"

"A bond that can never be consummated. Never, in any sense, bear fruit." His grip tightened; yet the timbre of his voice held no rebuke. Only truth. "I am a creature born of disappointment, Jinx. Faulty in form and function. Unfit for any world except the one I will create, and even that shall be a long time coming. Yet, in the Void, you gave me a glimpse of paradise, and it was... indescribable. All I will ever want."

"And?" Her lip quivered, but held. A child, he'd called her, and yet her voice was steel. "Wasn't it enough? Wasn't I—?"

"You? Not enough? My dearest." Even though his sigh was bittersweet, a mote of passion shot through: the same passion that'd flowed, so effortlessly, between them in the otherworld. The same passion that now translated itself—sublimated and yet quartered—into the gentle dexterity of his hands on a circuitboard fused to a sobbing boy's flesh, and the consoling caress afterward as the boy's mother, sobbing too, laid a kiss of gratitude upon her savior's robe. "You are the only star in a universe without light. But because you are, you are far too much. For anyone's good. Least of all mine."

The tears, against Jinx's will, spilled free.

"So I was a mistake?"

"Yes. And no"

"How?"

"You were a miracle," Viktor said, and his smile, in its sadness, was radiant. "And a miracle is a gift bestowed by Fate. Without factors such as deservingness, or suitability, or even equity, thrown into the equation. A miracle, simply, is. As you, Jinx, always are. I know you've made your peace with our bond. You've acclimated yourself to it, the same as I have. But if we commit—truly commit—to the path ahead, we must renounce the rest, in every way. And Jinx... I cannot, in good faith, ask that of you. Not when I know what you stand to lose. Not when I know all the ways you need, and deserve, to be loved."

The tears kept falling. Jinx made no effort to stop them. The garden, with its Wishing Tree, was a time-out from pretense. Not sanctuary, but as close as Zaun's chaotic confines allowed. The other one—the Wishing Wagon, in civilization's shadowed cul-de-sac—was her true refuge. But that was a different her, with a different future.

A girl who'd yet to realize her greatest wish. A woman who, at the crossroad's fork, could take a chance.

She'd never told Viktor about the Wishing Wagon. Same way she'd never told Ekko about the Wishing Tree. Both were secrets within secrets: mirrored halves of a fractured whole.

And Jinx, at the liminal space in between, wondering: What's it mean?

What did it mean that one man had her soul at knifepoint, but another was holding her heart hostage? What did it say that she and Viktor fit together just right, but she and Ekko were built from perfectly mismatched puzzle pieces? What did it matter if she needed them both, but in ways so opposite they might as well be a different language?

How could she make the ends meet?

Especially when her life—her death—still hung on Silco's strings?

And her past—her future—still hinged on Vi's?

"Maybe," she said, and caught her lip in her teeth, "that's the point."

"Oh?"

"Maybe... the glimpse of paradise was all it was. A glimpse. The rest's about struggling to make it happen. Because it's the only way. Because choice is nothing but fate with a kick."

"Jinx, no."

"Why not? It makes sense. In a twisted sorta way." Her eyes, smarting-wet, blinked hard. "Fate's not a pretty delivery-gal on the front step with a package. He's a blind old pirate, throwing darts at a map and laughing as they land. Doesn't matter who gets skewered. Once that bullseye hits, it hits. And you're on the hook. No takebacks." Her other hand, lifting, aligned itself with Viktor's jaw: stubble yielding velvety beneath her palm. "We were always gonna be on the hook, Vik. At least, in the Void, I saw where we’re headed. What, in the end, we could become. And sure, the path's not a fairytale. But if we don't take it, the rest'll be fucked. And blind old fate'll be laughing his ass off, watching us sink under the waves."

"Perhaps," Viktor said, and leaned into her touch. But the smile, always, stayed sad. "But Jinx?"

"Yeah?"

"Fate is not the same as choice." Turning his head, he laid a kiss, pure as a snowflake, in the heart of her palm. "Even the cosmos, no matter its dictates, allows breathing-room for free will. I have mine, and I know what they will cost. Now, and in every incarnation. But you, Jinx: you are still so young. Your wishes, the ones that matter, have yet to be made. And once they are lost, you will not have the chance to reclaim them."

"Because I'm a child, right?" The anger, a flashfire that filled her to the seams, in this garden only left her aching. "Too dumb to know what I want. Too naive to make the tough call."

All at once, Viktor closed the gap.

Silently, he swept Jinx into an embrace: a cradle and a coffin holding both living and dead in sacred embrace. His arms made a crossbones at her shoulderblades; his breath stirred the top of her scalp. They were both clothed, but Jinx felt her heartbeat resonating through their ribcages, keeping time with the rhythmic dirge of the Cathedral's chants, and the Old Hungry's distant chimes

Reality and dream: melded into one.

Somewhere, Sparky was pawing at Jinx's slumbering shape in search of belly-rubs. Behind her eyelids, neon bled through. She heard fireworks; smelled engine-grease. Felt an odd pressure on her spine that had nothing to do with Viktor's cool fingertips tracing its curve, and everything to do with being bound, on a visceral level, beyond this communion they both shared.

"Fate," Viktor breathed, and his lips, against her temple, imparted prophecy, "will always come due. But choice? That, my dearest Jinx, is an arrow aimed straight for the heart. And to deny it: that is an error far graver than anything science, or the cosmos, could dole out." He kissed her forehead: the sweetest absolution. "Your choice must be yours. Do not allow a hand, no matter how divine, to dictate it."

Jinx, closing her eyes, lay her cheek to his chest.

"Not even yours?" she whispered, as the tears stopped falling.

"My hand, like my heart, will belong with you, Jinx. Even if you choose another path."

"Mirror, mirror on the wall."

"In every iteration," Viktor murmured, a tender withdrawal, "of this cosmic joke. An imperfect metaphor. Do you understand?"

"I do," Jinx lied, and lifted her face. "Kiss me?"

"This is not a space for secrets, Jinx."

"Then it's a perfect place, ain't it? 'Cause I won't have any left, after tonight."

"You will," Viktor said, and his thumbs smoothed the fading tear-tracks from her cheeks. "You do. We all carry secrets within ourselves. But to hide one, here, is to desecrate the very vow we must keep. And to deny our truth—any of our truths—is the greatest dishonor to the other. Do you understand?"

Foreboding rippled over Jinx's skin. The garden, the tree, the chants: all the beautiful trappings of ephemera, slipping like sand through the hourglass.

"Viktor." She caught his hand in hers, holding it fast. "Please."

"I'll see you tonight, Jinx."

"Don't—don't go—"

"Tonight. When you make your choice. Whatever that choice may be."

"But—"

"Wake up now."

The hourglass, upended. The Cathedral, the garden, the embrace, dissolving. All the dreamscape and its dazzling details, blotting out.

"Viktor!" Jinx cried. "Viktor!"

"Happy Name Day, Jinx," he said, and the ghost-imprint of his kiss died before it met her mouth. "I will kiss you, truly, tonight."

The ceiling spun above: a galaxy's worth of stars, winking out. Her hands, searching, found nothing.

Nothing but the blue iris, unfurling at the tip of a finger.

And Viktor's voice, deep as midnight.

"Make a wish."

The last winking star: her own.

[bbkissme99]

Book fic recs

The Empyrean:

𝖿іrs𝗍 𝗍іmᥱ | 𝖿᥆ᥙr𝗍һ ᥕіᥒg һᥴ

The Lost Sister - Part 5

Fourth Wing Men HCs: nicknames for him Includes: Bodhi Durran, Garrick Tavis

under the weather

Love Languages

ᥒᥱᥱძіᥒᥱss

sᥕᥱᥱ𝗍 ⍴ᥱr𝖿ᥙmᥱ

excuses, excuses

Good mornings with the Marked Ones:

A couple in bed settling in for evening: Goodnight Dear

Being in a secret relationship with the Iron Flame characters

Good mornings with the Marked Ones:

A couple in bed settling in for evening: Goodnight Dear

Bedtime

Accidental/Unplanned Pregnancy

The Fourth Wing Boys and their Reactions to you being Pregnant

Being Xaden's little sister would include...

Garrick x reader

Silent worry

all the small things - g.t.

Dragon weeks

Scream it why don't you

His girl

���ᥲ𝗍іᥒg gᥲrrіᥴk 𝗍ᥲ᥎іs

sᥒᥙggᥣᥱ ᑲᥙg

We're in this together

something smutty for garrick

some smut with garrick

ძ᥆mіᥒᥲᥒ𝗍

Garrick Tavis Head Cannons

Cupid

Just One Date

all the small things - g.t.

Is That Blood? - Garrick Tavis

Black Dahlia Masterlist

The Lost Sister Masterlist (completed series)

Drown in Me

Bodhi x reader

Interruptions

ძᥲ𝗍іᥒg ᑲ᥆ძһі ძᥙrrᥲᥒ

Worries

Not giving up on us

by your side - b.d.

Five More Minutes |

Angel eyes

where were you in the morning? - b.d.

Stay Still | B. Durran |

Love Letters

Breaks and Bruises

Between Battles and Breaths

Shit at Feelings iv

intimacy alphabet - b.d.

Until the end and beyond //

Breaking Point

Worst Kept Secret

Priority

Dain x reader

ᥴᥲᥙgһ𝗍 іᥒ 𝗍һᥱ ᥲᥴ𝗍

Ridoc x Reader

not joking

Dress

Brennan x Reader

Brennan Sorrengail Cuddle Head Canons

Bruises

Can We Not

Didn’t go as planned

an unexpected visitor

Secret Relationship

FORGED UNDER FIRE

TOG

Aelin x Rowan

Detours to You - Masterlist

Dorian x reader

Dating Dorian Havilliard would include-

dating modern!dorian would include…

Pairings: Professor!Lorcan x f!student!reader

Crescent City

Ruhn Danaan x Reader

Dating Ruhn Danaan Headcanons

Like I Do

Family Time

Acotar

Masterlist

Eris

Peace Summary: A look into a normal day in the new Vanserra household

One Last Night

𝐸𝓇𝒾𝓈 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Juice Stains : A day alone with the babe. What could go wrong?

You aren’t fully comfortable with your post baby body and Eris is not having it.

𝐦𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐦, 𝐦𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐞n: Eris x rhysand daughter reader where they're mates, but in a secret relationship

vanserra males headcanons

Solace

This is a small Eris Vanserra x Reader snippet. You and Eris are in his study.

Nyx

Of Wings and Secrecy

Don't Touch // Nyx (ACoTaR) x Fem!Reader

ambushes and invitations

misplaced chivalry 

Power Over Me

When Night Bloomed

☽ cold starlights

KINGDOM OF THE FEARED SPOILERS!! Barnes and Noble bonus chapter pt. 1

Darkling x Reader

YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE

[author-a-holmes]

I also do this when I'm handwriting :D

But for another one, I will leave myself formatting marks within the text.

So I write in program A, and then I have to copy my work to Program B for my editor, and then it gets copied into program C for formatting.

At each stage of copy/paste I lose all my formatting so all the italics and bold get stripped out, and if I have something centered for whatever reason, basically it all becomes basic text.

So to save myself time comparing the original document to find all the formatted parts, and risk missing a section, I'll leave formatting marks within the text. I'll always leave the mark at the END of the sentence or word that needs to be formatted in that way.

[i] denotes italics

[b] for bold

[verse] for something I need centered, like a song or a piece of poetry.

So a piece of text might read:

"He needs your help,"[i] her mother had said the first time Booker spat sharp, bitter words at her.

And I'll know it needs to become:

"He needs your help," her mother had said the first time Booker spat sharp, bitter words at her.

I've not needed any other marks so far, but the same principle applies.

What is everyone’s hyper specific writing quirk? I’ll go first. When I’m handwriting I use cursive to represent italics.

[jazzythursday]

Omg what’s sun summoner Jesper!?! 😱

Hi! I’m so glad you asked!

Sun summoner Jesper is a wip I started on a whim a while back. It follows show canon for sab but with Jesper in Alina’s place and Wylan in Mal’s (but with a lot of mixing and matching, i.e., Wylan is a cartographer and Jesper is a soldier, etc.) what I have so far is mostly based on the first 15 minutes of s1e1. Kaz and Inej also make appearances as Jesper’s friends and fellow soldiers (though I have Kaz as more of a strategist and assistant to Per Haskell, who in this is the lieutenant)

I want to tackle at least one other au before I dive into this one (probably my Rapunzel au) because if never written a long plot-driven fic, but I do definitely want to return to it eventually. There’s a lot still up in the air story-wise—I don’t know how Nina and Matthias will play into it, who the Darkling is, or if I’m going to use other characters to swap roles with the crows. I do know that it will span, at the very least, the plot of season 1 and probably a lot of season 2… and also that Kuwei is going to be Zoya.

You didn’t ask for a snippet, but I can’t really help myself, so here’s a decent chunk that takes place towards the beginning of chapter 1:

“Bit quick on the draw there,” Kaz chastens, as Jesper finishes re-loading the barrel of his rifle and pointing it at the target once more. He fires off a quick shot, one that lands directly between the eyes of the target dummie’s head. He follows it up with a second hit to the same spot, just to prove a point. Jesper cocks his head to the side, raises an eyebrow to match Kaz’s own arch look.

“You were saying?”

Unimpressed as ever, Kaz returns to his tent. That he expects Jesper to follow is just a given, one that he doesn’t bother with the directive for. He sits at his desk—a makeshift bureau of used crates and an old door strapped to the top—he finishes counting off his share of their earnings and passes the rest to Jesper.

“Don’t get cocky,” he says, continuing their conversation from before, “and don’t”—he points a judgemental, solitary finger at Jesper—“get fancy. I don’t need the other soldiers getting jealous enough to want to take you down a peg or two because of flash. Someone will get the bright idea to tell Haskell.”

“Aw, you think they’re jealous?” Jesper bats his eyes and pretends to swoon. “Of little ol’ me? Re-ally? Who? Tell me. Tell-me-tell-me-tell-me—”

“Bolinger looked like he’d rather use you for target practice more than that dummy after today.”

“Aw Kaz, are you worried? I never knew you cared.”

Kaz looks at him. If looks could kill, Jesper thinks, knowing Kaz Brekker would have killed him a thousand times over by now.

“Not just Bolinger. Keeg looked about ready to stage a mutiny.”

“Keeg’s a sore loser, that’s nothing new. It isn’t my fault he bet on the poor shot.”

“Would you just stop for—Hello Inej.”

Jesper blinks. “What?”

“Kaz is right,” says Inej, standing right next to them, and Jesper jumps.

“Fucking Saints!” he pants, hand over his chest to feel his racing heartbeat. “Warn the guy with the gun, people!” He lifts up his rifle and shakes it a bit for effect. “Gun, weapon”—he gestures to the rifle, then points to himself—“me, Jesper. What is confusing here?”

Kaz rolls his eyes and Inej smiles fondly at them both.

“What news?” Kaz asks her, their standard greeting.

“Nothing you don’t already know. Bolliger is whinging about Jes thrashing him in the match.”

Jesper can just feel Kaz’s eyes on him. There goes another life. “What else?” he asks, instead of giving Kaz the satisfaction of looking back.

“That’s everything. Oh”—her eyes widen—“and they just brought in a new caravan. Cartographers, from what I’ve heard. They're combining them with our unit to go south.”

Jasper starts walking straight out of the tent. He slings his rifle over his shoulder, tucking the prize winnings away, deep into his pocket. He doesn’t give his friends an explanation—he doesn’t have time to—he’s already striding across camp. Moving purposefully towards where he knows any new caravans full of cartographers would have been parked.

Cartographers, Jesper thinks, trying and failing to tamp down on the fluttery hope rising within him. Cartographers could mean—

“Jes!”

Jesper stops dead in his tracks. There's a swarm of butterflies made up of half hope and half fear flapping up his spine. He turns, and is met with familiar wild auburn curls and wide, crystalline blue eyes.

Jesper might not be special, but right now, he’s feeling pretty fucking lucky.

“Wylan!”

They run—literally run—to meet each other's outstretched arms, crashing and holding onto each other tightly.

“Wy,” Jesper whispers. He closes his eyes and rests his head on top of Wylan’s, soft curls pillowing his cheek. Wylan melts into him, head buried in Jesper’s large coat, hugging him even tighter.

Wylan looks up, but doesn’t try to put any further space between them in the slightest. He grins. “Jesper.”

It’s a good look on him, Jesper thinks. Smiling. It makes the freckles dotted all across the bridge of his nose to his cheeks crinkle up like clusters of stars. It makes his eyes look like precious gems. Like solid cut sapphire.

Thanks for playing!

[ellewritesalright]

A/N: Hi everyone!! I have been writing recently and I figured I'd share a snippet from part 8 of Nine Long Years!

NLY can be found here on my Masterlist :)

..........

The maids had gotten used to seeing Nikolai slip into your room at night or vice versa. Your rooms were a whole wing apart, yet you never slept alone. After all you'd been through, there was no reason to sleep alone ever again.

If he came into your room and saw you studying royal histories or reading construction reports, he would wrap his arms around you and ask you to read to him. It reminded you of how you two fell in love, and certainly you felt yourself falling in love again and again each day with him.

Tonight you had slipped into his room. A short scan of the space informed you he was tucked away in the bathroom. His head was tilted back against the porcelain of the bathtub, his arms resting on the sides. But when he opened his eyes and saw you in the doorway his hands dipped under the water, cutting off the black scars the Darkling left on him.

"Hey you," he smiled. His voice was tired.

"Hey you," you said, stepping inside.

"You're early tonight," he remarked. "I usually can't expect you until it's only stars and moon in the sky."

"Well, Ms Garevsky didn't need me for long this evening, she just wanted my thoughts on a few things for the upcoming state dinner, and I finished my readings and letters this afternoon, so here I am."

You knelt down beside the tub, face to face with Nikolai. You put a palm to his rosy cheek.

"What's on your mind, my love?" You asked.

"That I am the most fortunate man to live because of you."

"Nikolai," you said with a soft sigh as your thumb traced his cheek. "You look tired. What is it?"

He shook his head, offering a soft smile that you could see right through. "Darling, there's nothing."

"Please, Nik… just tell me."

His eyes dropped from yours, fixating instead on a drop of water on the edge of the tub.

"I figured we were done with any secrets," you murmured. His eyes snapped back up to yours.

"It's not a–" he cut off what sounded like it would be a paltry defense. "You're right. I haven't been entirely honest."

..........

[author-a-holmes]

"To when the Court left you grieving alone."

@faelanvance @acertainmoshke @duckingwriting @elliottsbigstrongboyarms @authoralexharvey @world-of-fire-and-flight-admin @tyne-sharrow @mr-writes

Thank you for the tag @regalserpent !!

Post the last sentence you wrote (fanfic / original / anything) and tag as many people as there are words in the sentence

This is from The Sea is in Her Blood:

She felt her dispassionate façade crumble. “What?”

Tagging (with no pressure): @groundhog-day-party , @elrallin , @author-a-holmes , @eriquin , @amewinterswriting , @clairelsonao3 , @sender-paulson

[deputyrook]

WIP Folder Tag Game

I was tagged by a trio of incredibly talented writers: @bottomthor @darethshirl and @ex0rin ♥️ very flattered to have been tagged by you guys~

sorry I didn’t send you guys any asks sooner, because I JUST realized this is an ask game and not just a "talk about your projects" post game. local writer can’t read.

rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous and tag as many people as you have WIPs. People send an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then you post a snippet or tell them something about it!

Tagging: @gastlygallows, @soupandsorcery @housederiva, @glitteringdust @the-darklings @harkamel @wishforhome @ode-to-fury only if you want to! :]

—

Immaculate Conception V3

Greedfall

Heinrix

pythium stuff

pythium.docx

elgar'noncon........TWO!!!

ROOKIAGI? VIAROOK?

silly vampire romance book

[ fair warning, some of these are either barely started or really need to be reworked- I tend to write in sprints, so either the WIPs are decently long or they don't stay WIPS!]

[mama-qwerty]

The Big List of Qwerty Writing

This combines both my Snippets and Shorties lists, and separates them by category. So if you have a bigger interest in Eclipse stories, or Knuckles angst, it'll be easy to find what you're looking for. (The categories are in alphabetical order.)

Updated 2-26-24

~~~~~

Callie Stuff

A Bad Idea Made Better - (kind of a Knucklesverse piece) New Beginnings - gift for @doomfox - some Callie x Wade Dress to Impress An Evening Yule Remember - some Callie x Wade for ya Chaotix Babysit Badly Base Instincts Shopping with Silver Meeting Robotnik Meeting Sonic Two Dorks Fail at Flirting - check out the comic @katlyntheartist drew for this snippet, it's so goood! Chaotix & Callie The Reluctant Tutor

~~~

Darkling Wade

Feral Days - a preview of a larger story I have in mind but may never get to What's Right In Front Of You At the Lake The Hiss Instincts Qwertyverse Edition Darkling Wade and Callie - this version's based on @stillafanofsonic and @doomfox original Darkling Wade universe

~~~

Eclipse Shenanigans

Guitar Amp Being Godly Bad Memories Eclipse vs Broccoli Minecraft Eclipse and the Post Little and Broken Eclipse Goes Shopping Eclipse Goes Shopping pt 2 Eclipse's Splinter Eclipse in Springtime Eclipse and Dorothy Eclipse and Snow Eclipse's Stuff Eclipse's Favorite Color Eclipse Does Good Eclipse Loses Eclipse Loses pt 2 The Rock The Spat Eclipse vs Lobsters Eclipse Throws Up Eclipse and the Litter Boxes Wade and Eclipse's Pounce Game Mom Said No Eclipse's First Check-Up Eclipse Totally Isn't Cuddling Back Scratch Daddy Eclipse The Truth About the Child Leash

~~~

Knuckles Angst

Corruption Overload The Last Time - inspired by a drawing by @spoiledskullz Possessed Knuckles - inspired by a comic by @knuckie-head Birth of Power - inspired by a post by @movie-robotnik-positivity Soft Comfort Blind Stare Surprise Save The First Loss - inspired by a post by @aphantimes Tainted Energy - inspired by a comic by @guardian-of-da-gay Tainted Energy pt 2 Drained Chaos Knuckles and Child

~~~

Knucklesverse (some links will take you to the @the-knucklesverse blog)

Dark Deception Deep Thoughts A Brush of Comfort Seeking Council Stronger Together Dressing Up The Standoff Same Difference Playing a Round You're Not Me Unintentional Insult The Bonkening A Dark Discussion Callie's Arrival Little Z's Arrival Alone Together

~~~

Misc Pieces

Weird Company - a gift for @anartistwhowrites The Curious Case of Miles Prower - inspired by the art of @dakt37 for a de-aged Tails Lost and Found

~~~

Shadow Bits

After Treatments The Bite Hide the Hog Meeting Shadow

~~~

Wachowski Boys

Knuckles' Pumpkin - inspired by a drawing by @katlyntheartist Wachowski Halloween Poking and Protection - commission for @biconic-disaster25 Tom and Tails Bonding Sneaking In - inspired by art by @quazart Drone Home Sonic Babysits Sonic's 1st Birthday Mom's Done

[goblins-riddles-or-frocks]

Can I ask about the spoils of war ficlet??

WIP Game

It says "ficlet" but it will probably be another 10k by the end of it! It's basically just going to be a direct sequel, and I may post it as just a second chapter? Uncertain. Anyway yeah the concept of the status quo after the end of that fic, and how things would inevitably get much more complicated when Alina does get pregnant were just too interesting! Also I don't usually love writing pregnancy or kidfic so I wanted to take that up as a challenge basically

Here's a snippet:

It’s still afternoon when an army of maids led by Genya are sent up to begin the hours long process of readying her. The grimness is too like that other time as she is bathed again, scrubbed raw, and massaged with scented oils. Her hair is perfumed, and set into curls, while Genya brightens and clears her red rimmed eyes, the dark circles, and how she’s bitten her lips raw. She is darkening her lashes with antimony when the Darkling sees fit to visit them again.  There is again that fearful pause among the maids. Genya glances between them and says finally, “I will be back in a moment.” Alina sits at her vanity in her dressing gown. She is staring at the little pot of antimony left behind. But out of the corner of her eye, she can see his reflection growing closer in the mirror.  The Darkling rests his hands on her shoulders. There is no greeting. “You know why it’s important that there be no complications today.” She lifts her gaze to meet his in the mirror. He didn’t ask a question so she doesn’t respond.  “Do you mean to comply or must we deal in threats again?” “Do you have any new threats?” Nikolai chimes in, still abed. Unlike her, he does not require a small army to dress for the wedding, nor hours to do it.  The Darkling’s gaze flickers his way. A muscle in his jaw feathers. “I see you’ve recovered.” He counts off on his fingers. “Killing loved ones, or other innocent people, committing war crimes. threatening grievous bodily harm. I think we have those memorized, yes? Frankly they’ve been run into the ground.” “And yet you’re so forgetful.” Nikolai says something else in response, something pithy and flippant, but she doesn’t hear it. She is thinking idly, longingly, of sending the Cut through the crowd at her wedding. Of tearing the building itself down. She’d cracked the Little Palace dome before, nearly on accident. She could bring the chapel down, or the Grand Palace itself  easily. She pictures the rubble. How the grounds would look, completely leveled.  “What do you say, Alina?” She startles, her eyes finding the Darkling’s in the mirror again. She isn’t sure where the conversation has gone, but it doesn’t really matter. “I won’t try anything,” she says tonelessly.  He studies her reflection. There can’t be much to see. Her own expressionless face looks like a mask to her.  Finally, he leans down to kiss her temple. “Good. Don’t test me.” Her hands clench in her lap, nails digging into her palms. She watches him turn away, moving towards the door.  “I don’t get a parting kiss?” Nikolai drawls after him.  The Darkling arches a brow, but he strides across the room, to where Nikolai lounges in perfect dishevelment. Silently, he twists his hand in that golden hair and kisses him hard.  She watches them.  “Is that sufficient, moi Tsar?” Nikolai’s answering smile is a baring of teeth.