#i cannot tell you how many different angles i drew this at before settling on this one

[starlight-eclipsed]

“I’m here to ruin whatever stupid quest you have your heroes on. So don’t bother with the tricks, your holiness. Just kill me and be done with it.”

Top ten activities to do when waking up after a near death experience: number 3 might surprise you! (Brought to you by the fic A Dark Among the Lights by LuckyLectio on AO3.

[ayellowcurtain]

a story where Robbe and Sander are a couple but they have hidden because Sander's parents are homophobic, so only the Broers know that they are both together, so Sander in front of everyone has a relationship with Britt, just to make happy to his parents. But with the passage of time, Robbe can no longer bear when he learns from the girls that Britt and Sander have sex. So he decides to ignore Sander and end his relationship. Sander falls, he cannot bear to be without Robbe so he decides to win back his love, but it is difficult since Robbe does not want to know anything about him. So months later, after leaving the closet with his family, finishing up with Britt and risking his death for Robbe, they are together again. 

could I give you prompt about Sander who accept a bet with his friends to win Robbe's heart and be his bf, along the way Sander is head over heels to Robbe but some times later Robbe found out about the bet

Part 2

Sander sits on the bench he grew attached to for the past few months. He puts his bag right next to him and grabs his sketchpad and his favorite pen. This sketchpad is almost full, he needs to maybe stop at the art supply store and search for a new one.

This is the best part of his days and Sander keeps repeating that to himself, while seeing Robbe’s face over and over again with every single page, all of them filled with Robbe’s face, his hands, his soft eyes, his hair. Sander is almost sure he covered every angle possible.

He uses this as a therapy. Extra sessions. It helps to draw him, to remember how he looks, how small and sparkly his eyes get when he smiles. Sander enjoys the time he spends drawing every line slowly.

He sighs, moving on to finding a new page. It’s easy like breathing, his memory picks a favorite moment for the day and Sander is already drawing, confident that he’ll be able to finish in time. He gets so carried away, working on some details that he only notices how much time has passed when a heavy hand rests on his shoulder.

“This is getting tiring,” Jens complains, offering his hand and Sander sighs, looking at what he made. It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do. He rips the page from his sketchpad and carefully folds it in half, giving it to Jens.

“You think it’s working?” Jens shrugs, putting it inside his pocket, looking across the street, no sign of Robbe.

“He likes you.” He says like Sander doesn’t know that. Robbe likes him. For once, Sander was with someone he was madly in love with. He wasn’t just settling with someone. He knew Robbe loved him and Sander loves him so much it’s scary. And when Robbe needed him to stand up for them, he didn’t. Robbe found out things with Britt weren’t that fake for her instead.

“But he’s really hurt. I’m sure he’ll punch me any time now when I give him another one of your drawings.”

Sander puts his things back inside his bag, closing it and getting up, standing next to Jens, watching the school gate. “I can try to talk to him.”

“No, it’s okay. I think it’s best if you keep your distance.” They keep looking at each other, diggesting the information that it’s still too soon, almost four months after the break up, not really knowing what to say to each other.

Jens is Robbe’s best friend since they were little. They have their ups and downs too so Sander should take his word for it because if there’s someone that knows when Robbe is angry, it’s Jens. But it’s been months. Sander is starting to think it’s really over. And he can’t stand the idea.

So he comes here, sits across the street from Robbe’s school and draws something for him. Jens comes, grabs the drawing and makes sure it gets to Robbe’s hands. The firs time he came, Robbe looked around and found him and Sander knew it would take a lot more than a drawing. He tried talking to Robbe that day, but he wouldn’t listen.

After that, Sander took a step back. He tried calling, texting, but Robbe ignored him every time. He didn’t even read the messages.

Not until a few days ago, late at night. Sander was wide awake at two in the morning and he was staring at his texts unanswered, thinking if he should try again. It had been a few weeks since the last time he tried, and then Robbe’s icon showed on the side of his texts, meaning he was reading them, finally, at two in the morning.

So Sander started coming back to the school, hoping one day Robbe would stop ignoring him, clearly avoiding to look where he knew Sander would be, cross the street and say he was willing to give Sander another chance.

Sander shakes Jens’ hand and he walks away, looking both ways before rushing to wait for his friends where they always meet, his hand still inside his pocket where the drawing is.

It’s still too soon. Sander thinks about leaving before Robbe appears outside, but he waits anyway, trying to focus on other people, on his own shoes, anywhere else.

When he breaks and looks up, Robbe is already there, with his drawing in his hands, looking at it. He drew the look in Robbe’s face the last night they spent together. They went to their bar, Robbe got a little too drunk and needy. He was pouting when he asked Sander to go to his place even though they both knew it wasn’t possible. It was just a joke.

Sander woke up the next morning and Robbe was crying, sitting on a chair in his kitchen, with Jana and Zoe around him and Sander didn’t even had to ask. It was a big fight, Sander argued with Jana too. He doesn’t know how Jens is not angry at him either. She just didn’t have any right to tell Robbe that way. Sander was going to tell him, just not the way she did, happy to see them arguing because of her stupid friend.

Robbe looks at Sander and he stops thinking. Robbe is looking at him for the first time in a long time. They move in sync: when Robbe folds the drawing and puts inside his pocket, leaving the boys behind, Sander crosses the street just as fast, following him, holding the strap of his bag tighter.

“Robbe…”

“Leave me alone,” He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t sound like he wants to talk, but he’s talking so Sander runs to catch up to him, standing in his way. He stutters, looking at Robbe closely after so many months apart.

“I told my parents about you.”

“What?” Robbe was about to start a fight, but he stops, the crease in between his eyebrows slowly disappearing. “What did they say?”

Sander breathes out slowly, taking the opportunity to notice every detail in Robbe’s face his memory might have missed, “We had a fight. I moved out. I’m leaving by myself now, closer to college…”

Robbe really looks at him now, a hint of worry in his eyes, “I’m sorry…”

“I’m sorry too. For us. For ruining everything.” Sander wets his lips with his tongue, not wanting to spend the few minutes Robbe is willing to give him talking about his shitty parents, “Can we talk? Tonight, maybe…”

Robbe threatens to start walking again and Sander stands just a little closer, carefully holding the edge of Robbe’s jacket. “I’m busy...we’ve finals next week.”

“Please, Robbe. You can pick the place and I’ll just show up.” Robbe is staring at his lips. Sander knows that because he’s not very different, needing to hold himself in place not to kiss Robbe without a warning, “We were together for over a year. Just give me a chance.”

He doesn’t answer, but Robbe is not walking, leaving him behind, so Sander continues. “I would love for you to meet where I’m staying now. I promise I’ll behave myself. You can bring the boys if you want. I just want to spend some time with you.”

“You don’t want them there while we talk.” Robbe tries not to smile, but the corners of his lips are slightly up.

“No. But I’ll let you decide how we’re going to do this. If you feel more comfortable with them around…”

Robbe nods his head, trying to keep his eyes on Sander’s. “I trust you will not try to do anything if we’re alone.”

Sander nods his head, trying to stop hearing his heart beating inside his ears. “I won’t. And I’m happy you trust me.”

“I’ll think about it.” Robbe decides, slowly trying to walk away again, but Sander whines, moving to stand in front of him again.

“Is it too much to ask for an answer right now? I won’t be able to live until you answer me…” Robbe finally smiles a little bit and Sander can’t imagine how long today is going to be.

“Okay. I’ll go. Text me the adress.”

And he’s in so much shock he can’t do anything when Robbe walks away, thinking about how the art supply store will have to wait. He thought so much about this day. And now he only has a few hours to execute everything perfect.

[hopelikethemoon]

next rotation (ezra x reader)

                                                                                                                                photo credit

Title: next rotation  Rating: Teen Summary: Reader has recently learned that she’s pregnant and doesn’t know how to tell Ezra. Established relationship. Content: Angst, light fluff, mentions of pregnancy (obviously), soft!Ezra.  Length: 1.7K  Notes: This scenario came to me last night and refused to let me sleep until I finished writing it. I have never written Reader x Character fanfiction before so this is a brand new thing for me, despite writing fanfiction for nearly two decades. I cannot pretend to be nearly as good as @rzrcrst​ or @tarrevizslas​ but how could I resist Ezra? How can any of us resist Ezra? I’m hoping I captured some of our boy’s speech patterns. *hides*

All morning you had watched him in silence. Ezra spoke enough to fill up the silence — to make it feel as though there wasn’t this space between the pair of you. A space between you that he wasn’t even aware existed. At least you assumed he was unaware, he was a perceptive person. Did he know that a secret weighed upon your conscious?  

It had only been two days since you’d learned that you were pregnant. Something that should’ve brought you joy, instead brought you a sense of overwhelming dread. The life you led wasn’t conducive to becoming a parent. 

And then there was Ezra.

He took such pleasure in chasing down the next motherload. He planned, studied, and prepared for every new mission. Threw himself fully into whatever harvest they sought out next. His life revolved around prospecting — how could you take that away from him? 

“Did you hear me?”

You blinked and shook your head. “Sorry.”

“Should I be offended that my dulcet tones have lulled you into what could only be called an abstracted state?” Ezra flashed you a charming grin, one that made your heart feel warm and full. How could you ever leave that? 

“What were you saying?”

“I was deep into a fustian discourse about the merits of borrowing from the antiquated methods of prospecting. So many are quick to utilize these newfangled inventions.” He frowned as he stared you down, his amusement fading into worry. “Is something wrong, little bird?”

“You love this, don’t you?” You questioned, gesturing around the field of coral colored fauna. “Prospecting.”

“I do believe that I do.” Ezra cocked his head to the side with an arched brow. “What are you angling at?”

“I’m not angling at anything.” You countered defensively. 

“Ah,” Ezra gave a short nod before he raked his fingers through his hair as he approached you. “But something must be going through that exquisite mind of yours to be dwelling on my predilection for prospecting.”

You clutched tightly at the front of your coveralls to mask just how badly your nerves had made your fingers tremble. You were shaking like a leaf. “I—.” You started, before lowering your gaze to the ground. “After this harvest, I intend to leave.”

Ezra dropped the harvesting shears he carried, “What?” He moved towards you, reaching out to grip at your shoulder. “Say it ain’t so, little bird. You wouldn’t jest about leaving me, would you?” 

You lift your gaze to meet his, your heart breaking a tiny bit more when you catch sight of the murky emotions swirling in his dark eyes. “I have to.”

“No.” He shook his head resolutely. “If it is on account of some slight I have committed—“

“Ezra.”

“As painful as it may be, I can limit my pleonastic tendencies.” He offered, gripping at your shoulder tightly. “Have I bored you so tremendously that you now desire to leave? I have been told, in multitudes, that I can often bore—“

“It’s not that.” You whispered, lifting your hands to cradle his scruffy cheeks in your palms. “I love your flights of verbal fancy.” His mind was like an encyclopedia — there was scarcely a topic he couldn’t discuss. You loved that about him. If the world was a different place, he would’ve put that brilliant mind to use. 

“Then what is it, little bird?” He trailed his hand from your shoulder, down to your hip. “Tell me and I promise I can remedy it.”

“I don’t want to prospect anymore.” You look away from him, his stare too intense and compelling you to tell him the truth. “I’m planning to return during the next rotation. Find alternative employment.”

“Then I’ll do the same.” Ezra urged. 

You shook her head. “You love prospecting.” 

“I am aware that I give off an aura of being rather egotistical, but I am well capable of caring for someone other than myself.” He lifted his hand to nudge your chin upwards, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Why are you leaving?”

You inhaled a ragged breath, weighing your options. You could tell him — confess the secret that you planned to keep from him and risk him rejecting you or you could maintain your current course and leave on your own terms. 

“Cee was like a daughter to you, wasn’t she?”

Ezra doesn’t follow your line of thought, his brows drew together with a crease of confusion. “In a roundabout way, I suppose she was. You’d have to ask her if she felt the same way.” He chuckled nervously. “What is going on in there?” He brushed his thumb over your forehead, brushing back untethered strands of your hair. 

“Did you ever want children?”

“I’ve never even humored the possibility. This life we lead isn't the kindest to the innocence of youth.” He paused, his dark gaze boring into yours. Something clicked. Ezra was painfully clever — he’d seen straight through your line of questioning. “Were you going to tell me?”

“I hadn’t made up my mind.” You confess and your cheeks burned with shame. “You love this—“ You gesture around at the abandoned harvest. 

“I love you.” He snapped. 

It’s the first time the words have ever passed his lips. It had always been there — unspoken, danced around, and carefully avoided. You both lead dangerous lives. One wrong choice, a bad harvest, some misplaced trust. Three little words that you’ve longed to hear are now tarnished with a tone that might as well have been delivered with a slap. 

Ezra worked his jaw with annoyance, eyes flickering away from your face. His disappointment was palpable and devastating. Futile apologies weighed heavily on your tongue, but you doubted any of them would soothe the pain you’ve created. 

“I was afraid.”

He stepped away from you, dragging his fingers through his messy hair, tugging at the strands as they slipped between his fingers. “So you were just going to leave? Without telling me? I’m disappointed in you, little bird.” 

You focused on the stone you were nudging with the toe of your boots. “You have never once expressed any interest in settling down.” You asserted, “I didn’t want to take this lifestyle away from you.”

“How long have you known?”

“Two days.” You admitted, worrying at your bottom lip. “I suspected for a week or so. But I had no confirmation.” Carefully you approached him, hands outstretched towards him. He didn’t shy away from you and you rested your palms against his chest. “I was afraid, Ezra. You can’t fault me for that.”

“But you were going to leave.” He narrowed his eyes. 

“The next rotation isn’t for a fortnight.” You pointed out. “I would’ve changed my mind before then.”

“And if you hadn’t?” Ezra pressed, his voice sharp. You hated disappointing him, you hated that look in his eyes. “What would you have done, little bird? Entertain my curiosity.”

You reached up and cupped his cheek, tracing your thumb over the scar there. “I thought you’d cut and run.” 

“Yet you proved to be the flight risk between us, birdie.” Ezra drawled out, leaning into your touch, despite his ire. “I see the err of my ways. I was not convincing in my adoration for you. But surely you knew that I cherish my every second with you.”

Ezra lifted his hand to wipe away a stray tear that slid unbidden down your cheek. “Don’t cry.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.” You whispered. “I played every scenario over in my head — every outcome was bleak.” 

“You can tell me anything.” Ezra murmured softly, drawing you into his chest, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist. His lips brushed the top of your head, lingering there. “I will admit, I never have fancied myself a father. But I suppose I’m not too terribly old to try something new.”

You pulled back to look at him, a tremulous smile spreading over your lips. You hadn’t reciprocated those three little words yet. It warmed your heart to think that they were free to be said now. “Ezra,” You started, tracing your thumb over his bottom lip. “I love you.” How many times had those words been said over the course of your relationship —  through looks or touches; through late night conversations or quiet of lazy mornings. 

“Is that so?” He teased lightly. “You’re not going to attempt to slip out of my grasp again, are you little bird? I only have but one hand to hold you with.”

You lean in and kiss him, your lips lingering against his. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

“Ah, what a terrible curse that is.” Ezra mumbled against your lips, his hand cradling the back of your head. “Next rotation, we’ll find somewhere safe to settle. A place we can call home.”

“I’ve never really had one of those before.” You smile at him. It was true — you had been born and raised on a spacecraft, floating in between planets. All you had ever known was prospecting. 

“Neither have I, little bird, neither have I.” Ezra closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against yours. “We’ll find our first home, together.” His hand slipped down between you, his palm spread out against your still-flat stomach. “If you ever try to keep something of such paramount importance from me—”

“I won’t.” You promised him, curling your fingers around the back of his note. You played with the soft hair at the nape of his neck, meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

Ezra bumped his nose against yours. “Just don’t do it again.” He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. “My life would be awfully bleak if you abandoned me now. Don’t know what I’d do without you, keeping me on my toes.” 

“You won’t have to find out.” You kissed him once more before you pried yourself out of his grasp. “Let’s finish harvesting and get back to the ship.” You flashed him a flirty grin. “And perhaps I’ll find a way to make all of this up to you.” 

“Feeling magnanimous, are we?” He smirked, a brow quirking upwards as he looked you up and down. 

“We are.” 

[cesarborjas]

“we get dark, only to shine” - chapter one

I’ve been thinking for awhile about posting a cleaned-up version of wgdots, and … I’m in a Renaissance place right now, so it seemed like a good time!

title: we get dark, only to shine verse: wgdots (1/lol) length: 168k, so far (shh) characters: Cesare Borgia, Lucrezia Borgia; Cesare/Lucrezia stuff that happens: Lucrezia, anxious about her forthcoming marriage to Giovanni Sforza, takes her concerns to Cesare.

PART ONE: PESARO

CHAPTER ONE

Lucrezia twirled, laughing as her skirts unfurled around her, a blur of pink and white. She could hear the rustle of the silk, feel her hair swinging out, caught by the breeze. Only a rush of light-headedness stilled her.

“What do you think, brother?” Lucrezia demanded, turning to sit by the fountain. She staggered, a little, dizziness making her graceless as little else did. Elsewhere she might have feared some damage to her dress, but Cesare caught her around the waist, as she had known he would. She smiled up at him, feeling very bright and beautiful. “Well?”

“I think you nearly tipped yourself into the water,” he said, guiding her to the stone rim of the fountain.

Lucrezia pointed imperiously at the place beside her. When Cesare sat down, his red robes settling around him, she tilted her head up to the sun.

“Tell me!”

“What shall I tell you, my love? That your hair is tangled, or that you have a lost a pearl, or—”

Lucrezia wrinkled her nose at him. He laughed, then relented, as he always did.

“You look very, very pretty. If Giovanni Sforza is not pleased, he must be a fool indeed.”

She could see his good humour dimming as he spoke of her betrothed, mouth tightening. But he had never wished her to marry, and she had an idea that he was unhappy over some particular of the betrothal. The husband, perhaps. Still, the affection in his eyes did not fade with his smile.

“But what of my dress?”

Cesare caught a corner of her skirt between his thumb and forefinger, then let it drop, uncreased. “It is lovely, sis.”

She reached out to grasp his hand between both of hers, pressing the long curl of his fingers between her own small ones.

“What is it?” he said.

She glanced down, from his eyes to his mouth, frowning in concern, and back again.

“You will think me ridiculous,” she said.

“Never.”

“I—I am a little afraid.”

“That is not unusual at all,” he said, frown shifting to a sympathetic smile. “You are to leave Rome, to join your life to a stranger, to be mistress of an unfamiliar household—”

“You are not helping.”

Despite themselves, they both laughed.

“Well,” he said, “it is perfectly natural to be afraid—that is all.”

Lucrezia turned that over in her mind. She had worried over those things, but she would not call them fears, exactly. “It is common, you mean. But I am a Borgia. I should not be afraid of anything.”

“Nonsense,” said Cesare. “I fear dozens of things, myself.”

“You?”

“And so does the Holy Father,” he added. He squeezed her fingers. “Why should we not? Della Rovere spreads his plots through all Italy, perhaps beyond. Our father’s papacy hangs by a thread. You are to leave our protection, and I fear most of all for your happiness. I shall not be able to ensure it from so far, no matter how kind your husband.” His lips pressed together. “You must promise to write to me, sis, if there is anything you require, anything I can do. And if he is not kind—”

I shall cut his heart out with a dinner knife, he’d assured her before, long frame bending over her, the curve of his mouth making it a jest, and yet not. Lucrezia had felt less comfort than delight, his blood-red robes draped over her, her heart pounding and eyes drifting to the mouth that had formed the words, as if they still rested there. She almost kissed him, the affectionate sister’s kiss she had hundreds of times pressed to his cheek or lips; and yet she did not. Something stifled the impulse, even with warmth prickling over her skin and her blood running quick in her veins. Instead, it made her fling her arms about his neck, pressing her face into his shoulder.

Now she interrupted him. “There is something I would ask, brother.”

“Ask and it is yours,” he said. She was staring at their joined hands, not his face, but she could hear the sudden smile in his voice. “Within reason.”

“I may not know very much about marriage, but I know a wife should please her husband.” Lucrezia bit her lip and looked up at him. If he had smiled before, he did not now; a familiar unhappy expression had settled over his face. “And I know that, for my dear father’s sake, it is of the utmost importance that I please mine.”

“Lucrezia, the Sforza arms are already promised to us,” said Cesare. “It does not depend on your husband’s—pleasure.” His mouth twisted at the word.

“But promises may be broken. Is that not so?” She lifted one of her hands to touch his cheek, anxiety and affection alike thrumming a steady beat under her ribs. “Do not bother trying to deceive me. You cannot hide things from me, brother.” Lucrezia gave an unsteady laugh. “I see them in your eyes. We both know it will be better for his Holiness, for our family, if I … if my husband …”

“Then speak to our mother,” he said at last. Something, perhaps distaste, tugged at his mouth. “Or Giulia Farnese.”

Lucrezia, briefly distracted, tipped her head to the side. “You do not like Giulia?” The idea had never crossed her mind.

“I neither like nor dislike her,” said Cesare. “I am, however, fond of our mother.”

“As am I! But I cannot ask her how to kiss a man!”

They stared at each other. Cesare, seeming only then to recall that his hand still lay in her lap, drew it quickly back.

“And why should you? You have kissed men hundreds of times—even thousands.”

Lucrezia’s mouth dropped open. “I have done nothing of the kind!”

“Father, Juan, me.” He paused. “Prince Djem, perhaps.”

“I never kissed him,” she said, and felt rather than heard his sigh. “And for the rest, that is not the same at all!”

“Exactly,” said Cesare. He tapped her nose. “You cannot learn how to kiss a husband from your brother, my love—your brother who will never be any woman’s husband, no less.”

“Well, I don’t see why not. It is not as if you are celibate.”

He made a strangled sound. Lucrezia grinned, smug, as a flush crept up his cheeks.

“You know what men and women do together,” she persisted. “You know what pleases a man, what—”

His finger pressed against her mouth.

“There lies your first mistake. I know what pleases me. Men do not share all our tastes. I could not guess—do not wish to guess—what pleases our brother, or my manservant, or Giovanni Sforza.”

“I suppose,” said Lucrezia, not entirely convinced. “Juan does prefer dark ladies, and I know you do not particularly. Perhaps—”she brightened—“Lord Sforza will be like you.”

“This is not a conversation a man wishes to have with his sister,” Cesare said, grimacing.

She dimpled. “But I thought all men were different.”

“Not that different!”

She could see him realize his mistake almost as soon as the words left his mouth. Before he could correct it, she said blithely,

“Then you can teach me.”

He released a breath. “I cannot believe I am even considering this.”

Lucrezia’s smile turned triumphant.

“Is there no one else?” he demanded.

She tilted her head inquisitively. “Is there a man you would rather instructed me?” Then she laughed. “Really, is there another man you would permit to touch me? To even remain alone with me? Juan? Should I ask him instead?”

“No!” Cesare scrambled to his feet, skirts billowing out. He glanced around the courtyard, as if Juan—or worse—might emerge at any moment. With a tug of her hand, he pulled her into their mother’s villa: dragged her, Lucrezia might have said, had she not followed so readily that it was more like walking hand-in-hand. They clattered around into his bedchamber.

She perched on the edge of his bed and watched, intrigued, as Cesare latched the doors and closed the window. He was really being very dramatic about all this.

“Well,” she said, “tell me what to do.”

He settled beside her, finally meeting her eyes. “You know how to give a chaste kiss.”

Lucrezia nodded, then smiled and quickly touched her mouth to his, as she had so many times before.

“That is not how I shall kiss my husband.”

“You may, sometimes,” he said. “That kiss speaks of affection. It is for company, and when there is no chance of anything else.”

“And when there is?”

She saw the shudder in his throat as he swallowed. He tilted his head down, towards hers, until their foreheads leaned together and she could feel his nose to the side of hers, his breath on her mouth. That was not new, either, but nevertheless something in her belly fluttered. Lucrezia smiled uncertainly.

“Close your eyes, my love,” he whispered, words but an inch from her.

She obeyed, though she couldn’t help saying, “But I want to—”

Cesare’s lips pressed against hers, lingering a moment, shifting to kiss her again from a different angle, his mouth brushing over hers between kisses. The fluttering deepened to a heavy shiver, radiating out and up her spine, until she was warm and shaking. Like a fever, she thought dimly, except fevers were wretched and this, this was wonderful. Even the skin of her neck prickled pleasantly, though he did not move the hand that rested there. Out of nowhere, she wished he would, slide his hand down her throat or neck—and she wanted to do something with her hands.

He broke away. Lucrezia did not feel any cooler, but her eyes opened in protest. Cesare, she saw, was flushed, too, his eyes very bright.

“What does that one speak of?” She sounded at once breathless and strangely loud.

“Promise,” he said, and nudged her nose. “But you must do your part.”

“Oh! I forgot!” She glanced down at his mouth and then back up. “But where do I put my hands?”

“Anywhere you like,” said Cesare. He added, “On my shoulders or behind my neck, generally.”

Lucrezia gave a solemn nod and set her hands on his shoulder. She dutifully closed her eyes; when he kissed her again, she kissed back, feeling his lips give way—just a little—under the pressure. Excitement burned through her veins once more. She tried to mimic the slow press of his lips, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Her heart was pounding. Then his thumb ran down her throat, almost to her collarbone, and Lucrezia gasped against his mouth.

Should she be …? The thought dissolved with a slide of his thumb against the hollow of her neck. Her mind was empty of anything but his name echoing around and around, Cesare, Cesare, Cesare. And more. She shifted her hands to his face, then locked them behind his neck, holding him as near to her as she could; his leg was already pressed against hers. It wasn’t good enough. She wanted—she wanted—

He stopped again. No, Lucrezia thought dimly, not even bothering to open her eyes; she pressed lingering kisses all along his mouth. In reward, she felt his arms around her waist, hands at her back, holding her close: familiar and new both. But he seemed to be trying to say something. Lucrezia didn’t want to talk. She caught his bottom lip between hers.

Before she could even decide what to do with it, she was tipping backwards onto the bed, Cesare sprawling over her, pressing quick, open-mouthed kisses into her parted mouth. One moment she felt the glide of his tongue over her lip, the next his teeth biting down, and she could only kiss him back, his hair caught in her right hand. She felt the line of his leg trapped between hers, though between her skirts and his she could do little but stir restlessly. 

Yet the propped-up weight of his body was more familiar than the robes under her fingers. It shouldn’t have felt like all the other times, the two of them lying together in the courtyard, the gardens, laughing together on this very bed—but it did. It felt exactly like that.

Cesare lifted his mouth, but only to press the same kisses down her throat. Dazed, Lucrezia could only wish there was some way of wrapping herself around him, of—of anything. When his teeth nipped at the skin where her neck met her shoulder, she nearly sobbed.

“Cesare,” she whispered instead.

He instantly froze, then buried his face in her neck. Lucrezia, thoughts a little more coherent, realized that his breath was panting against her throat, his shoulders shaking. She opened her eyes.

“Cesare?” Her voice sounded hoarse. She cleared her throat and he lifted his head, staring at her as if he could not quite believe his eyes.

“Forgive me,” he mumbled.

Lucrezia frowned. “For what? I thought that lesson went very well.”

Her brother shifted off her, lying on his back. It was only then that she realized his cross had been digging uncomfortably into her torso.

“Ah,” he said. “Well, yes.”

Lucrezia turned her head to the side, her hair loose around her brushing her cheek. Cesare looked almost bewildered.

“Did our father kiss our mother thus? And Giulia Farnese, now?”

The solemn set of his mouth turned, quick and easy, to a laughing smile. He tapped her nose.

“I think you know perfectly well how our father kisses women,” he said, with a meaningful glance at the window.

“I do not spy on Papa,” she said, repulsed, and Cesare laughed aloud.

“You reserve that honour for me?”

“Yes,” said Lucrezia, snuggling comfortably against him. She pushed the cross aside.

Cesare drew a deep breath.

“Will my husband kiss me thus, brother?”

“Perhaps,” he said. His expression went grave again. “Perhaps not. He may not be very interested in—niceties. He is a Sforza, after all, and he does not love you as I do.”

“That may be for the best,” said Lucrezia, “for I shall never love him as I do you.”

Cesare just sighed and stroked her hair.

“You will come and visit me? We are not to be separated forever?”

He hesitated.

Lucrezia felt panic welling in her chest. She pushed herself away, lifting horrified eyes to his. “Cesare?”

Cesare bit his lip. Then with a reckless look, he said, “Of course I shall.”

[livironheart]

Madness

[link]

The apprentice flung her arms out, her eyes tightly closed as volatile arcane energy erupted outward from her form, smashing into the statues that now surrounded her. The sound of shattering stone filled her ears, echoing down the hall as every last one of her attackers broke into a hundred pieces. She collapsed in a heap to the cold tiled floor, shrouded completely in darkness once more. For nearly half an hour, she attempted to gain control of her breathing, then forced herself to stand again, summoning her flame in her palm. The firelight reflected in her amber eyes as she began walking quietly through the seemingly endless hall once more, comforted by the little light she had. She would get out of this somehow - there had to be a way out. There always was, and if there wasn’t, she would make one.

I can do this.

As her footsteps sounded softly against the stone, Olivier gradually grew more nervous. The hall didn’t seem to be ending, and she was only walking ceaselessly through the longest stretch of total darkness she’d ever seen. But what was even more concerning was the feeling that she was being watched - that something was lingering beyond her sight, concealed in the shadows. She cleared her throat and finally spoke, her voice small.

“Hello?” She paused, letting the word echo without reply. “I don’t know where I am or where this place is, or how to get out. Could you help me?”

The flame in the palm of her hand suddenly flickered, then went out. A pang of fear struck Olivier’s heart and she hastened to relight it, but couldn’t. It was as if all magic was dampened right now, not just teleportation. Her heartbeat accelerated. “That’s not what I meant! That’s not helping!”

There was no reply, only the dry whisper of a faint breeze. A breeze? Maybe there was a way out. But her odds still didn’t seem likely.

“Hey. Hey! That’s not fair! I didn’t do anything to you!” She no longer dared to move, not trusting herself to walk without running into something. And as she waited for a reply that wouldn’t come, the fear settled in deeper. How had she ended up like this, just from the simple brush of her hand against an orb she knew nothing about? How had she ended up surrounded by her deepest fears, as if something or someone had known every detail about her? For she was alone without any means of escape in a dark, enclosed space with no view of the sky. And the one thing she’d always been able to put faith in, the fire that ran through her veins and made her feel alive, wasn’t working. Why wasn’t it working?! Her breathing sped up a little and she finally dropped to the floor, burying her head in her hands. One fact was becoming blindingly clear:

Olivier Ironheart was afraid of the dark.

Without the use of the magic she thrived on, without an escape, without companions or light or even an idea of where she was, the mage sank down to the floor with a soft whimper. How long had she been in that maze? Was she still in it, or was this a different place entirely? How would anyone know what happened to her if she died alone here, in this dark, lifeless hall? How long could she survive - if she even cared about survival knowing she might never leave this place. Drawing into the depressing thoughts, Olivier pulled her knees to her chest and huddled in the darkness for a long time - almost for what seemed like hours. It was only after all that time that she finally heard the deep, hissing voice of her watcher echo eerily through the hall.

“I can … see you …”

Her breath hitched, and the mage froze. So there was someone in the darkness with her. Had they been here this whole time? Or was she simply hallucinating? After a moment of consideration, Liv drew in another breath and bravely answered in a trembling voice, “Who are you?”

In the darkness, something shifted, though she couldn’t tell what it was. An ominous skittering sounded across the tile floor, and then the reply came. “Interesting. I cannot see … why he would want one … such as this …”

Olivier pushed herself to her feet again, firmly setting them against the ground. “Who is he?”

A dry chuckle echoed through the empty hall, underscored by a chilling hiss. “You know him, little girl. The one you call mad … the one who seeks the crown.”

Her heart skipped a beat. Oh. Oh, no. She willed her voice to steady. “I’m not doing anything to him or you,” she replied softly. “What do you want from me?”

The presence shifted again, something large and dark seen at the edge of her vision before it was out of sight once again. Still, its hiss echoed in the shadows. “I? From you? What do you think you could possibly offer me, little girl? Any ideas? I suggest … that you think quickly.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Olivier whispered, already about to give up this fight. After all, there wasn’t any way she could win. “I meant what are you planning to do ... here and now?” Even as she spoke, she glanced down and suddenly became aware of the fact that she’d arrived dressed for war. Of course. With her black leather armor and an arsenal of blades, she remembered that she hadn’t trusted her magic enough to let it be her only weapon in the north, even if she’d had no idea she was going to end up in a position such as this.

The creature shifted again. A patch of solid black, darker than dark, moved closer. “So … you offer nothing. A pity, then … but he does want you … so very, very much …”

“What do you want?” she breathed. “Tell me and I’ll give it to you.” It was a dangerous promise, but how much worse could this situation get? How could it end without her dead? Suddenly, the movement paused and Olivier became aware of the massive presence behind her shoulder.

“I asked you, little girl … what do you think you can offer?” Another skittering laugh echoed down the hall that chilled her to the bone. “Your time is running out …”

“Anything I have,” she answered softly, fingers curling around the hilt of her sword.

“Interesting …” Something long and bony curled itself gently across her shoulder and around her neck. “Perhaps … you would consider … causing the death of a certain … elf? And on his death … to bring me the crown.”

Olivier’s eyes closed tightly as she tried to stave off the panic from setting in at the unwelcome touch. For a fleeting moment, everything in the hall was still and utterly silent - and she didn’t dare to breathe. “You are working for someone you want dead?” she finally questioned, as if trying to understand the situation.

There was a cold hiss from behind her. Two more of the bony appendages curled gently around her, one around her waist and another around her neck, almost caressing, a gentle touch that was all the more chilling because of it. “The elf … has potential. He has sought to open the vault … that I cannot … and so I will aid him. For now.”

“And you want the crown,” Olivier whispered quietly, silently cursing her magic for failing her as she desperately tried to summon it. Killing Lineaus was a possibility, but giving the crown to this creature was not, for more than one reason. “Let me go,” the mage urged.

Another arm wrapped around her leg, caressing it gently, almost invitingly. The being - whatever it was - had taken on a more mesmerizing and threatening tone. “So … you would refuse my offer. You fail to understand, little girl … I can do whatever I like. He only wants you alive … not unscathed.”

Olivier’s next words were delivered breathlessly in rapid succession, as if she was afraid he would cut her off at any moment. “Why do you want the crown? There’s no use in any of us getting out of this alive if you’re only going to end up ruining the world with it.” As she spoke, she slowly flipped her sword into her right hand and angled the blade back threateningly. Then, just as she finished, stabbed it back into whatever was behind her.

There was an immediate hiss as her sword struck armor, and its grip suddenly and viciously tightened on her. Olivier released a short, sharp cry as she was swiftly turned upside-down and dangled from a viselike grip upon her ankles, while other limbs gripped her arms and neck hard enough to cause her muscles to ache. Through it all, the mage somehow managed to retain a grip on her sword and blindly struck out again at her attacker with a snarl that reverberated through the darkness.

This time, the blade struck home. She wasn’t sure what she hit, but it was definitely more than armor. The creature hissed violently and writhed around, shaking her to and fro and backhanding her hard enough to break a rib or two. When it spoke, its voice had risen to a discordant scream of many voices clashing in broken unison, resonating through both her ears and mind to painful intensity.

"PYT RI SHAKHASZ GHYL'AHZ! MAL LLIMFILE UR YVAKALM YIR MOL LIESZA ZIL MOL VALCENSE! MAL LLMFY UR YROSHAZ! MOL SHYHZA HVI GIDDJECT KL I AKHAZ AKHAZ YZHAI BRA MOL MYZHA KURR SHEILLVHAA KL ZYV AERYZ MNO ZYV NUQMZ! We are Seeker Ghyl'Ahz ... you defile our realm with your life and your presence ... you act against our offer ... your soul shall be subject to a thousand thousand agonies as your mind is shredded to the winds of the eternal dark …”

Olivier cried out again in pain and fear, finally losing the grip on her sword. The weapon clattered loudly to the tile floor and she tried to bring her hand to her belt to draw her dagger, but a harsh blow interrupted her and her hand fell down once again. Eyes tightly closed, the mage began to whisper a prayer. “Light, please grant me strength.. Light, please lend me your aid.. Light, please shine for me now and strike down this beast. Light, let me see the sunshine once aga-”

Before she had finished her plea, the creature suddenly hurled her across the hall, and her body slammed into a stone alcove with a sickening smack, sinking to the floor. A loud, malicious skittering sound announced the presence of the thing already pursuing the dazed mage. The adrenaline kept her moving and she forced herself to her feet with a groan, reaching for the arsenal of weapons she’d brought along to draw a sharp, ornate dagger. She flipped the small weapon into her hand and braced herself for what was to come.

“Little girl … wants to play …” the voice hissed. “Ghyl’Ahz can play ... “

“I don’t want to play,” Liv snarled out in response, drawing a second dagger and flipping it into her free hand. “I just want to get out of here - that’s all.”

The only response from the creature was a dissonant, rattling chuckle. And then, the world twisted and turned upside-down. Olivier could feel the pull of gravity pulling her up, and yet somehow she was dangling down from the floor. Her feet seemed fixed in place, and yet she felt, if she were to release them, she would plummet to the ceiling far below.

The apprentice froze again, her mouth dry. She didn’t dare to move, completely unaware of what was going on or why the room now felt so strange. “I will give you the crown,” she said suddenly, softly, with a shaking voice. “Just get me out of here - whoever you are. Ghyl’Ahz?”

Another discordant chuckle echoed eerily off the walls.

“It’s far too late for that, little girl … you shall be coming with me.”