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princematcha · 2 years

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(till i) run with you

bakugou katsuki x fem!reader

contains: rdr gets called ‘girl’ once, no real gendered terms or pronouns other than that, rdr does wear a dress, mostly sfw save for some cussing and nsfw related jokes, drug mentions (mary wanna) and alcohol mentions(and usage??), everyone’s bi including rdr, rdr is in grad school and bkg has graduated, not edited

a/n: sorry i listened to too many 60′s and 70′s songs and started thinking abt a band au, let’s say xmen days of future past au because i wanted to keep mina pink

wc: 2369 words

Smoke billows out of your mouth as you stare off toward the pretty girl on the drums. Big pink curls held back by a black and white gingham hair band, hazy spotlight shining on her giving a halo. Sweat drips down the side of her forehead when she hits the hi-hat, you can see her arms flexing through her loose bell sleeves from across the bar.

She spins a drumstick on one of her pink knuckles, yellow irises flashing up to you with a wink. Normally you’d feel a touch embarrassed to get caught staring. You recognize most of the group from campus, anyone’s eye would get attracted to something nice to look at in class. Quickly looking away if any of them accidentally looked in your direction. But tonight you ash your joint in the tray on the tacky bartop next to you, smiling at her. You’ll have to thank Camie for the smoke-flavored courage.

Camie dances closer to the stage, her silk green slip dress swaying and rising along with her arms. A tactical, well-thought-out move. She told you she was trying to take one of the band members home tonight, “any one of ‘em will do, if I can get more though…” she winked before you left her dorm earlier. You think she probably has the blond guy on keys in her pocket. You should probably call dibs before she gets the girl too.

As the orange embers creep closer to your fingers, you put out the roach and go back to watching the band. Looking at the stage is like peering through calcium-stained glass, a warm combination of smoke and the old spotlights from the theatre next door makes the whole room hot.

The redhead looks like he’s putting his whole soul into the guitar, dark eyebrows furrowed and eyes squeezed shut. His sweat-soaked white button-up does nothing to hide the finely cut body beneath it. The greek god of a man, some textbook you read last week probably contained a sculpture resembling this holy display. Suspenders straining over his broad shoulders. Is it legal for an entire group to be this foxy?

Camie’s boy hasn’t stopped making eyes at her ever since she grooved her way to the front. A real pretty boy, you could see your hands running through his golden hair, see if that black zig-zag over the side was natural. You’ll see if Camie’s in a sharing mood tonight. Though you’re not sure if you are, you sure do love the drums.

Your eyes trail behind the greek god and land on the bass player. You’re not sure how you missed him, though the sticky sweet of Gimlet in your throat answers that for you. Bright, deep red eyes burn in your direction. Is he looking at you? Nah, you glance towards the top shelf bourbon and whiskey behind you, sweaty man probably wants a stiff one.

And it might be the gin speaking for you, but it almost looked like he smirked when you met his eye. With the mean look and scrunched bridge, he also could’ve had an itchy nose.

Sweaty, but still– pretty. You didn’t think you could say pretty so many times in a song, but tonight’s full of firsts. Big calloused hands pluck at the strings of the bass, muscles flexing with every move. You’ve never seen a man look so beautiful in a tight orange sweater-tee, showing off a slim waist tapered into black slacks.

Pink hair winked at you first though, and you’re a sucker for a drummer.

(Unless there’s a compelling offer.)

When their set is over, Camie is quick to lay game down hard and sweet on the pretty boy from the keys. Denki, she purred to you as she passed, her hand squeezing your thigh before leading him to the end of the bar. Denki’s eyes glued to her the whole way down.

You watch as the girl heaves a large case with ease on top of one of the speakers, deciding now is a good chance to talk her up.

“What are ya drinkin?”

The sudden gruff voice next to your ear makes you jump, slipping straight off of the bar stool. You look to the side and the bassist is sitting on the rickety, rust-colored stool next to yours. And he dwarfs the seat in a way that makes it look a bit too small for him. It’s much darker on this side of the venue, not to mention he looked much smaller on that stage. Almost intimidating when he’s right in front of you.

He leans towards you, eyes like a lion circling- side of his mouth twitching when you move your head away from him but your feet force you to stand your ground, “Know what you’re smokin,” he chuckles, low and rumbly, “Good grass from what I can tell.”

You scoot back onto your stool, looking for any sense of composing yourself even as you can feel him picking you apart in his mind. You smile and hold his eye contact as you grab your glass, wet from condensation, and swallow the rest of the drink. “Nothing anymore,” you remark. You slip some green under the cup and turn back around to see if you can chase, but something is pinching the back of your white dress.

You squint at him, “Let go, bass boy.”

He turns his head to the side, “Bakugou.”

“Excuse me?”

“Let go, Bakugou.” He says.

The name Bakugou does something for you. What was it? The disk jockey places a new record on the player as your brain flickers through the files that hold Bakugou.

He looks you up and down with little decorum as your thoughts stall, grinning when recognition snaps into place in your eyes.

First year of uni. Teacher’s assistant that everyone had a crush on. Mean as all hell, but a gift straight from God’s ass as a tutor.

The first time you got something below a B in your statistics course, you stared at his beat-up loafers while asking what days he has free TA hours because you were terrified to look him in the eyes.

You turn to him fully and he releases you, waiting to see how you respond.

“Bakugou?” You stare at him and he flicks his gaze over your face, “What the fuck?”

It’s been almost five years— still the hot TA in your mind though. Sitting in study rooms while he nudged you for the next question and you steeling your will to pretend he wasn’t the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. That’s fresh in your mind as well. Still true.

God, he’s fuckin fit.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

You move to snap at him, but falter when he takes your glass and tilts his head back to take one of the ice cubes. Watching as he swirls it over his tongue, then crunches it in his molars.

“Ah,” Bakugou grunts, “Look who’s drinking hard spirits like a big girl.”

You find yourself sitting on the stool before you know it.

(You’re too focused on the bartender stirring your drink with precision to see the drummer walk by with a wink to Bakugou and a brunette on her arm. He’s blushing when you glance back at him.)

You laugh as you press your temple to your palm, elbow sticking to the counter, almost empty drink in your hand. You don’t remember Bakugou being quite the conversationalist, but you have no complaints now.

“How did you even recognize me?” You gesture to yourself, ice cubes swirling in the glass, “And then why would you come over, I don’t think I was that interesting to tutor— unless I was your worst student. Don’t answer that.”

He snorts at that, grabbing your drink out of your hand and placing it back on the wood, “Don’t sell yourself short.” Bakugou nods to the now empty stage, “And you weren't my worst, fuckin idiot on keys was hell on wheels to teach.”

You snicker and point loosely to distant corners of the bar, “I swear some other alums you tutored were here too.”

You look over at him again, but he’s already facing you. Eyes on yours, but not in that burning, fiery way like earlier. It’s just warm now, something to swirl and get lost in. You find yourself leaning towards him but you swear it’s not because of him. You’re just a little tipsy, you think. Bakugou presses towards you as well, at the same slow drifting pace of the music.

You stop when his knee hits the plastic leather of your stool, his figure nearly looming over yours.

“Maybe I came over-”

“Because I never gave you back that watch?”

“—because someone wouldn’t stop eyefucking my band.”

You fling back like a rubber band when he whispers, spine straight as a rod. He smiles at your expression, a mean glint in his eye.

“I absolutely was not.”

“Really?” He asks. You were never much of a liar.

But there’s no point in not trying. “Really.”

“So you weren’t hitting on Mina?” You stare at him so he tries again, “My drummer.”

You blink at him for a second before turning around and taking in the people you could see around the place, “Oh my god the drummer.”

He made you lose the drummer. Bakugou cackles like a hyena at your despair.

(He buys you a basket of fries at the diner next door as an apology. Though he does eat half of them which lessened the sentiment in your opinion.)

You stare at the concrete of the paved paths weaving through the campus as you and Bakugou walk side by side back to the dorms. It’s quiet and shiny with early morning dew as you make your way back.

He told you that he was walking you back to the dorms while you were hopping down the steps of the diner. You had no real complaints, you had a feeling that you might’ve woken up next to the university mascot’s statue if he didn’t accompany you.

Though now you’re not sure how to feel. The warmth radiating off of your cheeks and the man next to you makes you feel like you just finished a nice date. But that wasn’t a date. That was just- That was-

It was two old fri- Hm. Acquaintances? Associates? Teacher and student? That one makes you feel off. Teacher’s assistant and pal. You cringe. Pal?

Rattling off different ways in your head to define your relationship with Bakugou, you don’t notice him slowing down near your dorm building. He clears his throat when you’re a few feet ahead of him.

“Oh!” You turn.

You stare at him as he stands under the streetlamp in front of the dorms. The background seems to crumble away the longer you take him in. The soft light blond of his hair looks heavenly at this time between night and day. Cold air nipping at his cheeks. He looks heavenly in this time between night and day.

You’re not bold or sober enough to invite him up.

So you guess this is goodbye for now.

“So-”

“Breakfast tomorrow.” Bakugou pushes the words out of his mouth like they are boiling on his tongue.

“What?” You rub your eyes to see if that will help you hear words that have already been said.

“Hell. What day is it now? Today? Tomorrow? I don’t fuckin know when. As soon as possible.”

You’re not sure but you love whatever day today is.

“I just,” you watch as he rocks from foot to foot, hands in his pockets. You never thought you’d see a nervous Bakugou. “It’s been a while and I-” He starts walking over and stops right in front of you. You’re too busy taking in the sight to even think of moving. “I just gotta see you again. If you’re okay with that. If you want.”

Something roils over in your stomach mixed with confusion. He’s gotta see you again?

If you were sober, you’d see the precious, delicate moment in your hands. A version of Bakugou you only ever got glimpses of when nights got a little too late in the library, when he came over to your dorm and you made him his favorite tea, keeping company and telling stories from your classes while he graded assignments. If you were sober you’d see the glimpse become a moment, enveloping the man as he is.

But you aren’t.

“Are you sweet on me?” You crinkle your nose and wag a finger at him.

Bakugou is perplexed, with a hint of bewilderment. “Am I sweet on you? Are you- What! What else would I- A whole year of- How did you lose more of that brain the longer you were in school?”

You were too lost in how he interrupted himself several times, “What?”

“Yes,” He grits out, “I am.” Bakugou turns you around and starts pushing you toward your dormitory’s front door.

“And I am going to be here in the morning to remind you because you’re drunk. And you’re not gonna remember a goddamn word I say, so listen to me when I say:”

He stops you abruptly and spins you around, hands warm on your shoulders, “If you say yes, I am taking you out and you’re going to fall the fuck in love with me and I am going to occupy all the empty spaces in your mind to make up for the years you put me through.”

You blink up at him.

Bakugou grabs the key ring out of your hands, reaches behind you, opens the door, and walks you backwards inside. Placing the key ring back into your hand, he walks back to the door and gives you one look before he closes it, “It’s only fair.”

(He was right and you did wake up with very little memory of the night before. Breakfast with him was amazing though, good god the man can cook. So sweet of him to offer. You spilt hot coffee on your lap when he asked you to get dinner with him while he washed the dishes. You said yes.)

#i haven’t written in months so if it’s bad take it up w god #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugo katuski x reader #bnha x reader #tw alcohol #tw weed #tw drugs

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hallothere · 7 months

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this is apropos of nothing, but it is adjacent to the Golodir brainwashing AU.

it does go into a little detail on the setup, but this is a branch of a sarc au focused around the Horrible Canonless Potion called Mindcoil, which lets the party administering it control the mind of their poisonee. in this au, Golodir was under said evil influence during his stay in Carn Dum, was subsequently freed, further subsequently re-exposed just prior to the Grey Host's jaunt through Gondor, and re-freed after the battle of the Pelennor. this fic takes off in the Tower of Barad Curon, where Corunir finds himself (and soon, Golodir) prisoners of Gothmog

enjoy

Corunir sat on the top step of the dais as calmly as he was able. There was to be a tournament in the tower of Barad Curon, and the stage was set. Every single aspect of this trial of arms had been calculated. The weapons, the fighters, the stakes, the decor, the level of dust allowed to keep coating the floor- Gothmog had factored all of the random variables, and engineered some for his own ends.

It became obvious from the moment Corunir had woken up in a strange room. Instead of the traditional slime-covered walls, barred doors, and corpses for company, he had found his prison lavish, if dusty. A single bed sat in a large room with windows so high up on the ceiling he doubted they could be opened or closed by human hands. There was a cabinet and set of shelves on every wall, some with tables and the remains of paper, glass containers, and shreds of wood he couldn't guess the purpose of.

But he did recognize the room. That had been calculated. It was similar to another room, one he'd last seen Golodir in. High, warm walls, comfortable beds, the implements of healing. People. Chatter. There was always the smell of herbs and soothing tinctures in the air. The sound of flowing water.

This room was a tomb. Corunir clenched his jaw hard and stared at the cover of an ancient olia that stretched over most of the floor. These had been the healing halls of Minas Ithil. One corner of the cover was slightly askew, and there was no dust on it. He was meant to look. At all costs, he must not.

Gothmog may have made a fatal error there. His knowledge of Corunir was limited, and his calculations off. He knew only of the steadfast follower, the one too stubborn in the face of horrors beyond comprehension. With the palantir that had once lived in the halls of Carn Dum, he was familiar with the young man undone by the sight of his fellows lying dead in the grip of the Rammas Deluon.

He did not know Corunir very well at all.

The room had not been emptied, with purpose, and now Corunir bent that tactic to his own ends. There remained here more than remains. That would be the wraith's undoing.

Now, he sat perfectly still on the top step of the dais. Gothmog had dressed the scene well- Corunir would give him that. He had been divested of his armor and boots, allowed only tunic and trousers to attend the duel in. He'd been dragged through the city once already, and still found cobwebs and white patches of dust all over. Between the condition of his clothes and the manacles, it spelled a message just for Golodir: He is ours, he is helpless, and the outcome you desire rests in our hands.

Perfect nonsense. Smoke and mirrors. Corunir, in his own act of defiance, had scrubbed his face clean and put his hair back as neatly as he could. Gothmog underestimated him. He was no pawn, not in this game. He was moving pieces of his own, and unfortunately they were both in silent contest over who would be moving Golodir.

The mindcoil was the most prominent factor. It was a newer potion in the grand scheme of things- five hundred years of refinement and only a few decades worth of scholarly materials on how it could be undone. Corunir had been under the effects just once, and at a lower dose. He had felt muddled, compelled but not wholly under the command of the loudest voice. It did not entrance him completely, but it still drew out his complete obedience.

Corunir had worked from his despair in Aughaire on the antidote until he had the weapon, if not the means to wield it. On days where he was too weak to stand, he would pour over herbs and distillations. When he had his strength, he found stories from the Trev Gallorg, sometimes even venturing to Angmarim encampments to steal a tome or a sample. Even before he broke the Rammas, he broke the power of mindcoil in secret. A cure guarded jealously from the enemy was one they would not know to prepare against. Mindcoil was no longer the Iron Crown's ultimate weapon.

But Golodir had been in its thrall for years, puppeted by Mordirith in the halls of Carn Dum. Once ensorceled so deeply, his freedom hung more precariously than Corunir's. It had been taken in Rohan once already. Golodir had been well, of sound mind and decent enough condition, all things considered, when he had been snatched from them in secret. Dagoras had nearly died retaking him. He'd accepted the risk for kin he so loved.

Last Corunir had known, Golodir recovered alongside his longsuffering cousin in Minas Tirith. The fact that he was here, now, meant this struggle coming to its natural conclusion. Corunir was ready.

Golodir was brought forth in short order. Staged as he was, Corunir still held his head high and nodded to his captain- his friend- with all the courage in him. He would need a show of strength from both of them for this to work. Golodir, at least, was armed and armored. The mail looked solid, if old, and he had been given a clean blade as well as every scrap of plate or leather he could wish. They were arranged in a familiar configuration, with similar pieces to what he usually carried. Golodir had been allowed to choose, then. Corunir's brow darkened at the sight of the tabard of Minas Ithil with a hole- dark and stained- right over the heart. He would have to live with it.

"Here he is-" Gothmog's voice grated over the stone floor as he rose from the throne, "-my Champion. The Red Knight of Carn Dum, deserter of the Iron Crown."

"I am none of those, Mordirith." Golodir challenged. Corunir's heart soared. It was not too late! "Golodir of the Dunedain am I, and I come to remove you from a throne unlawfully taken."

Corunir fought down a smirk. Fury rolled over the room like a wave as Golodir's barb hit home. He was no pawn either. Three could play at this game.

"You accept my terms, then?" The voice took on a silkier air, forced as it was, as Gothmog pushed past the blow well-struck. "I am to win the city, your service, and your boy-" Here, Golodir couldn't stop his eyes from flicking towards Corunir, "-uncontested?"

Corunir waited expectantly for Golodir to bristle and say "And the lot to me when I win", only, his answer was not immediate.

"The first I have no claim over." Golodir stood rock-steady, looking every bit the knight. Quite suddenly, Corunir had doubts, and not the kind he anticipated either.

"The second is not mine to give freely, though it may be taken." One of his hands rested on the pommel of his borrowed sword, secured about his waist. It tightened fiercely. "And the third you will not have as long as I draw breath."

He almost laughed as several of his fears disappeared, unfounded. Golodir was of his own mind and undaunted. While he was forced to play this game as well, he was not lost in it. Not confined to it.

"But, I will abide by all terms as far as I can in my honor. Though... I have no assurances you will do the same." That was true enough. To what degree Gothmog sought to reject any semblance of Earnur, they did not know. If a new mantle and a new name meant new capacity for deceit, only time would tell.

"I stand by those terms as well, Golodir." The tone was ice, skating along the veneer of protocol and chivalry. Corunir could feel watching eyes on his back. "Your squire may attend you, and then our contest will begin."

Corunir waited for Golodir's nod, then got up and hurried over. It was time for his final preparations. Instead of maintaining an air of calm as he had before, Corunir threw himself into Golodir's arms and grabbed his tabard with both hands. Golodir, shocked but ever attentive, wrapped his arms around Corunir in response.

"Corunir," he said, relief mingling with worry, "do not be afraid. There is still hope, don't lose your nerve."

"I have not." Corunir whispered. "But if he thinks I have, and have startled you, all is the better. I come bearing gifts." Golodir would not be able to feel so fine a movement through mail and plate, but Corunir uncurled one hand hidden between them.

"Take this," he breathed, "and eat it in secret. Put a hand to your mouth when I leave, pretend to cry, do whatever you must. And worry not for me! I have had some already. Mordirith will play us false, but he doesn't know all that I do."

Golodir didn't respond, but stepped back to take both of Corunir's hands in his. The sachet passed between them easily.

"I thought you'd already made acceptance with our meal in the city." Golodir said, eyes too full of emotion to catch just one, "Though I do appreciate it, son."

"Would not a dutiful son do all he can?" Corunir smiled grimly. "If he thinks me your son by blood, I'll not dissuade him. Though if I wish to hold a meal for you, you can't stop me."

Golodir chuckled. "He returns. Try not to do anything rash, whatever may come. I'll not lose son and Captain both today."

"It will come to neither." Corunir's heart sank a little at the proclamation. He had laid his plans, but the mindcoil of Minas Morgul might be stronger than he knew. It would not sway Golodir into Mordirith's command once more, but it might leave him confused and Corunir in charge.

"Let us hope you stay the captain. I have no love for command." He felt the presence of the wraith looming near, steeled himself, and began his act anew. "He will not frighten me! I will stay strong for you, father!"

As he was pulled away, he saw Golodir turn and put a hand to his face. Father though he may be by heart, it was never Corunir's habit to address him such. In this, he would know all was well and the scheme was alive. Now, the empty sachet lay abandoned on the floor. Corunir smiled. Even if that acrid scent filled the air, and the potion's fumes soaked the room, they had their defense.

Gothmog had underestimated him. It would never pay to trap such a prisoner in the herb stores of Minas Ithil. Whatever the trial, he and Golodir would face it with their minds free.

#writing tag #fic tag #corunir #golodir #mindcoil au #yes that *is*a reference to the Traditional Dunedain adoption dinner #can also coexist in the lorniel lives verse #replacement? never. free brother

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vigilante-izuku · 2 years

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Hi mind if I just 🥺👉🏻👈🏻 (smut incoming)

It was pathetic, the way you’d wait for him.

Even more pathetic that you couldn’t do it properly. You had such high hopes—Bruce, climbing the stairs, tired and sore, still in half his armor. You, sitting at his desk, back turned. He’d ask you what you were doing down here so late, and you’d respond by swiveling around to show him the delicate lace adorning your frame—ebony and silk and much too scarce for the draft always curling through his underground hide. Then you’d sink to your knees before him, smirking as you worked open those thick tactical pants and showed him how proud of him you were—the city’s hero. Your hero.

All dashed to pieces in the first hour.

You thought you could hold out, but the night crept up and soon you were nodding off in his chair, chin resting on your silk clad chest. It wasn’t until hours later that a warm, heavy hand pulled you from slumber.

You shot awake with a gasp, confused, heart pounding. Only to be calmed by a gentle rasp from behind, “Easy, it’s me.”

You stilled, though your breath came heavy and rapid. “Bruce. Jesus. I-“

“What are you doing down here? It’s late. And cold.”

You smiled hesitantly—shyly—and your bare toes pushed on the concrete just enough to angle the chair into his line of sight. “I…I wanted to surprise you. I’m sorry.”

He was still in his mask. Eyes still painted black. But you could see the shine of them—the way they darted over your body with a spark of hunger. He crushed it quickly, blinking the thought away with a frown. “You shouldn’t wait so long down here, it’s not safe. Come upstairs and show me.”

He tried to gently prod you from the seat. You objected with a pitiful whine, clinging to him. “Bruce, please. I’ve missed you so much. All day. I need you.”

He paused—just long to let you know your words had an affect. Just long enough for you to take advantage of it. You scooted to sit up straight and took hold of the hand on your shoulder, bringing his gloved fingertip to your mouth and biting down on the edge of it. You looked up at him through your lashes, blinking innocently. “Please, baby?” You mumbled over his glove.

Without a sound, he pulled his hand back, leaving the glove between your teeth. You let it drop to your lap with a victorious grin. His bare palm found your cheek, stroking gently.

“Poor girl. You missed me that much, hm?”

You nodded eagerly, leaning into his touch.

His hidden eyes devoured your body once more before darting to the floor between you. “Show me.”

Instantly, you dropped to your knees, big eyes glued to his and an eager shuffle forward. But when your hands landed on his belt, deft fingers beginning the familiar steps of removing it, he stopped you. You frowned in confusion when he pushed your hands away.

“Not like that,” he chided, that warm rasp shooting straight to your pussy. His foot scraped forward on the concrete, his knee bumping your chest. Hand back on your shoulder, he forced you down, down, down—until your hot, soaking core met the blunt, dirty tip of his boot.

You gasped at the feeling—the chill of it creeping through the thin material of your panties. The friction and the fullness hitting just right, relieving the aching pressure there. You stared up at him, mouth agape.

Bruce raised an expectant eyebrow. “Well? Go on. Show me how much you missed me.”

You whined, shuffling your hips, the thick leather edge catching on your clit. He smirked in approval. “Good girl. Ride my boot. I wanna see you cum on it.”

You obeyed, as he always compelled you to do. Your hips rolled once, twice, getting a feel for the best way to move on this thing. The cold ground bit your knees but you didn’t care. Not when Bruce was staring down at you like that, and the heft of his boot fit so perfectly against your pussy.

You held onto his thick calf, planted your knees for leverage, and rode his boot.

Hips rolling and rolling, desperate pants falling from your lips, little gasps each time the blunt tip hit your clit just right. And Bruce—something about his air of indifference was making you so incredibly wet. The way he stared down at you, face focused but unbothered, like he was simply observing to ensure you followed his directions adequately.

You clenched around nothing, nails digging into the armored meat of his calf. “Bruce,” you begged, airy and weak. His lip curled the tiniest bit.

“You’re doing well,” he praised, “don’t stop.”

You were so wet your panties were soaked, leaking onto his boot and easing your glide against the dirty leather. Back and forth, back and forth, the rounded toe seemed to be the sweet spot, and you dragged over it again and again, entrance to clit.

“Bruce, Bruce,” you prayed, gripping him hard as you felt your core begin to seize.

“Look at you, humping my boot like that. Desperate thing.”

You whined and nodded your agreement.

“Cum for me.”

With one last grind against your clit, you did, thighs clenching and arms tightening around his leg. You cried out as you came hard on his boot, working yourself through it with stunted rolls of your hips.

Slowly, you climbed down, limp and sated against his leg. A soft hand slid down to rub your neck, and then strong arms were whisking you off the cold floor.

“So good for me,” Bruce said quietly, planting a kiss to your temple.

If his goal had been to dissuade you from waiting in the cave again, it was one of his very few failures.

THANK YOU FOR BLESSING MY INBOX WITH THIS FIC, ANON

#eri's answers #bruce wayne x reader #battinson x reader #batman x reader #THE WAY HE LEAVES HIS MASK ON #THIS IS SO SO SO PERFECT #AND EXACTLY WHAT I NEEDED #THANK YOU SO SO MUCH I LOVE YOU #pls visit my inbox ANY time

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ilikereadingactually · 7 months

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The Imperial Radch Trilogy

hoooo boy, do my mismatched covers annoy me! so much that i ordered lightly used copies of each book with its other cover also, and will soon have a full set of each, because i am one of those people.

Ancillary Justice by Ann Leckie

picking up a book that's as exquisitely written as this is like slipping into a warm bath. like i can just relax, because i'm in skilled hands. the amount of trust that precise, compelling prose can win from me in just a few pages is astonishing, and has rarely been misplaced.

and this is one that requires a little bit of trust! like many of my favorite speculative books, there's no soulless infodumping about the world here--background is given when it fits and serves the narrative, and otherwise you learn the world by experience. through the distinct and fascinating experience of Breq, in fact, who used to be the AI of a military spaceship with many ancillary bodies (human bodies that house its consciousness and crew the ship) and now exists as only one lone ancillary on a revenge mission. i love Breq's very specific and unusual perspective; i love jumping back and forth in time to see the past and the present and wonder how they're going to collide; i love weird space politics and religion and the exploration of emotion as a part of sentience. also!! i love many of the side characters!! Breq is really the focus, but everyone else who enters the story, even briefly, is clear and interesting, and some of them made me cry.

and i love the way gender is presented in this book SO MUCH. Breq comes from a society that doesn't distinguish gender, and uses "she" as the default pronoun, which i already love. and the book doesn't give many clear visual descriptions of anyone--so we're fully inside that perspective. Breq does take some notice of class, through accents and clothing, but just isn't at all concerned with markers of gender, and actively has difficulty identifying gender in other languages and cultures she encounters. i think this takes a lot of skill to write, and it's frankly baller to read.

also! i fucking love that the standard of not only beauty but high class and privilege in this society is dark skin!!!!!!!! dark is fashionable! dark is aristocratic!! i mean im never gonna be like "this fantasy imperialist classism is actually the good kind" because that's missing the whole point of the books, but it's so REFRESHING to visualize.

a line i really liked: AI to AI communication

"You still had your ancillaries," said Mercy of Kalr. "Yes." "I like my soldiers, but I miss having ancillaries." That reminded me. "They aren't doing maintenance as they should. The hinges on the airlock door were very sticky." "I'm sorry." "It doesn't matter now," I said, and it struck me that something similar might have delayed Anaander Mianaai's attempts to open the lock on her side. "But you'll want to have your officers get after them."

books 2 and 3 under the cut!

Ancillary Sword by Ann Leckie

LOVE a second book in a series that delights me just as much as the first but in new and different ways!! Leckie's prose is still gorgeous, that's a given. but this book, as with many good speculative series, heightens the stakes and broadens the world. where the first book was a somewhat more intimate story about a few connected characters and the pursuit of a personal goal, the second book brings in more complex political intrigue, addresses more widespread injustices, and introduces an array of excellent new characters. the first book held on to its tension by moving back and forth in time; this book takes advantage of the wider spread and Breq's particular kind of perception to tell multiple stories happening simultaneously, through glimpses at what other characters are doing "offscreen." it's a fantastic tactic!!

it's also clearer in this book how unreliable Breq's narration is, specifically about her own state of being. she thinks of herself as not human, and so as less important--she doesn't take the time to narrate or even notice her own physical state or emotional needs until she's totally overwhelmed, at which point we start to get little flashes of what everyone around her sees: a person of incredible kindness and integrity and intelligence, beloved by those under her care. there's a specific kind of intimacy between characters in these books that fascinates me, i love every acts of service bitch in this bar.

a line i really liked: why is every book series i love actually about grief

"Citizen, I am in mourning." I had not had time to clean the white stripe off my face for the night. And she could not possibly have forgotten the reason for it. "But surely, Fleet Captain," she replied sweetly, "that's all for show." "It's always for show, Citizen. It is entirely possible to grieve with no outward sign. These things are meant to let others know about it."

Ancillary Mercy by Ann Leckie

wow. ok. so. i drafted the section on Ancillary Justice above after finishing just that book; wrote the section on Ancillary Sword after reading all three books and listening to the first two audiobooks; here i am to write about Ancillary Mercy after reading the series once and listening to all the audiobooks twice. so...my descent into obsession will be palpable.

i'm actually a little mad that i didn't have these books on my radar before, but i was deeply embedded in the children's lit world at the time they were coming out, and maybe would not have enjoyed them as much as i did. which is something i loved in this series--the persistent idea that people not only change over time, but that in each moment, all the choices you have made up to that moment have created you specifically, and if you had made different choices, you would be a different person. i'm not the person i was then, five years out of grad school, busting my ass for $10/hour in children's bookstores, reading mostly middle grade because middle grade reliably is not romantic and i did not yet know i was aroace. so, overall, i'm grateful these books have come to me now (thanks to my best friend, who sent me Ancillary Justice for my birthday and kept telling me i would love it).

but let me talk a little about this third book in particular. once again, the stakes are incrementally raised: threats that were at a little distance before finally arrive in a bigger way, or come back again after a tense reprieve; the question of who is a person, what a "person" even is, becomes both more muddied and more crucial than ever. through it all, Breq continues to move doggedly forward with stubborn compassion for everyone but herself, keeps throwing herself in front of danger, and makes a more enormous impact on the world around her than i ever expected. this book is like everything i ever loved about Star Trek: Deep Space Nine (the best Trek don't come at me) but with oodles more gender fuckery.

it's also the really beautiful culmination of my other favorite theme of these books: that you can't know what effects your choices will have, and maybe you'll never know, but the chain of those effects will go farther than you imagine. it's so wild, on a second and third read, to see both the ripples of ruthless and self-centered choices, and the ripples of choices that come from an ethic of care. Even inside a terrible, imperialist system doing terrible, imperialist things, a single compassionate person persistently doing what she feels is right can change the course of someone else's life, and in doing so change the course of the universe.

a line i really liked: everything happening here is a blessing

"Thank all the gods," said Sphene. "I was afraid you were going to suggest we sing that song about the thousand eggs." "A thousand eggs all nice and warm," I sang. "Crack, crack, crack, a little chick is born. Peep peep peep peep! Peep peep peep peep!" "Why, Fleet Captain," Translator Zeiat exclaimed, "that's a charming song! Why haven't I heard you sing it before now?" I took a breath. "Nine hundred ninety-nine eggs all nice and warm..." "Crack, crack, crack," Translator Zeiat joined me, her voice a bit breathy but otherwise quite pleasant, "a little chick is born. Peep peep peep peep! What fun! Are there more verses?" "Nine hundred and ninety-eight of them, Translator," I said. "We're not cousins anymore," said Sphene.

the combo deets

how i read them: i read the first as a physical book (thanks B <3), started the second as an ebook, happened to be at a bookstore and picked up the second and third, and so read them all physical in the end. also, highly rec the audiobooks!! i don't know how they'd go as a first read, but they're extremely fun as a reread. lots of great accents and really interesting tonal choices.

try these if you: dig hard SF and examinations of artificial intelligence and personhood, are weak for self-sacrificing main characters, want that sweet aspec rep, or fuck with gender! or, and this may sound weird, love people bonding with dragons in your fantasy books--there are a lot of relationships here that feel similar to me.

maybe not for you if: you really need to avoid depression/suicidality, drug addiction, or genocide in stories. none of these things are here in a degree that i found too difficult to handle, but i like an uncomfortable read, so ymmv.

i'm reading Provenance, the next book set in this universe, right now! so more Imperial Radch reviews to come.

#books and reading #bookblr #book recs #book reviews #imperial radch #ann leckie #ancillary justice #ancillary sword #ancillary mercy #queer science fiction

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thedragonagelesbian · 3 months

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I’m thinking about battle couples, and does Cyrus (or you) ever think about how different (or similar?) it feels to be in battle by Wyll’s side rather than Meredith? ❤️

ooooooh this is such a good question, tytytyty so much for asking!!

i don't think it's something cyrus is conscious of at first because he feels like a total fish out of water trying to fight again. he can't fulfill the dexterous stealthy ranger archetype, but he also has to relearn how to be a warrior, and there are so many growing pains in that, among them that stubborn self-sufficiency of like. i have to be good at fighting on my own. because if im not that means i was only ever good at following her orders. so he feels the absence of not fighting at meredith's side but clings to that absence and doesn't consider how it could be different with wyll

(or even lae'zel as, you know, a tactically minded greatsword wielder... i've never taken commander's strike bc it's never seemed worth all the resources it burns, but i could do something painful with it & the memories it would bring up for cyrus of being compelled by meredith's voice of authority................)

things change when cyrus dies during the nere fight-- being revived by wyll is a very different experience than being revived by meredith, and cyrus takes his first fighter level afterward, indicative of how he's had to become tougher and harder and more like his old self, at least in combat, to survive the gauntlet of getting this damned tadpole out of his brain.

progressing into act 2 with the 'killing' of the dream visitor, cyrus is extremely conscious of the possibility of reverting to who he once was, culminating in the 'i will be the shield but you must be the sword' line/emperor reveal/becoming a champion fighter. it makes him trepidatious, for example, about using the warding bond rings with wyll. it is so achingly familiar to throw his body on the sacrificial pyre for the one he loves, and if there's anything unnerving about being battle couples with wyll, it's not so much sharing wyll's burden as it is the fact that sharing it feels right. that part of himself that is so eager and desperate to sanctify and make meaning out of his suffering wants to find real moral purpose through this bond, the same way he found purpose by taking blows on meredith's behalf, and he struggles with that impulse a lot

but cyrus is also keenly aware of how different it is to fight with wyll, above all else because wyll would never ask such sacrifices of him the way meredith did. wyll supports and inspires, his healing magic isn't attached to a divine mandate, it feels like he fights alongside cyrus instead of commanding him.

when wyll took his oath of devotion, cyrus was worried that it would feel more similar, but the differences only became more pronounced. even just having the protection fighting style is an enormous change, and the first time cyrus steps into wyll's auras of protection and devotion, he feels so safe. meredith's auras were, i think, bitterly possessive-- a fiercely wilful kind of protection that refused to let its subjects go, and an uneasy tremor from the aura of conquest creeping down his spine even without the frightened condition that would trigger the aura's effects. but wyll's auras feels like rest. like a warm bed in a cold room, like a hot shower, like warm soup and drinks, like comfort and care.

another difference between fighting with wyll and fighting with meredith is just the flexibility. when meredith would fight with him instead of just directing him, she'd prefer to fight in melee side-by-side. and wyll and cyrus do fight next to each other a lot too, but they have so many more options afforded to them. cyrus has more mobility as a ranger than he did as a paladin thanks to dread ambusher, longstrider, misty step, and (soon) the mobile feat, so he can zip around the battlefield while wyll snipes with eldritch blast (thank you magic initiate feat). or wyll can cast hypnotic pattern first to neutralize the field while cyrus takes people out with (potentially) 5 attacks in the first round of combat. he hasn't had someone he trusts watching his back in 50 years. it's new. it's nice.

#anyway larian should let them bonus action kiss in battle #cyrus bg3 #cyrusXwyll #the austringer #also i am drawing heart eyes around the conquest spell list. FEAR as a paladin spell???????? god its so tasty & unethical

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aparticularbandit · 1 year

Text

The Thrall of Magic III - 1980′s

Chapter Summary: “Agnes.”

The spell again, pressing, pressing, pressing.

Wanda pleads, and Agatha doesn’t have the strength to resist any longer.

Agnes surges forward, Agnes captures Wanda’s lips with hers, and Wanda melts.

companion piece to Kisses Through The Decades

Agatha Harkness/Wanda Maximoff Chapter Rating: M for dark themes. Fic Rating: M for dark themes and upcoming sexual content. TW: Mental coercion; dubious consent/non-con (no sex).

AO3

previous chapter / next chapter

Agatha rouses with the dawn.

Of course, it is impossible to see the sunlight filtering through windows in the dank dark of the basement, though the thick vines turned roots still stretching out into Westview, still absorbing the minutest of pulses from the Hex itself and transferring, channeling that magic into Agatha’s own. It doesn’t fuel her, unfortunately, but it does help maintain the spells she set throughout the house she currently calls her own, helps protect her mind by fortifying the barrier she holds – thick, but flexible – against the other witch’s unwitting attempts at intrusion.

Are they unwitting?

Agatha stretches, her body – her back – sore from the cold hard basement floor set beneath her feather soft mattress, conjured in an errant moment of weakness without thought to how she would wake. She unclenches her arms from the even softer pillow she’s wrapped herself around, then stops, holds it closer, burying her head into the top of it with a deep sigh. Instinctively, she reaches out, lets her mind brush against magic in the purest form it can, the same as a needing child curls into its mother’s breast, and imagines she can feel it warm as a person, brushing the back of its hand comfortingly along her cheek. Then it presses a kiss to her forehead in as gentle a manner as it can – magic recognizes those who love it, even if it does not truly love them back, only plays pretend, just as Agatha pretends that it is touching her when certainly it is doing no such thing – and Agatha tears herself away from its addicting presence, draws herself up into a sitting position with the pillow dropped to the mattress next to her, and drags a hand through her frazzled hair, shifting it into something much more befitting this new decade, all frizz and crinkles and tight spirals pushed back with a headband made of much softer fabric than truly accurate for the time period.

This does not matter, so long as it looks the part. It isn’t like Wanda will notice, unless she runs her fingers across it, and though Agatha still feels compelled to kiss the other woman, she doubts that this new, young mother will find much appeal in her. At least, not until she needs a worthy distraction from the encroaching miseries of her current home life. It isn’t as though Agatha doesn’t remember other women with a much heartier countenance than Wanda drowning under her allure in their weaker moments. The only question is whether seduction tactics will help her learn what she wants to learn; if so, Agatha will use them, but in all honesty, they may just be….

Well.

She steps from her basement sanctuary, reaches one finger out to grip the threads of the spell Wanda has woven and slowly unravels and thinks to herself – If Wanda didn’t know about her twins, what else doesn’t she know?

The twins’ yowling stings the moment Agatha starts up the stairs out of her cellar, and while she notes Wanda’s palpable discomfort from here (hears it in the show’s broadcast, feels it propelling her forward as the script indicates she wants – needs – someone to help her who knows what they are doing), she hesitates. The last time she’d entered the Maximoff residence, Wanda kissed her.

The last time she’d left the Maximoff residence, Agatha’d wanted to kiss her back.

Agatha shakes that off. Just a remnant of Maximoff’s own magic trying to exert itself over Agatha’s will. She doesn’t actually want to kiss Wanda again. Certainly not. What she wants is to figure out what, exactly, the young witch is doing. How she did it.

So that she can replicate it.

Agatha Harkness is over three hundred years old. You would expect that she has learned the fine art of multitasking – how to keep her mind fully focused on multiple things at the same time – and yet, she has not. She cannot pay attention to the conversation she has set Wanda to having with her husband and pay full attention to the twins in front of her at the same time, and so she only catches hints of their discussion, angry and hushed, while she focuses more completely on the babies. While Wanda is distracted, she sprays them with lavender – and when Wanda notices, she comes up with some sort of lie that Wanda will believe because it comes from a woman who should be entirely under her control – and then scans them as the drops of barely tinted purple land on them, sink into their skin, and disappear. One of her brows raises, and she reaches out for the spirals of magic constructing the babies in front of her, now tainted with that same soft color.

Then, with the glimmer of a smile, Agatha stares down at the children, gives them each a wink (ignoring the pang in her heart as she focuses on them, on those cheerful faces that smile back up at her, mimic her – it isn’t fair), and then snaps one single thread in all of the strands Wanda has wrapped around her littlest finger. She glances to Wanda as she moves; Wanda doesn’t even notice.

Good.

Then she turns away from them, drawing Wanda’s attention as well – liquor can be a good way to get children to sleep, and while most people in the modern era would consider that shameful, in a sitcom in the eighties? It would be a joke if she ever needed to get that far. In truth, it is a lie and always has been. Agatha’s heart aches from looking at twin boys that aren’t her own and yet look so much like them; she needs them to hurry and grow up so they look more like themselves, and less like Nathaniel, less like Nicholas, less like—

Agatha toasts to the silence first, to the boys who grow just enough to clamber out of their cradles where she left them, to the one who meets her eyes with a returning wink before they age themselves older than her boys had ever been. That’s easier. It still burns the same as the liquor poured down her throat, but it’s easier.

It’s only as Wanda stands still, letting everything else move about her – like Vision, leaving for work – that Agatha considers something else might be wrong. The kids distracted them from their fight over Agatha, which was well enough, and Vision’s gaze drifts from his wife to Agatha as she hustles the children outside to play. “I’ll take care of her, old chum,” she says with a bright smile, suspecting that Wanda can’t hear a thing she’s saying, frozen in the overwhelming draw of everything she’s doing. Even when Agatha stands pointblank in front of her, one hand lifted to her forehead in the way a mother might to check their child’s temperature – checking not temperature but general mental state with a quick gesture of a spell. “Hey, hot stuff. What’s going on in that naughty little head of yours?”

Wanda’s mind is a computer running too many programs at once, glitching and freezing just before a meltdown, eyes glazed over, pupils shifting this way and that in a scarlet haze.

“You need to rest, my dear,” Agatha mumbles under her breath. She settles her fingers into more threads of the magic cast about the Hex, and while she cannot change the spell in its entirety, she can rearrange things. She takes strings and binds them together into thick cords, braids those cords together into ropes – snaps a few strings that are unneeded – compiling and scanning and, finally, with a little huff of a breath – steps back.

Give her a moment. She’ll come back on line.

It’s as Agatha lifts her fake Jazzercise bag back to her shoulder that Wanda speaks – “Where’d everyone go Wait. Where are you going?” – as though nothing had changed at all.

There’s no way of knowing what Wanda thinks just happened because the show feed shows absolutely nothing. If anything, Agatha expects this moment to be filler; when she’s back in her stolen house, she can tug on the threads of magic to scan through the hacked feed, assuming these scenes are archived somewhere she can access. (Wanda is not subtle; Agatha will find whatever she needs.)

Agatha prattles easy – Jazzercise, take advantage of your free time – and throws in a flirtatious pet name just to sweeten things, just because she knows – no matter how much Wanda might deny it (consciously or otherwise) – that she likes it.

Then the full force of Wanda’s desperate need sinks its claws into her.

Agatha barely has time to reinforce the spells protecting her mind before the other witch’s lips find her own. She scrambles to resist the magic forced onto her, the script rewriting that Wanda directs into her mind as they kiss, but even with the wards to protect her mind, to keep her safe, to keep her separate, that desire – loud as anything – presses her forward. Not that…not that she doesn’t like kissing Wanda; she does, although she can’t tell if that’s because she really does like kissing the younger witch or if that’s just her living script, just the magic Wanda instinctively casts on her to do her bidding regardless of whether that’s what Agatha wants or not.

It takes an eternity – a few seconds, in reality, but an eternity in practice – before Agatha forces herself to break away. She raises her brows, meets Wanda’s eyes, searches them for any telltale signs of scarlet deep within them but finds nothing. “It’s the hormones, isn’t it?” she asks, voice wary and uncertain as she reaches out to tug on lines of magic, to reinforce them again, to try and separate herself from who it is Wanda wants her to be, to try and tell the difference. “When I was pregnant—”

But Wanda doesn’t give her enough time to even finish that sentence before she smothers her lips with her own once more. She places a hand on the small of Agatha’s waist – where her hands have always been drawn to, where Agatha had encouraged them to touch – and tugs her forward before slipping beneath her skirt and cupping her ass.

Without thinking, Agatha kisses her back, pushes a hand through the other witch’s waves of hair, bites her lower lip until she hears the slightest note of encouragement—

Stop. This is not what you—

Agatha breaks away, forces herself to take a deep breath, head pounding with too many things going on at once, with too much magic being forced on her, too much magic being used as a wall, heart beating like a train racing along tracks, like she’s standing right in front of it just about to be hit, and she says, near breathless, “Are you….” She swallows, forces the words through, because maybe this will convince Wanda to actually think about what she is doing, realize that forcing this sort of thing is wrong. “Are you sure this is what you want, hon?” She searches Wanda’s eyes again, looking for the hint of something warm and compassionate beneath all those layers of need. “Because if Vis sees—”

“He won’t.”

She casts the spell with those words – Vis can’t come back, can’t see even if he wanted – and she breaks through the thickest of Agatha’s barriers in the same breath.

The script sets.

“He won’t,” Wanda repeats, meeting Agnes’s eyes, strengthening the spell with every syllable. “Trust me.”

Agnes nods – Agatha yells within her, banging hands against a thin glass cage – but she’s Agnes, too; she’s both – and when she moves closer, brushing her nose against Wanda’s, gaze lowering to rest on her lips, her own desire rages strong within her, a desperate need nearly as loud as the other witch’s own. “This is what you want?” she struggles to say, trying to rein herself back in and failing. “You won’t—”

“Agnes.”

The spell again, pressing, pressing, pressing.

Wanda pleads, and Agatha doesn’t have the strength to resist any longer.

Agnes surges forward, Agnes captures Wanda’s lips with hers, and Wanda melts.

I want you.

That singular thought throbs through Agatha’s mind.

No. Not singular.

I want you. You want me. You want this. I want you.

Magic, thrumming through her mind, under her skin, beating with her heart, flooding through her veins. Fingertips skimming magic along her skin, cool as a fall breeze on a hot summer day, and she curves into it because she has always loved magic, always been in love with magic.

It betrays her now.

There are two minds in Agatha Harkness – the one succumbing to Wanda’s spell (intentional or not) and the one, much smaller, still trying desperately to resist. She didn’t want this. Doesn’t want this. A part of her does – although whether that is wholly the new spell or some lingering after-effects of the last time Wanda cast her magic just for a tempting taste or something else entirely, Agatha cannot be sure – but even the part that she won’t deny does want Wanda doesn’t want it like this.

Doesn’t want it when she isn’t completely in control of herself, when magic rips tidal waves through her like waves of panicked dread again and again – doesn’t matter that it’s desire this time instead of panic, doesn’t matter that the sensation is oddly pleasurable – matters only that she is not choosing this in her right mind.

Some part of her, buried far, far in the back of her, screams and screams and screams, but even its resistance shrinks in the weight of the other witch’s magic casting touch.

I want you.

It isn’t that she wants to say no, it’s that she doesn’t want to say yes, but her lips are caught and torn and her body moves in ways that she wants but does not want, and everything feels wrong and everything feels right.

The Westview citizens, for all their lack of magic and protection, for all of their torture, are not laid bare like this. Wanda didn’t fall for one of her puppets; she fell for the singular active human presence in the entire Hex and then forced her magic onto her as though she could make her a puppet, if she wanted.

It’s hard to resist – she tries – but her entire body thrums with—

I want you.

Except that she doesn’t.

Agatha might have wanted to kiss Wanda again, but she doesn’t want Wanda removing her clothes, she doesn’t want to be removing Wanda’s (not right now, anyway), and she doesn’t want to situate Wanda back against the couch just because her magic is forcing her to—

Wanda’s magic forces Agatha to want her, but Wanda doesn’t want her. She just wants. Aimlessly. And Agatha – or Agnes, as far as Wanda is concerned – is simply the first person left alone with her long enough for her to do something about it. The first person she’s been left alone with that she wants to do something with.

It isn’t even about Agnes.

(At least, Wanda tells herself that.)

It is about being so horny Wanda would go to town on a hot dog if she’d been given the opportunity.

And here she has the opportunity with someone who hadn’t minded kissing her however many decade-days ago, and she is taking advantage.

Agatha doesn’t want to melt. Agatha tries not to melt. But Agnes melts, tugs not on Agatha’s memories or skill but on the script Wanda provides for her, on the skills that Wanda either expects Agnes to have or simply wants her to have because Wanda is a woman who, at least subconsciously, knows exactly what she wants someone to do to her and will easily and eagerly direct Agnes to doing it.

Wanda tastes good, but there’s no way of telling if Agatha actually thinks that or if Wanda expects Agnes to think that.

There are some thoughts where Agatha can’t tell if it’s her thought or Wanda thinking for her.

The vast majority of her does not care.

I WANT YOU.

“Enough.”

Agatha pauses. She stills. Her eyes don’t feel quite focused, she doesn’t feel quite herself, like the stomach flu but not an entirely negative experience, like being sick, only not physically sick. Some other kind of sick. A soft, fuzzy disconnect. She blinks twice, forces herself to stare into Wanda’s eyes, to search them for that glimmer of scarlet that says she’s casting some sort of spell. Then she licks her lips, mouth suddenly dry, and says, “This is…what you want.”

For a moment, Wanda looks back at her. She nods slow and leans up to capture Agatha’s lips with her own again; Agatha can’t stop the soft whine of pleasure when Wanda tugs on her bottom lip, and she wants to lean down to continue until Wanda says, clear, “I don’t know that it’s what you want.”

What does…what does she want?

Agatha’s brow furrows with confusion. “I….” She cups Wanda’s face, brushes her thumb along the younger witch’s sharp cheekbone, lets her nail catch on Wanda’s soft skin as a smile plays about her lips. “I want what you want.”

I…want…you?

Fuzzy confusion.

I want you.

Enough.

Agnes follows the script, but the lines are slightly off.

Agatha regains herself. When Wanda’s hand skims along her neck, when she kisses just next to her lips, Agatha shivers, but her body doesn’t quite respond. As Wanda moves away from her, she tenses and untenses her fingers, tucks them around the strands of magic ever-present around her, and takes a deep, shuddering breath in, eyes pricking with tears. When the waves come this time, it isn’t pleasure but panic, and despite what just happened, when she crumples, she does so against the witch who decided to change her mind.

“Is it me?” Agatha murmurs, asking it not of Wanda but of the magic she breathes in, the magic that surrounds her, the magic that even now curls comfortingly around her ankles, brushes against her wrists – only now it feels less like a familiar, purring kitten and more like shackles rubbing against her skin. “Did I do something wrong?” She runs through her spells, runs through her studies, runs through centuries’ worth of searching out magic in a matter of seconds. Her eyes scan the space in front of her – examining not Wanda, but magic itself. “Was I not good enough?”

Wanda tries to comfort her, but it doesn’t help.

Magic has betrayed her.

Magic has failed her.

And worst of all, Agatha still has that latent desire to kiss the other witch. To keep doing what they had been doing. And that aching, lingering void hole of a feeling of being rejected and stopped by the person who literally started her in the first place. It gnaws at her insides, and she hates it.

“Look at me,” Agatha forces herself to say, forces herself to chuckle as though this is a small thing when it isn’t, “crying like a virgin on her wedding night. I’m no spring chicken—” She cuts herself off, lets her words follow the script Wanda’s written out for her, while her mind directs itself to her own marriage, so many centuries ago, to the things she could do to Wanda if the witch hadn’t tried to exert magical control over her—

Raw.

Numb.

Some mix of the two – that’s all Agatha can feel as she strides around the room, finding her clothes where they’ve been discarded, dragging the striped dress back over her head, situating the band through her hair (and pinging herself with static when she does, all that tension threaded through her frizz), and slipping the bright blue shirt back on – the one that draws on the color of her eyes, although she sickens, thinking of that – before fiddling with the edges of it where it should just tie back into a normal knot.

It would be so easy to shut Wanda out. To slam the door in her face. But there’s—

If she had asked, would I have said no?

….

If she hadn’t cast the spell, would I have said no, or would I have—?

Agatha knows her answer, just like she knows that even now, if Wanda hadn’t—

“Would you tie this for me, hon?”

She says it so softly that Wanda probably wouldn’t hear it at all, if not for the spells she’s cast thrumming through and around everything, bringing every word, every movement directly to her attention, particularly if it goes counter to what she wants or expects. For all that Agatha bends the script, she still follows what is expected of her. She’s the nosy next door neighbor. The kinky, weird best friend. The second love interest, apparently, creating a love triangle that continues off-screen and without notice because these decades certainly aren’t going to broadcast a queer relationship when their main character already has a husband and children.

Ah.

Agatha catches magic’s joke then.

Homewrecker. She’s the homewrecker.

When Wanda tightens the knot – when she pats it – when she blushes a bright, bright scarlet afterwards, Agatha finds fondness creeping alongside the futile void within her, a much more pleasant emotion than raw and numb. A corner of her lips lifts at the other witch’s awkwardness, and she runs a finger along Wanda’s jaw, tucks it beneath her chin, and lifts it gentle. She searches Wanda’s deep green eyes for any suggestion of spells to be cast, and when she doesn’t find it, decides that, for once, she wants to kiss the witch because it’s what she wants, not because Wanda kisses her first.

Just as much a reminder to herself as a note to the other witch that maybe she doesn’t have to cast a spell on her to get what she wants.

Agatha kisses Wanda as herself, not as the script Wanda tries to force her into, but as an act of forgiveness, and when Wanda melts against her this time, when her hands reach out to just brush fingertips against the small of her waist before resting there, she feels….

Uncertain.

Wanda barely pulls away, nose still brushing against Agatha’s, eyes still drawn to her lips, and murmurs with lips so close they brush against Agatha’s when she speaks, “I thought we were stopping.”

“I’m stopping,” Agatha purrs before kissing her again, much more chastely this time. She won’t lie to herself – she enjoys this. When she has control, she enjoys this.

Whether that’s her own choice or more lingering effects from the spell, though—

Wanda rubs her finger in circles along Agatha’s waist. “No,” she murmurs, looking down at her with large, green eyes, “you’re not.” Her eyes spark scarlet, but nothing tugs on Agatha’s mind, nothing draws her lips against Wanda’s again. At least, nothing that she can feel.

That’s more terrifying than when she could feel it.

Wanda Maximoff isn’t subtle, but that doesn’t mean she cannot learn subtlety, and Agatha cannot trust that the longing within her to curl the other witch’s curls around her finger, to make good on that taking advantage quip comes entirely from herself when Wanda’s eyes spark with magic.

The fingers of Agatha’s free hand curl into magic and cling to it, despite its earlier betrayal, because it is what she has done since she suckled at her mother’s breast, finding comfort in the very magic she breathes. She clings to magic, and she steps away from the other caster. “I’m stopping.”

She says it, and she means it, and she does.

In the freedom of her own stolen house, Agatha steals shuddering breaths. She glares aimlessly at the walls, as if she could stare down magic itself, and says nothing to it, even as she continues to keep her fingers in its tapestry as a soothing form of self-comfort. Then she stomps up to the second floor, thrusts open a door with a melted lock that she should not be able to open, and stares, still shuddering with determined fear, just stares down at a boy she’d intended to leave slumbering on while she dealt with the witch directly.

After today, Agatha doesn’t want to step into that house again, not if she will be alone with that witch while forced scripts continue to run, not if she can help it.

It will be much, much safer to send someone else in her stead.

Theoretically, anyway.

#bandit fic #kisses through the decades with wanda and agatha #the thrall of magic with agatha and wanda #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #agatha harkness #wanda maximoff x agatha harkness #agatha harkness x wanda maximoff #wagatha #wandagatha #harximoff #mcu #wandavision #tw dubious consent #tw dubcon #tw noncon #noncon tw #dubcon tw #dubious consent tw

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lionsword · 1 year

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rise up, blade of binding!

He still found it hard to believe the blade had chosen him. Really, Roy hadn’t felt chosen for anything as much as he’d been the only person around to do what he had to. It wasn’t denying his accomplishments, but wondering how he of all people was supposed to be special. Surely, everyone wanted to defend their home. They wanted peace. They wanted connections. Roy wasn’t even the best at talking to others; that was Lilina. He’d learned his tactics and battle prowess from Cecilia and his father. He was just the one with the fanciest cape.

The Binding Blade laid across his lap as he polished it, enjoying a nice day out in the courtyard. He barely needed to given its magical properties, but the thought of skipping maintenance on such an important blade was too mortifying to consider.

Finishing with the rag, he set it next to him, turning back to the blade. His reflection stared back up at him.

He didn’t know exactly what compelled him to say it. Perhaps he was spending too much time with books and swords and not enough time with other people lately.

“Thank you.” He held the sword’s grip, looking to the red stone set in the cross-guard. “I haven’t won every battle even with you at my side, but that’s alright. Your power is granted during great times of need. Being the most powerful was never my goal.” He sighed, closing his eyes. “Even though we’ve been through a lot together, I only wield you for now. Someday, someone else will need you. I’m fine with that.”

Roy’s close calls still haunted him. He’d had some calls that hadn’t even been close- they’d been fatal, and he’d only survived due to a miracle.

“Sometimes, I think I am in a time of great need again. There are people from so many different worlds in this place, and we seem to face an equal number of new threats to our home. It’s overwhelming.”

Again, he turned to his reflection again, brows creased with worry which he tried to not show to others. “I wish I were more like Hartmut. He was both legendary and kind. Sometimes, people seem to think I am too, but I guess that I see all of my best qualities came from others I know.”

At the mention of Hartmut, the grip seemed to warm under Roy’s hand. Then, he blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The reflection staring back at him was no longer his own, but a stranger, charging at someone familiar. Idunn. Roy watched, stunned, as the vision showed the original time Idunn had been sent into a slumber, the Binding Blade in the hands of someone who could only be Hartmut, the warrior fearless as he dealt the final blow, yet also sympathetic to her.

But something new happened through this version of the memory.

Hartmut made eye contact with Roy and said something Roy couldn’t hear, but apparently his sword heard.

Roy leapt up with a shout as sparks appeared in the air all around him, flashing and then turning to flame, whirling around the blade and Roy harmlessly. He gasped as it almost felt like the Binding Blade was even lighter in his hand than before, yet even more powerful, potent magic flowing through the blade like a vein, as though it was still molten and alive in its core. The red jewel pulsed, alive.

“I... thank you,” he said again as it faded. Roy’s eyes were wide, hair wild, and heart racing. “We still have more to learn from each other, huh? I’ll be my very best too, then.”

The words he hadn’t heard from Hartmut were the blade’s truth for him.

You already are.

#ic #drabble #binding blade mastery #//feels tonight whoops #//hoping this is an ok mastery drabble

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the12thnightproject · 1 year

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Chapter 11: Puzzles -Shingen's POV... what does he really think about Katsu? And what will he do when he finds that pretty spy again?

Shingen x OC; Kenshin x MC (Mai)

Previous Chapter: here

Logline - Disguised as a boy, Katsuko finds herself working for Shingen, but her dangerous masquerade becomes difficult to sustain when she falls for the man with a fatal secret.

He’d been deep enough in sleep that the knocking barely registered on him, might even have been part of an unremembered dream, as was the swish when the door slid open, and the sound of Katsu’s feet, padding as lightly as a cat, to his desk. But those sounds in succession were enough to drag him into awareness and squint his eyes open for a brief moment as the young man propped a stack of messages on his desk, next to the puzzle that he still hadn’t solved.

Solved in time, rather. Shingen had been putting the puzzle back together every night, so that each time Katsu picked it up, he had to begin anew. It didn’t seem to frustrate him though, and whenever he restarted, he approached the puzzle with enthusiasm and an apparent strategy that Shingen knew would eventually prove successful. Perhaps, one of these afternoons, he would give Katsu more time to put it together, or more likely Katsu would solve the thing faster – he was getting closer each day. For now, watching his new messenger as he concentrated on finding the solution was proving to be an entertaining diversion.

There was a tactical brain in there. A tactician’s temperament? Maybe, maybe not. Katsu was certainly too impulsive, sometimes too quick to speak, too quick to sarcasm (which might be Yukimura’s influence). And of course, the young man was focused on the search for his brother, a search that after all these years, was likely to be futile.

Though it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have his mitsumono keep an eye out for Toshiie as well – once Katsu had an answer, one way or another, perhaps Shingen could help guide him in a direction that would allow him better use of his mind and instincts.

Katsu softly walked to the door, then possibly prompted by those instincts, turned and looked back at Shingen. He closed his eyes, keeping them shut until he heard the door slide closed a moment later.

“I suppose I imagine myself a teacher now,” he thought to himself. His old friend Kennyo would laugh at that idea, but maybe all that was needed to find teaching rewarding was to have a compelling pupil. It was similar to how he felt about guiding Yukimura from a rebellious teenager to the capable adult he had become … maybe these things would be part of his legacy.

Meanwhile, he had a viable plan for the unneeded courier whom he had basically taken on out of pity. You’re guilty of being impulsive from time to time as well, he told himself. The young man potentially could have been an enemy agent. But Sasuke had vouched for him, and Katsu had passed the tests that should have revealed him to be a spy, had that been the case. Instead, his somewhat rash decision had paid off by rewarding him with a messenger who was fast, reliable, and quick-witted.

Having dealt with – at least theoretically – Katsu’s future, Shingen turned his mind to the lovely spy he’d encountered last night. Who had sent her? And for what purpose? Not assassination – he’d taken a good long look to ensure she wasn’t hiding any weapons. Then a second look to confirm the first… and appreciate the view. When he’d first seen the little beauty, water droplets sluicing off her body, he’d momentarily thought she was indeed the mermaid he’d called her. Her feigned shriek of surprise had brought him back to his senses. None but a spy would have braved that cold water. Though the waterlogged nymph had obviously miscalculated just how cold that lake could be at night.

He’d decided to give her the opening she’d planned and teased her by stealing her blanket. He’d expected her to rush out of the water, plaster her body to his, then thank him for warming her, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. Whoever had sent her was clearly aware of the reputation he’d carefully cultivated. Had the night gone as he’d anticipated, he would have lowered that body to the blanket, and enjoyed thoroughly exploring every inch of her, before sending her back to her master (whoever that may be), without the information she sought.

As recompense for refusing to satisfy any attempt to extract information from him, he would have physically satisfied her body’s needs. He’d envisioned her face flushed from pleasure, lips swollen from his kisses, and body humming with the aftermath of their play. It had promised to be a mutually enjoyable encounter.

That’s what ought to have happened.

He laughed at himself as he smoothed out the blanket she had left with him. Apparently, his spy had had a different agenda. Instead of seductive kisses from a practiced siren, he’d received a spirited bargaining session from a mischievous sprite. It had been, well, entertaining, to watch her try to outmaneuver him… until she’d actually outmaneuvered him.

She’d be back. Maybe he hadn’t gotten what he’d wanted from her, but neither had she received the information she’d sought. This had simply been her opening raid, in what likely would prove to be a longer battle. She would approach him again… if he didn’t find her first. Their next encounter would go more his way.

He eventually drifted back into sleep amidst plans for such an encounter.

“I really am moving like an old man this morning,” was his self-deprecating thought when he eventually hauled himself out of bed. It had been a late night, but he was used to late nights. This morning was… just a slow morning. That was all. He stretched, wincing at the familiar weight pressing on his chest and the ache in his joints, hoping that it didn’t herald a return to the cycle of illness and semi-recovery that had dogged the past few years. Perhaps he had simply moved wrong.

There was the sound of running feet outside, then a knock at the door.

“Yes?” He reached for his yukata then winced again as it fell to the floor, forcing him to bend to reach it.

“It’s Katsu.”

Alerted by a note of urgency in his messenger’s voice, Shingen said, “Enter.”

Katsu rushed in, skidded to a halt, blinked, and fixed his eyes on the wall behind Shingen. Shingen almost laughed at Katsu’s attempt at polite blindness, but he wouldn’t have rushed in without a good reason. Maybe that pretty spy had been found. He shrugged into the. “What is it? Did someone find her already?”

Katsu took a deep breath. He held out an arrow. “Someone just shot this over the wall at Mai.”

Damn it.

“Was she hurt?” Clearly, she hadn’t been seriously injured, or there were already be alarms clanging throughout Kasugayama. He took the arrow that Katsu was holding. No blood on it, so Mai was likely untouched. But the thought that someone wanted Mai dead… and the thought of what Kenshin would do…? His friend was not as broken these days. But much of that was due to Mai’s influence, and if something happened to her… Shingen didn’t want to contemplate the ensuing chain of events.

“No. Yoshimoto saved her life.” Katsu’s attention stayed firmly on the arrow. “We were on the back grounds, when it came over the wall. Yoshimoto pulled her out of the way and covered her with his body, and the arrow landed right where she had been standing. She refuses to tell Kenshin, but … Yoshimoto and I felt someone in authority needed to know.”

He had a feeling that Katsu and Yoshimoto had had to do some fast talking to get Mai to agree to even that. She tended to be oblivious sometimes to the danger of her position as Kenshin’s Lady.

He glanced down at the arrow his still had in his hands. Definitely not the type that his archers used, and not from the Kasugayama armory either. “This isn’t from the Kasugayama armory.”

Katsu pointed to the feathers on the shaft. “Sea eagle feathers are fairly easy to obtain around here, though.”

A good point, however, the arrowheads would have to be -

“I could go around to the blacksmiths in the area and see if anyone makes arrowheads like these,” Katsu echoed his thoughts.

It was a worthwhile plan. However, it could keep. “You can do that later.” He went to the desk for paper and a brush. “Can you draw?”

“Not at all.”

Shingen added that to his internal list of “things to teach Katsu.” He wasn’t much of an artist himself, but map making was a learnable skill. He sketched out a map of the archery grounds…. Perhaps only a semi learnable skill. Few people would look at that drawing and recognize the Kasugayama yard. “Show me where everyone was standing.”

Katsu joined him at the desk and drew little sticks with circles at the top – oh, was that supposed to be Yoshimoto (side squiggle to represent his queue) and Mai (long squiggles for hair) and Katsu (no squiggles)? He then added some circular squiggles above the wall. What were those? Trees?

Katsu had been correct. He could not draw at all. He took “teach Katsu to draw” off the mental list. Maybe Yoshimoto or Mai could make that attempt.

He leaned over Katsu and pointed to the odd squiggles. “The arrow came from there?”

Katsu’s posture was perfectly straight and still under his arm and his voice sounded uncharacteristically inflectionless. “Um. Around there, yeah. This one, probably.” He traced an invisible line across the ‘map’ toward the circle/sticks. “One of these trees had to be it. There’s a lot of cover – I climbed the wall, but he was gone when I got there. Or well hidden.”

Climbed the wall? Shingen glanced down at Katsu’s hands which had a broken nail, and a network of scrapes and scratches from the rough stones. He pictured Katsu scampering up the wall like a snow monkey, his face alive and intent upon solving another kind of puzzle. On the heels of that image came an unexpected surge of lust. He batted that thought away - he could not take advantage of Katsu’s trust in such a way.

His silence gone on too long - Katsu turned to look at him, his eyes curious, and suddenly conscious of his undressed state, Shingen stepped back and fastened his yukata. Absurd idea, he repeated to himself. It was simply residual feelings from last night’s unfinished encounter with the spy.

Katsu seemed to think his silence was indicative of disapproval. “I should have searched the woods. Now it’s too late. I’m sorry.” The tone was even more apologetic than the words.

“Don’t beat yourself up. I doubt he stuck around after that one shot. He was likely gone before you even got to the wall.” He patted Katsu on the shoulder, reminding himself that his role was of a mentor.

“I’ll go take a look around anyway,” Katsu said, clearly eager to get to work.

As Shingen ought to as well. This attempt on Mai was a far greater issue than either the search for an impish sprite or the unexpected attraction to his messenger. He followed Katsu “That’s a good idea – I’d like to do that as well, if you don’t mind showing me.”

Katsu gave him an odd look. “I don’t mind, but you might want to get dressed. Or at least put some outside sandals on.” It appeared that Katsu had already heard about the ground spike incident. The castle gossip network was nearly as efficient as his mitsumono.

“I’ll get Yoshimoto, since he might have seen something I didn’t, and meet you there.” Katsu practically flew out the door.

Shingen grabbed for the rest of his clothing. Outside there was a thump and a clatter that he ignored in favor dressing as quickly as his aching joints would allow.

Katsu and Yoshimoto seemed to be in agreement that the tree towering over the West side of the castle wall was the most likely source of the arrow. Glad that the short walk to the grounds had loosed up his stiff joints, Shingen knelt on the ground under the tree, even though the soft grass would not have retained any impression of the archer’s feet.

“Maybe we’ll be lucky and he snagged his clothing in the tree?” Katsu said.

Shingen looked over his shoulder to see Katsu prowling around the tree, and the next thing he knew, the young man was scrambling amongst the branches.

“Are you sure you didn’t steal that one from a troupe of acrobats?” Yoshimoto murmured.

Generally, it was best to ignore Yoshimoto when he slid into that too-bored-to-be-bothered by it tone, so Shingen let that go. “Katsu said we have you to thank for saving Mai’s life.”

Yoshimoto took out his fan, languidly waved it around. “Katsu yelled arrow, I grabbed Mai’s arm, Mai leaped to follow. One could say that all three of us had a part to play.”

“I’m pretty sure this is it. I can see the entire training field.” At the sound of Katsu’s voice he looked up to where Katsu was balanced on a thick branch that extended nearly to the top of the wall.

Because he trusted Katsu’s expertise in archery, Shingen asked, “How difficult would it be from where you are standing, to hit a moving target?”

“It’s doable. We weren’t moving around all that much. A heavier arrow, like the one we found, can travel further than where we were standing. I mean, it wouldn’t be the easiest, but any experienced archer could do it… Yoshimoto could you come up here and see if you agree?”

Yoshimoto was examining the painting on his fan. “No.”

His mental things-to-take-care-of list expanded to include, ‘do something about Yoshimoto.’ Something in the realm of finding his cousin a vocation beyond collecting pretty trinkets.

“You don’t think you could make that shot?” Katsu was still shading his eyes and looking toward the yard.

“Oh, I could probably make the shot. I could not, however, climb that tree.” Yoshimoto shuddered. “With the wind the way it was, though, do you think he was aiming for Mai, or you, or me?”

That was a question that Shingen had been pondering as well. Mai was the most obvious target of course, but perhaps Yoshimoto had angered someone, and who knew what sort of enemies Katsu had lurking in his past. However, there were easier ways to kill someone – maybe the archer didn’t care who he hit.

“Or he didn’t care which one of…” Katsu trailed off.

Again, Katsu was thinking along the same lines as Shingen. The shot may simply have been a message. “It’s possible it was meant as a threat to unsettle Ke- “

Katsu had let go of the trunk of the tree and was walking along the branch toward the castle wall, oblivious to the wind, and the way the branch dipped with his weight. “What the hell are you doing, Katsu?” The fool was going to get himself killed.

Then Katsu sprang up to grab a leaf from the branch above him, and Shingen felt his chest clutch in a way that had nothing to do with his illness.

“Damn. It’s just a leaf.”

Did he even realize how close he had come to falling? Maybe there was a tactical brain in there, but Katsu was missing a sense of self-preservation. “Get down from there!”

“Alright.” Katsu lowered himself to hang from the branch, then flung himself to the ground, flipping into a somersault at the bottom that made Shingen’s knees hurt in sympathy. There was that clutch in his chest again.

“Why cousin, you sounded practically paternal,” Yoshimoto said, as he fanned himself.

It might have sounded paternal, but it had felt… and whatever it was he felt drowned under a wave of anger at Katsu, who had no idea of the risk he had just taken.

“What were you saying?” he asked.

Startled into repeating the last thing he said, Shingen said, “Get down fr-“

“No, before that. Something about a threat?” Katsu wiped his hands on his kimono, seeming eager to get back to the puzzle. But Shingen couldn’t think about that at the moment. The image of Mai impaled on an arrow had been replaced by an image of Katsu splatting to the ground.

“I don’t recall. Your daredevil stunt knocked it right out of my head.” He raked his hands through his hair. “I thought you were going to fall to your death.”

“What? From that height?” Katsu looked back up at the tree, still blissfully unaware of the danger. “I didn’t, so-“

Had he ever been that young and brashly stupid? Surely not. Had even Yukimura’s teen years featured this sort of insane stunt? Shingen couldn’t remember.

“So…?” Yoshimoto prompted.

Katsu looked off in the distance, then shook his head. “It’s… I had a similar discussion with my brother on the last day that I saw him.”

So this headlong rushing into danger was part of Katsu’s personality. If that was the case, better to know now, before he wasted time training him. Katsu was clearly intelligent, but maybe he never would develop wisdom.

“If that is the case, then you ought to think long and hard before taking unnecessary risks with your life,” Shingen said. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything more. Instead, he headed back to the castle, away from the sight of a young man with all of his life ahead of him, and yet seemingly determined to waste it.

#tbt12 lies #ikemen sengoku #fanfiction #shingen takeda #ikesen shingen #throwback thursday #second helping #for turkey day #twelve lies i told shingen takeda

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itismissswann · 1 year

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@conjurerandking || Continued from here

Before Loki could speak, Elizabeth had already left and started the plan, to which he didn’t really have a chance to have a say in. He sighed and turned to face the ocean again, however, his clone was already making its way to the captain’s quarters in search of the stones. Granted, he didn’t feel the need to be so secretive, he had grown tired of the games played by the TVA. But why didn’t Jack turn to dust in the mere presence of these stones? Why were they all on earth at the same time? There were so many unanswered questions, and Loki had no idea where to begin.

He was still drawn to them instinctively, a siren’s song pulling him to a chest at the foot of the captain’s cot. A cot that didn’t really look slept in with all of the items packed onto it. The stones glowed softly within the box, Loki felt like he was being taunted, like these stones were mocking him. He picked up the necklace and he barely felt a small surge of energy, not even a static shock like the one you get from wool socks on a rug.

“Bloody paperweights.” He grumbled and with his magic, quickly stowed them away in a place that no earthly person could find them. Even if he was stripped down naked, there would be no trace.

He emerged turned to leave before the map on the desk caught his attention. Loki knew what Jack was running from, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

Thunder growled a deep rumbling warning. The wind had become more angry and the waves restless. Rain started falling in very fine drops, slowly soaking their garments. Elizabeth had returned to the main deck. To follow Jack everywhere he went, would definitely make her look suspicious. So, she decided to keep a low profile and wait. Elizabeth’s eyes traveled from Jack to Loki. She assumed he was using his magic to get the stones, he hadn’t moved an inch ever since she had left. The dark-haired man, now soaked by the rain, had never looked so handsome and almost enchanting as he did now.

She tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear, feeling a rush of panic when she noticed Jack make way towards the cabin. If her eyes hadn’t been so compelled to the Asgardian prince, she might have had more time to prevent him from entering his quarters. A sigh escaped her lips when she managed to slide in the small space that was left between Jack and the door. This time, their proximity seemed too intimate. “Jack,” Elizabeth said, noticing how his lips held a faint smile and his eyes twinkled. Either he was amused by how little space there was left between them or he was on to her. Oh how she blamed Loki for distracting her with his charming looks, causing her to be in this uncomfortable situation.

“Ready to come over to my side, love?” Jack’s question caught her off guard. Elizabeth had never been above using her feminine charms to get what she wanted. It’d certainly worked on Jack a number of times. That he should now have such tactics used against her was surely some cosmic revenge, if she were to believe in such things. “you seem very certain” Elizabeth immediately regretted challenging him when she watched his smile broaden. “One word love: curiosity - ”

“ - Why doesn’t your compass work” she quickly questioned, interrupting the monologue he was about to have. She held the small wooden box at eye level. The sudden distraction offering her enough time to search for Loki’s gaze, scanning his features for a signal. As soon as their eyes met, she decided to break the tension. She managed to end the meaningless conversation between them rather quickly. Jack took shelter in his quarters, just like he intended to do before the interruption. The warm light that filtered through the majestic windows of the cabin doors feeling ever so inviting in the cold of the storm. Elizabeth's boots started to hit the floor with rhythmic thuds, each step bringing her closer to Loki. Only this time, her eyes weren’t watching him, this time, her eyes were fixed on the compass, following the path the arrow pointed out for her. Another thunder rolled across the malevolent sky. The untamed power reverberated across the ocean. She was about to ask him what managed to keep him distracted in there for so long, but her eyes were drawn to the document his long elegant fingers were so delicately holding. “The letters of marque’ she breathed sharply. “Please give them back,” she asked, extending her hand so she could retrieve it. “They are of no value to you, I would very much like to have them back in my possession, thank you.” she pressed, glancing up to meet his eyes.

#Loki & Elizabeth #V: a burden to bear

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woocommerceplugin · 6 days

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Spring Forward: How to Use Social Media to Amplify Your Ecommerce Spring Sale

As the flowers bloom and the weather warms, ecommerce businesses are gearing up for one of the most lucrative seasons of the year: spring. With consumers eager to refresh their wardrobes, spruce up their homes, and embrace the spirit of renewal, there's no better time to leverage the power of social media to amplify your spring sale. In this guide, we'll explore effective strategies for harnessing the full potential of platforms like Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter to drive traffic, engage customers, and boost sales during the spring season.

Understanding Your Audience

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Creating Compelling Content

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Running Social Media Ads

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Engaging with Your Audience

Social media is not just a broadcasting platform; it's a two-way conversation. Make sure to actively engage with your audience by responding to comments, messages, and mentions promptly. Host live Q&A sessions, polls, or behind-the-scenes glimpses to foster a sense of community and connection with your followers. By being responsive and approachable, you can build trust and loyalty among your audience, ultimately driving conversion and repeat business.

Monitoring and Analyzing Performance

As your spring sale campaign unfolds, monitor key metrics such as reach, engagement, click-through rates, and conversion rates. Use analytics tools provided by social media platforms or third-party software to track the performance of your content and ads. Identify which tactics are delivering the best results and which areas may require adjustment. By continuously monitoring and analyzing performance data, you can make informed decisions to optimize your campaign in real-time.

Maximizing Cross-Promotion Opportunities

Collaborating with complementary brands or influencers for cross-promotional campaigns can extend your reach and attract new customers. Identify non-competing businesses or influencers with a similar target audience and explore opportunities for mutual promotion. Whether it's co-hosting a giveaway, cross-posting content, or offering exclusive discounts to each other's followers, cross-promotion can amplify your message and drive traffic to your spring sale.

Offering Exclusive Deals and Discounts

Create a sense of urgency and excitement around your spring sale by offering exclusive deals and discounts to your social media followers. Whether it's a limited-time flash sale, a buy-one-get-one-free offer, or a special discount code for followers, incentives can motivate users to take action and make a purchase. Highlight these exclusive offers prominently in your social media posts and leverage scarcity to encourage immediate action.

Encouraging User Participation

Empower your audience to become brand advocates by encouraging user-generated content during your spring sale. Launch contests, challenges, or hashtag campaigns that invite users to share their experiences, photos, or testimonials related to your products or brand. Not only does user-generated content add authenticity and social proof to your marketing efforts, but it also fosters a sense of community and belonging among your followers.

Building Anticipation with Teasers

Create anticipation and excitement for your spring sale by teasing upcoming promotions and product launches on social media. Share sneak peeks, behind-the-scenes footage, or countdown timers to build anticipation and curiosity among your audience. By drip-feeding information and teasers leading up to the sale event, you can keep followers engaged and eager to participate when the sale goes live.

Optimizing for Mobile

With more consumers shopping on mobile devices than ever before, it's essential to optimize your social media content and website for mobile users. Ensure that your posts, ads, and landing pages are mobile-friendly and load quickly on smartphones and tablets. Use vertical imagery, concise copy, and clear calls-to-action to streamline the mobile shopping experience and maximize conversions.

Staying Consistent Across Platforms

Maintain a cohesive brand presence across all your social media channels by staying consistent with your brand voice, messaging, and visual identity. Whether it's Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, or TikTok, ensure that your content reflects the same tone and aesthetic to reinforce brand recognition and trust. Coordinate posting schedules and themes to maintain a steady flow of content and keep your audience engaged across platforms.

Conclusion

In conclusion, spring is a prime opportunity for ecommerce businesses to leverage the power of social media to amplify their sales and connect with customers. By understanding your audience, setting clear objectives, creating compelling content, and utilizing strategies such as influencer marketing, social media ads, and user engagement, you can maximize the impact of your spring sale campaign and drive meaningful results for your business.

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surrealdesignstudiodecoragency · 2 months

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How Seasonal Theme Decorations Can Boost Foot Traffic in Your Mall

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