Oh wow! Two very similar ships from two cinematic universes where some people are born with magic and those who are have obligations that they must fulfil against their will. Person A is a morally gray person with blood on their hands who happens to be centuries of years old due to their magic but paused in their late thirties and also happens to be in charge of their respective armies. They’re cold but open up to Person B. Person B is a young adult with gifts they weren’t aware of before that in some way against their will had to adhere to the system before them and go to ‘school’ to train their powers- with a clear drive and determination to change the world.
Oh and the actors of both ships have exactly a 14 year age difference in between (25/39, and 28/42). The only difference is that one of the person A characters has a mad drive for power that they will get at any means, and the other has a drive to protect their people for any means.
I wonder which one is looked down upon! It should be the one with the power hungry person without any regard for anyone else. Right?
Nope, it’s the two girls. Double standards, amirite
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86 with fivan, per favore? 👀
Anonymous asked: ohh those writing prompts are amazing !! Maybe No. 82 & Fivan?
Tagging @mearcatsreturns for Reasons.
82. “Just breathe, okay?”
86. “Don’t be scared, I’m right here.”
Ivan Kaminsky has long lived in abject terror that this day might come.
He saw it far-off, lurking in the future but creeping inexorably closer, after the war was ended, a peace settlement was made, and the former enemies ascended the throne as king and queen of Ravka. He hoped he was mistaken, but a growing panic in the pit of his gut knew that he wasn't. Now it has finally, incontrovertibly come, and he's staring down the barrel of utter despair. This can't be right. This can't be happening. If he truly has to endure this, it will shatter him.
What? What are you talking about? No, no, no. God no. He doesn't mean losing Fedyor. That would be, bar none, the single worst event in the history of the universe. This is just the worst day of Ivan's life, although nobody else seems to see it that way. They're gathered in the chamber in their best clothes, whispering excitedly about the safe arrival of the little tsarevna, how beautiful she is, how she is -- well, until the arrival of a brother, though there are murmurings about changing the law -- the heiress presumptive to the crown of Ravka. And, of course, that tiny little detail that while nobody can be sure, this child can probably summon both Sun and Shadow. Together. Or at once. While also being the daughter of the two most powerful people in the world. And in line to become so herself.
Ivan can't see any way for this to go terribly, terribly wrong. That was sarcasm, by the way. He absolutely very much can.
This is why, he mutters furiously to himself, certain classes of people (let us call them, in accordance with the latest taxonomic science, "heterosexuals") should not ever have sexual intercourse. It leads to horrible things like children, and even more horrible things like Ivan being expected to look at them. As Genya comes out with the news that the tsaritsa is ready to receive them, Ivan contemplates spinning around and just fucking booking it directly out of the Big Palace and into the wilderness, never to return. Unfortunately, he can't, because his husband already has hold of his elbow. "Just breathe, okay?" Fedyor mutters, failing miserably at trying not to laugh in his face. "Don't be scared. I'm right here."
Ivan shoots him an absolutely filthy look as they enter the antechamber, still crowded with doctors, attendants, and other hangers-on. "You make it sound like I'm the one giving birth."
"Saints forfend." Fedyor chews his cheek, manfully wrestling back his smirk, then steps up and bows deeply to the woman in the bed. "Congratulations, moya tsaritsa! We're so happy for you."
Her Imperial Majesty Alina Starkov Morozova, Queen of Ravka, Sun Summoner, so forth and etcetera, raises a dark eyebrow, considerately deciding not to ask whether it is in fact both of them. She is perched in weary but triumphant repose among the pillows, holding the swaddled bundle of her infant daughter, while His Imperial Majesty Aleksander Morozova, King of Ravka, Shadow Summoner, Realm's Biggest Idiot, so forth and etcetera, sits adoringly at her side and gazes at her like -- well, like the actual sun. Ivan feels nauseous.
"Here," Alina says, holding the baby out. "Do you want to meet her?"
Fedyor, damn his traitorous hide, immediately accepts the little princess into his arms and starts making funny faces at her while referring to himself as "Uncle Fedya." Saints, this is awful. Ivan looks at the ceiling and does his best not to move or speak at all while Fedyor embarrasses himself with young Tsarevna Anastasia Aleksanderevna Morozova, Princess of Ravka, Summoner of Some Dangerously Powerful Sort, so forth and etcetera. Despite her number of names, she will be known, as she grows, simply as Nastia. Ivan fears that Nasty is greatly underselling it. He has never in his entire life been more devoutly grateful that Fedyor is not a woman.
Seeing that people are starting to look at him funny, and since he is the king's most trusted general, Ivan decides loathingly that it is incumbent upon him to perform the minimum of social courtesies. He advances upon Alina's bed, places one hand militantly on his heart, and inclines his head half an inch, struggling for the correct things you're supposed to say to heterosexuals when they insist on spawning and making it everyone else's problem. "My felicitations, moya tsaritsa," he comes up with. "For your offspring who is... not dead. Who is, in fact, perfectly healthy. I'm sure you're.... very pleased."
Alina and Aleksander both glare at him. Ivan takes it to mean that he has succeeded, steps back, and counts the minutes until Fedyor is forced to relinquish his goddaughter (Ivan fears even more that this designation is going to be involuntarily likewise applied to him). The infant starts to make an appalling noise. Is it dying? No, nobody seems more alarmed than usual, and Ivan would be able to detect it in its heartbeat. Nonetheless, he seizes Fedyor's arm and propels them swiftly out, barely breathing until the door slams shut behind them.
"What do you think?" Fedyor asks, the instant they are alone. "Should we have one of our own, Vanya?"
The prospect suffuses Ivan in a mantle of despair even darker than the now-vanished Shadow Fold. He stops short in the corridor and stares at his beloved in utter horror. "Tell me you don't mean that."
"I'm not an idiot, Vanya." Fedyor laughs and takes his arm again. "Of course I didn't. But that doesn't mean that we aren't going to spoil little Nastia rotten and, of course, as I volunteered, babysit for her at every opportunity."
Ivan's internal scream can probably be heard in Novyi Zem.
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Fandom: Shadow and Bone (TV), The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova/Alina Starkov
Characters: Alina Starkov, The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova
Additional Tags: Smut, Shameless Smut, Save a Country Ride a Villain, Alina should get to do the Darkling. As a Treat, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Series: Part 3 of fools for love
Yet another "Alina and Aleksander weren't interrupted after the Fete" fic. Ivan is distracted and thus can't make it to the General's door as quickly, and everyone has a much more pleasant evening.
Can be read as a standalone fic, though it does fit in with Ivan, Interrupted.
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28 + Darklina
“You’re not alone and you never will be as long as you have me.”
His eyes dart away, but she sees the tears. “You understand why I can’t let you go, then?”
“But if you make me your captive, your--your tool--and force me to do this, you will never truly have me.”
The conflict is raging within him, she can sense it, as he stands there towering over her. While he calls her an equal, it’s clear he doesn’t know what to do with one.
He blinks and his eyes soften as her heart jumps. “Then we’ll find another way.”
(From prompts list here.)
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#34 "You can't say that. You are dating my best friend!"
"You can't say that. You are dating my best friend!"
Aleksander raised his head, the brush strokes going disarray on his canvas. He opened his mouth then closed it.
Mal sighed. "Saints! This is so messed. So, so messed up."
Aleksander finally put his brush down. Wiping his fingers with a piece of cloth he asked, "what exactly are you trying to imply?"
For a moment Mal was constricted. Slightly, flushed. "That you like me..."
Aleksander blinked. His countenance as innocent as of a child. "Yes, I do."
Mal groaned. Pressing the heels of his palm against his eyes.
And then it downed at him. "You—" Aleksander was momentarily shocked at what this guy in front of him concluded of his honest confession.
"Mal," Aleksander quietly said, supressing a smile. "I like you. As a friend."
Mal blinked at him. "Oh." He said. "Oh!"
And this time Aleksander laughed. Poor guy was mortified. Alina would be beyond herself when she would hear of this exchange.
I had this in my head for a while now. Couldn't help it.
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40 for darklina?
40. “I wasn’t lying when I said that I loved you.”
Alina doesn't want to look over at the other half of the bed, since she knows full well what she will see when she does. Instead she lies on her back, staring up at the starless sky of the black velvet curtains, fighting a feeling of intense pleasure and intense -- not disgust, not exactly. More like exasperation. It's been a month of this, she knows that it has to stop, and yet it feels like nothing she's ever known when she's with him, when he's with her, in her, their powers mingled and their communion thrumming through the antler still embedded in her body. But she owns him as much as he owns her. That's always been the case, and if she crooked her finger right now, he would come. It's an undeniable power, and Alina Starkov is a little drunk on it.
She turns her head a fraction and looks at him, the long elegant lines of his body, his naked torso pale and vulnerable-looking in the shadows. He's breathing hard, wracked and wrecked, as she can feel the echoes of their lovemaking thrumming down the ineffable bond that yokes them together, sometimes against their will and sometimes as if it can never be close enough. She can never quite decide.
"Aleksander." Her voice is soft in the dimness. Too soft, given that she's meant to be kicking him out. "We have to stop doing this."
He rolls over and looks at her with those dark, liquid, ancient eyes, his hair still tousled from where she ran her fingers through it and yanked his head down to hers to kiss her harder. Well, that expressive face seems to say, she's certainly mixing her messages. At last he says only, obliquely, "Do we?"
"Yes." Alina sits up, drawing the covers over her breasts, even though it's not as if he hasn't seen them. "It's... too complicated. For Ravka. For the Grisha. For.... us."
She lists the reasons that might actually move him, the causes he might still care about, in whatever is left of that old, dark, broken heart. He doesn't move, as she can see the air arranging itself in small coruscations around him. Then he nods once. "Fine. If you say so."
As he's getting up, Alina is already aware that she doesn't want him to go, wants to call him back to bed and ask him to stay the night, stay forever. But they're still enemies, at least officially, and she can't give into it. She watches him dress. He will not need to leave by the door, will simply evanesce the way he always does. But before he does, he turns to her and says, "Alina."
She tries not to shudder at the sound of her name in his mouth, the way nobody but him speaks it. "What?"
His eyes transfix her. She might be the only light in the world, in all of eternity. "I wasn't lying when I said that I loved you."
And with that, before she can answer -- before she can possibly think how -- as ever, he is gone.
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#40 from this list for the kind anon! I did 38 yesterday.
38, 40 or 45 darklina for the prompts? Your writing is amazing, just chose whatever you feel like I’ll be happy
“I thought you weren’t going to come home.”
Alina takes stock of the empty bottles of kvas in disarray on the desk, then at her foolish, foolish husband.
Aleksander is sprawled in his chair, more disheveled than she’s ever seen him.
She walks over to him and runs her fingers through his hair. “What’s wrong?”
He peers up at her, blinking owlishly. “Our argument before you left—I thought you weren’t going to come home.”
Gingerly, she settles in his lap, tracing the lines of his face while he wraps his arms around her in relief.
“You’re my home, Aleksander, and I’ll always come back, even if we fight.”
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Like FFS he mutilates her....
but haven’t you heard ? ben barnes is sexy ? so the fictional character of the darkling actually gets a pass to mutilate a woman he previously sold into sex slavery !
and the darkling is tortured and lonely and just wants the best for the grisha! that’s why he mistreated all the grisha around him :-)
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46 and/or 68 for Darklina? 😂
46. “Dance with me.”
Alina Starkov is dreaming again, and it is always the same.
Perhaps she should admit to herself that this was what she secretly wanted, what she hoped for, when she returned to the Little Palace and took over Aleksander's old quarters, even began to sleep in his bed, as the new leader of the Grisha. She doesn't know why she sees him, dreams of him, if he is truly there in the shadows -- if I leave you, I will be alone too -- and why she does not urge him harder to leave. Or perhaps she knows exactly why. She just does not say so.
This visitation, tonight, is different. She is occupied all day with the logic of maps and plans and the weight of command that presses down much too hard on the shoulders of an orphan from Keramzin, and when she shuts the door of his bedroom and leans against it, she almost prays that he's there. At least it would give her someone to confide in, to lash out, to safely blame for everything that's happening, and she moves with trembling hands to pour herself a glass of kvas. It's started to become nightly. It helps her sleep. That, or --
The voice startles her so badly that she jumps a foot, splashing the liqueur down the front of her kefta. She knows instinctively that it's him, since who else would it be? It's a strange, demented echo of a domestic ritual, when he can turn up in his-turned-hers chambers at will, visit her seemingly whenever he pleases. The scars on his face have done nothing to diminish his beauty. She's gotten used to them.
"Aleksander." She answers coolly, as ever not sure if she's talking to a ghost, a figment of her imagination. "What do you want?"
He shrugs. "Just to see how you were. Not so easy, is it? Ruling all of the Grisha? Carrying their hopes and their fears? Trying to keep them safe?"
"Trying to keep them safe from you, more like!"
He shrugs. He doesn't seem interested in taking the bait. He sits in the shadows, watching her dab at the damp kefta. She doesn't want to change clothes with her uninvited visitor, but she doesn't know how to get rid of him (and maybe does not want to know, besides). Instead he sits there and watches her work, until she wonders if he can see the scribblings of her pencil and he has just come to spy on her plans and she is letting him. A memory of the War Room comes unbidden to mind. She burns hot as an Inferni with shame, and with something decidedly not shame. If he was here, and they could do it again -- their secret, as so much else is, just them --
"Alina." It has been several hours when he speaks again. His voice is soft as silk. Gentle, almost. He has made no move to do anything but watch her, the two of them alone in the dark watches. There is no one like you. There is no one like us.
His shadows. Her light.
Unwillingly, she turns to look at him. "Yes?"
"Come on." A poignant smile curls his lips. He rises to his feet and holds out a hand. "Dance with me."
Alina stares at him. She doesn't know how to answer. There are so many reasons that she shouldn't, not least that he's, strictly speaking, the commander on the other side of the war she has somehow been elected to wage against him, and she doesn't know what to do, how to defeat him, if she truly wants to. But she does ---
Saints, she does want this.
She reaches out. Her fingers brush his. They are cold, almost insubstantial, but real. Like he's here. Like he's with her.
He draws her close, swaying to the swells of an unseen orchestra, as if they're at a glittering ball and their fellow Grisha whirl past in riots of color and gaiety. It's not, it's just the two of them, but Alina buries her face into his chest, clings to him as tightly as she can as they waltz in serene silence, and reminds herself, justifies it to herself, that as ever, he will once more be gone in the morning.
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#45 from this list for the kind anon. I did 38 and 40 already.
38, 40 or 45 darklina for the prompts? Your writing is amazing, just chose whatever you feel like I’ll be happy
“Don’t play me for a fool, I know exactly where you were.”
Aleksander faces away from her toward the window, looking out over the lake.
Alina shivers at the chilly anger emanating from him. “Do you want me to brief you on my meeting with Nikolai?”
“Don’t play me for a fool, Alina. I know exactly where you were, and it wasn’t in a meeting. Not with Nikolai, at least.”
She flushes, thinking of Mal’s face as he stared at her longingly through the bars of his cell.
“And how are you going to punish me for daring to seize the opportunity to see my oldest friend?”
Aleksander turns, his eyes darkening.
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