#just languishing here in my agony

[shreddedparchment]

The Garden Gate

Pairing: Medieval!Loki x Reader Word Count: 6,514

Warnings: smut, mentions of infidelity, language, bodily fluids, jealousy, Loki in a poofy shirt

A/N: Well, I haven't done this in a while. I had to go look for an old post to see how I used to do these openings. LUL Anywho, y'all can thank @darkficsyouneveraskedfor for this one. She sent me a picture and then I asked her for three characters and three scenarios and this one is the one that spoke to me the most. I did put my own spin on it but that's just me. Anywho, I'm not sure how many of my old readers will read this but I hope y'all like it. Anything y'all have to say about it is also greatly appreciated. xoxo

Please DO NOT repost my stories on any other sites or blogs!!

REBLOGS are always welcome!

Your family’s fall from grace had been nothing short of spectacular.

It had started first with the crumbling of respect from the men and heads of other houses. The gentry had taken offense to the shame of your father and eldest brother’s retreat at the battle for Carmine Valley, so named for the blush of trees that peppered the expanse of lush green and the strange but beautiful red waters of the central lake.

Had Lord Odinson’s own knights not been flanking from the western ridges, the valley would have fallen into the hands of the northern enemy forces. A great loss seeing as the valley was the largest producer of grain and vegetables in the kingdom.

The fallout had been catastrophic. Both your father and brother had been sent to the wild woods to the southernmost parts of the kingdom to work off their shame and languish in the dangerous labor camps where men were said to be torn into shreds by beasts as large as a carriage.

Even though you loved them very much, you couldn’t help the anger within your veins at their betrayal to not only the kingdom, but to your very family. The abandonment that their retreat meant. They knew what doing so would do to you, your mother, and younger brother.

If it were not for the King’s good nature, you’d have no doubt found yourself working in some brothel alongside your mother leaving your younger brother, at the tender age of seven, exposed to the worst parts of society.

The seediest brothels were not above selling children, you knew. No matter that the King had signed a death warrant for anyone known to sell or buy said company. It was the worst of sins and it breaks your heart to know that one man’s generosity saved all three of you from that life when he could have very well condemned it.

Knowing this–knowing how bad it could have been–doesn’t change the fact that your life now is still torture. Torture of a different kind, but torture all the same.

The King’s kindness came in the form of service. While your family was stripped of all titles and wealth, you’d also lost your beloved.

That is the true source of agony in your chest as you struggle with the bucket of waste water you’re holding, trying desperately not to slosh it around too hard. The last thing you want to do is to go to bed smelling of someone else’s bodily fluids.

The thick wool of your simple navy dress and the apron you keep tied over it are both great for absorbing disgusting materials. Already in need of a wash, the white ruffle along the neckline is frayed and yellowing despite the gown being only a few months old.

Edging along the courtyard wall, you try not to rush. The exhaustion in your body begs for sleep. Even months later the labor of working in the castle as a servant to former peers has not grown easier.

Wincing as the rough rope of the bucket burns the center of your palms, you almost sigh but instead freeze at the sight before you.

You’d know his silhouette anywhere.

The light is low here, a small lamp just beyond the open garden gate illuminates them from behind and hides their expressions but you don’t need to see to understand.

Her lips are parted, head pressed back against the door, hand braced against the warm brown and ornately carved wood. Her legs are parted a little too wide, a subtle motion of his left arm and the bunch of fabric around his forearm tell you enough of what you’ve stumbled upon.

You’re embarrassed and try to fade back into the darkness of the small courtyard behind you.

His shoulder length hair, black as a raven’s feather, is disheveled. You notice her hand gripping it tightly as his arm pumps.

A wispy, sultry moan slips through her parted lips and you stumble, gasping your own bit of surprise as you try not to spill the bucket’s contents.

A small splash, luckily away from you but the shuffle of feet and the rustle of fabric tells you that you’ve been noticed.

You look up, Lord Loki stands facing you, hands fisted as she hides behind him quickly adjusting her skirts.

“Oh, it’s you,” Lord Loki says, disdain in his voice.

Everyone here hates you. You already know this. Your father’s sins are your own. Nothing can change that.

“Finally where you belong,” the girl says and you recognize the voice with a small shock of pain in your chest. “You smell like piss.”

Lord Loki chuckles and you shrink just a little. More embarrassed by your own situation than catching them in the act. In fact, you’re disgusted by both of them, not only because of their audacity to do this at all, but because the woman whose fingers Lord Loki were just in is also your once beloved’s fiance.

Your former confidant. Lady Amora Antress. You’d once considered her your closest friend. Now here she stands, betrothed to one brother while fucking the other. The venom she spits at you is also unappreciated and painful to hear.

How long had she hated you before your downfall? How long had she waited before pursuing Thor?

“Aren’t you going to reply to her ladyship, servant?” Lord Loki asks, gleeful mirth in his voice as he takes a step towards you.

You bow your head even more, holding the bucket in your hands as still as you can while your hands struggle with the burn of the rope.

Amora scoff, “Pathetic. Leave her be, Loki. She’s where she deserves to be. She’s not worth the breath in our lungs.”

You don’t mean to cry. The utter betrayal of your once friend hurts more even than the loss of your once future husband.

“Are you crying?” Amora laughs, moving around Lord Loki, her shoes clicking against the brick of the courtyard. She stops in front of you, arms crossed over her ample bosom, still exposed more than it should be from what she and Lord Loki were just about to do. “You’re pathetic. The least you could do is be invisible while you serve.”

You say nothing, fist tightening around the rope. Pain shifts into rage at the cruelty in her words.

The wind blows and you can smell the scent of their near copulation. Luckily, it’s driven away by the vines of jasmine that creep along the tops of the brick wall.

She doesn’t deserve Thor. But you know that he never deserved you either. The rate at which he moved on…

Almost as if she’s sensing your thoughts, she takes a step closer and drops her voice to a whisper. You know Lord Loki will still be able to hear.

“Poor little flower, so careless and trusting.” She smiles. “You know it was so easy to seduce Thor. Even before your disgrace of a father betrayed his kingdom, Thor came to my bed often. Such a chaste little thing you were. You had no idea that every night after he whispered sweet promises in your ear of a happy future, he was burying his cock deep in my cunt, whispering how glorious I felt around him. Promising that even after you married, he would slip away and fuck me because no cunt could be as good as mine.”

Whore. Your heart shattered. Finally your eyes met hers.

She took a slight step back at whatever she saw in them. The hatred coursing through you set your teeth on edge. You wanted so much to rip her hair from its roots. If you could gouge her eyes out with your fingers without the consequence of a beheading, you would.

Perhaps she could see that promise of death in your eyes.

She scoffed, a reaction to whatever fear she felt in that moment.

“Now, now, ladies.” Lord Loki chastised, “Let’s keep things civil.”

“Civility? From a servant?” Amora looked at him then back at you, her hateful smirk twisting her pretty face into an ugly mask.

No…this is her true face. Her long blonde hair, pale skin, and green eyes might make her superficially beautiful, but you can see the true ugliness in her now.

“Trash knows no civility.” She spits.

Done with this encounter you make to move around her to finish your duties. You need rest. Body and now soul exhausted, the sanctuary of your quarters beckons like a beacon.

She steps in your way, smiling cruelly as she does.

You make to move around her again. She blocks you once more.

Body shaking with rage, you don’t bother stopping this time as she steps in front of you. Instead you let yourself fall against her, your bucket sloshing loudly as you angle the wide opening towards her.

The smell of piss and shit slices through the scent of sex and jasmine.

Amora screams, stepping back quickly until she bumps into Lord Loki who quickly pushes her away from himself, a wrinkle of disgust on his handsome face.

The green damask pattern of her silk gown grows slowly darker as the piss soaks into the fabric. A dark brown stain sets in towards the bottom.

“You probably should have moved out of my way, my lady.” The casual tone of your voice, the respect you can now fake like a professional grifter sounds so real that your taunt sounds like an apology.

“You bitch!” Amora growls.

Lord Loki catches her by the arm before she can move towards you.

“Perhaps, Lady Antress, you may want to go and change? If what you say is true and my brother will seek you out, I doubt very much he’d desire your company if you smell like shit and piss. No matter how delicious your cunt may be.” Lord Loki’s smirk gives away his delight at Amora’s distress.

Almost as soon as he’s grabbed her, he drops his hand and angles himself away from her slowly to avoid being soiled as well.

“Forgive me, my lady,” you curtsy, a perfect bow. “It was an accident.”

Amora glares at you then looks at Lord Loki who has taken to pressing the fingers of his right hand against his nose to shield from the smell, affixing her with a look of amused disgust.

Amora huffs, “Fuck you.” Then turns and stomps past you across the courtyard and disappears into the castle.

“That was nicely done,” Lord Loki says once you’re alone.

You give him a quick curtsy and move towards the gate to toss the remaining waste where it belongs in the river just past the far end of the large hedged garden.

Ignoring the sound of his following footsteps against the gravel and footstones, you wander through the fragrant rows of flowers.

“If anyone had been watching, no one would have doubted your sincerity with that apology.” He declares, hastening his footsteps to catch up with you, settling in to your right as he matches your pace. “I’m impressed. You never gave me the impression that you even knew how to lie let alone be deceptive.”

Grinding your teeth, you attempt to ignore him. You don’t engage.

He reaches out to grab your arm but you stop and twist away from him, disgust on your face as you stare at his left hand pointedly.

For a moment he looks confused and then laughs once in realization and takes his hand back.

“You won’t tell my brother, will you? About my…meeting with Lady Antress?” Lord Loki doesn’t sound like he actually cares.

You know that he and Thor never truly got along once they were of age. As children they had been inseparable. You’d followed them around and they’d welcomed you into their company as a playmate despite your gender.

Not until you also were of age did you realize that your parents and their parents had seen your friendship as an indicator of good fortune for a future marriage.

As the elder brother, Thor had been chosen. Your heart, having been devoted to Thor even as a girl, had been so full. Eagerly you’d thrown yourself into the arrangement of your marriage. Only now did you begin to realize that perhaps your heart had been the only one truly invested in the promises that Thor had made.

Agony cuts you again, tearing your heart apart a little more as the feeling of stupidity makes your eyes prick with tears again.

“Did you truly not know that Thor and Amora were fucking?” Lord Loki asks, voice devoid of anything but genuine curiosity.

A tear slips down along your cheek as you turn and resume your walk. Lord Loki follows.

“You wound me.” He says, voice low. “Were we not also friends before?”

Scoffing, you readjust the bucket and wince at the pain of the rope as you feel your skin break. You drop it, Lord Loki stepping back quickly but nothing splashes out this time. Most of the contents were currently soaking through Amara’s gown.

You lift your hand up, staring at the peel of skin and the slick of the pink muscle beneath as red begins to pool along the edges of the tear.

Just another wound. It’ll seal and heal and scar, joining the others on your once smooth hands.

The bite of pain gives you a reason to let your tears fall. You don’t hold them back as you sob quietly, uncaring of the audience to your humiliation.

“He’s an asshole,” Lord Loki states, stepping up in front of you. “Always has been. Arrogant, proud, and foolhardy. Thinks with his cock more than his brain.”

Again, you scoff. The irony of Lord Loki, whom you just caught fingering your former best friend in the garden, telling you that Thor thinks first with his cock does not escape you.

Lord Loki clears his throat, embarrassed?

“If I’d been your betrothed,” Lord Loki continues. “I’d have worshiped the ground you walk on.”

“You’re a liar, and just as susceptible to Amara’s games as he apparently is. Does it make you feel happy to sleep with your brother’s fiance? Does it give you pleasure to betray him?” You spit at him, angry at yourself, at Thor, at Amara, at your father and brother.

You’re just so angry. You’re always angry now. Even when you’re sad, you’re angry.

“Are you really worried about my betrayal against him when Amara just exposed him for the hypocrite he is?” Lord Loki demands, a little affronted by your ire.

Biting down hard on your lip, you squeeze around the wound on your hand.

“You’re all hypocrites. All of you deserve each other.” You realize and reach down to take the bucket again but are stopped by Lord Loki’s hand as it takes hold of the bucket for you.

He doesn’t wait for you to say anything and instead moves towards the gate at the end of the garden.

Quickly, you hurry after him, eager to take the bucket from him before anyone might look out onto the grounds and see him interfering with your duties. The punishment you’d receive would be painful.

“My Lord, please,” you finally beg, unable to really catch up with his long legged stride. “I’ll be punished if they find out.”

Lord Loki says nothing but strides out through the gate into the wooded expanse behind the garden.

Expertly, probably from the many hunts he’s gone on around the castle, he winds through the trees towards the rushing river whose roar you begin to hear.

“My Lord,” you hurry after him, nearly catching up but then he turns and disappears behind a tree only to emerge before another one. “Please,” you beg.

Taking a quick glance behind you towards the castle and its countless illuminated windows, you don’t see anyone watching but panic has begun to take hold.

He shifts and turns, stomping over the wild grass, the occasional crack of twig or fallen branch as he steps onto it, eaten by the rush of the water now louder.

You’re almost running now to keep up with him and still you lose sight of him when he turns around a particularly large tree. You stop beside it, scanning the area for him desperately.

The dungeons are so damp this time of year. You don’t want to get locked up if you can help it. Illness is something you don’t have much experience with and with your body weak and unhealthy now compared to the grace and flush of perfection you’d been with money and a constantly full belly, you might succumb to any serious illness.

You don’t want to die, despite the hardships you face.

With no sign of him, you move towards the section of river you always go to empty your buckets.

Minutes later you break through the treeline and spot Lord Loki crouched by the water, damp bucket set beside him now empty and rinsed.

Breathing heavily, you try to catch your breath and press your hand against your thundering heart, forgetting for a moment about the wound there and hiss.

Lord Loki rises, turning to look at you with a furrowed brow as he shakes the water from his hands and dries them on his dark emerald jerkin. He pulls down the puffed sleeves of his black shirt, fastening them around his wrists again but only finishes one before he’s holding his hand out for you.

“Come,” he orders. Not a request.

You don’t move, holding your wounded hand still as you watch him, pale skin nearly glowing in the light of the moon.

“Come here,” he orders again and this time you move towards him only a step. He steps towards you once, his hand held up again with more emphasis. “Shall I say please? Am I wrong? Were we not also friends?”

He smirks, amused by your hesitation for some reason.

Asshole. How dare he throw the past in your face. It’s coercion to remind you of your bond as children.

Unwilling to let him get the satisfaction of seeing you be defiant, you close the distance between you.

He takes your hand, holding it up close so that he can see it clearly. The moon is bright enough that he can and he pulls you towards the river’s edge. Squatting down again, he pulls you down with him.

You kneel, inching towards the edge as he pulls your hand into the water.

A hiss escapes your lips as the water coats the wound, tugging at the bit of skin still holding on until it tears free.

He holds it under the water for a minute then brings it back up to examine, pulling your arm so that you shift to face him and he does the same, kneeling before you.

“It’ll scar,” he realizes, but notes the other small scars that now cover your palm underneath the base of each finger.

You watch him as he traces each scar with his thumb, the golden emerald ring on his finger cool to the touch after being submerged in the cold river water for a bit. It feels nice against the heated skin of your palms. The friction of the rope burning them both.

“I remember when your hands were soft,” he notes.

Self conscious, you make to yank your hand from his grip but he tightens it and meets your eyes in silent order not to try that again.

Holding your gaze, he brings your palm up towards his mouth. Heart hammering against your chest, you try again to yank it from him but his lips close around the wound.

A strange tumble of knots in your stomach work their way up into your chest and constrict your heart.

More strange than that, a shift between your legs has your face and neck burning. Ears so hot that the breeze of the late spring air feels cold in comparison.

“Stop that,” you tell him, voice weak from shock at both his actions and your body’s reaction to it.

He does. Pulling your hand away from his mouth to look the wound over.

“The bleeding stopped,” he states, then reaches for your apron.

The tearing of fabric sends our heart seizing but more arousal pools between your legs. Embarrassed, you look away from him as he wraps your hand tightly. He must have dealt with many small injuries on his hunts because he ties the wrap around your palm securely and nothing save for cutting the fabric away will undo it.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” He asks, voice low and deep. Almost dark in the way it slithers across your skin in a sultry embrace.

“No.” You answer honestly. “And it’s probably only because I caught you and you didn’t get to stick it in Amara.”

He releases your hand as you pull against his grip but he reaches forward to place his hand on your cheek. His left hand.

You almost pull away but remember him drying his hands on his vest. He’d deliberately washed both hands. Why?

“I meant what I said,” he whispers. “I would have worshiped the ground you walk on. I still can, if you’ll let me.”

“I’m a servant,” you spit, turning to look at him with anger and betrayal. “Anything you do to me will be forced merely by the fact that I cannot deny you anything you might want.”

Lord Loki frowns.

“You think so badly of me?” He wonders, hurt in his green eyes.

Your mind flashes back to your childhood. You, Thor, and Lord Loki running to the stables of his estate. You fall. Both Thor and Lord Loki stop but it’s Lord Loki that rushes back to you, helping you up and dusting you off as you cry loudly.

Thor rushes away, laughing in his eagerness to mount his horse.

More memories of your childhood assault you with images of Lord Loki and his kindness. Frequent acts of compassion and what you might have once considered friendly love. Thor’s are fewer and mostly contained to the days after your betrothal had been agreed upon.

“You will never be a servant to me,” Lord Loki assures you.

“It is what I am,” you counter. “You cannot simply ignore it.”

Lord Loki sighs, “You’ve always been so stubborn.”

He lets his hand glide down along the side of your neck, over your shoulder, down along your arm, and then he settles it along the side of your waist, the shape stiff thanks to the corset underneath.

It’s almost unbearable that he’s here, in your shame of servitude. His touch is confusing. You almost ask him why it feels so strange but instead focus on what’s most important.

“Is it true?” you ask, voice wary and quiet.

“Is what true?” There are so many things you could mean, you realize.

Part of you almost doesn’t want to know. So you hesitate.

Something softens in Lord Loki’s eyes as if he suddenly knows what you’re going to ask.

“Were…did Thor and Amara…?” You shake your head, trying not to let the pain show.

“Yes,” he answers, voice firm. He wants you to know that it’s true. No hesitation in his answer. “A few times even with you nearby. You almost caught them a handful of times. Were you only a few moments earlier or later.”

Head falling, you can’t help the tears that spring forth. So much of your past had been a lie. The strength of your house. The friendships you held dear. Your betrothed hadn’t truly loved you. If he had, he would not have betrayed you.

“My brother paints a pretty picture. Despite what he wants others to think he is changeable. He is impatient. Clearly that was his undoing with you. He is rash and prideful. He doesn’t think about what he does before he does it and because he would be insulted by it, would it not be sweet revenge to dangle what he wanted most in the open for all to see?” His words are slow and sure.

The last bit of his speech is careful and calculated. You can hear the manipulation in his words even though he tries not to let you. You’ve known him too long. Lord Loki also changed when you were betrothed to Thor. A shift of his usual kindness had taken place and the sneering Lord had been born. Intent on his own machinations to pry forth the dreary truths of his life.

He’d never been cold and harsh but he became so after your engagement. Thor had called him a snake and even then you could see it. The skill with which Lord Loki had developed his manipulating tactics and the precision with which he enabled them are known to you.

So you know what he’s saying even if he won’t say it clearly.

He takes hold of your chin and slowly lifts your head until he can see your eyes. There’s a strange eagerness in his own greens as he tries to read you. There’s a question there, an uncertain probing as his hand at your waist grows tighter, wrapping around to rest on your back, arching your body towards him.

That strange feeling between your legs surges. It’s Amara’s sneering face that breaks down your defenses. It’s the pride in her words as she’d bragged about being with Thor while you were still betrothed to him that shatters your will.

You do want to get revenge. You want Thor to know that you don’t care anymore. That he means as little to you now as you did to him then.

And what better way to show him that than with the one person he’d hate it happening with the most?

He might overlook some random stablehand. He might ignore some merchant’s son, even if he were above your station.

With Lord Loki…the bite would be as harsh as the sting of Amara’s venom was to you.

“Loki…” you whisper and he surges forward.

His lips are over yours, moving and massaging as you at first merely take his kiss.

He hates it. He pulls back and tilts his head the other way, kissing you more enthusiastically, trying to draw some type of reaction from you.

It’s taking you longer to submit than you thought it would take.

He pulls back one final time and tilts his head back again before this time pressing his lips against your own slowly. He doesn’t move then but instead waits, puckering against yours as he tugs you towards him instead of shoving himself onto you.

Strong lithe arms wrap around your waist and pull you up onto your knees and against his chest. He holds you so close, so tight. It isn’t rough or demanding but needy. As if he can’t get you close enough to his own body and he can only draw you closer and closer in the hopes that it’ll fill something in him that needs filling.

You place your hands on his shoulder as you tilt your head back with his kiss.

Finally, you find the strength in your body and pucker your own lips and return this gentle kiss.

Shock flashes in his eyes as he opens them to look at you. You watch the confusion bloom in them but then shut your own and give in.

Loki’s lips part and envelop yours. It shocks you the way it sends those knots back into your stomach. In response you do the same, enveloping his lips with your own.

Loki’s hands splay out against your back and he groans as he opens his mouth and the tip of his tongue slides against the crease of your lip in question.

In answer, you open for him and welcome his searching tongue with your own. The taste of him, the scent of him, it overwhelms and you gasp as you lose yourself in the moment.

You feel his hands drift around to your front, his right sliding up along your bodice until he can cup your breast, a groan slipping through his lips as he breaks your kiss and traces wet open kisses along your jaw, neck, and shoulder.

“Loki…” you gasp without ever having given your mouth permission to speak.

He bites your neck when you say his name. You moan and he licks the spot to soothe it.

“Loki…” You whisper again.

He’s driven mad by it and before your mind can understand what is happening, he’s laying over you, hands moving wildly underneath your back, running along your sides, fumbling around until he finds where your dress is fastened and he pulls at the ties.

“Should I stop?” He asks, breathless and looking as if he would like nothing more than to keep going.

“No.”

“Mm,” he moans and kisses you again, tongue claiming your mouth as his own.

You can feel him tearing away your apron and then your dress. Too eager to pull it off you completely, he merely shoves it down so that he lays spread out along your waist.

He looks down at you, the corset you wear hiding very little of your breasts. He kisses them each in turn, the soft fleshy bits that pool up above your undergarment.

You shudder at the touch of his lips.

“Has anyone kissed you here before?” He wonders. You’re not sure if he wants  an answer or not but you shake your head anyway.

As he nuzzles the soft flesh, his hands work on the corset, pulling at strings blindly until it gives way and he pulls it off of you exposing you completely.

The cool air of the night perks your nipples more than his touch already has and he takes both breasts in his hands, pushing them together as he stares to the point of embarrassment.

Before you can cover yourself, he takes one into his mouth, suckling softly to draw soft moans from your open mouth.

He sees it, your gaping mouth, and seals it with his own, his tongue nearly in a frenzy as he devours your whimpers.

Cool air hits your suddenly exposed legs. You gasp sharply as he thrusts suddenly and the hard press of his cock rubs against you, shielded only by the fabric of his pants.

“Shall I stop?” He asks again, hands running down along your torso where he takes each breast in hand, massaging them slowly before rolling each of your nipples in slow deliberate circles.

“Don’t stop.”

It’s almost torture when he removes his hands from your overheated body. But you enjoy the sight as he removes his jerkin, followed shortly by his shirt. His body is sculpted but tight, not bulky. Lithe limbs hard and eager as he reaches down beneath your skirts in search of what he desires.

He hisses when his fingers touch you, soaking wet, and you reach down to hold his wrist not to stop but simply to hold on.

The thought crosses your mind that he’s already had someone else like this tonight and it almost makes you pull away. You’re so close to stopping but he sees the thought in your eyes and leans over you, removing his hand he leans over you, pressing his chest against yours and silencing your thoughts with a slow kiss.

It burns through you, the meaning clear.

“Shall I only touch you from now on, darling?” he whispers, kissing your chin then suckling along your throat.

He’ll leave marks…

“Tell me and I will only touch you.” He promises.

“Don’t make me promises you can’t keep, Loki.” You chastise him, mood nearly breaking again at the memory of the endless promises Thor had made you.

“I will never break a promise to you. Tell me to refrain and I will. I meant what I said,” he kisses his way up to your ear, licking the shell of it before hot breath sends your skin prickling. “I will worship the ground you walk on if you will only let me.”

He thrusts again. You shut your eyes, gasping at the cock straining for freedom.

“H-How do I know I can trust you?” You ask, unintentionally letting him see how desperate you are to do so.

He kisses you again, genuine and hungry for it.

“Give me a week and I shall truly prove it. Trust me until then and you shall see the depths of my willingness and devotion.”

He thrusts again and maybe you’re a fool for allowing yourself to consider this when he’s got you right where he wants you, but you nod.

“Only touch me,” you order him.

He smirks. He reaches down between your legs again and with one finger slowly strokes from the bottom of your cunt to the top, the lurid sounds of your wetness poignant despite the rushing river beside you.

“I’ll go slow,” he promises.

One finger. He uses only one finger and the pressure is intense. Sensations you’ve never felt before awaken every nerve ending in your body. His thumb presses against your clit and you nearly sit up with the shock of pleasure that rushes through you.

He adds a second finger, moving slowly as he pumps them in and out.

“Shall I stop, darling?”

“Never stop,” you gasp, still gripping his wrist.

Another smirk on that handsome face, his green eyes dazzling you as he shifts back to his knees.

He licks his lips as he pulls a tie free at the front of his trousers and slowly pushes them lower and lower until he can kick free of them completely.

The length of him is breathtaking. He reaches down and strokes his cock, slowly running his thumb along the shiny pink head before he scoots closer, your skirt blocking him from view.

He rubs himself against you, slicking himself with your own arousal.

There he waits, watching you as you brace your hands on the soft grass beneath you but open your legs wider.

Your eyes meet and both of you know that there will be no coming back from this choice. Nothing either of you do will ever erase this line you’ve nearly crossed completely.

He pushes in slowly, leaning over you as he gets deeper and deeper until he’s buried completely. Chest to chest. Face to face. He grunts deep, face twitching as he settles within you.

It’s so much pressure it’s painful. The feeling of him is so foreign. You’re not sure whether it feels good or not.

“Fuck,” he whispers and tenses then shudders. You feel a wave of heat within you, followed by the sensation of slow moving drippage. “You feel…”

He seems lost for words. Do you feel terrible?

He pulls his hips back just a bit and pushes back in.

You whimper, pushing against his chest to look down where your bodies connect.

“Loki,” you fret.

“I’ll go slow,” he promises. “Be calm my sweet. I will ease you into this.”

Each thrust into you, his pelvis pushes against your clit and each time you moan, wishing he’d do that more. The feeling of him is filling, strange, but not unpleasant. Just different.

As your body relaxes a bit more, Loki’s thrusts grow faster. You smile unintentionally as he presses against your clit more often.

“You like that?” he wonders, stopping as he pushes all the way in and then rolls his hips against you.

Your responding moan gives him confirmation and he settles himself over you fully.

As he thrusts he presses harder against you, lingering for a moment before doing it again and again. The slap of his skin against yours grows louder and he finds a rhythm that has you both breathless and moaning.

“Loki,” you plead, feeling the build up of tension within your body.

“Come for me, darlin,” he kisses you, subduing your voice as he pumps into you.

You’re unsure for certain what he means but your body seems to listen. You wrap your legs around him, holding him as close as you can as he continues to thrust into you. The sweat of his body glistens in the moonlight. The soft silk of his hair tickles your skin as he arches up slightly so that he can take your breast into his mouth again as he keeps pumping into you.

You feel it…so close.

“Loki,” you whimper, wanting to reach the end of this tightrope.

He growls once and brings his hand down between your connected bodies. His thumb presses against your clit firmly. He presses and presses, rolling it in small circles with such precise pressure.

Your body explodes into endless fuzzy light. You arch into him, trembling as his thumb continues to draw pleasure from you in spasms as he keeps moving his cock in and out.

“Fucking hell,” he grunts and thrusts one final time his whole body tight in its release as that same sensation of heat fills you again.

Both of you seem to have stars in your eyes as he collapses on top of you, kissing you slowly with his eyes wide open to watch the expression of pure bliss on your face.

“I think-” Loki says, pulling back as he slowly helps to pull your dress up a bit to cover your exposed breasts. He kisses each one before he does so. “-it goes without saying that I would appreciate it if I was the only one allowed to touch you.”

You’re floating, swathed in golden light, unable to process anything he’s saying because of the pure escape from and yet complete connection to your body Loki’s cock just gave you.

You hear him chuckle. He pinches your cheek, drawing your attention back to him.

“Agreed?”

“What?” You gasp breathlessly.

“No one may touch but me. And I will touch no one but you.” He declares. “Is that understood?”

The authority in his voice draws your legs wide as that throbbing from before is renewed.

Loki’s face twitches at the movement.

“Show me again,” you plead.

“Tell me no one else will touch you,” he orders.

“No one else will touch me,” you agree.

“If you betray me,” you begin.

Loki’s eyes soften. He leans down to press a kiss to your lips.

“I promised you that I would worship the ground you walk on.”

He kisses you again, slowly, feeling every inch of your mouth against his.

“One week, my darling. I’ll prove to you my devotion.” He promises.

The sincerity in his voice has your legs spreading again and he hisses as you shift. Inside you, you feel him harden.

“Show me…” you beg.

“You’re going to be insatiable.” He realizes.

And revenge against Thor aside, you realize that being with Loki might be the smartest thing you’ve ever done.

“Do you have any idea how long I have waited to make you mine?” Loki wonders, stroking your cheek.

“How long?” You wonder, reaching up to take hold of his hand.

“I’ll show you.”

There will be NO tags.

#loki x reader #medieval!loki x reader #loki laufeyson x reader #loki x you #loki x female reader #loki laufeyson #loki x reader fanfiction #loki fanfiction #loki x reader fanfic #loki x reader fic #marvel fanfiction

[outofangband]

(I have  some more free form Maedhros post Angband thoughts as I work on revising my more detailed trauma posts! As always more can be found in the post Angband and in the iron hell tags!)

There are lots relevant metas I have but I will link these two for now, mostly just for my own organization! x x

Maedhros loses hope in Angband time and time again. He loses it until he does not regain it again.

The prospective of an eternity in such a place is unimaginable to contemplate, especially for an immortal. Maedhros comes to know something as strongly as he has ever known anything; unless he is granted the mercy of death, he is never leaving these walls. He knows his brothers are not coming for him. He knows that there is no one coming for him.

He languishes on that cliffside, in unending agony, lips dry but for the poisoned rain that lashes him. It burns his throat when he drinks it but he still does so. He wants nothing more than death but knows he will never be allowed to die in such a simple way

I think it is nearly impossible to retain a sense of self, at least a consistent one, in these circumstances. To have a sense of self becomes unbearable. If you are conscious, if you are aware, if you are you, you are suffering. As much as possible, Maedhros tries to be detached, to let the endless torment and indignity erode at him until his own names seem foreign and any memories of the past flit in and out of his mind, unacknowledged and as inconsequential as the fractured bits of dream that disappear as you wake.

How do you regain the ability to go through your days after such an experience?

How do you return to eating and sleeping and caring for your horse and writing letters and preparing for war when for decades you wished only for oblivion?

Though of course…Maedhros does. He heals and leads a war, leads the settling of his father’s host throughout Eastern Beleriand, leads negotiations for land and allies. I think Maedhros had no choice in this. After the unspeakable stasis of Angband which denies both freedom, rest and stillness, he cannot stop for even a moment, not until the end.

Two notes:

- I know the Nírnaeth was a disaster but thinking about all of this makes Maedhros’s feeling of Morgoth being not insurmountable just so much more!! And its conclusion so much more devastating

-there are other reasons that he feels compelled to keep going in the efforts in the war, and this is in part because of the view of survivors, and ask prisoners among his people and throughout the continent at the time. I talked about this in a lot of post Angband posts so I won’t ramble on about it too much here, but I think that’s also important. He is acutely aware of how former prisoners are viewed and this is one of the best ways to deflect a lot of that suspicion and hostility that he might get even from his own people. I’ve mentioned that a lot of those who follow him are highly suspicious, and do not trust him both because he’s a survivor and because he abdicated the throne. However, they’re more willing to follow him then his uncle.

I do not mean to mitigate the element of revenge and of the oath, as part of his motivations, to be clear that they are profoundly important but I think about the others too.

(To be clear not justifying the crimes or anything! This is mostly about pre Nirnaeth stuff, it’s still present afterwards but I do not have the spoons to get into autonomy versus the oath and agency at the moment)

#the silmarillion #maedhros #in the iron hell #post angband #musing and meta #I've been neglecting him lately I'm sorry #but ever the noldor feared

[skyward-floored]

Unfinished Warriors angst/bunny legend thing/more downfall Time? 👀

Okay for starters, those are not connected XD Somehow they just ended up in the same spot??? There’s also like half of my most recent mermaid legend fic but from Legend’s POV instead of Hyrule’s and I wasn’t sure what to do with so it ended up in there too so... yeah. it’s a messy wip.

Anyway, I’ll go in order!

Unfinished Warriors angst! Basically I had an idea for some Warriors angst like, ages ago, but it never really went anywhere so it’s been languishing in my wips for ages.

I probably should have tried to use it for whumptober, but I forgot it existed. Bummer. Anyway here’s some of it:

Warriors coughed, but it turned into a pained gasp as agony shot up his side. His entire body hurt, but his side was the worst, and he could feel something hot and sticky beginning to soak his skin and tunic.

Time gently shushed him again, and brushed a hand across his forehead.

“It’s okay, it’s okay captain. Someone will be here any moment, the castle must have seen that,” he murmured reassuringly, and Warriors managed to focus through the pain enough to be confused at his words.

“Wh’ happened?” he managed to get out, “h—”

He broke off into a pained gasp, and saw Time’s face grow even more creased.

———

Bunny Legend thing was also a random idea I had one time, that I also probably should have tried to use for whumptober but forgot about hah. Basically Warriors and bunny Legend, and Legend doesn’t have a great time.

Also don’t really have any plans for this one, it’s sort of just a couple hundred words of vague idea. But here’s a wip if some of what I’ve got:

“But... but how..?” Warriors gaped, rainwater dripping into his wide open mouth. “You’re... you’re a rabbit!”

“Quit gawking captain, you look like a dead fish,” Legend snapped, then let out a squeaky moan, squeezing his eyes shut. “‘S long story. Just... just help m’ up.”

“You’re hurt?” Warriors asked, snapping out of his shock and leaning closer. Legend didn’t even glare at him, instead squeezing his eyes shut in a wince.

“Moblin got me,” he bit out, curled around himself. “More than once. Think—”

A clap of thunder made Legend violently flinch, and he yelped in pain, falling limp again and breathing heavily through his teeth. Every bit of him screamed discomfort, and Warriors carefully reached a hand out, gently turning Legend so he could get a better look at where he appeared to be injured.

———

More downfall Time is what it says on the tin. I gave in and started playing around with ideas for something more with him, but there isn’t much yet.

But there’s a little :)

His legs shake, an ache shooting across his middle, and someone’s arm catches him when he starts to fall, the grip steady.

“Whoa, take it easy,” Sky says with a kind smile, and Link tries to regain his balance, feeling a flicker of frustration as his legs refuse to behave.

He’s been awake several days now, and he still can’t walk around by himself.

“That’s probably enough for today,” Warriors says after several more unsuccessful minutes, and Link feels his face fall.

“But...”

“Sorry kiddo, we don’t want to wear you out too much,” the captain says, and gives him an encouraging smile. “You did good today. You held your weight for a solid amount of time, you’re getting there.”

“I guess,” he mumbles, and lets Sky help him sit back on the bed.

#thanks! #answers from the floor #lovely adrift in thyme #wip ask game #tw injury #but only a little

[mythicamagic]

Purple Tremors: a Xiaolumi fanfic (Genshin Impact) ~ Chapter Two ~ (End)

Summary: Xiao's expression shuttered, before his fingers curled to clasp her hand equally tight. He stepped in close as if to hide her inside his shadow.

"Give your body over to me. The wind will take you. Nothing will hurt you while we travel."

Aka: Xiao finds an injured Lumine on a beach in Liyue after her encounter with the Raiden Shogun.

Chapter one: here

Rated M for some mild suggestive themes. Read on Ao3 - here.

-----

Lumine stared ahead of herself, chin pillowed on her arms. It was difficult to know what to make of the situation, but between the choice of a little awkwardness or prolonged physical pain, she chose awkwardness. 

She waited, completely bare save for a towel slung over her waist- and laying upon covers that smelled like Xiao. Vaguely she could hear the Adeptus moving about the room, blocked from sight by a shoji screen. Up until a little while ago, he'd been crushing herbs with a motor and pestle while she'd carefully languished in a special kind of bath. Xiao had filled it himself by pouring a vial into the tub that gradually increased to fill up the whole thing with steaming water. Lumine had expected to feel pain when entering it- but the waters had only gently lapped at her wounds. 

Incense smoke now wrapped around her gently, soothing. Lumine breathed deeply, in and out. None of it quelled the thrum of her heartbeat. The situation was unusual and her feelings were out of place but an undeniable something fluttered in her bloodstream. She’d never laid naked on anyone’s covers before. 

Lumine mentally shook herself. Her entire body was in agony and Xiao was helping her, that was all. Get a grip, Lumine.

At the first touch of lithe fingers upon her back she froze, inhaling sharply.

"Sorry," Xiao grunted. His weight settled onto the bed beside her. Lumine's back thrummed at the contact, but whatever he'd put in the bath made touch become a dull ache rather than painful. His hands returned- carefully this time- rubbing a damp substance over her back and massaging it into her skin. "Try to bear it as best you can. I know my hands are rough without the gloves."

"No, they're perfect," she found herself gripping the sheets tightly. Gods.

Strong and sure palms dragged back and forth, kneading her damaged skin. The callouses of his hands actually added to the soothing motions. The scent of incense wrapped around her like a warm embrace, and there was no pain despite her sensitive wounds. Instead, Lumine was free to appreciate the strong and sure touches. 

"I'm not a healer like some of my other kin. In fact, I'm probably the worst person to be doing this, considering…what I carry with me," Xiao muttered as he worked. "But I don't want to agitate your wounds too much by waiting for someone else or carrying you to them, so I'll perform this to the best of my ability. It's a healing process I remember, back when the yaksha-" 

He cut himself off. It occurred to Lumine that he was rambling, a very odd thing for Xiao to do. Maybe he was as nervous about touching her as she felt about being touched. 

"I'm grateful. Honestly, I feel leagues better than I did earlier already. What was in that bathwater?"

"Essence of slime."

She jolted. Panic entered his voice. "Kidding- don't move about too much. The vial was something Cloud Shaper gave to her fellow Adepti. She made it from her ability to gather water vapour and added her own flourishes. It's meant to be a safety measure. If we're in a tight spot and need water, this gives us a supply that never runs out. You can make the temperature hot or cold by your own will."

"And the paste? It smells kind of minty." 

"It's specifically Dragonspine mint mixed with Silk Flowers for the soothing texture and a range of other things I threw together."

Lumine hummed contentedly, feeling his palms rub down her spine exquisitely. She knew Xiao. He didn't just 'throw things together. ' 

Her guess was that the other ingredients were much harder to come by and he didn't want to make her feel guilty.

His fingers began massaging a trapped nerve, and Lumine sucked in a sharp breath, twitching with discomfort for the first time.

"Are you doing alright?"

She laughed weakly, smothering the pain. "You've asked me that a lot today."

"Maybe I wouldn't have to if you'd give me a straight answer."

"I have-"

"Lying that you're 'fine' when you're scarred and trembling isn't imbuing me with much confidence," he drawled. 

Lumine visualized his hands as they traveled lower on her back, always so careful. Sometimes it felt like they lingered longer than necessary. She didn't mind.

With a sigh, she shifted on her stomach,  resting her chin on the covers. "...I'm just tired. Really, really…tired," the shapes of the room softened into blurred images as her gaze unfocused. The numbness that kept everything at bay seemed to fail- ebbing like a tide and revealing her soft underbelly of raw emotions. 

Xiao said nothing and didn’t prompt her to open up again. He continued massaging the minty-smelling paste onto her back in silence, occasionally unwinding her trapped nerves.

"Logically I know the right thing- the best thing to do is to keep going,” Lumine broke. “To not lose heart. I've met so many people during my travels who have suffered worse than I have. Some lost family members too. They carried on. They're still fighting." 

There was a pause in Xiao's hands- before he massaged them beneath her ribs slowly.

"I never doubted that I'd find my brother, not really. But that last fight…I really felt like I couldn't. That I'd keep searching and searching in every region and he'd never be there. Like he didn't want to be found. And if I don't have him by my side I don't-" she choked on the words. "I don't really know who I am. I just let people call me 'The Traveler' because it's convenient. Paimon seems to lead me by the hand like I'm a lost child sometimes."

"I've guided lost children before, believe me- you're not one."

"Are you sure?" she gave a wan smile, before hissing as something twinged in her back. Xiao's hands were quick to ease the pain, soothing. "I'm blubbering like one."

“A 'traveler' reminds me of ronin. You wander but you are not lost. This was just an unexpected detour for you. From the strength you’ve shown multiple times…I know you’ll find your way again.”

She wished she could regain that sense of certainty he displayed. 

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" He asked softly. "I wouldn't insist if it wasn't important. I understand the desire to keep matters to yourself. However…I sense something damaging your aura. It feels similar to energy I've experienced before."

"I had a fight with the Raiden Shogun," Lumine closed her eyes, remembering it. "That's when I got hurt. Everything went dark. I went to this…strange desolate place. She was there…" Lumine trailed off, shaking her head. "I hid it as much as possible from Paimon and the others. After that, well- you know the rest. I felt like I needed to get away."

"So the Electro hurled at you was a direct attack from a God. That explains it. Her wrath has imbued your body as I suspected."

Lumine said nothing, closing her eyes tiredly. She could've rested under the gentle touch of his hands forever honestly. His hand on her shoulder brought that brief fantasy to a close.

"Are there any further scars?"

She bit her lip. Now was the tricky part. She'd been wondering if he'd ask. 

Maybe it would be kinder not to mention it. Xiao was a trusted, infinitely valued friend. She didn't want to put him in an even more awkward position than they already were. 

Besides, her heart was pounding inappropriately at just his fingers on her back. That made her feel guilty enough. Here he was, just trying to help her- and she was getting…ideas. Paimon would be so disappointed in her. Lumine snorted at the thought. 

"Traveler?"

"Uh- no. Not that I'm aware of."

There was a definite shift in his voice. A drop in tone that hinted at displeasure. It made her shiver in new ways. "That you're aware of? This isn't a light matter. I need to cover every inch of scarring before I can proceed. If we don’t do this right- your body may suffer irreparable damage."

She winced. Well there was no arguing with that. Besides…she was already practically naked on his bed and Xiao sounded fine. Utterly professional. Maybe she was the only one affected by being with him like this. 

Sucking in a deep breath for courage, Lumine let it go, shifting to sit up. She covered her bare chest with one arm, cheeks flaming red as she carefully twisted to face him and reveal the spiderweb of damage spreading over her torso. 

A yaksha mask gazed back at her. Lumine jolted, sucking in a hard breath. "H-have you been wearing that this whole time?" she squeaked. 

Xiao's expression was of course inscrutable. He sat back on his heels, the gorgeous black, blue and gold designs of his mask giving a solemn air, but ultimately hiding all emotion. She couldn't even see his eyes.

He touched the rim briefly. "It is necessary, in order for me to perform the task at hand to the best of my ability. Is there…" he cleared his throat. "Is there anywhere else you're scarred or is that it?"

"That's it," Lumine murmured. Disappointment curdled in her chest. She couldn't exactly explain why. Perhaps she'd been seeking a connection during this whole mess- but Xiao's mask put a stop to that. She couldn't tell what he was thinking when he touched her. 

"Alright. Hold still. I'll try to be gentle but don't go expecting a miracle. "

Lumine shifted the towel more securely across her waist before nodding. She held her breath, sweat beading on her brow as he reached out. 

Her exhale stalled and stuttered as Xiao's hands met her chest. His fingers began trailing over the damage, carefully stroking the medicinal herbs onto her skin. A map of healing. 

It was different, facing him. On her stomach, Lumine had just rambled her worries away. Now the contact felt inescapable. Direct. Xiao was sitting so close. His hands were kind and careful- fingers dipping into the valley of her breasts before having to slip under her arm and graze a damaged nipple.

Lumine sucked in a sharp breath. She caught it- the faint tremor in his hand. 

Her eyes snapped to his face, but of course could see nothing. 

"Xiao," she spoke, surprised at her own breathlessness. Could he feel how her heart hammered relentlessly in her chest?

"What is it?"

Her lips twitched. "Can I take off the mask? Please?"

"Why would you- I mean that's not-" his voice grumbled out, leaning slightly away from her. "I have need of it. Don't worry about pointless things right now. Focus on letting me heal you."

Lumine quieted. "...It's not pointless to me."

She could see it now: the little tells in his body language. How he held himself stiffly and tried not to touch her more than necessary. Wang Ping'an had once written that the Conqueror of Demons wore a mask- not just to strike fear into his enemies- but to hide the part of him that was human.

Lumine didn't think any further on it. She reached out and grasped the edge of the mask near his cheek.

She noticed him freeze up. "Lumine- don't."

"What are you afraid of?"

His fingers wrapped around her wrist, grip loose, unsure. "...I'm just unfamiliar with healing. I'm not disciplined enough to be…completely perfect at handling it. I'm ashamed of my own ability to get so distracted by you."

Ah, would the sensation of warmth ever leave her around this man? Fondness beat in her chest. She shook her head ruefully. 

"Getting distracted isn't necessarily a bad thing. Especially right now. I'm happy to have you distract me from how much pain I'm feeling."

She felt his grip tremble. Slowly, gradually, his fingers slackened. Lumine took that as all the invitation she'd get to carefully lift the mask up and away from his face.

Twin pools of luminous yellow greeted her. They made her pause, thrown. She'd never seen Xiao look at her with such heat before. His cheeks were dusted red. His mouth was pressed into a hard line- and he was unable to hold her gaze. 

Heart fluttering, Lumine cupped his cheek, redirecting his attention back to her. He trembled and released hot, tight breaths against her wrist. As she stroked inquisitive fingers into dark hair, she noticed something.

"Your ears-!" she exclaimed. 

Xiao jerked in her hold, blushing an even darker shade of red. "D-damn," he hissed under his breath. "It's not uncommon for adepti to sometimes lose control over their human forms. Ignore it."

She didn't think she could ignore the pointed tips even if she wanted to. 

"Have you ever lost control of your human guise?"

"...No."

Lumine bit her lip, stroking the shell of his ear with a light touch. The reaction was instantaneous- a shudder running through Xiao that left him sinking into her palm. He turned his face to kiss her hand, panting softly.

"Couldn't you- just let me help you. Why are you so incorrigible?" Xiao mumbled into her skin, pressing slow kisses to the tips of her fingers before leaning his marked brow into her knuckles.

"I won't apologise for it," Lumine smiled. She forgot about her exposed chest and used her free hand to tilt his head up, resting their foreheads together. They traded air with quiet breaths. Xiao's lashes lowered, closing his eyes as if to bask in her presence. 

"You scare me more than anyone," came his grim confession. 

Before she could pull away to voice her confusion, Xiao gripped her arm. "I don't understand the hold you have on me- and that's what's frightening. Feeling this way for a mortal is…new. And wrong. For someone like me anyway…"

"Someone like you?" She hummed, combing her fingers through his hair and massaging them at the base of his skull. Xiao all but purred, leaning into her touch with a stifled groan. "Kind, protective, vigilant you," Lumine opened her eyes. "Perhaps you're just as lost as I am, just in a different way. But, want to know a secret, Xiao?"

"Hm?"

"I might have to wander, but you're the one place I want to return to. Every time I leave."

His eyes snapped open wide. Xiao's lips parted wordlessly, searching her face with a pensive, hopeful look that made her heart break. Something about her earnest expression must have finally got through to him, as his shoulders relaxed. 

His gaze briefly dropped to her chest, and then back to her mouth. 

That was all the warning she got. A sweet, firm pressure suddenly pressed against her lips. Lumine stiffened, heart leaping wildly in her chest. Heat shot to her face in a healthy blush. Her fingers curled in his feathery soft hair, dropping to grip his shoulders and pull him closer.

Xiao broke away briefly- and fear shot through her bloodstream- but he merely looked at her, with a strange look of wonder. As if he couldn't believe what he'd just done. 

Lumine tugged on his shoulders, wanting more. 

"I- " he rasped. "You're going to make me go crazy if you keep looking at me like that."

Lumine blinked, slowly giving a pleased smile. She giggled and pecked his lips shyly, before meeting him for a longer kiss. Their kisses bespoke of their mutual lack of experience- clumsy, rushed, but eager and warm. 

His fingers, still smeared with minty paste, tangled in her buttery blonde locks. 

Lumine slung her arms tighter around his neck as they parted just a hair's breadth for air, which soon became filled with her soft laughter. 

She couldn't articulate the sudden giddiness. Her body was still sore and throbbing from the electro, but her heart was near to bursting with gladness. She was here, with Xiao- and he was kissing her like she was the most precious treasure in the world.

His touch strayed downward, stroking down the column of her throat and covering it with heated kisses soon after. Lumine moaned, arching into his mouth and rocking her hips slightly against his, lost in his embrace. Their mouths and touches strayed, familiarising themselves with each other's bodies. Lumine didn't even realise she was ticklish under her thigh until Xiao stroked his fingers there. She found his back felt as equally tense as hers, filled with trapped nerves and stiffness. She mentally promised to give him a massage too.

Mid-kiss, Lumine blinked as she combed her fingers free from his hair- pulling out something.

She and Xiao parted to stare at the teal feather held between her forefinger and thumb. 

An undignified snort sounded out. Xiao's eyes twinkled. Lumine grinned- bursting into laughter in time with him. The sounds of their laughter mixed and filled the usually silent room, carrying even outside into the quiet night. 

When the mirth died down, they exchanged smiles. Something shifted in that moment, as if they'd quietly sobered. Xiao brushed the hair out of her eyes, still catching his breath. His eyes had never looked more alive. Playful. Lumine felt her chest tighten, heart squeezing. She could have fallen in love with that look in his eyes if he'd let her.

"Are you going to behave now?" He rumbled. 

"Maybe."

He bent down to her ear. Lumine expected another kiss- only to squeal as a light nip scraped her flesh. "Alright, alright," she conceded, unable to stop from smiling- kicking her legs out beneath him when he continued until she was yelling it.

"Good. You're hard work, you know?" he huffed, pulling away to grasp her shoulder- pushing firmly.

Lumine found herself on her back- pleasantly surprised as Xiao slung his leg over her waist, settling above to straddle her hips. Heat shot down to her core at the view.

His eyes glowed in the low light. Seriousness now painted his features. Back to business. "The herbs will have taken effect now- numbing your wounds. This next part requires you to be absolutely still, Lumine. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded slowly. "Will you…keep the mask off?"

He blinked. "Fine. I need to concentrate though- so…no kisses or touches or your other feminine wiles." 

She arched a brow. Feminine wiles? 

Xiao sat back and closed his eyes as if to center himself. 

The atmosphere immediately changed. A hush fell over the room, as if holding its breath. Xiao reached around his neck and removed the beaded necklace, instead placing it around hers. The pendant rested squarely on her chest. 

He then took a hanging incense burner made of brass and coaxed the trailing smoke to life, letting it gradually fill her lungs. 

When he spoke next it wasn't a language she knew, but it sounded old. An incantation. A vow. 

Lumine remained still beneath him, feeling the change as everything began to feel heady, like a warm summer night. Energy sparked, and Xiao lowered the incense burner to rest a palm over her chest directly over her heart. It thundered as he spoke. 

Without his mask, those golden eyes framed with red markings bore into hers. She gave the barest hint of a smile.

I trust you.

Xiao's lips thinned. He inclined his head and began writing invisible characters onto her body- one at the base of her stomach, her collarbone, her arms and legs, the nape of her neck. He gripped his wrist and let out a hiss, clenching his teeth. Adeptus energy spilled forth from his palm. 

It bellowed around her, flowing straight into the invisible characters he'd left on her skin.

Lumine looked down as best she could, gasping.

The tree-like branches of lightning scars on her chest were glowing. They shone the signature colour of the Electro Archon; the purple scars resembling fissures.

With each new burst of Adeptus energy, the fissures raised, until the scars quite literally began peeling from her skin to dissipate mid-air, becoming static vapour. Lumine watched in awe as the vapour gathered above them due to the sheer volume of scarring. It hung heavy and low in the air like their own personal storm cloud. Xiao straightened and exhaled, before bending over her until they were nose to nose.

He uttered something hard and biting in that strange foreign language, the words hanging between them with a sense of finality. 

The vapour suddenly solidified; raining down all at once as harmless water droplets. Lumine panted, unable to look at anything other than Xiao. He shielded her from most of the downpour, those striking golden eyes softening into something reverent and yearning. 

Lumine didn’t leave him wanting for long. She threw her arms around his neck and bridged the rest of the distance between them, whispering a smothered ‘thank you’ against his lips. Exhausted, Xiao sank into her willing embrace, unable to keep himself upright. Lumine curled around him tight, shuddering with delight when he found the place between her neck and shoulder to rest his weary head for the remainder of the night. 

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” he rasped, only half conscious. “I’d do that…for you…a thousand times over.”

------

Time was a cruel inevitably and it wasn’t long before the sun began its sluggish climb into the sky for a new day. Paimon would be in a state of hysterics if she woke alone, so Lumine began walking down the stairs to Wangshu Inn’s Waypoint, Xiao shadowing her footsteps. Bathed in the brilliant hues of sunset, Lumine turned to face him once she reached the terminal. 

Unlike all the vulnerability and desire he’d expressed last night, Xiao’s face was wiped of emotion. He nodded curtly to her and turned away, summoning his primordial jade spear as if ready to depart himself. 

“I trust you’ll make it back safe from here. Don’t pull any reckless stunts like that again.”

Lumine bit her lip. She could sense his underlying care even in those acerbic words. Xiao brought a hand up- the yaksha mask appearing from thin air to hide his face once more. “I’ll see you lat-”

“Xiao.”

He froze. Perhaps he could act as though nothing had happened between them but she couldn’t. Things had irreparably changed. Unlike all the other changes in her life though, Lumine held onto those stolen kisses as something precious- a memory she’d revisit during lonely nights by the fire. And if she had anything to say about it, that wouldn’t be the last time they made such wonderful memories. 

Lumine stepped up to him, opening and closing her mouth as she searched for what to say. What could she offer in exchange for all he’d done? She settled on a fond smile, trailing her fingers up his tattooed arm to find purchase on his shoulder. Leaning up a little, she pressed a chaste kiss to his masked cheek. 

“You always find me,” she murmured. “Right when I need you. I’d like to return the favour next time.”

Xiao held himself still. His free hand twitched and rose, hesitating in the space between them.

“Don’t make promises like that,” came his halting reply- gloved fingers lightly stroking down her cheek in a lingering caress. “I’ll become greedy.”

Lumine’s lips bent into a smile, allowing a giggle to escape. She caught and held his hand against her, standing together with him for just one more stolen moment. Tilting her head to kiss the inside of his palm, she hoped her gaze conveyed her feelings. They roared loudly in her heart, yet not one word of love was spoken between them. She finally stepped away, and with a single wave and lingering look; teleported back to Inuzuma and all its dangers waiting there for her.

Alone, Xiao released a tight breath. He balled his hand into a fist, leaning against the railing for support. 

“I’m not as good or considerate as you seem to think I am,” he rasped, prying the mask off. His expression wasn’t one he ever wanted to reveal to her. “A good man wouldn’t have wanted to keep you so selfishly just now,” Xiao let out a shuddering breath, gripping his spear like his life depended on it. The Karma that felt so far away when she was near came rushing back, along with the weight of his sins and responsibilities. 

After taking a moment to compose himself, Xiao straightened and replaced his mask, glancing at the waypoint. “...Pray I don’t find you injured again, Lumine. I might do something even more foolish next time.”

With those grim words of warning for no one to hear, the Adeptus disappeared; returning to his duty with all emotion wiped clean from his being- but the image of her radiant smile lay burned into his ageless heart, and would likely remain long after the day's end. 

End

#xiao genshin impact #lumine genshin impact #genshin impact #xiaolumine #xiaolumi #xiaolumi fanfiction

[ask-thedawnseekers]

Bound

bound: Has your OC ever been imprisoned or captured? What happened? How did they get out? Did the experience leave any scars?

Solana's eyes became distant as the little message brought back a tidal wave of memories with it.

She was not an easy person to bind or hold against her will. Physically, she was unmatched and was proud of the fact.

But physicality had nothing over the strength of her hearts, of her love, that was her truest strength. And as it would happen, her most glaring Achilles heel.

Solana remembered the room feeling cold. Her armor had been taken away at some point, but she hadn't the memories to recall when. She came around only to realize she was in a cage. A golden cage, the bars glowing faintly with a light that was too familiar for her liking.

She'd struggled against those bars for hours. Getting nowhere.

It was only after she'd stopped that a voice came to her from the other side.

"You won't find your way out of there. I made this just to hold you. It was the only way we could."

She held the bars and peered out past the glowing metal. "Perturabo!" She shook the bars.

"Please let me out, quick. Terrible things are happening. We have to stop them." Her eyes were wide with panic, but her friend was here now. He would free her, surely he would. Solana loved him so much, just as she was certain that her friend loved her in return.

"Didn't you hear me?" His voice came back, cold as iron. "Perturabo, we don't have time for this. Please." She begged again, but the Iron warrior remained unmoved.

"I will not."

Solana knew why, and he knew that she knew. But her voice came once again, begging.

"Pertuarbo. Please. Let me out, I need to- I need.. my children. My legion. Please....don't do this."

The Iron Warrior turned his back to her. He closed all channels to the network of voxes available to him. He steadied himself by picking up a stack of perfectly planned schematics for any number of things. Mostly, they were projects left over from what little free time hed had. Most which had not been started or revisted at all.

"Perturabo." Solana called, and his shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly.

Why had Horus tasked him with keeping her. Why couldn't it have been Fulgrim, or Mortarion, or Angron or even Lorgar? Why couldn't it have been anyone else?

Again, he knew why, but he cursed his brother for doing this to him. Solana loved him. She had from the moment they'd been reunited. She'd given him all of herself that she was able. Openly and without asking for anything in return. And more so, she was an enigma to him. He was as unable to read her as Konrad was unable to see her future. She had been a mystery he'd had to discover piece by piece and loving gesture by loving gesture.

Solana looked out at her friend, sliding to the floor. Watching, waiting, and trying to keep her breathing in check. So he'd cast his lot with Horus. Not with her, not with his father. But with chaos.

Solana wanted to cry, and it might have worked, too. But no, she had to convince him.

And she tried, for three weeks. She spoke to him, recounting stories. Usually, he only gave grunts in return. Sometimes, even a single word if she was lucky. But she never offered insult or degraded him. Even then, she still loved her friend.

The 21st languished in the cage hearts aching so bad she thought she'd die.

Perturabo knew that any other form of torture wouldn't suffice. But he hated himself for this. He'd never thought he'd feel so low as he did then. And it made him resent her when he thought too hard about it. But it always came back around, and his hearts would clench.

On the first day of the fourth week, he came into the chamber, and Solana sat in one corner. She did not greet him. But a soft sound carried out from the cage. A song, quiet but sweet in her melancholic voice. The agony in her tone was sublime, and Perturabo wanted to shake the cage, he wanted to scream at her and throw things. To make her stop the feelings of utter betrayal and pain he felt.

Even after weeks of being bound, locked in a cage with no bath, even then, she was a sight to see.

Beauty enough to make an eldar weep. And he loved her all the same as he ever had. He rounded the cage, Perturabo needed to see her face, needed to take her in.

The food that had been placed for her had been left untouched since the first day. Not a bite was taken from any meal presented.

"My heart hurts too much to eat." She'd said, her eyes far away, her wings cloaking her. And she hadn't eaten, at all.

Perturabo wanted to put his fist through Horus's skull for all this.

"You're the only one with the resolve to hold her." Horus's voice rang in his skull.

No, he wasn't. This was its own form of torture for him. He was no jailer.

He stopped eyes clouding with grief as he saw her tear streaked face. Her song carried on, and he stayed listening for a time.

He wanted to go to her. To lay in her arms and hear her laughter and feel her warmth. But all he had was her tears.

He retrieved the tray. The food was still good, but he knew she wouldn't touch it. As the tiny door for the tray slid shut behind him he realized her singing had stopped.

"Solana?" He looked up and saw her curled in a ball wings pulled in tight around her.

"They hurt Bo. My hearts hurt."

The use of the affectionate nickname she'd called him by when they were alone together hit him like a hammer blow, and he recoiled at the sudden wave of despair and self-loathing that assailed him.

"I'm sorry." Was all he could manage, looking away from her, physically dragging his eyes off her condensed form.

He did not stay to watch her, passing the tray off forcefully to the first hapless serf who was unfortunate enough to cross his path.

He came back the next morning. Silence greeted him. He went to his desk. Ready for a day of work. But the silence prevails. He picked up a page, content to work... but the abnormal silence dragged on.

"Good morning, Solana." He greeted. The grim empty silence met his greeting. Perturabo stopped, pulling his helm from his head to listen. His hearts began to race, making it hard to hear.

He whipped around. She was still there. Still in the cage.

An old conversation came to his mind, one they'd shared when she'd first shown him the gardens on the Starfire.

"I could never keep a bird in a cage." She told him as a small yellow songbird landed on her finger perched happily.

"Why not? It makes them easier to keep track of. Instead of having to look for tags on each bird." He'd been thinking about the efficiency of the task. But Solana didn't think that way.

"It's not good for them. They can damage their feathers and their wings. And it kills their spirits. They need to be free, to fly, to sing, and to find love."

Perturabo had scoffed at such notions, but Solana smiled and pressed her cheek to the top of his head. "It's the same way with people. They must be free to live and discover and find one another and to love in all the ways they are able."

"And have you done that? Lived and discovered and loved?" He asked, less gruffly then before.

He could still feel the way her arms and wings enfolded him. "I sure have." She chuckled, and the sound drew a quiet smile onto his lips. "I love you, Bo."

He hugged her back. "I love you too...Lana."

He'd put her in a cage. Not a cell, not a jail, but a cage.

He strained to listen, willing his hearts to be silent. After a pair of minutes, they were.

He heard nothing. No beating, no soft whispering in take of breath, no sighing of exhalation.

Perturabo went to the cage. Kneeling by the bars closest to her.

She looked...gray, bland and unmoved. And utterly silent.

"Solana." He said in a demanding tone. His fists closed around the bar and shook it.

"Solana!" He shouted.

Seconds ticked by like hours, and time seemed to slow as he stumbled to his feet. Reaching for the bars he'd been staring at for weeks, his hearts begging him to open. To free his friend.

Finally, he did. And he went to the little bird in the corner, curled up and unmoving.

Her skin was cold, and his vision blurred. He grabbed her. Pulling her up, shaking her. Furiously demanding, she woke. He lifted her into his arms, holding her form as if she was made of delicate glass.

He'd put her in a cage. He thought over and over as he ran to the medical wing of the Iron Blood.

He'd killed her spirit...he'd killed her. He'd killed her. He'd killed her.

The sentence came again and again unbidden. And he'd wailed wordlessly as he ran, holding the body of his beloved friend so tight he felt her bones creak.

The apothecary looked over the patient on his table in bewilderment. "Fix her!" His primarch demanded.

The apothecary sprang to obey. But he wasn't sure what he would do with a dead body. He wasn't Fabius Bile. But he made himself busy anyways, working on anatomy that was as alien to him as if his primarch had slapped down a xenos on his table.

Perturabo stood back. It couldn't be. She must still live. He paced in the hall. Him helm back on his head.

The apothecary came back out and looked rather ill. He told him about the grim diagnostics he'd uncovered and led his primarch back into the room but the table was empty.

The room was empty.

"What is this!" Pertuarbo demanded, but his son looked just ad shocked as he felt.

Solana slipped down the halls, under the cover of a veil she'd pulled up around herself. By now, she was sure the decoy she'd spent so much energy making must have faded and that her time was limited.

The alarms began to sound just as the vessel she'd crept aboard launched.

Her hearts still ached. But they were out in open space now. It hadn't been easy, the cloak, but her time with Corvus had been time well spent.

She came out of the memory and sighed. "I miss that knucklehead." She breathed out a laugh and took a sip of her coffee.

#ask the dawn seekers #primarch solana #Primarch Perturabo

[ina-nis]

I was discussing with my therapist how frustrated I’m feeling because I cannot rely on fantasy and fiction as a coping mechanism anymore. Haven’t been able to for several months now. It has burnt me out from doing any art and writing (other than journaling) and I’ve been reduced to someone who forces creativity so I can keep focused on something other than the loneliness.

Yes, those are things I’m passionate about so it’s not like it’s a bad thing at all... it just feels like a chore and it’s not exactly fun anymore, at least for now.

I was brought to tears when they mentioned this is probably because of something concrete that would/could come.

It makes sense.

I’m unable to rely on fantasy and fiction anymore because of my concrete needs in real life.

It’s an extremely uncomfortable place to be. Brings me a lot of anguish and straight up agony.

Of course, I’d immerse myself into romance and sex in fiction. Seeing characters in love, seeing their stories develop, their tragedies and their joy and savour each of those moments as an viewer, and as writer and as an artist myself, too.

When I look back, the very reason why I started was because of my needs.

They remained unmet from... when I was very little. Or they were met half-way, or - as always - they came with a catch, a condition, were temporary, they ended.

I’ve been languishing in the fantasy of being loved and wanted for as long as I remember.

I made worlds where there was conflict and also love, a lot of love, a lot of conflict. As I grew older, my worlds started dissipating into distant memories, but I could always use other people’s. I latched onto characters, I made them get together, I made them love and make love. I saw their world and decided I wanted to explore the romance and physicalities, and build upon that.

It saved me. It kept me going. It gave my love, my feelings, and my longing an outlet.

It doesn’t work anymore.

Despite the fact that I still find romantic love an abstract concept, metaphoric, which feels intangible for me. When I fall in love, it’s all by myself. It doesn’t have to do with anyone else.

I fall in love all the time. I’m always in love. With ideas, objects and especially, people. My love for people feels magnificent, it takes my breath away, it’s no wonder I long for it so much.

I’m not sure what changed or why, nor why it’s happening now, but it probably has to do with the fact that I’ve been doing a lot of work to address my mental illnesses. There’s now enough space in my brain for older issues to surface, and oh, they did so spectacularly!

In my experiences in therapy, whenever I dealt with an internal discomfort such as this, it was a sign that I was, in fact, looking in the right places and addressing the right things.

“I’m here and won’t leave. Do something about it.” says the loneliness that inhabits me.

And it’s not letting me use fabricated versions of the things I need since it’s all avoidance.

It’s a difficult place to be. Escapism had its place until it became detrimental, and without any other “substitute,” it collapsed. It was avoidance, plain and simple. Now, that I can’t avoid that anymore, I’m at a loss about what to do. It was painful before and it feels much more now.

However, yes, the fact that I cannot rely on fantasy anymore to get my needs met means I’ll have to take action, one way or another.

My fated meeting with reality is long overdue, as it turns out living a fantasy is not exactly feasible long term.

A sign of something concrete to come, huh?

#avpd #avoidance #avoidant #Avoidant Personality Disorder #loneliness #inanis post

[1nksta1neddesk]

A Court of Readers and Dreamers

Chapter 16: Bind and Break

Days passed where I laid in that filthy room, mud slowly drying and cracking to cover the floor in fine dirt. I would only wake for an hour or so at a time, enough to eat the food that was delivered and pass out again at every small jostle of my body. My wounds didn’t end with being impaled and the shattered hand, the cut in my arm starting to ooze with a pungent green pus mixed with red and black. My skin was irritated like I had rubbed coarse sandpaper against it in my sleep, but with every nerve lit up in pain it did not compare to the agony of swallowing down the meals or water or to simply breathe. Glass slid down my throat at every movement and would send me into a coughing fit that would only serve to agitate it more. 

I had changed out of the mud soaked clothes in sections of consciousness, and luckily I was not growing cold in the cell as a fever warmed me . I squeezed at the cut in my arm as often as I could, pushing the infection from it as much as my body allowed me until I passed out with fresh red blood running down my arm. I left the bone in my shoulder, unable to pull it out and old knowledge of not pulling out a knife when you get stabbed enough for me to languish in my cell. I kept far away from prodding at the hand that sat against the floor during all of it, not even looking at the mottled purple skin that had new bends in it.

The screams down the hall kept me company enough even in my dreams, blonde female bodies crucified with thorns ripping at pale and supple skin. Those were the easy nightmares, but the ones of screeching metal and my own screams were the ones that drew me from sleep to push and prod at my wounds. My vision had started to waver after one such dream, like a heatwave coming off of asphalt. The shadows pulsed with my heart beat behind my eyes and I watched them writhe and condense, then Rhysand was stepping from them in a languid stride. 

“What a sorry state for the champion of the courts,” He smiled cynically down at me, his eyes glinting in the reflection of the hall light off the stones. He looked like death coming to claim me as I coughed in reply. “What would your little Tamlin say if he saw you in such a state, rotting away as fever cooks you from the inside out.” He sniffed at the room and grimaced at the small bucket that had been provided for my latrine.

I nearly whimpered as I swallowed down a glob of saliva, just to wet my throat as I croaked out, “I do not give a single damn what he has to say,” a cough, “heal me or no one is getting out from under this mountain free, Rhys.” The simple energy to speak drained me and my chest was heaving as I set my head back against the rock of the wall.

“You wish to solicit the healing services of the High Lord of Night?” he implored, amusement sparkling in his words. I was starting to sweat, from either his presence or the fever burning me or both, I did not know. 

“Figured I made you enough money to pay for it.” I shifted and did whimper this time as the angle put pressure on the backside of the bone piercing me and dragged my hand ever so slightly against the stones. Rhysand’s eyes moved down to the ivory, and the light in his eyes dulled just a bit at it. He stepped closer to me, leaning ever so slight down to study the protrusion. 

His hand reached out to my shoulder, stopping a few inches away, “May I?” I gave him a short nod before clenching down my teeth as his fingers graced along the bone. Fire so hot it should have cauterized the wound lit across my body and I was sobbing out curses against the pain.

“How wonderfully gruesome that is indeed.” He smiled down at me, cruel in his mask. His hand slid down from my shoulder and grasped my bicep. Puss coated his fingers as he lifted my arm up and he spotted the twisting hand, “Truly distasteful to have you rot down here.” He set the arm down gently as to not rustle it farther, and wiped the puss away on his trousers, a pale green sheen ruining the black, then returned his hand to his pocket.“Sadly I do have enough gold to last me for eons, so I am afraid that payment has become inoperable.”

“You’re a lousy Knight, you know that?”I let out a rasping laugh as my eyes watered as I asked him,”What do you want then? What deal do you want to make?” The fever had definitely made me delusional as the words bit out, irritated and put on an emotional edge from the pain and steady fear that I would not make it and that my clumsiness would kill both me and the people I left in this world.

“I heal your arm in exchange for you. Two weeks of my choosing every month once this trial business is over where you will live with me, in the Night Court.” He sounded like I was the one trying to screw him over as I laughed out shallowly.

“Deal” I took the bargain the moment he said it.Really I had no true tying to it no matter his terms but the pain was getting to me and the promise of magic was like morphine getting pumped into my wounds.

His brows furrowed and I saw the hand in his pocket clench, “No bargaining? You are just accepting the two weeks?”

“That is what I agreed to isn’t it? Though you might be disappointed when you can’t get to cash in your compensation, with how these trials seen to be going.” Yes the fever had driven me to insanity and boiled away my filter and will to preserve myself for the next two months. “And it's not like I have any other choice, it's that or die here, now.”

Cold rushed through me as Rhy’s nodded his head, stiff with some perplexing emotion at my easy acceptance. He grabbed my shoulder with one hand, then the other that had freed itself from his pocket was pulling at the bone, yanking it through me and leaving a gaping hole. The cold turned to numbness that tingled across every surface of me and I heard the squelch of flesh and groaning of bones. There was a splattering sound next to me before the cold retreated and I was left in my skin. I shivered against the cold as all heat had been pulled from me along with the fever.

I looked down at my arm and was brought an art work. I flexed my fingers and moved my arm, rolling my shoulder as I pushed off from the wall to stand, and the ink moved with the skin as I did so. It was unreal to watch it shift over the contours of my muscle and bones and tendon, not just because it was magic. I was in awe as the ink was different than what I was promised, the floral design I had been prepared to see no where along the skin, instead it was replaced with cresting waves that swiveled down my arm, birds diving down into the surf. It was breathtaking as I watched the bands of ink flow into each other, not as dense as the lace-like glove I had been expecting  and I could see past the created images as I saw the runes swirled in with it. They were not clear but the repetition in the patterns caught my eye, like a derivation of cursive as it curled around me. And it curled down my hands to condense into the eye at the center of my palm. I clenched my fist, covering the eye.

“It’s pretty.” I breathed out, then I shot my eyes up, remembering the man I had made the bargain with. He was still there, standing in a corner adjacent to me as he stared at me, at my wide eyes that beheld him. I looked over the small slivers of exposed skin I could see, but they were still the bare creamy skin from before. “Where is your ink?”

Honestly it had been bothering me since I had first read the series, the lack of his end of the deal inked to his skin. He tilted his head at the question, or maybe the lack of shock at the tattoo before he took a breath and explained.

“The ink is only a reminder to uphold one’s end of the bargain, my half has been fulfilled now that you are fully healed.” Still I frowned as I stared at him down, it was unfair for me to have a full sleeve of tattoos while he was spared, though the feathers and sea froth might have clashed with the Illyrian tattoos that I knew splayed over his shoulders. 

“Well, thank you, I guess.” I huffed as I looked at where I had been sitting, a small pool of puss and blood soaking into the hay. “Can you at least clean my bed? Your magic is messy.”

His laugh was deep and sardonic as he waved his hand and the hay was replaced with blankets and a pillow, all of which looked heavenly. “You humans are so demanding.” 

I was exhausted as I sat down in the new blankets, while I expected a hard cold floor just under them I bounced lightly and I pulled them back to see a small cot. The blankets were plush under my hand, the underside of them furlined as they tickled my newly tattooed palm.

“Thank you, Rhys, really.” I couldn’t look at him as I said it, not at the burning rawness in my throat as I worked through the thoughts seared my mind. He made a dismissive grunt and I saw the shadows retreat back to him and I had to look up. He was shrouded in the shadows, almost completely gone and if I squinted I could have sworn I saw them condense even deeper where a pair of wings would peek over his back. 

“Rest up, Feyre, you are going to need it” He said and then it was just his eyes left staring at me. Those violet, star-flecked eyes that held so much promise of pain for those opposing him and compassion of those closest to him.

“See ya soon, Rhys.” He was gone before the words were gone and I hoped I had imagined the stars in his eyes flashing brighter before a ripple of darkness that nipped at my exposed skin as I nestled into those new blankets. Without the worry of dying from infection and the new ink to trace my fingers over I found a peaceful sleep.

_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_

The dreams that found me were sweet with dripping honey and when I awoke it was slow and lazy as I tried to hold onto it. The memories of what dreams held disappeared with my door swinging open and those red skinned faeries dragged me from my room and threw me in some nondescript hallways with a bucket of already dirty water and fraying brush.

They threatened me with torture if it was not shining and spotless by dinner time. Then had left shortly after that with a few slurs hurled my way before I set upon scrubbing the floors. How the white marble had become so filthy I had no idea, but I started by using the dry brush to scrape out the piles of dirt and dust into small piles down the hall. It was like a handheld broom while it was dry and even though I knew the bucket of water was spelled to make the floor dirtier it felt good to have a task to do.

I moved the small piles of dirt together on one side of the hallway before wetting the brush and scrubbing at the grout lines between the marble tiles. Mud came away, thick as the mud I had been sloshing around in in the middengaurd wyrm’s lair, and didn't stop coming away no matter how much I scrubbed at the one spot. My back and arm burned as I kept scrubbing, and I had to take a break as my hand cramped so painfully I smacked it against the floor in hopes of stopping the cramp.

I sat back, using my calves as cushion as I took a breath and studied the blue-black ink of the tattoo across my skin. The blues complimented well with the gold tan the skin still held from nearly half a year in eternal bright spring. Where crests of waves traced down to my fingers , mixed with birds, my shoulder was the clouds above the sea. They still swept and curled like smoke over the parts I could see, they were distinctly different and lighter in feeling. The ink swept up to my collar bone, webs of the blue kissing it before they curled back in on themselves to play with the other swirling tufts of cloud.

I set back to scrubbing the tile with a groan. Maybe it was hours or minutes that passed but I was getting ready to break the brush across my knee as I had not moved from my spot and still mud kept coming up, thickening even as I used the brush to wash it away in the water of the bucket. 

A door clicked and I looked up quickly, thinking it was the red skinned guard to take me and throw me over a spit as they promised. I almost sagged when I saw the flaming red hair, prepared to curse out Lucien before a dress followed the red hair. It was his mother dressed in deep reds, the same shades of deep ruby and amber that complimented her son so well. Russet eyes connected with mine as she walked toward me.

I tilted my head down, a bow as I was already kneeling, and I saw her incline her own chin in response. “For giving her your name in place of my son’s life,” her voice reminded me of peach cobbler topped with caramel as she drew closer, and I knew she had seen her son dragged in front of the crowd to be made a spectacle of, of her other sons taking glee in their brother’s near death. Long fingers of soft rose skin pointed at the bucket and the smell of roasting chestnuts wafted for just a moment before she moved past me.  “My debt is paid.”

I did not get to thank her or say anything at all before she was gone through the other side of the hallway. I took to scrubbing the floors with a fevor as I did not know how much more time I had left to complete my task. 

The tiles were gleaming by the time the guards came to fetch me. Their discontent at not being able to punish me was obvious as they chucked me into the cell with a plate of bread and watery gravy. I did not sleep well that night as my bones ached from the repeated motions, my fingers cracking and popping every time I moved to grasp something.

#fanfic #acotar #reader #a court of readers and dreamers #acotar rewrite #inkywrites #reader insert #rhysand #rhys acotar

[une-sanz-pluis]

I have a list of blogs I want to write that are far more relevant to this sideblog but stuff it, I'm going to talk about William Courtenay's will and his burial.

So, in William Courtenay's will, drawn up in the summer of 1395, he asks for burial in Exeter Cathedral in a "worthy manner" in a place that appears fairly prominent within the church. Here's the relevant paragraph (I'm quoting from Joseph Dahmus's translation in his biography of Courtenay):

First, I leave my soul to the omnipotent God, my Creator and Redeemer, submitting myself and it to his mercy of which there is no number. My body which will be corrupted and decay I wish to have buried as quickly as possible in a worthy manner in the nave of the cathedral church of Exeter at the place where there now lie three deans in a row before the great cross, for which occasion no great lords should be invited but only the bishop and those in the vicinity. I wish that the bishop of the place bury me unless my venerable brother Lord Thomas by the grace of God archbishop of York and primate of England, should come in accordance to an earlier agreement between us; in which case I ask my brother, the bishop of Exeter, whoever he is, and all belonging to his church and diocese, that out of reverence for God, his church, and my poor prayers, they show all reverence, honor, and kindness to it.*

Archbishops of Canterbury weren't always buried at Canterbury Cathedral and Exeter Cathedral was where William's parents were buried and where he had been a prebendary so there's nothing really surprising or strange about that.

But on 28 July 1396, three days before his death, William added a codicil to his will (going by Dahmus's translation, it seems to have been a verbal codicil recorded by witnesses), where he said he felt unworthy to be buried inside any great church and asked for burial the churchyard of the collegiate church he had founded at Maidstone the year before and was still being constructed at his death (it was finished under Archbishop Arundel). Here's the relevant bit:

What was written above was and is the true testament of William of pious and worshipful memory, recently while he lived archbishop of Canterbury by the grace of God, now deceased, except in so far as the will is modified by a subsequent codicil, namely that on July 28 just past, the same most reverend father, languishing in his last agony in an inner room of his manor of Maidstone in the diocese of Canterbury, willed and directed that since he did not consider himself worthy, as he said, to be buried in his metropolitan or any cathedral or collegiate church, wished and chose to be buried in the churchyard of the collegiate church of Maidstone at a place pointed out to John Boteler his squire.

In the space of a year, William has gone from wanting to be buried in a prominent place within a cathedral with strong ties to his birth family to feeling worthy only being buried in the churchyard, in the dirt, of his foundation at Maidstone.

It seems to be a major change of mind. Even extreme. I want to know why he changed his mind. I want to know why he felt unworthy of burial that his position and social status. My writer's brain fizzes. There could be a good story here, the story of guilt and shame. A dying man comes face to face with a singular sin that he has committed and decides he is no longer worthy of the prestigious burial he had planned for himself.

We don't know why William changed his mind. The codicil is the only surviving evidence of his change in mind. And, while William was an important figure in Richard II's reign and the history of Lollardy, he wasn't one of the more pivotal or partisan figures** to become the subject of speculation, much less the speculation to focus on his wish to be buried within the churchyard.

The only discussion I've found is in Dahmus, who says:

For as Courtenay lay languishing on his deathbed, what remained of his pride oozed away with his spirit, and he was left feeling too humble to be buried in Exeter cathedral or any other great church.

It is very possible that in the face of his encroaching mortality, suffering from the "agony" of what appears to have been a lengthy illness, William felt himself humbled and penitent. He was approaching his death - this codicil was made only three days before he died - and would've believed that judgement awaited him. A lengthy illness could be interpreted as the sufferer going through Purgatory in life, which would also add to the atmosphere of penance. His choice of burial was probably tied up with this idea of penance.

But we are no closer to knowing what William's sins were and which ones troubled him the most. One might say the pride or arrogance in which he handled matters - but that is our reading of his actions and attitude and not his own. Would he have seen his actions as prideful or as showing obedience to God or the pope?

It would be easy to speculate and come up with various "sins" he committed and is trying to perform penance for. But we know only a small fraction about the private lives of any late medieval person, even the famous ones, and with someone more on the obscure side, like William, it's virtually impossible to know what William was really like or what sins he might have done. In the end, what sins we'd come up would speak more to our own interests, biases and beliefs than William's life.

If I wanted to push a narrative about Lollardy and reformation, I might say that William's sin was that he regretted his attempt to suppress the movement rather than letting the reformation happen. Or I might want to speak to its survival despite William's efforts by depicting William regretting his failure to fully crush Lollardy with a knowing wink to the audience who knows the Reformation is coming.

Or I might want to depict William's regret as completely grounded in Richard II's court, and depending on whether I'm Team Richard or Team Appellants, I might depict him as regretting not supporting Richard against the Appellants or not supporting the Appellants against Richard. Or there might be a depiction of something in the middle, something more moderate.

Or I might see William entirely within the context of his relationship with John of Gaunt. That he regretted their quarrel descended to such lows. I might be a Gaunt fan who thinks William's worst sin was the one of disagreeing with Gaunt and that he should have grovelled in apology. Or I might go full sickos.jpg mode and think that William was regretting his torrid love affair with Gaunt and the nights of wild sex (n.b. I don't actually think this happened).

Or I might be interested less in William as a person or in his own context but see him as an icon of the Catholic Church, and was guilty of one or more faults or crimes attached to that institution, whether they be modern or medieval. He might have been the lecherous priest or guilty of the clerical vice of sodomy. He might have been an usurer and more interested in protecting the church's reputation and rights than doing what was right and just.

My own interest is in William's relationships with his family (obviously, the most important to me is his relationship with Richard Courtenay, his nephew, foster son and probable godson). I'm thinking of an alienation or a quarrel or something.

But none of these routes of speculation tell us what really happened. They only provide us with a narrative that confirms our own biases. Even the things I think are most likely just speak to my own biases. My personal feeling is that the most likely option that has the most evidence behind it is the idea that he regretted failing to squash the Lollard movement completely - he does seem to have cared about that but I don't see this regret as proof of a "see! the Reformation triumphed!" or proof of his own moral and religious failings. How I read William is that he was firm in his convictions and morally upright - he believed Lollardy was heresy, an affront to God, and his failure to root it out weighed heavily upon him. That also reflects my ambivalent relationship with Lollardy - I don't see it as an unqualified good to see William's stance against it as an unqualified evil. Personally, I'm going "oh just leave each other alone".

And personally, if I was writing this as a story, I think it's not a story I'm particularly interested in so I'd probably pick another sin.

Did William really regret failing to stomp out Lollardy? It's impossible to say for sure. There's no evidence.

He does seem to have experienced spiritual anxiety in his final years. Obviously as evidenced by his change of mind about his burial, his feeling of being "unworthy" for burial inside of a great church. But the codicil also added the amendment requesting that his executors pay his debts and the legacies he willed to his household members, but to void the legacies to those outside his household, and what remained of his goods be used to fund his foundation of the Maidstone collegiate church.*** It does seem like his focus had narrowed to the spiritual and the household.

And of course, William appears to have been ill for a long time before his death - his original will was drawn up a year before his death. There was the thought that a long illness could be a sign of God's favour, allowing the sufferer to begin undergo the trials of purgatory before their death, which would further William's sense of spiritual anxiety and penitence. The unworthy burial might also be itself a form of penance, letting his body be food for worms rather than embalmed and placed inside a prominent position in a great church.

Some of it might just be good old Catholic guilt. There doesn't have to be one major sin but a series of minor infractions. Augustine of Hippo bewailed committing the sin of taking a pear from a tree as a teenager. Everything was potentially a sin. Every thought, every word, every deed, every dream. For William, it might have been a series of tiny infractions rather than one major one.

----

Dahmus notes it was "improbable" that his executors intended to bury him in the churchyard, "for it would have been most exceptional to have buried any fourteenth-century bishop outside a church". I wonder if William knew it, if his request was cynically made knowing he wouldn't have been buried in the churchyard. Yet the wording seems genuinely given.

His request wasn't fulfilled. A memorial brass for William was (or is?) found in the Maidstone collegiate church and an effigy-tomb was found in the Trinity Chapel at Canterbury Cathedral. Until the late 19th century, debate raged over whether William was buried at Maidstone or Canterbury. In 1794, the slab at Maidstone was raised and some bones were found and some believed this was to be Courtenay, but there was no episcopal ring or crozier, and the teeth were considered too perfect to belong to a man as old as William had been. The Canterbury Chapter Records were later checked by M. Beazeley and the register recorded that Richard II had delivered William's body to be buried in Canterbury. Beazeley considered William's burial in Canterbury Cathedral was Richard making amends for the speedy election of the new archbishop (necessary for his marriage to Isabelle de Valois) after William's death.

* Some commentary: 1. William, I bet you loved transi tombs. 2. The difference between his request to be buried "as quickly as possible" compared to John of Gaunt's request for a period of 40 days before burial. 3. The agreement between William and the "Lord Thomas" archbishop of York who, of course, was Archbishop Arundel and Courtenay's successor (they do appear to have been friendly). 4. The request that no great lords be invited - none for John of Gaunt, none for Richard II etc etc.

** Of the great events in Richard's reign, William doesn't appear to have played a major role in the Peasants Revolt or the Appellant Crisis, and he had died before Richard's alleged tyranny and deposition. He played a greater role in church affairs and while he seems to have attempted to curb Lollardy, his efforts never reached the extremes they did under his successor, Archbishop Arundel.

*** We don't know to what extent this was honoured; the church was completed by Arundel and some legacies outside of his household appear to have been paid out - his single largest bequest was to Christ Church and this was fulfilled, while his nephew, Richard Courtenay, appears to have gotten at least some of the items willed to him (whether Richard was part of William's household is unknown, he seems to have been fostered by William who refers to him as his "dearest child and foster son").

#william courtenay archbishop of canterbury #blog #graves and tombs

[brooklynislandgirl]

[ Devil Driver / Broken SHIELD ]

Days and weeks have passed since Phil found Beth at the AIM facility and took her from it. He's fought tooth and nail to stay hidden while nurturing her back to health. To avoid eyes until the moment he gets a lead on where the team might be… member by member. And there are those few times where the lead is solid enough that Beth's eyes brighten with a spark. But that spark is less of the Life over which she claims domain, and more of the Vengeance that he now embodies.

In a very different time, they had been agents of SHIELD. Now? They are avengers. Not the kind that earns a Stark paycheck or a magic hammer; they are the kind that could not save the world, and now must bring those responsible for its ruin to account.

The desert bunker is dark and relatively small, barely suited to host more than a dozen people seeking temporary shelter. But to Phil and Beth, it may as well be their underground palace. MREs are their sustenance. Beth has cautiously suggested using her talents to inspire edible growth, but Phil isn't certain he wants to tarry here for long. Staying mobile, he's convinced, is how they stay alive. They've only lingered here for three days because the daytime has been so blazing hot, he fears she'll succumb to dehydration before Lola makes it across the wasteland… and his means of fueling Lola to conserve her gasoline at night may as well make them visible from space.

She suggests they stay one more night, at least. And Phil grants that request because she is exhausted, and she deflects that not-quite-accusatory remark by pointing out he is too, and that he should be the one more concerned with slumber, since she can survive -- and has done so -- on less than an hour's sleep nightly for weeks on end. But he insists she at least lie down… and he assures her he will be right next to her, just as he was those first two weeks after freeing her.

When she reluctantly nestles onto her cot, he kneels down beside her and takes her hand gently in his own.

"You should know something… that even though my goal has always been to find everyone, you were the one I wanted to find first. Not just because of the things you can do, but because… you're the one who gives me hope, when all of mine has run out. And I really need that right now."

He looks into her doe eyes in the silence of the ensuing moment. And then he leans down and forward, and presses his lips to the center of her forehead.

Silver Moon Sparkling || Accepting

When Beth languished within her cell, her mind fraying under the strain of torment ~ceaseless experiments on what she could recover from, what she could live without, all while her natural regeneration and her magick stolen from her by the odd always cold metal wrapped around her throat~ she’d tried to hold onto a sliver of faith. That he would not abandon her. That he would pull the team back out of whatever bolt hole they’d found themselves scurrying with the time she’d bought them. She had held hope that even if she’s the least of them, that he would still care. Each day and each new agony, that hope dwindled. But then he came. Though at first she thought him a demon wearing a flayed Phil-skin as fear gripped her through the fog of sedation.She had no ability to shrink away, nor to stop him from carrying her away. If pressed she wouldn’t be able to answer how he got the collar off. She can’t say if she slept or ate or did anything but ache with a bone deep agony for days after he did. The only thing that gives her respite as her body reknits itself and her teeth grow back into place, slicing her gums to ribbons with new sharpness are the tales he has to tell. Each one is a tragedy. They are full of horror and dismay. And they are empty of the family he’s built for himself. Somehow they soldier on; because what else can they do? Beth has always joked about being an endurance predator to those who know her best ~the family she once had~ but the miles they put behind them are gruelling. She’s grateful for the bunker. The heat during the day perks her up some but the lack of any kind of moisture limits its effectiveness. She eats at his direction even if everything tastes like ash. Bit by bit it all does its work and eventually restores her to a modicum of her former self. Sleep is the hardest commodity to put her finger on. There is now never any time to settle in before they move on again starting the entire process anew. She understands why and doesn’t utter a peep of disagreement. She has no right to. Neither can she bring herself to question what sacrifice he’s made, what pact might somewhere be writ in his own blood to have enshrined this… Well, she isn’t sure what to call it. It isn’t exactly a spirit like the kind she knows. She fears using her mana in such a way to draw it out because she doesn’t know how it will react to such direct confrontation and she can’t bear the idea of losing or harming Phil to satisfy what some would call a focused curiosity. But the question lingers as does its symptoms; she occasionally flinches when he comes up on her far too quietly, when he brushes her arm when she isn’t expecting it. When she looks into his eyes and sees Pele’s burning heart before he blinks and is once more the witty and urbane man knows.Tonight though…the exhaustion is too real. Weighs her bones down as if they are encased in steel. But so is he. Even if she isn’t at her best, she can still sense the weariness that sucks at his every step, and the way his hands rub at his stubble-shaded jaw. Her counter-arguments at any other time would never hold water. He’d scoff and pull rank and remind her that her insomnia alone could make her unfit for duty. She doesn’t see the losing end of it all until she’s seated on the edge of her cot and he’s making promises.

His hands are warm when he enfolds one of her own. His voice is soft when he shares a lovely fairytale secret with her and while she gazes up into his face ~even as he kneels, and her head is on the pillow, there is a discrepancy of height between them~ trying to hold back a flood of emotions neither of them can spare at the moment, she nods.

What surprises her the most then is the tenderness of his lips on her brow. The simplest thing but filled with an incomprehensible amount of comfort. Cloaked in nostalgia of what Beth used to dream having a father was like, or remembering the way Andy would make everything all right. Except Phil isn’t her father. He isn’t her brother. He isn’t even the uncle she calls him out of respect and affection, and the feelings buried deep inside of her attest to that.

So does the way she refuses to let go of his hand.

“You have alla dat, an’ more,” she whispers, afraid to disturb a single molecule inside the bunker. “We’ll find dem, an’ we’ll bring ‘em back t’ where dey should be. Wi’d us. I can see it inna stars, you know.” It’s not true. She does not have a single iota of mana tied with stars, with time. She does have the ability to grant a boon from fate. And she gathers it all up now, every ounce of power that flows in her blood, pooling it into the coincidental stroke of luck he needs.

Beth shifts upwards, resting her weight on her elbow and returns the kiss. Petal soft lips and a skittish sort of nerve, but her mouth brushes his, willing into him that luck. A sense of peace. Savouring, however improper, the feel of his mouth, too.

#tangleweave #Agent Wine-Dad|Phil Coulson #Every Girl Needs A Hero|Phil and Beth #Agents of Shield|verse #And Hell's Coming With Me|Devil Driver Au

[guardian-rocket]

In the desolate confines of a grim and despaired cell, young Gabriel lies sprawled upon the cold, unforgiving floor. His fragile frame trembles with exhaustion, gasping for precious breaths that elude him. An insidious inhibitor power collar encircles his neck, a sinister instrument of torment and control. It tightens its grip with ruthless efficiency, inflicting excruciating pain upon his vulnerable form. Each desperate cry that escapes his lips echoes the anguish of a soul trapped in a cruel and unjust world. Bound by the weight of his own potential, he languishes in the shadow of his suppressed abilities, yearning for the freedom that remains agonizingly out of reach. It is a tragic tableau, a cruel reminder of a life confined by forces beyond his control.

Rocket was roaming the halls of the Shi'ar faucility, separated from his team as they were doing rounds for a sting investigation to get the place shut down. They weren't supposed to do anything besides document, and Rocket was typically pretty good about his marching orders, especially if they were easy like that. He wasn't about to turn the Guardians into enemy targets, but as he passed young Gabriel's quarters, he could hear his cries of utter desperate agony.

It weighed on him, and he ended up circling back to further check out what was going on. He saw a child, clearly in pain, and froze. The cruelty of humanoids never ceased to surprise him.

He pressed a button on a communicator pinned to his top, talking to his team about what he was seeing.

"Hey guys, uh... I'm gonna have to go rouge here, please get to the ship right now and get it prepped for take off, but keep this covert."

"Rocket! That's not the plan, just document what you see, you're going to give away our position. We need to shut this whole thing down," Quill's voice came from the other side.

"I know, but trust me, this is important," he muttered into the com, as he opened the cell with a jammer.

He cautiously started approaching the boy, he had one hand on his gun, because anything could happen now, this kid seemed to have some sort of collar on his neck.

"Ah hell," he said to himself. Maybe he was going soft, or maybe this was just something rooted deep inside himself, reminding him of his times being tortured in the lab.

He sucked in a deep breath before he quickly pulled a tool that looked like a needle from a computerized device strapped to his wrist and started fumbling through the touch screen, overriding the device my overloading it with a quick and likely painful snap of electrical charge, that temporarily short circuited the device used to suppress the boy's powers.

He quickly unhinged it from his neck, tossing it aside like it was a frisbee.

"C'mon kid, we gotta get you outta here, right now," Rocket said to him, not knowing if he'd listen or even trust him. The building was on red-alert as soon as Rocket had opened the room he was in, and although the door stayed open, the sound of marching footsteps could be heard closing in on them.

#elementalartisan

[elliebear666]

Here's some dark, overwritten prose.

Beneath the surface of my skin, flesh pulled back like a monstrous giant peeling away the layers of the Earth, and to the bone - there resides pain. Imbued with the unrelenting agony of life's trials, every atom is altered and every chemical reaction changed; intensified, expanded and compounded.

Thoughts of what could have been only act as a mirage for those lost in the endless scorch of the desert sun, a shimmering illusion taunting the sufferer with images of what they so desperately want and need.

Even if one managed to escape the skin-melting heat, an ever expanding reality of turbulence and suffering lay before them. Each subsequent existential biome is overladen with a cruel menagerie of torments. The weight of the combined pain would drag down even the most stalwart.

Snap and pull away my fragile ribs, and see that every organ, or at least every husk of heretofore life-sustaining matter, is rotten to the core. No life could ever even subsist malcontented upon the withered wisps of what was once capable of breathing oxygen and pumping blood.

Before I died, I had choked on the hard to swallow razor blades of agonizing rejection and abandonment. The edges of those sharp instruments lacerated my soul and bled my want, hope, and love like a pig hung out to dry after the slaughter.

What had once been my body, my shell, my vessel, was now a collection of defunct and worthless parts. The pain did not end when I took my last breath. The stone of my sorrow fell from my limp hand and struck the mirror of the lake, sending ripples of anguish onto the shores of those that had held me in their still beating hearts.

When one wishes for it all to stop, they are not asking for the good to stop. They are not begging and praying at the gates of a vacant god's hall just for the love and laughter and happiness they've experienced to cease.

Without those three things? I had often languished through the night, wondering what life would be like. In the end, I begrudgingly came to the conclusion that, even bathed lovingly and evermore in the embrace of that triumvirate, the unending and unendurable nature of existence - a boneyard of hopes and dreams - would only lead me into darker and darker pits of gnawing teeth and rending skin.

So I embraced nothingness, and excused myself from the table of life. However, before I disappeared, I made sure to push in my chair, then wash my plate and utensils.

[thathusenfulhu]

languishing in addu

just how well do we know pain? how keenly are we attuned to its vibrance? it's an unwelcome and unavoidable fact of an aging glutton's life. you see, last night i was awakened by an intense ache in the belly. yes, right where the spoils of the evening had been producing this byproduct that ripped through my dreams and had me screaming MAMMAAA. only i was alone, in a room on an island in the deep south. i took some panadol but there was no relief. not with two tabs. not with four. i was dying, alone in this room in a resort that time had forgotten, one that had changed owners more times than moosalhu his worldview or thakuru his well-ironed shirts. but let me recall the feast for you. it was lavish and spread across an enormous hall. there were salad greens and vinaigarettes. wild mushrooms stuffed with cheese. grilled potatoes with parsley. roast chicken and gravy. the tenderest leg of lamb with rosemary. saffron rice. lemon tarts. strawberry meringues. and three flavours of homemade ice cream. so i ate with abandon. and why would i not? i'd been travelling all day thanks to maldivian's reliable delays - maybe an argument for privatisation but i'll leave that to the experts. now, i suffer. i don't feel the urge to empty my bowels nor the need to throw up. and regardless of how i shift myself on the hotel's decadent mattress, no position offers the slightest relief. fists of pain open and clench beneath my ribs, and when i turn, hellish coals swirl in my gut. in such agony, the spirit will understandably be subdued. it gives me a glimpse of what life may hold in the end, the very end. alone and wracked by pain. would they matter, those final seconds stretched beyond recognition into a trembling eternity? would any of it matter? i don't know. but i'm feeling it. i feel like it's finally too much. the happy roads i walked have turned into sullen culs de sac. there's no beauty here, only rot and decay and pain. so i want to hurry, with my remaining dignity, towards the blinking exit light. no, there's no punchline. just gas.

#canareef #nadheerachay #addu #pain #anguish

[narukoibito]

Happy Women's Day Naru! Do you have any fic recs similar to your 'Unravel Me', where Hinny didn't get together in HBP.

Happy Women's Day to you as well! It's the perfect day to settle down and read some fics centered around Ginny, don't you think?

I received a similar request where Harry/Ginny don't get together in HBP a little while ago, but hadn't completed the list, so I've combined these requests here. As always, these recs are simply my preferences.

* indicated a WIP.

Canon Divergence Fic Recs

lips long parching by @annerbhp

Boy, what crazy timing! When I received the request about fics like lips long parching, I was right in the middle of rereading it! It's absolutely perfect, a universe where Harry and Ginny didn't get together in HBP. They are attending Dean and Seamus' wedding alone, so what better time to whip out that flask and bond over their pathetic singleness?

Unravel Me* by NaruKoibito (me)

Since you mentioned it, here is my canon-divergent story of two angsty idiots, in mutual pining hell. If only they’d talk! But who doesn’t want to be in sweet agony with them? (Not abandoned; just...languishing.)

Without Twenty-Two Days* by @brightlybound

This story! Just. Kills. Me! Here's the summary:

“And without thinking, without planning it, without worrying about the fact that fifty people were watching, Harry-”

-almost kissed Ginny.

The Morning After by pinkdigi

The night after Ron and Hermione's wedding, Ginny wakes up in a compromising position. You can also check out the follow-up story Following the Rules if you like part one, though it also can be standalone.

Five Signs She's Into You by flyingcarpet

Harry tries to figure out how Ginny feels about him, with the help of Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches.

---

Gosh, it's been a long time since I've put together a list. You guys had me rereading/going through my old favorites again and feeling the Hinny feels. If you're looking for more stories feel free to check out my other rec lists if you are so inclined!

All-time Favorite recs

Muggle AU / Coffeeshop AU recs

Post-War Canon recs

Missed Moments recs

Pregnancy recs

Outsider Perspective recs

Amnesia recs

In Every Universe recs

Angst recs

SugarQuill recs

Muggle and Wizard/Witch recs

Rivals to Lovers recs

Humor & Gen recs

Married recs

Not my OTP (Not Harry/Ginny) recs

Friends with Benefits recs

Ginny-centric recs

Break Up to Make Up recs

Injured / Hospitalized recs

#fanfiction rec list #anonymous #harry potter #ginny weasley #harry/ginny #hinny #canon divergence #they didn't get together in hbp #surprisingly i couldn't find as many as i had hoped #there are a lot where it's completely au #like harry didn't go to hogwarts #and i didn't count stories where they get together before hbp #i'm not as big of a fan of when they get together super young #that's just my preference

[vavuska]

Goliath

♪ My dear fallen princess ♪

♪ You're in pain ♪

♪ What a shame ♪

♪ You could really use something ♪

♪ To get you ♪

♪ Back in the game ♪

♪ Life shouldn't be ♪

♪ Only misery ♪

♪ Endless agony and anguish ♪

♪ Life should be more ♪

♪ Than something to endure ♪

♪ You can't just lie in bed and languish ♪

♪ So if you can barely bear existence ♪

♪ Perhaps I can be of some assistance ♪

♪ They call me the Pain Killer ♪

♪ There's no boo-boo that I can't fix ♪

♪ Yes, I'm the Pain Killer ♪

♪ I just reach into my bag of tricks ♪

♪ So pain, pain, go away ♪

♪ 'Cause I'm the Pain Killer and I'm here to stay, hey ♪

♪ It's plain to see, you're hurting desperately ♪ ♪ And according to my calculations ♪

♪ It's been quite a while since you even cracked a smile ♪

♪ We need to remedy that situation ♪

♪ Pronto ♪

♪ 'Cause just giving up's out of the question ♪ ♪ So please allow me to make one suggestion ♪

♪ You should call the old Pain Killer ♪

♪ Also known as your new best friend ♪

♪ Yes, I'm the Pain Killer ♪

♪ And I'll get you high on life again ♪

♪ So, pain, pain ♪

♪ Go away ♪

♪ 'Cause I'm the Pain Killer and I'm here to stay ♪

♪ Everybody now ♪

♪ Pain Killer ♪

♪ Here to leave you without a care ♪

♪ Yes, I'm the ♪

♪ Pain Killer ♪

♪ These are highly addictive, beware ♪

♪ So pain, pain, go away ♪

♪ Don't come again, no how, no way ♪

♪ If you prefer pleasure, then let's say it together ♪

♪ When I say pain, you say killer, okay? ♪

♪ Okay ♪

♪ Pain ♪

♪ Killer ♪

♪ What's my name? ♪

♪ Pain ♪

♪ Killer ♪

♪ I think they've got it ♪

♪ Pain ♪

♪ Killer ♪

♪ I'm the Pain Killer and I'm here to ♪

♪ Stay... ♪

♪ You'll be feeling no pain today ♪

https://tvshowtranscripts.ourboard.org/viewtopic.php?f=754&t=46270

Goliath, Season 4, Episode 2, “The Pain Killer”

#Goliath #vavuskapakage #tv show #Depression #pain killers

[obaewankenobis]

solace — obi-wan kenobi

summary  :  after the death of satine kryze, obi-wan kenobi returns from mandalore to the jedi temple.

warning(s)  :  character death, it's pretty fluffy with some angst.

pairing(s)  :  obi-wan kenobi x jedi!reader, mentions of obi-wan kenobi x satine kryze

notes   :  this is my first fic on tumblr like,, ever. i hope you enjoy lmao 🧍🏻‍♀️. oh also it’s written in all lowercase intentionally!

       though you didn’t know much about their relationship, you knew from a very young age that obi-wan kenobi loved satine kryze. the jedi and the duchess were destined to live their lives apart, honor bound to serve the people before themselves, whether it be the citizens of mandalore or the jedi order. you had seen them interact firsthand, the endless bickering and shrewd glances at one another making up a feeble attempt to cover up how they truly felt. you hated the way your stomach twisted and your heartbeat quickened when you saw how he looked at her, overwhelmed with all sorts of emotions a jedi were barred from feeling. he drowned in her touch, however subtle that might be, her hand on his face leaving him with burn marks, his fingers on fire as he grasped her wrist.        you stood idly by, hopeless in the shadows, because that was what the force had destined for you. you, like obi-wan, had duties as a jedi, duties that you would put over your own well being and selfish desires, even if that meant spending hours watching obi-wan languish in the realization that life would never allow him to be happy. he’d lost his master at an age where, although he was not terribly young, he was still vulnerable to the world and its brutalities.

       life had not been kind to obi-wan kenobi. he was old when he started training, feeling the need to work twice as hard as his fellow initiates, just for him to be remembered and not cast aside. he was constantly battling his darkest fear, that he was never good enough for his master and he would one day be considered unmemorable or unworthy.        life was still cruel to obi-wan kenobi. he felt the cold, bony fingers of satine kryze cradle his face, leaning into her touch before she fell back limply, dark blood staining her abdomen. around him, maul laughed, as vengeance had finally been served. all those years the scarlet skinned zabrak had spent wasting away, he only had one thought: kenobi. it was a mantra that kept him going, a fire that fueled him, that drove him so far to the point of madness that the only thought echoing in his mind was exacting his revenge on the man who had caused him so much misery, obi-wan kenobi.        with some much needed help, obi-wan had escaped his jail cell on mandalore, but maul had won, for now he was trapped eternally in a prison of his own mind. if he closed his eyes, he could still see satine in all her beauty. the soft, pale buttercup locks of hair were strewn messily across satine’s face, framing her pointed features that highlighted her regality. her eyes, normally a stunning, brilliant blue, were now overshadowed with heavy purple circles underneath, fluttering once, before lying still. obi-wan could still feel the ice of her touch on his auburn beard, could still hear the hoarse whispers of her final, dying breath in his ears. worst of all, he could still sense through the force as her life signature died out, like a warm sun casting its final rays before leaving a planet in darkness.        he had loved her, and she had loved him.        though light years away, separated by many planets and suns and stars, you could sense his anguish. it was overpowering, tainted by the dark side; this was the closest obi-wan had been tempted to stray away from the light. still, he clung on to the light, clung on to the idea that there was still good in the world, despite every curve thrown in his way.        the night ahead of you, should obi-wan not return before then, would be sleepless, as worry for the man ate at your insides, and you were helpless to resist as it consumed you. you were, for lack of a better word, attached to him, and he you, and that was the most dangerous thing a jedi could be. the very idea of caring for one being over another was discouraged, but no one prepared you for how hard it would be to follow a code you lived by.        at last, you sensed his presence here in the temple. throwing on a beige cloak, you quietly shut the door of your sleeping quarters to greet him. it was late enough in the evening for the temple hallways to be barren, but not too absurdly late for you to be awake, as the bright yellow hues of the coruscanti sunset dimmed and made their final goodbye through the transparisteel.        “obi-wan,” the breath caught in your throat as your eyes met his. he resembled a shell of who he once was, clad in red mandalorian armor that oddly suited him. his russet hair was disheveled, dirtied by dust and sweat, shoulders sagging as his arms lay limply at his side. his ocean eyes were swimming with sorrow and grief, mourning the loss of someone — it didn’t take much to put the pieces together. satine kryze. he had gone to rescue her, and returned alone.        “y/n,” his voice is like a melody in your ears, though his tone is solemn and tired. they stood close enough for it to be amicable, but far enough for it to be agonizingly respectable. neither of you made any movement to get closer, knowing the probability of someone stumbling upon them was far too likely.        “what happened?” you bit your lip, studying his face. his eyes didn’t quite meet yours, his fair skin littered with dirt and battered with cuts and bruises.        “maul,” came the short response. “he… i must report to the council.” waves of alarm began radiating off of him, as if he had just remembered something important.        “master yoda and master windu are both away,” you sucked in your breath. “you should speak to them tomorrow.” all he could muster was a nod of his head, and you knew then that he would only talk about it in time. silently, mannerisms mirroring one another, you began walking, your pace slow and your shoulders brushing just slightly every few steps. there wasn’t much to be said; obi-wan was silent for most of the short trek back to the jedi sleeping quarters.        “will you be alright?” you stopped in your tracks, pausing in front of his quarters.        a faint smile crept onto his face, his lips twitching upwards but his eyes remaining dull. he nodded quickly before turning to enter his quarters. “thank you, darling.”        however persuasive the famed jedi negotiator was in his prime, there was something about the way his voice sounded so tired that made you doubt the truth of his words.        obi-wan’s name was on the tip of your tongue before he disappeared behind the door of his quarters, not allowing you to call after him; he could lie to you once, to save you from needless worry, but he could not do so twice.        without much resistance, you retreated to your own space, the walls and floors scarcely decorated, what little furniture you did possess simple and modest. after a moment, you retired to your sleep couch and allowed your sore muscles a bit of relaxation. sleep did not come to greet you, not even as you spent hours tossing and turning, the normally soft mattress underneath you now lumpy and hard.        with a sigh, you threw the covers over you aside, wincing as you were greeted with the coldness of the floor as your feet touched the ground. you made your way to the hallway, pitch black and coated with a blanket of silence, a dim light seeping through the cracks of the door opposite of yours. obi-wan was still awake. raising your hand to knock on the door, you were surprised as your knuckles were met nothingness, as the door slid open automatically.        obi-wan had not moved since the night began, sitting in his own turmoil. the mandalorian armor had been stripped off of him and was now cluttered in a corner of the room, and it looked as if he had used the refresher — droplets of water still clung to his hair, and his sleeping clothes looked fresh and clean.        “can’t sleep?” you spoke up with a rueful smile, careful to keep your pitch low enough so only he could hear them. the door closed behind you, and then it was just the two of them. he looked up; dark circles of grief and exhaust making him appear older, more fragile. in a hasty, unsure movement, you had crossed the length of the room and settled yourself next to him, the sleep couch dipping slightly under your added weight.        there were so many questions you longed to ask him, like the details of his journey to mandalore, and why he couldn’t even bring himself to say more than a few words at a time. but patience was a jedi’s greatest tool, and you forced yourself to simply sit in silence, the feeling of obi-wan’s grief hanging heavy in the air.        “i lost her.” his voice is hollow, monotone. there is no need to say her name, but it enters your mind anyways. satine.        “i know,” you let out a weary sigh. “i’m so sorry.” without more words, you felt his body shift, feeling the heat coming from his body as he drew closer to you. “you need to rest, love.”        there was no reason for him to protest, but you knew why he had stayed awake for so long. nightmares. they would haunt him for the rest of his life, chasing him mercilessly for as long as he remained asleep. no matter how awful life treated him, obi-wan kenobi never cried, at least not in front of anyone — instead, he allowed himself to rot away, internalizing everything for fear of burdening another being with all of his agony.        tonight would be no different, you suspected, as you felt a weight on your shoulder, as a head full of strawberry blonde hair, still dewy with shower water, rested against your side. it was hesitant at first, as he barely allowed himself to lean on you, but after a moment of his cheek on your shoulder, he collapsed, the full weight of his body and all his worries heavy against your frame. as your arm wrapped around his shoulder, pulling him closer to you, your breath was light and tense. this was the closest you’d ever been to him, to anyone, really, the feeling of his skin against her own a foreign concept she’d never dared to explore.        it was the way he smiled. it reminded you of warm summer days, of lazy mornings on naboo surrounded by nothing but fields of flowers soaked in sunlight. he was like the sun, bright and hopeful; steady and dependable.        it was the way he laughed. it reminded you of cozy winter nights, of waking up to a ground littered with snow, the frigid air of the outside making evenings surrounded by a crackling fire intimate and welcoming.        it was the way he looked at you. his gaze reminded you of a chilly autumn breeze, of carefree days and brisk weather that made your skin tingle, your heart feeling light and free, singing to the fallen leaves of the sky.        it was the way he touched you. it reminded you of spring, of new flowers blooming in soft sunlight, of plants budding with new, green life and animals of all shapes and sizes fluttering around with their young. it was the start of something new.        you loved him.        it went against everything you stood for, but you loved him.        and maybe somewhere, buried deep within his soul, he loved you too.        in another lifetime, perhaps you were the right person at the wrong time, or the right person at the right time. but in this timeline, where the jedi code was carved into your bones, where the light side ran through your veins, where your duty came above your being, it was the wrong circumstance.        you had been so deep in thought, woefully wishing a for love from a man who could not do so, that you hadn’t noticed how obi-wan’s breathing slowed, how his eyes, which had once fought to stay open, were now blissfully shut. the man who had been through so much, who had endured so much heartbreak and loss, had finally sought solace in your arms.        your own eyes fought to stay awake, knowing how much trouble you’d be in if anyone caught you both in such a… compromising position. however innocent the intention may be, the council would not see it that way. your last conscious thought was that of i must wake up before sunrise, before you lapsed into a peaceful sleep.

#obi wan kenobi x you #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan kenobi x you #obi-wan kenobi one shot #obi-wan kenobi imagine #obi wan kenobi #obi-wan kenobi #star wars #star wars one shot #star wars prequels #the clone wars #satine kryze #obaewankenobis

[see-arcane]

On Annabelle Cane

Before we learn too much, be it good or bad, here’s a wishlist of things I’d like touched on while we have her ‘on screen.’

1. Her, Jon, and Martin acknowledging their mutual mother/grandmother issues. They could have had a club, once upon a time. ‘Everything You Do Is Wrong, And I Regret Having You in My Home, Love, Your Unhappy Guardian.’

2. Maybe mention that her original look of having ‘a vintage shop exploded on her,’ was born more of a broke student wallet than anything purposeful. Bless the thrift stores. It serves to point out another comparison to the boys—every coin is pinched and stretched. Nowadays, her retro style leans more polished; hence the full Jane Austen dress-up. Why not, right?

3. Address the thus-far unmentioned terror she suffered during the experiment. All Jon got was a secondhand account of her transformation, and even that was fragmented. She deserves to highlight exactly what happened to her ‘off screen.’ The feeling of her organs disintegrating, everything from brain to intestines. She may not even have a circulatory system anymore. If she were to step in an x-ray, all it would show is silk and spiders. No less horrific than what Albrecht von Closen suffered with his internal renovations.

That’s to say nothing of the nightmares. Or all the tiny-to-massive power plays the Spider inflicted on her as it took hold, turning every instance of defiance and attempt at free will into a joke. I could picture her spending whole days like that, trying to exercise choice in contrast to the Web’s wishes—from meal choice to just not going back to the damn experiment—and being forced to do as the Web wants anyway. Wound up like a terrified doll and made to walk.

There was no way to lash out at the Mother of Puppets. Only at the bastards who’d lied to her, manipulated her into a position that left her open to that metaphysical conscription. They were tools too, of course, but she hadn’t been thinking straight, had she? They had made her a monster filled with her worst phobia, living and spinning and controlling her inside. Crawling inside her skull, under her skin, stretching her bones, tearing open new horrible eyes…

She was a touch peeved, all told. So, you know. That happened.

There wasn’t even the mockery of a languishing fight for agency in the end. Annabelle knew she had no choice—the Web wanted her, the Web had her, the Web would get her to do whatever it wanted. The end. So, rather than waste the rest of her life in mental and spiritual agony, she let go. She got to work. She gleaned all the perks she could out of an unthinkable scenario.

“Ironic, isn’t it? Having your options taken away, being stripped of anything you could mistake for truly free will, it’s freeing. You stop worrying. You stop fretting over whether you’re making the right or wrong move. You realize you’ve got no choice but to follow your marching orders and so…you march. And you excel. And you flourish. And you harvest whatever joy you can out of the literal nightmare that your life was made into.”

4. …And once that heavy bit’s out of the way, an attempt at genuine bonding. Martin she points out as a possible ‘coworker.’ Ripe with promise and understanding—he played two different powers’ top avatars like chumps with no powers on his side but simple misdirection and acting. Kudos, bravo. In his case, she points out it really is closer to a proper choice. Now that the world is already Changed and she—Annabelle—is playing go-between, it’s less The Web has Called Dibs, Deal with It, and more, you know. Hiring. Martin would be a good fit, and the Spider is open to an interview.

Jon, on the other hand, has been in the Web’s silk since childhood, same as her. But for all his fear of it, for all the dread it has inflicted for the purpose of its grand Design…it does not hate him. The Web adores him as a star puppet—no, she won’t mince words, Jon, that’s the truth of it, sorry—but that isn’t a bad thing. At least, it doesn’t have to be. She knows from experience. Beyond that? 

Annabelle ‘Toxic Childhood = Manipulation is the Only Way to Get Affection ::::’)’ Cane has genuine fondness for both of them. In her line of work, it’s a rare thing to make proper friends.

She has Salesa (however that happened).

She (probably) has Helen (another thing to hopefully touch on!).

She’d like to count Jon and Martin in that small circle. Recall—she could have gotten properly villainous once they conked out. Yet here they are. Safe and sound.

5. And ready to talk proper planning. Because the Web is the Web, and it does like to keep busy. In the event that they do make it inside the Panopticon for that final confrontation, she and the Spider are ever so eager to help.

“That’s what the Web was before it was anything else. Before humanity developed enough to be paranoid over being manipulated—they were always afraid of Spiders. True to form, we’re quite expert at pest control. And I can’t think of any bigger pest to deal with than Jonah Magnus.”

#I just want her to get a real spotlight episode before everything goes to hell #regardless of where her moral code or covert plans land #annabelle cane #the magnus archives #season 5 theories