#* writing.

[resourcesofcolor]

stop normalizing ai use in fandom 👎

[k0yaz]

guys what the actual hell?

Why did I lose so many followers? If it’s because of my recent fic I will delete it and remove it from my master lists but can I have an explanation as to why I lost over 150 followers in under a few hours?

I’m not blaming anyone ily all but im just curious as to WHY I lost followers over one single fic which didn’t even contain anything problematic in it, and there’s plenty of other fics for you all to read so why focus on ONE just because it’s from a game that you don’t like?

Again I’m sorry if this came off as harsh I’m just upset and not in my right mind rn because this feels ridiculous

[makemeactup]

Ringo Starr x Reader - Stolen Glances

Summary: Ringo has feelings for his long time friend, but cant bring himself to do more than steal glances.

This is actually something I wrote for my oc but thought everyone would enjoy it. So — here ya go!

---

It wasn't that Ringo was scared to say anything to you. No, he wasn't the least bit worried about the outcome. You were adults now, it'd be fine. But, perhaps, he was just being cautious about the situation. Weighing up the possibilities and the comfort of the now. Such as:

Everytime you would playfully shove him, or playfully punch his shoulder, or playfully try to fight or wrestle, or just sit next him or drape your legs over his lap or put your head on his shoulder, Ringo held a humongous grin. His cheeks would tint a soft red. His blue eyes took you in as quickly as they could without drawing any attention.

Each time, he played along or dismissed you with a joke. Sometimes he would wrestle or take an exaggerated boxing stance, or he'd put his hand around your legs to make sure that you could relax and not worry about them sliding off. You'd smile at him then, beaming and radiant. And it'd be just for him — until one of the other boys, usually John, demanded your attention.

You were like that with everyone for the most part, Ringo had reasoned. You'd playfully shove George, but you wouldn't try to fight him. You'd use Paul as a pillow, but you wouldn't try to wrestle with him. You'd offer both men your smile, the one they all knew so well. But John, to Ringo's eyes, was too close to how you treated him.

John did get the playful fights and attempts to wrestle, and sometimes you'd get put into a headlock or he'd have his arm wrenched behind his back. John did get sat next to, and he got your head on his shoulder, or legs over his lap. But worst of all, he got the smile. The others got the smile, sure, but that wasn't the same. It was a specific smile.

But who was Ringo against John? Clint Eastwood versus Larry Fine?

Oh well, Ringo would shrug to himself at the thought. You were all long time friends, nothing more. His feelings had to pass, right? The denial certainly wouldn't, but that was neither here nor there.

Sat behind his drumkit, drumsticks held loosely in hand, he watched his friends interact. He watched you as you laughed at something George had said, waving him away. He admired your side profile, your shiny hair. Your shirt was nice today.

Sporadically, his eyes flickered to whoever was talking, an attempt to cover his tracks. He'd crack a smile and laugh at a joke or story, but he wasn't actually listening. Not as he gently hit the cymbals absentmindedly, and not as he looked at you again.

"—right, Ringo?" Came the sudden voice of Paul, the use of his name knocking him back into the room.

It was only then, under the scrutinising stares of his friends, did the drummer realise that his face gave away his previously absent mind. His eyes, dark with the apparent lack of sleep lately, grew briefly wide as he perked up and looked at Paul.

"What'd you say, Paul?"

"You alright? You look spaced out."

"Oh," Ringo blinked. "Yeah, I'm fine. And you?"

"You're gonna get bug-eyed if y' keep starin'," John hummed, smirk wide. He had obviously seen something the others hadn't.

"In me own world," Ringo raised an arm and moved his drumstick in a circular motion beside his temple for emphasis.

"Can I join your world?" You asked innocently, brows arching, as if you'd have to plead for him to say yes.

"'course ya can!" He beamed softly. "None'a these jokers can, though."

"What have I done?" George asked, sounding offended to be included with John and Paul.

"Dunno, let me get back t' you," Ringo offered, earning a small laugh and smile from his friends.

His eyes met yours, and he offered a small shrug. When you didn't immediately turn around, he swore he felt his neck grow warmer and the grip on his drumsticks grow ten times tighter. His lips grew into a lopsided grin, nose turning a soft shade of red.

When you did eventually turn back around, he released a breath he didn't know he was holding. Swallowing thickly and lightly hitting his drumsticks together, he feigned interest in whatever joke or story was being told. All the while, as subtly as he could in the background, he kept stealing loving glances at you.

[inevestigator]

THE FALL OF MINRATHOUS.

So I'm posting this on AO3, here's the link if you want to read it not on tumblr. Or you can click through. It's almost 8000 words, there's your warning. if you see tense errors no you didn't. i really tried.

tw violence, death, blood... etc.

UNTIL IT BURNS.

Minrathous has its good days. It has many more bad days. But it’s never had a day like this. The city has stood for Ages through sieges and blights, repelling invaders and would-be-conquerors with barely any effort at all.

So where are the defences now? I hear you ask. Why does the Archon’s palace sit dark and unmanned? Why do the juggernauts not jump to the cities defence as they were created to do? Where are the magisters and their magic?

The answer is simple. There’s been a coup. Like a knife sliding between ribs, the Venatori have made a play for the heart of the city. They’ve wrested control and likely killed anyone who didn’t immediately pledge their loyalty. They had an easy enough time of it. How? Well, they brought a big enough distraction. It flaps around overhead and roars sparks and flames into the night sky- and down onto the streets.

The heat is everywhere, all encompassing. Buildings tremble like leaves in the wind. People are screaming and running. Where are they meant to go? When the safest city in Thedas is burning?

A girl in her father’s arms drops a nug shaped toy in the crowd. Only then does she begin to wail, adding to the cacophony.

It bounces from foot to foot until it hits my boot. I pick it up and find the wailing child. I wish I could tell her it’s going to be alright, but the outlook is grim and I’ve never been good with kids. I hand the nug over and look at her father. “Get underground, there’s a safehouse not far from here.” I point in the direction of one of many entrances to Shadow Dragon safehouses. Even from this distance I can see someone waving people inside. The smoke makes it hard to tell exactly who it is. The list of Shadow Dragons isn’t as long as I’d like, but longer than I’d expected.  

I turn my back once I’m sure the crowd is moving the right way and throw my hands out to extinguish the nearby fires.

Wingbeats sound overhead, a roar- if it can be called that- followed by intense, searing heat. People further down the street scream an agonising sound- and then they don’t. The stench is acrid and the cobbles are melting. I pull the freezing air back to me, cloak myself in it until my eyes and lungs stop aching from the hat and the smoke. A metal shop sign melts in slow drips.

I try not to look at the charred marks that used to be people.

I let my feet take me back towards The Shop, taking the obvious routes, the ones a non-native might take. I make it three streets before my plan works out and Lace comes barrelling towards me, bow drawn, chest heaving. There’s an echo of my own agony in her expression. And something else.

“Rook-“ She falters. It’s tough being the bearer of bad news.

“-Isn’t coming.” I finish for her. A knife between the ribs. But there’s only myself to blame. There isn’t time to dwell on it. I cut her off before she can speak again, we’ve no time for excuses, either. “There’s people trapped in the temple. Can you get to them?”

Harding looks more focused for being handed a mission. She nods.

I see Bellara appear, out of the smoke- she’s holding the hand of a young boy.

“Neve!” She sounds relieved. I try to echo some of her expression back to her.

“Nice to see you too, Bel,” I assure her. “You’ve made a friend.”

She looks uncomfortable at the thought. “He was lost-“

“I’ve got it.” I hold my hand out. “Go with Harding. I’ll get him to safety.”

We exchange responsibilities. Harding and Bellara go back the way they’d come and I find my way to the nearest safehouse. Hector hovers by the door, looking ashen and afraid, but gripping his sword just the same.

“Lost kid, get him somewhere safe.” I hand over the boy.

Hector stops me before I can leave. “Viper and Tarquin- they’re out by Dumat Plaza. There’s a safehouse out there- we lost contact.”

“Of course they are. I’ll find them.”

I walk away, already forming the best route to the water’s edge in my mind.

It takes me longer to get there than I wanted, but by the time I make it there’s a few less tenement buildings on fire.

True to Hector’s tip, Ashur and Tarquin are a couple of streets east of Dumat Plaza. The wing beats are louder here. People rush past in an effort to get inside the hatch Tarquin is holding open.

The dragon screeches. There’s another rush of heat. I whirl around, throwing up a barrier against the flames but I still feel it scorching through the ice.

There’s a scuffle. “They’re going to kill each other to make it in here!” Tarquin yells, as if Ashur and I couldn’t see that for ourselves.

“I’ll draw it off,” Ashur says and fires a beam into the air, it hits the dragon on a blight boil and the thing hisses and circles. Sparks form in its mouth.  

“Great, you’ve got it’s attention, now what?” I ask.

“Now, we move.” He says, and takes off, firing magic from his fingertips again. I watch him grab a zipline- brave and stupid- and disappear out of sight. Tarquin makes a sound of devastation. We share a look- and then we both follow him off the edge.

Turns out, we’re all a little brave. And very stupid, when we want to be.

The Viper actually looks surprised as we drop down next to him, beside Our Lady of Victory.

“You didn’t think we were going to let you have all the glory, did you?” Tarquin asks, with a voice that doesn’t match the tremble in his hand.

There’s another rushing sensation and I throw up another barrier around the three of us. It staves off the worst of the flames.

“We have to get it to land!” I yell over the sound of wings and fire and roaring dragon.

“Over here!” Ashur moves into an open area and starts drawing magic from the Fade. A lot of magic from the Fade.

We follow him. Two mages and a templar against the worst.

“Alright.” I brace myself for an attack. “Light it up.”

Ashur does. I feel the veil ripple in response to the power of the beacon, watch a magical bomb land a hit on the dragon’s shoulder and detonate, rocking everything. The dragon screeches as it finds a new target.

Tarquin stands with his sword held tight. Ashur stands with his hands up, ready. I stand with my staff in the vice my fingers have formed. Andraste stands over us, unmoved.

The ground shakes as the dragon slams into it, its breath is hot and foul.

We attack as one.

The dragon doesn’t care. We’re practically useless against it.

We do a damned good job of keeping it on the ground, but everything we throw at it seems to slide right off.

Just as I’m beginning to think we might have done some damage to it, it lashes out with its claws and Ashur goes down. Someone yells. It might be me.

There’s nothing I can do, I’m rooted to the spot by a jet of flame from the dragon’s maw- barely holding my own as I replace shield after shield of ice.

I see Tarquin run to help Ashur through the flame. He’s not looking at the dragon.

I can’t help either of them, I can barely help myself.

Ashur’s hand is limp as Tarquin rolls him over. There’s too much blood.

How poignant, I think, that Ashur might die at the feet of Andraste. Burned to death at the foot of the martyr herself. You could laugh at the irony.

The dragon blasts me again. I feel the magic weaken. I use the last of it to push myself aside on an icy slick. I cower behind a rock to catch my breath and wait for the flames to come again.

They don’t. The dragon, untethered and no longer under attack, flaps its wings and takes off into the air. I don’t want to be relieved but another hit would have killed us all- and instead of going back to burning down the city, it seems to be retreating. Though not because we’ve hurt it in any meaningful way.

I scramble to Tarquin’s side. Ashur is bleeding, but breathing. I manage to muster the energy to slow the bleeding to a crawl whilst Tarquin performs some kind of templar rudimentary field healing. Together, we drag him into a nearby building and onto a box to do a proper once-over.

Part of me wishes we hadn’t.

The wound is infected, with blackness oozing from it. The blight.

All our work for nothing. Ashur is still going to die.  

I find a functioning candlehop and send for Harding and Bellara.

Imagine my surprise when Rook turns up instead.

--------

UNTIL IT’S GONE.

Sometimes the world is nice, it gives you things without you having to ask, it provides. And sometimes a bad night turns into an even worse day, and right when you think you have nothing more to lose, you find out you do.

Watching the city burn had been bad enough. Hearing people roasting in locked or blocked off rooms and streets, or people choking on the smoke, or consumed by the blight, or trapped under rubble had been worse. After Rook left (see: was sent away before Tarquin could stab them) I spent the next several hours helping rescue efforts, pulling people from razed homes, taking notes and names to pass bad news onto next of kin, if I could find any.

I am helped by the templars. Or at least, a few of them. Knight-Captain Jahvis and Knight-Templar Rana Savas found me just as dawn was breaking. They look as terrible as I feel. Jahvis’ already banged up armour was dented and cracked and I’d never seen Rana’s hair so messy. There’s a bruise on her face and a deep, nasty looking cut on her arm. Where I’d normally be able to see my face in her armour, to assess my own appearance, it’s smudged with soot and plaster and streaked with blood.

She quickly assures me most of it isn’t hers.

I can’t do the same.

We argue about it, but she can’t stop me helping. At least, not until I stumble and almost crush Kight-Captain Jahvis’ foot with a lump of rubble and find the world swaying too much to get back to my feet.

“Templar Savas, please get her out of here,” he says, with more authority than I feel he has any right to, since it’s me he’s talking about and I am fully capable of standing up on my own. Just as soon as the world stops swimming.

“Neve.” Rana’s voice is firm, but caring. Truly, she has a gift. The gift is making me grind my teeth. “You need to sleep.”

“Or you could give me one of your templar issued lyrium potions and I could get back to work.”

Her face tells me everything I need to know about what she thinks of that plan. It’s almost worth it for the exasperation alone.

“Now, Neve. Go home. That’s an order.”

“I don’t take orders from you.” I snap, looking up at her too quickly. The world spins again.

She hooks her arm into mine and lifts me to my feet. She’s stronger than I give her credit for.

I don’t pull away. She walks me away from the rescue efforts.

We both know she already knows where I live, so she simply waltzes me back through the tattered streets in the direction of the Broken Spine bookshop where I reside.

The daybreak does what it does best and resets the streets to business as usual. Everyone climbing out of the safe houses and starting to pick up the pieces. People chatting and sweeping and throwing buckets of water onto the fires that were still burning.

I want to stop and help.

Rana doesn’t release my arm.

We round the corner and I watch a cat wind its way through the legs of a woman with a broom, mewing for food. Business as usual.

Rana stops. I do not- and am unceremoniously jerked back by our connection.

“Neve-“ There’s something broken about her voice that makes my head snap around.

Then I see the booksellers.

Or more accurately, see what’s left of it.

People are still throwing water onto the flames.

I unhook my arm from Rana (she lets me) and surge forward, exhaustion be damned.

I call for the Fade and it answers, reaching the doorway of the shop, I throw my hands out, ice spilling from my fingers. There was a decisively final hiss from the fire as it fizzles out. Someone cheers. I look around at the devastation.

Soaked ash and pages stir in the sea breeze. I peer up through the hole in the ceiling at the space that used to be my apartment. My bedframe is a half-melted, tangled mess, looming down through the floor like a metal spider.

Rana’s armour clanks as she catches up to me.

“Neve…” she says, again. I hate the pity in her voice.

“You’d best get back to work, Knight-Templar Savas. Looks like you’ve followed your orders. Best go see if there’s more.” It’s cold, even for me.

Rana sighs. “You know where to find me.” Then she leaves like the good soldier she is.

I test the stairs. They’re not very stable. I stabilise them with magic. My head throbs.

By some miracle, I still have a front door, so I unlock it and watch it swing open to reveal the true extent of damage done. The front and centre of the room are destroyed, open to the street and the bookshop below.

There isn’t even enough floor for me to walk across. I don’t have the magic left to make one. I can already see there’s no point. My clothes trunk stands melted, the fabrics within turned to ash, the bed twisted, my desk and documents burned.

Everything I had.

Everything not currently at the lighthouse, that is.

Hollowness settles inside my chest, something deeper than sadness. Something hungry and gnawing. Something black and bleak. The emptiness of having nothing.  

I turn my back on the remnants of my home and walk away.

I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t have anywhere to go. Nowhere that won’t be full of dozens of refugees that need the space far more than I do.

“Neve. Neve Gallus.” My name is enough to stop me from walking on. It usually is. The voice is coming from my neighbour (call me Birdy, it’s what the grandkids call me!). I can’t muster a pleasant expression. She doesn’t seem to mind. She beckons me over. “Come! Come with me. I see what happened to your apartment. You can’t stay out here on the streets in these dangerous times. Please, come on in here, sit down, have something to eat.”

I don’t have the energy to fight it, I barely have the energy to be suspicious about it, so I find myself ushered into a threadbare living space, with second hand cushions on the ground around a low table. Nothing seems to be damaged. It’s a small win. It’s what I need to be able to take a breath. Not everything is lost. Not everyone is suffering.

Birdy gestures at the cushions and I sit down. “What do you-?“ I start to question what she wants, but she shushes me.

“None of that paranoid nonsense, child, you think word doesn’t travel these streets? You think we don’t know who was out there fighting that dragon? Sit right there and let me fix you up a plate.”

I want to object to being called child, but it dies in my throat. The air smells of spice and jasmine, instead of ash and death. The cushions take the weight of my aching bones. The darkness welcomes me with warm embrace.

I swear me eyes are closed only for a moment, but when they reopen there’s already a plate of food in front of me. “Khinkali?” I ask.

Birdy smiles. “My grandad’s recipe. That’ll set you right. And there’s some tea there for you too.”

If she’s poisoning me, there are worst ways to go. My stomach growls in agreement. I reach for the plate.

I devour the dumplings in a way that most people might deem impolite. Birdy just adds more to my plate. I eat those too. The tea is warm and comforting. My blinks slow, like a particularly affectionate cat.

“There now,” Birdy proclaims. “You just lay your head down there and get some rest.”

If it’s poison, it’s painless. The weight is overwhelming and the darkness is coming whether I want it or not.

I fall asleep right there on the cushions.

------------

UNTIL THE LAST.

They say sleep is important, that it can save your life, they don’t know how true that is.

It’s dusk when I wake, the dim light shining into the room cut with the red-gold colours of evening instead of the brightness of dawn. It takes a moment to orient myself in the room. This is not my room. It’s not my home. It’s not the Lighthouse. There’s a pan on the stove, a lit lamp on the table and a homemade quilt over my shoulders but Birdy is no-where to be seen.

I stretch and stand up. Something is missing, but I can’t place it. Until I do. It’s too damn quiet. Maybe I’ve just gotten used to The Lighthouse where it’s always quiet, because it takes me far longer than it should to recognise that dusk in Minrathous should be loud. There’s a distance clanking sound and one muffled voice outside, but that’s not enough.

Stealthily, or as stealthily as possible, I make my way over to the door. From there I can hear a low rumble of more voices and the sound of stones scraping. I push aside the door curtain and find that Birdy is standing in the doorway right on the other side.

She doesn’t look at me, but reaches behind to push me back into the house. “Stay outta sight,” she hisses through clenched teeth and I take two steps backwards.

Naturally, as a being of an inquisitive nature and not one for following orders, I make my way over to one of the narrow windows instead. The street is full of people, most of them people I recognise as my neighbours. They’re all standing quietly. It’s so eerie I start feeling for blood magic.

There’s a crash and a yell and I realise it’s coming from roughly the place my apartment used to be. A templar in full golden guard armour walks into my limited line of sight, pointing at the gathered crowd in exasperation.

“I say this again-“ convenient for me, who missed the last act.  “Anybody who is found to be harbouring the dangerous criminals known as the Shadow Dragons will face a swift and brutal punishment. Anybody with information on the traitor known as the Viper and his cohorts will be rewarded. We know one of them was here. Bring me Neve Gallus and you will be given riches beyond your wildest dreams.”

They’re looking for me. Of course they are, they’re answering to the Venatori and I’ve made myself a thorn in their side. I make my way swiftly to the door again, this time taking up a stance beside it, back against the wall. I wait for someone to confess, to point their finger. I wait for the templars-who-are-probably-venatori to burst through the doorway of this tiny home. I mentally apologise to Birdy for starting a fight in her house. I prepare to fight them off, drawing magic to the palm of my hand.

It doesn’t come. The silence is deafening. No-one moves. No-one speaks. No-one turns me in.

The silence draws itself out.

That means if someone is going to stab me in the back, they’re not going to do it in front of a crowd of people.

I let the magic dissipate from my hand. I let my head fall back against the wall. I let my eyes close.

How could I have expected this? My neighbours don’t know me. Why would they stand up for me?

“You’re not welcome here!” calls a voice I don’t recognise.

“Go back to your high tower!” yells another.

The silence quickly deteriorates into shouting. Pretty soon it’ll be violence.

The templars seem to sense the shift too, because they start packing up. At least from the sounds of their movements and grumbling.

Only once they’ve gone does Birdy come back through the curtain. I want to tell her how grateful I am. I want to ask what was happening. Why people chose not to hand me over. I know I don’t have the time.

“It won’t last, someone wants that gold,” I say.

She nods her agreement, setting about folding the blanket she’d laid over me. “Someone always does.”

“I can’t stay here. They’ll be coming back soon.”

“No, I don’t suppose you can. Take a bite with you.” She potters around the kitchen and hands me a bag of cheesy rolls.

“Thank you.” It’s not enough. It’s all I have for her.

“Take this, too.” She hands me a cloak. Nothing like my usual attire, but enough to buy anonymity in a city like mine. I put it on and take the bag.

“Really, thank you.” I duck out of the curtained doorway into the long shadows of the streets. It’s almost completely dark. The lamps are lit, where they aren’t knocked down or broken.

I pull the hood up on the cloak, against the light drizzle that has started. At least I have a valid reason to keep the hood up.

I have to warn the Shadows, if they don’t already know. I travel along the winding streets, head down, gait quick. It wouldn’t do to get stopped and caught now.

Rain drips from overhead, black where it’s mixed with soot from the rooftops. The streets are still strewn with blood and wreckage. I travel up past the Eastern Wharf Crossing, up through the double gates, towards The Shop and I’m stopped dead in my tracks.

The square is awash with wreckage and blood, the shopfront equally so. Shelves have been emptied and thrown aside. There are no friendly faces. No Hector on the door. Just an eerie sort of silence and several sets of cart tracks in the blood- slowly being washed away by Dock Town’s perpetual rain cloud.

There are silent, gold-clad guards on the door and slaves on the street building something out of wood. A stage? New stalls? Something worse? I don’t dare walk any closer, instead turning and walking back to the tunnels. To the Anvallenim. There are no guards back there and I slip easily into the tunnels beyond without being seen.

I sense around for Fade tears or demons and listen out for a resurgence of darkspawn. Nothing hurtles out of the dark at me immediately and so I trudge through the tunnel network until I reach the secret door into the hideout.

It hangs crooked and open. Beyond it, there is carnage. The safehouse, the beds for refugees and escapees and anyone else who has ever needed help from the Shadows are destroyed or coated in blood. Or both.

There’s not enough bodies on the ground for the blood that’s been spilled.

Maybe it’s my mind trying to compartmentalise the horror, but the facts are easier to focus on. Most of the bodies are missing.

I pick my way through the scene, through the bedrooms to the stairs- only to find they’ve collapsed. Or been collapsed. No access to the hideout from down here, then. But it’s clear the Venatori have been through.

It’s obvious that someone has sold out the Shadow Dragons.

And that the Venatori considered them enough of a threat to make a raid on their home base within a day of their successful coup.

And that I’d slept through it.

And that I was next.

It’s a lot to process.

There, in the dark, at the bottom of a collapsed stairwell and among the blood of my friends and allies, my knees give out.

I sit at the bottom of that stairwell for almost fifteen minutes before I pull myself back together long enough to make my way back to the streets.

I don’t have a plan, I don’t have anywhere to go, I don’t have anyone I can trust. What’s a girl to do, alone in the city on a night like this?

I couldn’t get back to the eluvian even if I wanted to. Well, not without fighting at least two templars. Which I could do. But I was beginning to feel like keeping my presence a secret gave me the best chances of survival. And I didn’t want the Venatori figuring out the eluvian. If they hadn’t already.

I spend the rest of my night going around to all the safehouses- and dodging searchlights from the Archon’s Palace. It’s a similar story at each, doors thrown or blown open. Blood and gore in a trail out the door. There are Templars on watch everywhere.  

In a street full of charred bodies I stop to place a bloodied nug shaped toy in my pocket.

I really should stop being surprised at finding knives in my back, but this went beyond anything I could have imagined.

The very people who had been sheltered in those safehouses during the attack had sold out the Shadow Dragons to their newest overlords, the Venatori. The position of every hideout, compromised. The Shadows, missing. Or dead.

To have survived the dragon attack only to be slaughtered in the aftermath by the Venatori. Where was the justice in that?

The answer was, there is no justice. Not in Minrathous. Not in the world the Gods were creating. There was strength and there was weakness. Unfortunately, it looked like the Shadow Dragons were on the weak end of the scale.

There’s no satisfaction in being right all the time.

I do the only thing I can think of. The only thing left to ease a troubled mind.

I check on Hal.

The stall is closed, it’s late and the barred dock houses by the cobbled swan look full to bursting and surrounded by Templars, so I don’t risk getting closer.

Finding my way to his house is easy, though the streets are emptying faster than I would like, removing some of the anonymity a crowd provides.

I’m relieved to find the house intact and the lights on.

I don’t go in, don’t even make my presence known- just knowing me is a danger today- but I catch a glimpse of Halos through the window, with his daughter. They’re both smiling. It’s a win. I breathe it in, then head for the shadiest place in town. Somewhere someone who wants to lay low might find a secluded corner to disappear into. Somewhere the Archon’s Palace can’t see. Somewhere underground.

The Threads Market looms up to greet me, mostly undisturbed. The underground vantage really helping in keeping the worst of the dragon attack at bay. It’s more crowded than usual. Lots of people have lost homes to the dragon attack and now even the usual safe spaces have been cleared out.

I try to remain inconspicuous as I pass through the market, avoiding puddles of unknowable liquids.

“Neve Gallus,” a voice from behind me startles me with familiarity. Thankfully, it was one I recognised. Sadly, it was Elek Tavor.  

“Elek,” I greet, pushing the hood back from my face. No need to hide if he knows I’m here. “How did you know?”

He looks down at where the cloak stops, just below my knees, and then back up. I sigh, heavily.

“If you’re planning to hand me over to the Venatori- I’d prefer it if you just stab me yourself instead. It’d save me a lot of trouble.”

“Relax, Neve,” he says, easy smile never faltering. “We’re friends. I’m not going to hand my friends over to the Venatori for a few measly coin. How low is your opinion of me?”

“You don’t want me to answer that question. Are we friends?” I wasn’t in a position to question offered friendship, but I did it anyway.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re paranoid?”

“Frequently.” A friendship based off him almost getting me killed and me getting him arrested didn’t sound like a good friendship, but I was running low on options.

“What about ‘you’re a mess’? Anyone ever told you that?”

I narrow my eyes at him, he shrugs.

“Hey, cool it with the daggers. Only a true friend would tell you that you look like shit… You look like shit.”

I can’t even argue with him. It’s been less than a day since the dragon attack ended and I haven’t changed my clothes or washed my face.

“Some of us haven’t had the time to spare for sprucing up appearances,” I say, dryly.

“Oh, is that it?” He’s angling to something. “So it’s got nothing to do with your little flat going up in smoke? And the Venatori search parties that have been sniffing around?”

It’s all I can do to keep from rolling my eyes. Leave it to the Threads to know about things happening in this city. That’s why I go to him for leads, though. I just wasn’t expecting it to turn into such a double edged sword.

“What’s your angle?” I ask, tired of being given the runaround.

He looks offended for a moment. It’s a very convincing ruse, I almost believe him. Then he seems to remember who he’s talking to and plasters his smile back on.

“No angle, just offering a neighbourly hand. Get you all cleaned up, get you some food, give you a place to rest free of Venatori, guaranteed.”

“And you get what?” He must think I was born yesterday if he thinks I can’t see the looming shadow of debt. Being indebted to the Threads isn’t something I’m interested in.

“Nothing, we just want to help out.” I can feel the slime dripping from his tone. Too sickly sweet to be real.

“Forget it. I’m not interested.”

“Alright, fine. You caught me. One job. You owe us finding one person of our choosing, we protect you in the here and now.”

I consider my options. Turn around, go back to the streets where the guard patrols have my name, where I don’t have a house, where the safehouses are gone and I’m public enemy…probably number five or something. I don’t warrant top of the list, I have no delusions about that.

Or agree to a nebulous job in the future. Finding one person for Threads. Probably someone who’s skipped out on a debt to them. There’s no clause saying I can’t warn them once I find them and the Threads are good for protection rackets. It’s one of their biggest markets. “Fine. One job.”

Elek smiles and points his finger at me. “You won’t regret it.”

“I already do.”

True to his word, I’m given a change of clothes and some kind of soup. It goes well with the cheese bread Birdy had given me.

I decide to eat first and clean up after.

I’m given a small room with a partially collapsed wall that has been hastily repaired with wooden planks to afford some privacy and stave off the worst of the sea breeze. It’s mostly full of boxes, leading me to believe it was probably a store room before it was turned into a rudimentary guest suite.

It’s enough that I can strip down and wash the ash and blood from my skin using a washcloth and a basin of freezing water that I expend a little magic over to bring up to room temperature.

I can also give myself a thorough check-over, following the dragon attack. It looks like the enchanted robes and hastily applied ice magic have protected me from the worst of the fire damage, there’s no obvious burns. Though, there’s bruising all up my left side. I must have hit something pretty hard at some point.

I check for broken ribs, just in case I haven’t felt it by now. Nothing.

There are scrapes and cuts almost everywhere I had exposed skin- and some places I didn’t. But nothing major or life-altering.

I also take a moment to remove my prosthetic. The relief is instantaneous, it’s not designed for days of wear on end. The end of my leg is tender to the touch. What I wouldn’t give for a hot bath. I lay an icy palm over it instead. That helps too, but reminds me to be quick about changing.

The clothes I’ve been provided are nondescript, beige trousers and an overlarge once-white shirt. Elek has included a scarf in my signature colour of choice- and I wrap it around my waist as a makeshift belt. To keep the shirt cinched and stop it slipping.

There’s a knock at the door and I consider the option of putting my leg back on to answer it, in case I have to make a run for it. But the Venatori are unlikely to knock, so I use my staff for support instead. It’s not the intended purpose, but it allows me to move the two steps to open the door.

Elek is on the other side. He eyes my make-shift cane and raises an eyebrow.

“Looks like I was right, and you could use this.” He holds out a real cane. I take it gratefully and swap my weapon for a walking stick. I miss the crutch that used to sit beside my bed for late night stumbling around the apartment, topped with a cushioning enchantment to make it easier on my arm.

The stick will do. I’ve had worse. Elek looks like he’s waiting for something.

“Thanks,” I say, after thinking about it for a moment.

“Right. Thought you’d like to know that we’ve got people posted at every entrance to the Market. If they get so much as a whiff of Venatori or Templars they’re to report in. So, we’ve got eyes out.”

He almost means it to be comforting. I almost appreciate the effort.

“You’ve had your eyes all over the city all day.” It’s a statement of fact, not a question. I know he has, because I would have done the same if I were him.

“Sure. What about it?”

“What happened to the Shadows, Elek? I can’t get near their base. The place is trashed. Someone sold them out.”

He has the good grace to look cut up about it.

“Look, Neve, not even we knew where the hideout was until today-” he stammers.

“I’m not accusing you, I’m asking for details.” I’ll save my judgement on who sold out the Shadows until I have enough information to make a correct accusation.

“Right. You might wanna take a seat.” He gestures at the pallet bed in the room behind me. I can almost believe he cares. Almost.

“I can handle it.” I sit down anyway, because my arm is aching where I’m gripping the cane.

He hovers in the doorway. In another life I might have made a joke about him being a gentleman.

“The hideout,” I prompt, when it feels like he’s never going to start speaking again.

“Right.” I’m fed up of hearing that word. I grit my teeth. Elek continues, “there was no word from the Archon’s Palace at all last night. Not since the reports that there had been dozens of Venatori agents spotted heading into the Magisterium. The dragon- well, you saw it. The Palace didn’t fire on it once. They were totally cut off- for hours. And then just after dawn there was some paperwork dropped off to the Templars. Along with a boost of recruits.”

“The Venatori,” I say. He nods.

“They took charge of everything, and around mid-afternoon- they attacked the Pawn Shop. At least, that’s what it looked like to people outside. Like I said, we had no idea the Shadows were in there… Until they started dragging people out and tossing them into slave carts, prison transports, whatever else they had. Some of them badly bleeding, some of them not moving at all… we don’t have an exact number. But they dragged them all away.”

The soup was starting to feel like it was about to come back up.

“Where did they take them?” Maybe if I focus on the details, I can stop thinking about the blood on the steps.

“Some of them went down towards the docks, to the warehouses, to the templar holding pens- wherever there was space.”

That explained the miscellaneous cart tracks I’d seen in the plaza outside the Shop and the crowds around the dock slave pen.

“Did you recognise anyone being taken away?” It was worth asking. Elek didn’t know Ashur or Tarquin and I intended to keep it that way. But The Viper is recognisable, especially in his current state. “Or see anyone distinctive?”

He shook his head. “No, just a lot of people in grey jumpsuits. And a lot of slaves.”

The refugees. Anyone who had been hiding out in the Shop while Ashur secured them a way out of the city. They were going to get sent straight back to the slave pens, or their old masters, or the slave market.

And it would be foolish to think the Dragons were just going to be imprisoned. That wasn’t nearly public enough for the Venatori. They had to prove they had control.

I had to prioritise.

“Thanks, Elek. You’ve given me a place to start.”

“What are you going to do?”

I reach for my metal leg. “Whatever I can.”

------------------

UNTIL THE DROP.

They say the city never sleeps, it just does a very good impression of it. There’s always a shady deal happening in a nearby alley, always someone or something curled up in a doorway, always a virtuous soul looking to fall. The work never stops, and I should have known that would also be true for the Venatori.

Elek manages to get my clothes cleaned and mended, I don’t ask how and he doesn’t offer the information. I feel better in my armour, even though I know it makes me more noticeable, more obvious.

The thing is, I’m not really hiding.

It’s easy to see that most of the templars aren’t doing their jobs, or don’t care enough about the regime change to properly screen every person walking past them and who could blame them? A city this big?

Finding one criminal is like finding the cursed gem in a chest of jewels.

Easy, if you know what you’re doing.

Luckily for me, the templars don’t. And unluckily for the Venatori, I’m not currently for hire.

And I’m an expert at remaining unseen, if I do say so myself.

I keep my head down as I weave through the morning market. It seems almost normal, if not for the empty stalls and added guards on every corner. They’re too busy picking on a beggar who has the misfortune of being an elf to take notice of me in the early crowds.

The cheese seller yells about finest Orlesian offerings and the fruit seller offers 30% off bruised apples. I move past them both. The Temple of Andraste looms up on my right, just over the bridge. There’s dozens of people crowded outside the gates. Crowded, I realise a moment later, close to the Wall of Light.

I jut out my chin and keep walking.

That’s the other thing about the templars- they’re going to be looking for someone suspicious. They’re not going to be looking for someone acting like they own the place.

There are people weeping openly under the covered walkway. That’s not unusual.

What is unusual is the crowd gathered at the other end of the street. Someone is talking over the top of the chatter and opinions seem to be divided. There are some shouts of encouragement and some jeering and each step closer opens up the pit in my stomach, filled with the fear that I’m not going to like what I see when I round the corner.

It isn’t too late to walk away- but I already know I won’t. I make it to the back of the crowd and push my way forwards, brandishing my staff at anyone who dares turn to snap at me. It makes them back off.

The horror, it turns out, is warranted.

The structures the slaves had been building the day before, the ones I’d mistaken for stages or market stalls, stand as fifteen foot monuments to the new regime. In the form of gallows.

And on those gallows, familiar figures. Both the hooded Venatori agents holding onto the levers and the…equally hooded Shadow Dragons, standing on the raised plinths.  

My blood is ice, and so is the air around me. The temperature plummets. People in the crowd edge away.

I adjust my grip on the staff in my hand.

There’s some small, sensible part of me that tells me this isn’t. That I’m surely hopelessly outnumbered and that giving up my life to try and save four people isn’t worth it.

I don’t care.

The Fade is within easy reach and I summon blades of ice as if it was nothing, throwing my arms wide and watching the ice arc and slice through rope and Venatori alike. Blood splatters the walls and cobbles. The Shadows on the gallows are free from immediate danger. I’m not.

Chaos erupts in the crowd. I’m pushed and jostled as people attempt to flee. Alarms are raised. Armour clatters as Templars try and control the crowd, or maybe just try and push their way through it to get to me.

I move without thinking. There’s a slave cart between the two sets of gallows with people still in it. At least one of them yells my name. I freeze the lock and smash it to pieces with a solid blow from my metal foot.

If it had been chaos before, it’s pandemonium now, as the freed Shadow Dragons shove out of the cart and start wrestling weapons from Venatori agents and Templars alike.

There’s a rush to help the hooded, bound Shadows still on the gallows stage and I lose track of where they go as I’m dived on by two Venatori with their usual bloodletting tools.

I push them back with freezing blasts and thrust my arm upwards to convince the ice to follow suit, going right through a zealot. I barely have time to admire my handiwork before a blade skims across my ribs as another zealot swings at me. My coat takes the brunt but I still feel the bite. I toss him away with another freezing blast of magic.

More Templars pour into the plaza.

“Run!” Someone shouts. And the Shadows do.

Say anything you want about the Venatori, but they know how to pick a staging ground with few options for exits.

There’s the way the Templars are coming- from the direction of the Chantry and the Market, or the way that leads down towards the Wharf Crossing and the docks.

Everyone chooses the latter option.

There’s no sense to it, only a mad scramble through the streets. Some break away towards the tunnels, some towards the southern docks, some towards the northern docks. It’s a blur of shoving through crowds and past Templars trying valiantly to block the route.

But they can’t catch everyone, and most of the people running aren’t Shadows or wanted criminals, they’re just scared civilians.

The scattered crowd begins to blend in with the regular crowds. The Templars seem out of their depth.

I take the opportunity to slink away, towards the docks, hood pulled up over my head, staff shoved hastily between the folds of fabric.

I am stopped, abruptly, as I reach the Wharf Crossing, heart sinking, blood running cold. Again.

More gallows. Only these gallows have bodies hanging from them. They sway in the breeze, ropes and wood creaking. The Shadow Dragon basic gear the only identifying features.

The dawning realisation that this must be happening across the city is chilling. That there could be untold numbers of dead and that I hadn’t so much prevented a tragedy as released a basket of chickens inside a slaughterhouse.

“Dumat’s Teeth…”

I’d been stood still too long, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the gently swaying figures. The regular day crowd moved around me, at odds with the scene unfolding. The bar was still open, the paper seller still shouted from the corner, the food vendors still peddled their wares.

The only indication that something was wrong with this picture was the sidelong glances people kept giving the gallows. And the smell.

And the extra guards posted on the exits.

I struggle to maintain control of my breathing, of the anger that bubbles up again.

I can’t fight forever and I shouldn’t sacrifice myself for the sake of the dead. The dead don’t care.

So I walk away, with confidence, strolling past the guards with a steady, even gait and a determined air.

One of them turns, I hear the armour scrape slightly. “Hey, you-“

So much for that plan. I break into a run.

There’s a clattering sound as the Templars give chase.

My foot aches.

My knee hurts.

I long for my bed.

I miss my home.

I really miss not being hunted down like a dog in my own city.

I don’t look back and I easily outpace the Templars.

I take turn after turn, side streets and narrow alleys and rooftop highways until I’m sure the Templars are gone and there’s no-one on my trail.

Or at least, I thought there was no-one on my trail.

“Neve.” Tarquin appears out of an alley. I stare at him blankly, not sure how he managed to find me, but not angry that he has. His expression is an echo of the rage and grief I feel. I brace for more bad news. Instead, he says, “Come on. Ashur needs you, we’ve got lots of work to do.”

Ashur was alive. Ashur was still fighting. Ashur had a job for me.

A job. I could focus on a job.

And get back to making Minrathous better.

One step at a time.  

This…was going to take a while.

Time to send a letter to the Lighthouse and get to work.

[irladagio]

in light of my recent posts and reblogs, i really want to share my recreation of finch AND ink how it is possible that i made them to be able to be stand alone characters. finch and inks backstories. how they are interesting and how ink can be autistic without it being a terrible and rude stereotype. :) also with them being able to keep much of their og personality if you wanna even call it that.. finch, though i do ship him with hacker, does not need him to be interesting or even involved… I’m going to start with Finch (bc i love him just read my blog page..) his backstory. It’s a lot heavier than what it was made to be. As someone who is familiar with racism and has read many books on his time…I can confirm it was not “yup war and that’s it :)” no. it’s dark and traumatic and I wanna make sure I write it in that light. War/Racism/Transphobia isn’t light or easy to deal with.. and that definitely would explain his “i can’t open up because i’ll get hurt” mentality. I have so much so many extra characters that balance out the excessive amount of men in ds (i understand why tho) they’ll be his friends, subordinates, enemies? World building!!!! I headcanon that he has BDP and I am in no way a mental illness expert and I’ve actually done research like someone who wants to write a character with a condition.. but i want to be as accurate as possible, so i’ll step away from focusing on that for now. But i would basically explain how he manages it, his day to day and stuff like that. This Man Love To Dance And Write and IDC what you say people. Yeah also he’s also texan. deep south, has a slight country accent. Odessa, Texas. No changing my mind on that one either. Katja, I think i wrote a post on her um yeah more on her later. I know im mostly focusing on Finch and yeah i tend to do that i’m sorry. But what im saying is!!! I rewrote him, and I’d love to share it! (ALSO IF YOURE INTERESTED PLS MESSAGE ME, KEEPING THIS TO MYSELF IS PAINFUL AND ITS ALL I THINK ABOUT ACTUALLY..PLSSS)

obviously im not sharing the entire thing rn but whenever i have time i’ll work on the post. hopefully..🤞🏽

[bloodwr4th-a]

If you get married, would you take your partners last name ?

question kol on relationship.

" i would. in a heartbeat, i would. i would not love for either my wife or husband to wear à name that can be sometimes heavy to bear. though, if they were a mikaelson, they would be feared. they would have anything. fear does that to people when they saw a mikaelson enters a room. "

[suscaping]

MODEL BY WALLOWS

* lyrics from the album that could be utilized for writing + plotting inspiration. listed in no particular assortment!

› would you give in or would you relent who's been trying to get in your bed? › i'd rather tell you a lie before predicting what i don't know could lead into false hope. › 'cause i know you can see we're more than a secret, you know i can be just what you want. › let's make up the best years you and i have ever had. › and i know you can see we'll have people talking, you know we can be just what they want. › are you running away from something? are you worried you're feeling nothing? › did you cross your fingers when you said forever? › does it linger when days are still young? › am i just a name you flip through in your story of people you've made to love you? › you could've given me a warning if you knew that all your walls would cave in. › and i'll come by when you don't mind, but not if it'll only waste your time. › there's a lot of things that i could tell you, but some things are left better if you never knew. › when my back’s against the wall, everything else gets stalled. › don't apologize for crying, i will always hold you space. › two more blank eyes lookin' through me, thinkin' of a place from where you maybe knew me. › if the mood's right, we'll talk all night. it might be a road to nowhere, but it's alright. › old wounds seem to open up with you. › you're what i've been chasing, show me where my days went. › can't think of the last time that i truly smiled 'til you looked up at me, could you stay a while? › i'm not in your head, can you help me understand? › do i need someone? i think about it all the time. › i'm just craving a connection, can you tell that i'm nervous just by my complexion? › i've fallen off the track, and it's harder to look back at you. › i knew the feeling would be forming after i took a look into your eyes. › just wake me up when it's over, my headache shows when it's sober. › i'll keep running until i crash into something. › is my life all wasted nights? this isn't what i had in mind. › i don't want to be forgotten, but i've been avoiding being found. › i'm hesitant to tell you something doesn't feel right. i'm nearing a collapse, but i swear that i'm intact. › maybe what i owe myself is an open heart to someone i wanna keep around.

[rzmusings]

if all my tears could be exchanged for something, i'd buy one last dance with you. i'd hire the peaceful night to make an appearance, breaking into my savings for that magic that once lay in the way you looked at me.

you would touch me the same way you did that night, gliding across my skin like it were made of petals. you would smile my favourite smile, small eyes beaming like crescent moons, and you'd whisper your love for me with the unwavering certainty you once had.

— and i would try to believe you again.

[lovelesslittleloser]

HOW DO I BE SUBTLE BUT BLATANT ABOUT THE FACT THAT THESE TWO WILL GET TOGETHER IN THE END

I don’t want to write ‘omg he’s so hot bark bark bark’ because THAT’S NOT IN CHARACTER!!! :)))

SO WTF AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?!

[am4zon]

@n0thingandnobody said: you’re always late , what am i supposed to think ?

Somehow, Diana always returns when dinner has just grown cold. It matters so little how sincere her apologies are when this happens time and time again. The truth is that Steve had been a solider, and the truth is that all her allies are warriors, and the truth is that Mikey is none of those things. He fights a different variety of demons than the ones who fall from the skies. And Diana loves him for this. She loves that he does not understand her burdens. There is nothing in the world she would change about him. Or, at least, she would have said this, before seeing the look that clouds his face in this moment. It's going to haunt her for a very, very long time.

Maybe it's in her imagination, but when she locks her arms around him, he feels stiff beneath her. ❛ That I'm always racing home to be with you, baby. ❜ She tries to kiss him, but suspects that he shall deny her.

[dk-thrive]

A poem-shaped space, I thought. A poem-shaped space.

I pulled out my notebook, scratched a few words in ink. A poem, a poem, I thought. No; it was not actually this that I thought. A poem-shaped space, I thought. A poem-shaped space. I tried to hold a poem-shaped space in my mind. Sometimes the work of life is like preparing a bedroom for a guest: sweeping the floor, emptying the ashtray, watering the sloping aloe plant. Opening the window wide to let new air in. I did all this inside my head, behind my eyes, while my fingers made words appear and waited for that guest to arrive.

— Sean Michaels, Do You Remember Being Born: A Novel (Astra House, September 5, 2023)

[arklay]

a lesson in temperance.

pairing: diana afanasyeva x alex wesker words: 6.5k warnings: nsfw, mild degradation [read on ao3]

Vanilla and orange blossom. So heady, so sweet, as it swam out of the bathroom and filled the air surrounding Alex. She couldn’t help but breathe it in, wishing to be closer to the cause, to really smell all that lived on her partner’s skin; where jasmine thrived on her neck, down her chest and to her wrists, laced with gardenia and sandalwood.

Alex hummed to herself, directing her mind back on task when the loud whir of the hairdryer ripped her from her thoughts. She leaned down and plucked a small box from the back of her bedside drawer.

Wrapped in a pale blue silk ribbon, the little black box contained a surprise for only one other set of eyes to see, and that made her shiver in anticipation. She could already imagine the look she would receive. An amused laugh, or a pointed glare. Perhaps both. And that only served to encourage her plan for the day.

In only a few strides she stood before the bathroom, eyes landing on Diana clad only in a towel with the cause of that incessant noise in one hand and a comically large round brush in the other. So focused she was in tackling the thick, dark strands, it was as if Alex didn’t exist. Only when the blonde chuckled, low and velvety, did her eyes dart over to the doorway, and not a second later, the press of a button granted them silence.

Diana lowered the hairdryer and brush, discarding them on the counter as her eyes roamed over Alex. From the smug smirk painted on red lips, to the small box cradled in adorned fingers, she could only wonder what her partner was up to this time.

“Do I want to know what that is?” she asked, the jest hardly hiding the curiosity that clung to it.

Alex let out another rich, breathy sound, rounding the apples of her cheeks. The raised brow and inquisitive stare was already a reward in and of itself for her. But not enough.

She walked into the stifling room – no matter how many times she told Diana to turn on the fan, she never would – and closed the distance between them. Then, her forefinger began a slow, methodical trace of the top edge of the box, drawing Diana’s gaze for but a moment.

“You didn’t really think I would forget about last night, did you?” That earned a dramatic roll of blue eyes, followed by an amused grin. One that deepened the indents on her cheeks so deliciously. But she didn’t speak, only locking her eyes onto Alex’s and letting her continue. “Punishment is in order.”

“Can’t win your forgiveness through your stomach anymore, can I?”

Alex pursed her lips, drawing her brows inward in a look of mock sympathy. Then she lazily shook her head. “No.”

The breakfast she had made her was quite sweet, but it didn’t make up for the fact that Diana had come last night before Alex had given her permission to. She had been far too lenient in the past it seemed, because this behaviour only appeared to continue. Although, it did bring about a warm glow beneath Alex’s breast at how much Diana got off on pleasing her.

With her partner’s attention drawn so close, hanging on in anticipation, Alex closed two fingers around the ribbon to direct her gaze. A gentle pull and it came free. Yet she lingered, grasping the lid and doing no more, and Diana’s eyes raised to meet hers. It was almost desperate, the look in them. How much she wished to know exactly what was in store for her.

She finally opened the box. Letting the lid sit back on her palm, she plucked a bullet-shaped toy from pale blue satin. Diana wet her lips as she stared at the silver between her pinched fingers, and Alex turned it slightly. As if to show her more. As if Diana wasn’t already well aware of what it was.

“You, my sweet,” Alex drawled in velvet, smooth enough to make Diana almost drop to her knees right then and there, “are going to wear this all day for me.” At the flutter of dark lashes over half-lidded eyes, she leaned in closer and lowered her voice even more. “And… you are not allowed to come.”

The sharp inhale told Alex all she needed to know.

When Diana leaned back on one hip and crossed her arms, it did little to hide the effect she had on her. Even with the teasing smile pulling at her lips, the promise of challenge, arousal warmed porcelain cheeks and reduced blue to barely a thin line around blown pupils.

And yet Diana still raised a brow in defiance. “And if I do?”

Alex let out a heavy sigh. “I asked myself that many times. What should I do if you were to once again disobey me?” She tilted her head slightly to the side, clicking her tongue. “Would I procure a chastity belt, of all things? Would I confiscate all of your toys until further notice?” Diana shifted, opening her mouth as if to protest, but Alex only went on. “Would I have you scrub the place top to bottom? But no. None of that would suffice.” She closed her eyes and took a deep inhale, before releasing. “For a whole month, you will not be permitted to touch me. In any form.”

A loud laugh of disbelief left Diana as she threw her head back. Thinking it a joke was her first mistake; Alex’s eyes narrowed and her jaw set, emphasising the sincerity in her claim. That seemed to do it.

Diana lifted one of her crossed arms and scratched above her lip, looking down her nose as she seemed to be processing the severity of such a punishment. Then, she abruptly extended said arm and held out her hand in acceptance, meeting Alex’s gaze once more. “A month is absurd.”

Never one to back down, her Diana.

Alex let a soft smile pull on her lips, not quite an apology for the past harshness of her tone, and she placed the bullet in her partner’s palm. Her lashes fluttered again at the brush of Alex’s fingertips against her soft skin, but she regained herself just as quickly.

“Well then, you should start being more grateful and less greedy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Diana replied while rolling the bullet up to the tips of her fingers.

One hand brought the silver to her lips, while the other parted her towel, and Alex found herself rather conflicted in where to direct her attention. Ultimately, her gaze settled on Diana’s face when the hand at her hip did no more than rest at the opening she created. Wet, rosy lips parted then ever so slowly closed around the toy. She still held onto the end with her fingertips. Alex watched as her cheeks hollowed while her tongue swirled, and she couldn’t prevent the warmth blooming at her hips even if she tried.

Her gaze wandered from her lips to her jaw, then down the elegant column of her throat. A droplet sat in the dip between her collarbones. Countless others littered her chest, but one took Alex’s attention more than the rest. It rolled down damp skin at a tantalisingly slow pace, until its journey was interrupted by the towel at her breast.

The movement of Diana’s arm brought her back to her senses, though she did find herself wishing to lean in and kiss over the peak that bobbed as Diana swallowed. Or lick the droplets from her skin. But all that followed was her lover’s hand lowering to the part in her towel before she slipped the toy easily inside herself.

Their eyes met again, and Alex offered a pleased smile her way. She all but purred, “Good girl.”

Her own hand disappeared into her pocket, and she pulled out a device not too dissimilar to her phone. One of Diana’s brows quirked at that. It wasn’t the typical remote control she was used to seeing in her past, and little did she know Alex had far more freedom with one such as this.

“I’ll be able to monitor your pleasure at all times with this,” she said, barely flashing the screen her way so Diana could take a look while she ensured the toy was connected. Satisfied, a rather wicked curl pulled at the corner of crimson lips. “Do remember, I will know if you’ve taken it out. And that will warrant further consequences.”

Diana gave her a slow nod, long past accepting what was to come, and opened her mouth to speak, but Alex had already turned on her heel, pocketed the device and left the bathroom. She could only laugh to herself at that, the notion that anything she had to say, or do, was all but irrelevant.

Not even a kiss this morning.

It was already past lunch and Diana had been at the edge of her seat all morning, wondering – waiting for – when Alex would turn the vibrator on. The possibility that she had forgotten about it altogether, swept up in her work, or by some new problem one of the researchers had brought to her attention, was entirely out of the question.

Diana knew the only explanation was that Alex wanted this.

She wanted her to sweat a little. To grow restless. To wait for the other shoe to drop and wish to be free of such suspense. That, in itself, was as much a punishment as what was truly in store for her.

And it worked.

For the third time in this report alone, Diana crossed out what she was in the middle of writing. More like violently scribbled over, in this instance; her pent-up frustration pressed the pen harder and carried the strike over innocent sentences, free of mistakes. Whether it was her cadence, a misspelt word, or merely a letter looking wrong, Diana was finding it increasingly difficult to keep her head.

With a heavy sigh, she freed the paper from her clipboard and crumbled it up into a ball, merely discarding it beside herself. It was ridiculous she was letting this get under her skin so much. Maybe she had been too eager for the challenge, holding herself to such high standards in wanting to prove Alex wrong – that she wouldn’t break from a little toy. But she had not accounted for this.

Diana brought a new sheet before her and slotted it into position. All of a sudden, the toy came to life. Her fingers fell free of the clip, letting it snap, and her mouth hung open of its own accord. The slow, rhythmic pulse was actually relieving.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she sank into her chair, pressing her thighs together on instinct. She would get back to their little game in a moment, but for now… For now, she needed to feel it.

It wasn’t one of her wisest decisions. Her mind wandered back to that morning, to the feeling of Alex’s hot breath on her skin when she whispered in her ear; the way she had purred praise sent a shiver down Diana’s spine, tingling across every nerve and stoking the warmth at its base. A hand lifted, found its way to her chest and simply lay there, fingertips either side of her neck, ghosting over the spot her lover had teased.

The pulse between her legs switched to a soft continuous vibration, pulling her back to the present. A slow exhale escaped parted lips.

If she truly wanted to get through this, she had to find some semblance of focus. There were actual stakes this time around. If that lack of a kiss before work was a taste of what she was in for, for an entire month, she might just lose her mind.

They may have spent long stretches of time away from one another in the past, on opposite ends of the globe, but that would be nothing compared to this. To live with Alex, to see her, and smell her, day in, day out, and not be able to do so much as press against her… To have to sleep beside her and stop their legs from brushing, pass her in the bathroom or the kitchen and not catch her hand or lean in for a kiss. That was torture.

She could get through this stupid little test. Or else a pillow wall may have to be built. Even worse, she would sleep on the couch and avoid her partner until one of them cracked.

Deep breaths, Diana. Slow, deep breaths.

It was much easier to try and ignore the toy nestled inside her with this setting. Diana was determined to show Alex that not only could she control herself, but she would excel in her work while at it. The discarded report was rewritten and completed, with not a flaw in sight. Not even the couple of times Alex had switched back to the gentle pulsing could put an end to that. She proofread it, not once, but twice, and analysed her next set of data from another experiment. It was, in all honesty, a rather remarkable motivator. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to keep her composure.

Or so she thought.

Diana swivelled around in her chair to reach for the stack of papers on the bench behind her when the toy doubled in speed, causing her to jolt in her seat. A breathy little chuckle escaped her, a result of such surprise. Then she blew out a long exhale, longing for composure. Warmth bloomed deep within her core, and she had to fight the urge to let her eyes fall shut. Doing so would only sabotage herself, and amuse Alex in the process.

And she really wasn’t about to let that happen. Diana glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room, knowing full well that Alex was watching her every move. She picked up the stack of papers, turned right around, and dumped them on her desk rather unceremoniously.

In direct response, the toy picked up speed again. Her thighs clenched together as she shifted in her seat, and that only made it worse; the bullet pressed right up against that sweet spot within her. No longer a benign teasing, the buzzing was insistent. Relentless. Diana meant to reach for the edge of her desk to steady herself, but shaky hands fumbled and found knees instead. It felt as if someone had lit a fire under her skin, making her flush head to toe. Somehow, she forgot how easily these things could send her into such a state.

She needed to do something, anything, to distract herself from the feeling. Focusing her leaden gaze on her hands, she shifted them slightly higher, settling firmly on her thighs for better leverage. Then she sunk her nails into nylon-clad flesh.

Mistake. That was a mistake.

Sparks shot up her thighs and to her hips, joining the vibrations, and she almost doubled over. What in the world possessed her to do such an idiotic thing? Of course the sting of her nails would only fuel her pleasure, not offer the distracting sensation she’d intended; she was better off stubbing a toe.

Her heart had only quickened, pounding at its cage as if begging her to let the pleasure wash over her. But she wasn’t going to give in. To do so would grant Alex the satisfaction she was looking for. In Diana’s mind, the consequence of her succumbing to her desires wouldn’t benefit Alex in any way either. A whole month without being loved on? What a miserable rule to set for oneself. But Diana knew it was merely a slight against her; she was tactile with lovers, it wasn’t her fault. A hand on a hip when she passed by, on an arm when she spoke. It was the little things Alex knew she could catch her on.

Diana dropped her hands to her sides and let her head fall back against the headrest of her chair. It was time for a different approach. She stared up at the ceiling and tried to focus on counting the number of metal bars making up the ventilation panels. It shouldn’t have been difficult, it was a simple task, yet she lost count and had to start over multiple times; the buzz of the fluorescent lights behind her kept stealing her attention, telling her to pay mind to the one between her legs.

She may have underestimated her capacity for restraint.

As though taking pity on her plight, the toy changed patterns once more. Back to that soft, sweet pulsing. It was so jarring compared to the torment she just endured, Diana couldn’t help the grin that stretched across her face as she buried her head in her hands.

Then the phone started to ring.

Could she not catch even one moment of peace today? Diana raised her head enough to catch sight of the phone on her desk, simply staring at the offending device and watching the light blink as someone tried to reach her. She let it ring.

The pulse between her legs sped up, informing her who was on the line, and she rolled her eyes much too dramatically. Reaching forward at the last possible moment, she lifted the receiver off the hook and brought it to her ear. “This is Diana speaking.”

A low chuckle sounded on the other end, stoking embers. “What’s the matter, darling? You sound quite frustrated.”

“Oh, shut up,” Diana replied indignantly. She secured the handset on her shoulder, holding it with her cheek, and gathered the papers still sitting on her desk. Needing to keep her hands occupied, lest they wander elsewhere with that voice in her ear. “I’m busy. Is there something you wanted?”

Alex sighed, and Diana heard a loud bang from somewhere behind her, followed by an unsteady rattle, like metal-on-metal. A trolley being wheeled off, most likely. Alex cleared her throat once it was almost out of earshot. “You’re needed in the Upper Spire.”

For what possible reason? The highest point of the Monument was still under construction; there was nothing of value up there that would require her assistance. Unless Alex was going to turn around and demand she pick up a toolbox and get to work. They both knew that was never going to happen.

Diana took hold of the phone again, then switched it over to the other ear. “Did I not just tell you that I am in the middle of something?”

“It wasn’t a request,” Alex bit back. Her voice slipped into one that radiated sheer power; it could so easily bring someone to their knees. It had, many times for Diana, as well-acquainted as she was with such a tone in their bedroom. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck bristled with the shiver that coursed through her, all while the toy still pulsed within. “Now, hurry along. You can finish sorting your paperwork later.”

The little mocking remark she threw in there managed to break Diana free of her spell. She thought it only fair to respond in kind. “Yes, ma’am.”

Without waiting for any further comment, she lowered the phone from her ear and moved to hang up. But again, she was stopped in her tracks.

“Diana,” Alex called, beckoning her to crawl right back to her. And she did, bringing the handset up to its former position in a rather lazy fashion. “Watch your tone.”

With not even a second to possibly respond, Diana was met with a click then nothing more. Dead air. It was at times like this she was convinced she had fallen madly in love with the Devil herself. Though she was not without mercy it would seem; the vibrator lowered back down to that soft, persistent hum and brought with it relief.

The journey to the Upper Spire wasn’t necessarily a long one from where she worked – if she discounted the elevator ride, that is. But Diana would still need to brave a rather lengthy flight of stairs. In frustration, she threw her head back against her headrest a couple of times, then abruptly stood. The papers remained on her desk, a filing cabinet drawer was left ajar, only her handbag was forcibly removed and the door locked behind her.

Once she was but a few steps down the hall, the toy sped up again. It wasn’t unbearable, no, but it did challenge her to keep her balance as she walked. One wrong shift of her hips and she might just send the bullet pressing against a spot that would not hold back from making her legs tremble. That didn’t change the fact that she could already feel a bead of sweat threatening to roll down her back. 

Diana let her feet carry her towards her destination, the world around her fading away in a blur of bright lights and dull greys as she passed through winding walkways and platforms, not even registering how many turns she’d made. All her focus was on putting one foot in front of the other and hoping she’d end up where she needed to be. And trying desperately to ignore the constant vibration in her hips.

It felt so much louder now and she wasn’t sure that was possible. The hissing of doors sliding open for her, the humming and beeping of machinery, the clicking of her heels with each stride was all but amplified by the pounding in her ears, resounding from the toy in her core. Was it always this noisy? Every time there was a new sound thrown into the mix, it sent her heart racing, so fast she could feel it in her fingertips. She truly thought walking was going to be much easier to deal with than sitting in her lab, but this was a new type of hell.

Then there was the case of the stairs.

Deep breaths, Diana reminded herself from where she stood on the landing. She could do this. The effort of her journey left her flushed and weary, but not any less determined to reach her goal. The elevator was so close she could see it, sitting in the centre of the open room; her only obstacle was but a flight of stairs.

She reached out and laid a hand on the railing, fumbling as the cool metal sent another shock through her system. Diana clenched her teeth and held it firmer, steadying herself before she could topple over. Then she began her descent.

One step at a time. That’s all there was to it, no different than any other day. She just had to get out of her head, focus on where her feet landed, and not on that dogged assault on her nerves. With another shaky breath, Diana lowered her eyes to make sure she didn’t miss a step with how unsteady she was, how heavy her legs felt with each footfall. The last thing she needed was to slip and make a fool of herself.

If she did fall, she hoped it would bring about a swift end and let her escape this torment.

Halfway down the stairs, a flicker of movement danced at the corner of Diana’s eye. Her gaze darted over to follow the blur over the railing only to see Stuart, Alex’s loyal little servant, rounding the side of the staircase.

Don’t come this way, she pleaded, voiceless, hoping he wouldn’t notice her and simply carry on with his day. The last thing she needed was to speak to anyone in this state.

But Stuart, the ever so irritating Stuart, sporting his finely-tailored suit and rectangular rimless glasses, seemed to be heading right where she had come from. Luckily, he seemed to be in a hurry, taking two steps at a time, so he shouldn’t bother her for long. But she knew him well enough. The man could talk up a storm if you let him. Just keep going.

“Oh! I didn’t see you there,” he exclaimed, followed by a slight bow of his head. The toy ramped up in intensity and stole the breath from Diana’s lungs. To try and stifle a whimper, she bit down on her lip hard enough she thought she might draw blood, and Stuart paused. He let his eyes scan over her, from her face down to her white-knuckled grip on the railing. “Are you alright, Dr. Afa—”

“Fine,” Diana snapped. She wasn’t even able to take a full breath, her words coming out rushed. “I’m fine. Thank you, Stewart.”

She left him standing there, bewildered, as her need to get as far away from him as possible carried her down the rest of the dreadful staircase unharmed. She didn’t know if he’d heard the buzzing of the toy, she hadn’t bothered to take in his expression at all, really. Maybe she was just imagining the vibrator louder than it actually was, or maybe the thrumming of machinery echoing off the endlessly tall walls of the tower saved her an awkward conversation.

The walk to the elevator wasn’t far once she hopped off that final step. The doors opened automatically for her upon her approach and she practically fell into the safe haven of steel.

With a slam of a fist against a button, she was off. Diana let herself sink against the wall, dropping her bag from her shoulder and resting trembling hands on her knees. She couldn’t even get a moment of reprieve; the insistent teasing between her legs wouldn’t subside any time soon.

The way warmth built in her core, radiating across her hips and threatening to rush down her legs to curl her toes, had her biting back a moan. She took slow, deep breaths, trying to focus on calming her heart as opposed to how blissful the waves of pleasure felt. She couldn’t let herself unravel. Not here, not now.

Diana gripped the handrail beside her and turned, resting the side of her head against the wall. The coil in her belly only wound tighter, and she cursed Alex. Cursed her for playing with her like this, for watching her struggle on every camera she passed, for pressing all those stupid little buttons that left her shaking and longing for air. But truly, she cursed herself; she was the only one to blame. Why did she ever agree to this?

She needed to breathe.

With each slow inhale, and exhale, the twist in her belly began to recede, pulling her from the haze. It did nothing, however, for the shake of her hands, the heavy feeling in her limbs, or how aware she was of her blouse brushing against her chest with each rise and fall.

It was the elevator’s turn to catch her cursing. Just as she was about to question how long it was taking to reach the Upper Spire, the lift jerked and shuddered, before coming to a halt.

“Oh, fuck,” Diana whispered under her breath. The rumble that sent through her did nothing to help the state she was in.

She aimlessly reached around for her bag, not wanting to look down in fear she might lose her balance. Finding leather under her palm, she hoisted it up and onto her shoulder. She would be fine. Her hips ached as she lifted herself to stand up straight, using the handrail as leverage. One last rest against the wall, one last moment, then she would be on her way. Then she would face Alex and try not to fall apart at her feet.

Just beyond another walkway, then she could hopefully sit again. Somehow that was much easier to handle.

The clicking of her heels was a welcome sound, distracting her from the heat simmering in her belly. She didn’t dare look over the edge of the railing along the walkway either – another thing she wished to push to the back of her mind; she was so high up, one wrong step and that was the end of her.

A foolish thing to think about given what she was dealing with right now.

After a short walk, the hiss of a door granted her access to the area Alex had been fussing over for months. Wanting to get it perfect, she said.

Odd, considering the large room Diana entered was completely bare. And dark. The only thing she could make out was maybe some type of stand near the far end of the room. Alex hadn’t exactly divulged what she was planning to do up here, other than having her own personal laboratory.

Off to the side, cool white light emanated from an open door. The only clue she had to go on as to Alex’s whereabouts. She ventured forth, then, as another set of stairs came into view, audibly groaned.

After today she might just develop a personal vendetta against staircases.

The stairwell was interesting, to say the least. The overhead light did not offer much in way of brightening the room, but rather, it was the individual strips set into each step, along with the columns in the corners of the room. Not four, as expected, but rather six. What really caught her attention though was the latticework in the centre of the stairs, much like that of the supports surrounding the elevator.

Diana steeled herself and, once again, focused on putting one foot in front of the other, watching her feet the entire way up the two flights of stairs. It wasn’t any easier than her trip to the lift, but she couldn’t allow herself a moment to falter. Even as the toy shifted with each step, the railing remained her lifeline.

Once she reached the landing, the door slid open for her before she even had a chance to catch her breath. This time, revealing a sparsely furnished bedroom. But Diana did not care much to look around; her eyes settled on the source of her anguish. Sitting on a black leather couch was Alex, dressed in white and gold, with wine red at her feet. Her attention was on the wall opposite her, and Diana glanced over to see a large screen, filled with camera feeds. That didn’t surprise her in the slightest.

Alex looked toward the door, and a smirk threatened to pull at the corner of her lips. She stood, turning the monitor off with a remote in the process, before tossing it aside. “Ah, there you are.”

As if a puppet on a string, not quite in control of her own limbs, Diana made her way over to Alex. Whenever she was near, there was a certain pull to her, always drawing Diana in. The need to hold her, to touch her in some way and breathe her in, was a constant. That is why she couldn’t afford to misbehave this time around; the stakes were too high. Or else, she would’ve chased her release just to spite her lover and get a rise.

Her handbag was taken from her by cold, gentle hands, discarded on the coffee table at her side, while Alex’s eyes were busy slowly scanning over her form. She hummed. “Stuart just called. He was quite concerned, honestly. Said you looked rather unwell.”

Diana glared up at her. She wasn’t that much taller than her, and yet she felt larger than life itself. The way she spoke only added to that; there was no denying the smug air that clung to each of her words. She was so proud of herself for humiliating Diana in such a way, making her look a fool in front of her staff when she was only ever composed.

“Yes, well, I wonder why,” she said through clenched teeth.

A melodic little laugh spilled from her partner’s lips and tugged at her heart. “Look at you… So cute when you’re all riled up.”

Diana held her gaze, wanting so desperately to remain annoyed with her. To show her she wasn’t amused with her antics. But her body betrayed her, unable to focus on such trivial things with a more pressing matter between her legs. Lips pulled in a warm smile, one she tried and failed to hide, and the heat in her hips rushed up to her chest.

Alex never took her eyes off of hers, not helping in the slightest. There was so much warmth in those icy blues of hers it almost made Diana dizzy. She had to be the first to look away.

Letting her gaze wander around the clearly unfinished room, she cleared her throat. Well aware of the fact that Alex was still staring at her. “What was it you needed me for?”

“Oh, it’s not ready yet,” she said, sounding almost disinterested, and Diana’s head snapped to look back at her. Alex gestured vaguely at her side with a sigh. “It won’t be for many months yet. I still need all of my equipment brought up here, and well… It is looking rather drab, as you can see.”

“You’re telling me I walked all of those stairs, and took the longest elevator ride of my life, for nothing?!”

“Nothing?” Alex brought a hand to her chest in mock outrage, drawing her brows in a frown. “Did you not wish to see me?”

Of course she wished to see her. She always wished to see her. One of the many side effects of having found your match. But in Diana’s current state, that had been the least of her concerns. It was near impossible to stave off the longing in her core with her so near.

Pent-up frustration trickled over and dripped from every word. “I cannot believe you.”

Diana brought her hands up to cover her face, the tips of her fingers carving along the curve of her brow bone. Her skin was so hot, she wouldn’t be surprised if she was flushed pink up to her ears. The toy sitting pretty inside her hummed away, more of an annoyance than anything at this point. Or maybe she was just annoyed, full stop. But she was so high-strung, she couldn’t deal with these little games anymore.

A shaky breath left parted lips, then a soft tsk reached her ears.

The intoxicating smell of Alex’s perfume swept over her senses before touch even registered. Woody, spiced, rich with amber and musk – a hint of plum lingering. Diana couldn’t help herself but lean into her lover’s touch, to drink in all that flowed from her wrist. Fingertips danced across her temple, causing her hands to fall from her face as she looked up at Alex again. Her head was tilted ever so slightly as her eyes followed the path she traced along Diana’s hairline.

“I’m impressed,” Alex admitted, then tucked a strand behind Diana’s ear. “I thought for certain, in the lift, away from all but my eyes to see, you would”—her fingers trailed down the side of her neck—“take care of yourself.”

Her touch was exhilarating, addicting even, sending a pleasant shiver down Diana’s spine to reignite the pleasure. When her fingers reversed the motion, letting nails scrape along her skin, her legs almost buckled beneath her.

Then Alex cupped her cheek. She leaned in and whispered against Diana’s lips, “You’ve done so well. But can you keep it up?”

Too entranced, Diana had missed when Alex pulled the remote from her pocket with her other hand. A quick tap and the toy sped up even more, knocking the air from her lungs. This had to be the highest setting; there was no way it could get any worse than this. Warmth rushed from deep within her core, over her hips and up into her chest. It was stifling.

There was nowhere she could grasp onto for support now, save for the woman before her. Her hands found Alex’s sides, gripping her blazer before she could even think about what she’d done. But Alex didn’t seem to mind. It was when she hung her head that Alex suddenly gripped her chin, tilting it back with force to look into her eyes.

“Do you think you can last?” She all but purred, her breath hot on parted lips. Diana was well and truly at her mercy now; waves of pleasure rolled over her, pulling her from her surroundings in a lust-addled haze. Yet she still managed to lazily nod in her grip.

Alex hummed then slotted a thigh between trembling legs, causing a soft whimper to spill from Diana’s lips. Though it offered support, it pressed too sweet, too deliciously. She didn’t know how long she could fight off her oncoming climax at this rate.

“Really? The greedy little slut you are…” She applied more pressure with her thigh, drawing a choked sob. “You’re not going to come?”

“No,” Diana said with firmness she didn’t even know she could muster, even if it wavered in the end.

The chuckle that followed barely registered. Her heart was beating so loud she could hear it in her ears, feel it throughout her entire body. It drowned out every other noise. The grin that pulled on crimson lips as Alex gripped her chin even harder sent molten sparks across her skin. The coil in her belly wound impossibly tight, begging for release, and it hurt. Oh, it hurt.

Diana shuddered in her lover’s arms, eyes fluttering shut. The toy continued its relentless pace against that sweet spot within her, a low whine built in her throat. She didn’t know how much longer she could handle of this. She blew out a long exhale, trying to halt her panting, but her breaths only came faster.

Stars began to form behind her eyes, signalling her impending release, and she couldn’t even fight it anymore.

Then it stopped. The buzzing stopped altogether. So abrupt, it drew a loud gasp and she fell against Alex. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, clouding her vision even further, and she had no idea whether she was crying from relief or frustration. She was so close, teetering right on the edge, only to have it ripped away from her.

“Shh,” Alex shushed her, then wrapped her arms around Diana. She carefully lowered her onto the couch, pressed up against her side. Then she smoothed back her hair. “Very good, my sweet girl. Have a rest.”

Diana buried her face in the crook of Alex’s neck, trying desperately to calm her breathing. Despite the toy no longer teasing, the throbbing between her legs persisted. Longing for more.

She had no doubt Alex knew how close she had gotten to failing, to suffering the consequences. But the absence of any scolding let her melt against her partner, wrapping her arm around her waist and taking in that sweet scent of hers once more. If this was the last time she was to hold her for a month, she wished to savour every second of it.

A soft kiss was pressed to the top of her head, yet the words that followed held no semblance of such tenderness.

“Do not think this means you’re forgiven. You still have the rest of the day ahead of you.”

[nuks]

@roznrot liked for a starter ★

          ❛❛   You are very pretty.   ❜❜     She says out of nowhere, mumbling in Russian as she struggles to open the package of chips she clutches in both hands. She squints at the bag, before raising it to her mouth.     ❛❛   Beautiful hair.   ❜❜     She adds, using her teeth to pry the crinkling bag open. Doritos spill out, making Nana blink before plucking one out of her frizzy blonde hair. She pops it into her mouth before offering one to the other with a tilt to her head.

[bloodwr4th-a]

❗❗❗

send “ ❗❗❗ ” for your muse to suddenly and unexpectedly kiss mine.

he doesn't know if it's reality or a dream anymore. because being with nausi, sometimes, seems to be like a dream. he doesn't know how many times he thought about her, even when she wasn't physically there. he had this machiavellian and sweet, hot woman anchored in him. every part of his body reacted when she touched him. would he let himself be burned for her? oh, yes. he would. would he be one of her lovers who would give everything to see their sweetheart happy and fulfilled? yes, he was that guy too. even if, being mean and shows to the other a completely different side of him, when she looked at him, he couldn't be this mean guy that everyone tried to escape.

sitting on the latter's bed, he couldn't help but tilt his head when he admired her comb her dark hair. he was a sane person at that moment. something he wasn't. usually, he would be behind her, whispering little shushes to watch her break down and then be feral on his own person. but he also liked to play with her head, that's why when his eyes darkened a little more, he couldn't help but think and whisper little sh sh sh, loving to see her fall in his trap. knowing what was going to happen next. especially when she swoon at her knees when he does that with that suave tone of his.

seeing her turn around and rush to him to make him fall on the bed and kiss him without even saying a word took his breath away for a moment, while he grabbed her thigh and pull her closer and sitting her on his lap, smiling against her lips and whispering a little more to make her lose her mind.

" sh, sh, sh….. "

@wickedslip.

[diveyne]

short story, 1 of ?

death comes swift for some, and for others never at all. morgana has known from early on that immortality did not mean invulnerability, that she could still be clawed and maimed and pierced and torn by every lethal device fated to rend souls from mortal flesh. so many times had come to pass where she'd thrown herself in front of forces that would have put an end to any ordinary being, but the fates remind her time and time again that she is greater than ordinary, that, perhaps, there lies something further beyond the bleak existence of sempiternity that she is yet to achieve.

morgana tells herself that it's only for revenge and woe-filled vengeance that tethers her to the earth, but deep down she knows it rises above even that, that she exists as a protector of those unable to save themselves, and an adjudicator of the corruption marring the world with its filth and pus and rot and tar. in spite of every modicum of danger she's faced, with all the intention to put herself in harm's way to never see another sunset or the frail kiss of the moon again, she persists. spared by gods greater than herself, perhaps; and perhaps it's another sign that there is more left to her mission, that she exists to bare her soul to mortalkind and be their salvation from the falsities that plague them.

she's lain in the filth of her own drying blood, and felt the impossible weight of the earth's grime coating her vibrant wings, more than enough times to know the infernal weight of the iron empowered by false idols and pedestals built upon silk spun half-truths and bitter lies that feel like rapture upon skin that did not know the joys of true paradise. morgana has seen the chains that bind her people, so similar to the very coils of iron that rattle upon her steel-cut feathers that, no matter how hard she tried, would not part from her back.

and so, she has learned to use her wings as shields where the barriers erected by magicks failed. from the shadows she has learned to bless the souls willing to turn their hearts to her and open themselves to the salve of her boons. be that as it may, her gifts are not pieces she parts with freely, or lightly.

for the millennia she has been alive, morgana has witnessed far too many good souls succumb to the weight of power far greater than their minds could possibly comprehend. growing power-hungry, they try to rise above their stations far too quickly with a desperation matched only by that of a mortal who lay in the threshold between shadow and death. great power corrupts, making it a burden not many are equipped to bear.

she's seen the corruption unfold firsthand in her own sister's eyes. they'd been warm, once, vibrant and nurturing as the glow of the sun, always matched by the brightness of her smile. but over time, as the twins grew into the gifts of their ascension, morgana watched kayle's warmth fade into the pale swells of cold, frost-tipped zealotry. kayle spoke of law but held herself above it, seeing the world and its people only in black and white, in the balancing scale of the never-ending war between good and evil. morgana had always known that things were not so simple, that mortals were complex and their conflicts nuanced. demacia suffered under kayle's hand and her reigning influence, and a thousand years later, the suffering remains a permanent fixture in its history as its mages were forced to live in hiding or stare listlessly at the hardened lines and thin cracks in petricite cells.

morgana's lips press together as she peers into gently rippling water of the cavern's wide pool. her legacy has long since faded beyond into that of legend, now no more than a forgotten relic of history buried beneath layers of dirt in a tomb laid to waste. there were so few believers compared to the masses of centuries prior, and so rarely did even a whisper of a prayer harken to her. those who remained weren't even sure if she was more than a myth. it's silly, she'd hear them say. the gods aren't real. no god is real. if the gods were listening, would they allow us to suffer as they have?

the unfortunate truth is . . . the gods are listening, they always are, but so many believe themselves to be far above mortal conflict, even if it is of their own making. morgana feels partially responsible for demacian mages having to fall into the shadows of their own selves, and for the fact that they needed to rebel against their own society at all. she's told herself that she isn't kayle's keeper, and yet she has spent so much of her life trying to clean up after her twin's messes and heal the earth she sent to fester and rot.

one thousand years. one thousand years of this disagreement, kayle's inability to see reason, to see beyond the blinding light that she has fooled herself into believing is the unburdened gleam of justice. kayle has always been righteous, enough to be beyond salvation from her own delusions of grandeur and unthinkable bounds of cruelty, and extreme beyond measure. after a thousand years, morgana has lost any hope of being able to reach her sister.

morgana hasn't seen kayle, not since the day her sister turned her back to her. she has heard countless stories, many by the mouths of demacians far too young to know the truth of their own history; she has watched as the city grew into a mighty nation, built on the steels of knighthood and the masonry that drained the magicks from mages trapped behind cages, all because of her sister's influence to its laws.

morgana claws at the water's surface, shattering her reflection into a riot of churning bubbles and waves. her existence is a lonely one, a tragedy seemingly beyond compare. although her mother is still alive, for all it was worth, she might as well be dead for as little of a mother she had been, when the girls lived upon mount targon amongst the aspects. kayle still lives, too, but morgana has long since accepted that the sister she once knew had died all those years ago, long before their father had fallen victim to the vicious battle they had fought.

she has seen so many bitter wars, watched as the blood stained the soil so deeply that its color never faded and as nature formed around the wounds cutting into the earth, and listened to the once-cacophonous roar of never-ending prayers begging to be saved, or taken from their misery. a prayer slips through every now and then, and the shimmering mirage would eventually reveal itself upon the surface of morgana's pond. it's rarer these days, and even then, there isn't much that she can do. although morgana has a strength of her own, and has not weakened since the day her powers came to flood her veins, there is something to be said of the gift of belief and its ability to enhance her strength with a different kind of vitality.

some mages seem to think that she is the answer to all their prayers, but some part of morgana believes that she'll find her own salvation in the heart of their prayers, too.

one day, she hopes that there will be someone worthy of her gifts, someone she can entrust a shard of her power into. though it will not last forever, it would be enough to make an earth-shattering difference — at least, amongst humans, and perhaps only in the moment.

there is a small part of her that misses demacian sunlight with an unbearable ache that throbs deep in the pit of her chest. she's traveled across runeterra, and she has fallen in love with the world around, but there is something about what's unattainable to her that has an undeniable and immeasurable lull. there's a touch of wistful heartache in it, too. demacia is where she had grown up, and it's a place she had part in building with her own hands. there are streets that she had once known like the back of her hands, and she wonders how much the inner city had changed since she was a girl, long before the indomitable, unyielding petricite walls had risen around the kingdom. she thinks of the streets where her father had taken her to buy her first sets of tomes, the tailors and cobblers whose shops had filled her with endless fond memories of humble linens and fine leathers before the songs of legend hoisted the twins into rising fame.

her hands brush the water again, softer this time, a sweet apology for her flash of temper. she doesn't have a clue how or when, but there will come a day where she and her sister will meet once again. it is as inevitable as a sunrise and sunset, as the moon pulls the waters' tides at sea, as the wind is to roam across the burdened paths of the realm.

morgana knows that there is but one way that this all ends.