#In the Shadow of the Midnight Sun
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nugothrhythms · 4 months ago
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A cover of Dolly Parton's "Jolene" by Athens, Georgia-based deathrock act Tears for the Dying off of their 2024 album In the Shadow of the Midnight Sun. Apparently Adria Stembridge's uncle was the guitarist of the original "Jolene," which is a cool connection.
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polaroid-petals · 4 months ago
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The second of my six relationship dynamic pieces for my Stranger-centric post-good ending headspace verse, Tangled in Dreams of Light and Shadow! I’ve added more info for Stranger and Sunny's dynamic in this verse in the masterpost linked above.
Accompanied by a fic, No Wasted Days 🌗
Purple light gently filters through the leaves, casting upon the clearing an ethereal sheen that hasn’t been this bright in some time—one that paints the otherwise orange and green terrain a vivid lavender with solemn lilacs hiding in its shadows, and the sky an odd shade of wine red. It's sickening; sweetness where it does not belong. Like perfume in the water; honeyed and perfect, yet ultimately toxic in its allure. He counts five. Four young figures lie arranged around the Dreamer, making him their centrepiece as he lies peacefully sleeping between his creations. Aubrey and Kel each cling to the Dreamer’s side as Hero naps behind Kel but rests his head against the only awake participant. Mari sits curled up as her lap supports her brother’s head and she gently strokes his hair. The worst case of a relapse Stranger has seen since the Dreamer confessed the truth.
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thecorruptedquietone · 9 months ago
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when it's the only book you've read, you do think it's the greatest love story ever told. or, well, heavily skimmed in their case.
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beyourowninspiration16 · 1 year ago
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As someone who is disabled, frequently ill and often has to take to bed for days on end due to incurable ailments, I wish there was more representation in books and media.
And not just as glamourized plot devices.
I'm sick of seeing a movie where the entire plot is romanticising how sh*t it is to be sick, or showing how valuable your illness actually is in a convoluted way, or using the entire book/media to show that you're actually lucky, others have it worse and whatever
Look at Kaz Brekker. He's disabled. But the entire book/show is not about that. It is simply a fact of his character. It adds and takes away nothing from the plot. But it adds everything in representation.
I can name so many productions that utilise illness and disability as an asset to a character, or conversely a detriment. Instead of it being just a fact of life.
This would especially make sense in terms of longterm injury in fantasy. Maybe they're immortal magical soldiers who heal incredibly fast, but give them a shoulder that never quite mended right. An ankle that fractures or sprains easily. A deformed nose. You can't seriously expect me to believe that these characters got out of wars with just sexy scars.
And why can't we have a protagonist in any genre where they just happen to have asthma. Or have a serious intolerance to dairy. Or gets bad migraines. Or has chronic back pain. Endometriosis. Even bad hay fever. Or a frequent habit for catching stomach bugs.
It doesn't have to be major. But representation of illness, disability and injury can make a world of difference.
It can make a character more beloved, for showing humanity and for being relatable.
I'm not saying that movies shouldn't be made about specific illness and disability, so much so that they are the plot. I'm not saying that. I'm saying they need to be done right, and we need to lose the stigma that someone who is disabled or has a longterm illness is less capable of being a functioning protagonist outside of the illness plot.
Dramatisation and glamourization of illness is damaging. It's harmful, and does not uplift disabled or ill people.
If someone has a longterm illness, or is disabled; they do NOT want to watch or read something that makes an example of them. They want to feel represented in a book or show, or movie, where their illness or disability doesn't matter.
So, give us a character that has IBS. Or tourettes syndrome. Or is deaf. Or autism. Or ADHD. And NOT make them the token side character.
Give us a protagonist who is disabled or chronically ill, and PROVE to small children and preteens that they are just as worthy of being a main character in their own lives.
Because right now and up until now, everything in literature and the media is telling them that the most they can be is a token representation in a side character, and an example where their illness is the entire plot.
It is telling them that they are not worthy of their own story.
Yes, there have been more representations in fiction, even of autism and mental illness. But they are still either glamourised, or pushed to the side. Or both.
And it's not acceptable.
Illness and disability is not glamorous. It is someone's life. It can be painful, and difficult, and often disgusting even to oneself.
And to have someone glamorise it in media and fiction is incredibly insulting. It is demeaning, undermining, and dehumanising.
People with illness and disabilities often don't have the cliche happy ending you see in fiction. And I don't mean that to be cruel, or pessimistic. I say it because often times it is realistic, and in the case longterm illness and disability, it is simply a part of their life, unfortunately.
But the opposite is not an unhappy ending. The stereotyped happy ending is only a fantasy, because these things just go on. And to have a cliche happy ending just incorrectly educates others about the experiences of chronically ill and disabled people's.
I'm not saying people who are disabled or have longterm illnesses are all always miserable, and I'm not saying that they will never recover, or even improve. I'm saying that it is just another part of their lives, for better or for worse.
And sometimes it doesn't NEED fixing. You don't need to fix a disabled person, you need to fix the world around them. The world needs to adapt to the people living in it. And fiction needs to adapt to the different characters. Otherwise it gives the impression that only perfection is valued and acceptable. There are no perfect protagonists.
So, happy endings are unrealistic, because it's just life. There are good days and bad days, like anyone else in the world. It will always fluctuate.
But it DOESN'T need to be tied up in a nice, neat bow.
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lokiprincess · 2 years ago
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So I peered through a window A deep portal, time travel All the love we unravel And the life I gave away
- Midnight Rain by Taylor Swift
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decided on a whim to sort out my books from thickest to thinnest!! I wanted to stack them on top of each other but just as I'd finished it fell :(
here are all the books under the cut in case y'all can't read them:
Midnight Sun — Stephenie Meyer
Breaking Dawn — Stephenie Meyer
Dracula — Bram Stoker
Eclipse — Stephenie Meyer
The Binding — Bridget Collins
New Moon — Stephenie Meyer
Lirael — Garth Nix
Twilight — Stephenie Meyer
Good Omens — Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman
The Odyssey — Homer
Sabriel — Garth Nix
The Alchemist — Michael Scott
The Sunbearer Trials — Aiden Thomas
Goldenhand — Garth Nix
Abhorsen — Garth Nix
Shadow And Bone — Leigh Bardugo
The Edge Chronicles: The Nameless One — Stewart & Riddell
Interview with the Vampire — Anne Rice
Frankenstein — Mary Shelley
Across The Wall — Garth Nix
Rangers Apprentice: The Icebound Land — John Flanagan
Rangers Apprentice: Oakleaf Bearers — John Flanagan
Rangers Apprentice: The Burning Bridge — John Flanagan
Rangers Apprentice: The Ruins of Gorlan — John Flanagan
No Longer Human — Osamu Dazai
The Picture Of Dorian Gray — Oscar Wilde
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde — Robert Louis Stevenson.
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zoyalina + midnight rain
@thewafflemaker
@spritesaavy
@daveyjoneslocker1-deactivated20
@sanktastarzova
@whereismyhairbrush
@duolingo-is-a-bitch-2
@young-potato-stuff
@duncan-taylors-version13
@curious-mystical-time
@thewindandthewolves
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cal-culators · 2 years ago
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i don't know if anyone has done this before, but here me out...
would've, could've, should've is 100% alina's song, specifically about her relationship with kirigan
here are a few examples,
"if you never looked my way / i would've stayed on my knees / and i damn sure never would've danced with the devil"
"and now that i'm grown, i'm scared of ghosts / memories feel like weapons / and now that i know / i wish you'd left me wondering"
"i fight with you in my sleep / the wound won't close / i keep on waiting for a sign / i regret you all the time"
"living for the thrill of hitting you where it hurts / give me back my girlhood, it was mine first"
am i right or am i right?
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Aeon: Midnight-Sun Spirit
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Designer's Reflection: Midnight-Sun Spirit
Obtained: Wandering Shadows SSR gacha
Rarity: SSR
Attribute: Purple/Sexy
Awakened Suit: Silent Night Spirit
Story - transcripts from Designer's Reflection
Chapter 1 - Monster First Experience
Chapter 2 - Halloween Celebration
Chapter 3 - Manor Adventure
Chapter 4 - The Culprit Is...
Story - summarized
Halloween is around the corner, and Marina excitedly drags Aeon into watching a scary movie. Except... he doesn't like horror movies. To him, they're not scary, but confusing. Why would someone be scared to see a deceased loved one? Why do people act differently when there's a specter nearby?
Besides, Aeon doesn't see ghosts as anything different from the designers in the Personality Mirrors on the Ark.
Nevertheless, the two of them go to Shadowflow to celebrate Halloween. Costumes, candy, parades, decorations... and then they spot a haunted house. It's a murder mystery game, and the winner gets free tickets to the Secret Chamber game.
As they go through, Aeon pieces together the hints as he and Marina find the hint cards. They make it out first, and also completed the game in the shortest amount of time.
...But Aeon doesn't feel right about it. Out of all the suspects, none of them fit all requirements for the killer. He jots down his thought process before turning in the answer sheet.
Once everyone has gone through, a staff member goes through the puzzle process: find the hint cards, figure out the two people who are talking through the cards. It's clear that it's between the victim and the killer, who turns out to be...
A ghost. Not a living person. Aeon feels deflated, as he never thought about including ghosts as suspects. But it does explain why the hints didn't all add up.
Another group got the answer right, and they walk away with the prize. However, the staff appreciated Aeon's thought process and they give him and Marina an award, too. They hadn't realized how many bugs were in their story if the ghost wasn't the obvious culprit.
Marina eagerly grabs the prize. Now, they can invite Nikki and Momo to do another puzzle game at the Secret Chamber! And she promises not to tell anyone that Aeon didn't figure out the answer.
Connections
-The winners of the game are Shawn and Cici. You see them in different adventures throughout Miraland, like the Wintermount wedding event as a bickering couple and the Sanrio crossover event during the cake-making. Shawn appears by himself in Helz' Reflection for Diamond Star.
-When Aeon went through the Secret Chamber, he was stuck between the living characters as to who was the culprit and didn't realize the dead character had a role to play. In the Wandering Shadows event, multiple living characters (Momo and Yeeso) had dark motives that played a part in the mystery, and the ghost (Aeon) had a role to play in the finale as well.
Fun Facts
-Marina learns about ghosts from the user "Ghostbuster" on Moments. Ghostbusters is a 1980's American comedy-horror about four men catching ghosts to stop an evil ghost from coming to earth.
-While Aeon doesn't understand Halloween, he does understand that ghosts are just another form of existing, specifically tied to memories. He should learn about other versions of Halloween, like Mexico's Day of the Dead, where memories of dead loved ones keeps their spirit alive and brings them back home for a night.
-Despite being from the same gacha event, Aeon's suit and Reflection are archived under Apple, while Marina's are archived under Ninir.
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kazoo-the-demjin · 2 years ago
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Shouldn't riordanverse include all the books anyway since you're grouping pjo and hoo together already
So many people voted on that will they all be just wasted?
Riordanverse does not only contain pjo and hoo. We got Magnus chase, Kane chronicles and more. They're completely different, therefore, will have separate entries.
Pjo and Hoo are almost the same universe with majority of the characters overlapping through the series. [the reasons and all are againt listed in the pointers of the newest reblog]
Unfortunately, yeah, those votes will just be null and void because they don't provide me with any specific entries.
The most unginged fandom bracket
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generic-sonic-fan · 2 years ago
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Fuck it, full cringe on main, I'm assigning some Sonic characters a Linkin Park album that I think they would enjoy.
Sonic: One More Light. Do I even have to elaborate. He heard "Heavy" for the first time when Amy sent it to him over spotify and then he had to lock himself in his room and cry for a minute.
Shadow: You'd think I'd say Hybrid Theory, but that is LIES. He likes Living Things. "Castle of Glass" is a contender for one of his all-time favorite songs ever. His underrated faves are "Skin to Bone" and "Until It Breaks". The album's a more understated form of angst and I just think he'd appreciate it.
(Honorary mention: I think he would also listen to Post Traumatic by Mike Shinoda, specifically when he needs a good cry. His favorites are "Nothing Makes Sense Anymore" and "Watching As I Fall". He's got trouble listening to some of the other songs on the album though. Hits a little close to home.)
Omega: this is the motherfucker who blasts Hybrid Theory on full blast, don't @ me, because it sounds the most gritty and violent to him. "One Step Closer" is his anthem. He likes to stomp around to it to express his Rage(TM). He also likes "By Myself" and "Forgotten" in particular.
Silver: doesn't listen to any albums, really, but Amy showed him "Iridescent" and now he asks her to play it on loop whenever he visits.
Metal Sonic: Meteora all the way. He probably thinks it sounds "more refined" than Hybrid Theory. "Figure.09" is his favorite song to angst to. "Hit the Floor" and "Don't Stay" are also his top picks. Go figure that he likes the album where the theme of most songs is "stop using me" and "stop changing me into something I hate". . .
Amy: I like to think she's the one that introduced a lot of the friend group to Linkin Park despite the fact that she doesn't actually listen to any of their albums. She does the spotify thing where she cherry-picks songs that she likes rather than listening to full albums from an artist. She isn't shy about not liking Linkin Park's earlier, rougher-sounding stuff- she exclusively likes their ballads. Her favorites are "Heavy" (which she sent to Sonic), "Iridescent" (which she showed to Silver), and "Roads Untraveled", (which she listens to with Shadow sometimes). Honorary mention to "Leave Out All The Rest".
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nugothrhythms · 9 months ago
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"Bloat" by Athens, Georgia-based deathrock act Tears for the Dying off of their 2024 album In the Shadow of the Midnight Sun
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goyaontheroad · 2 years ago
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novelistparty · 9 months ago
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*fog billows across the stage* *lasers blast holes in the sky* *a voice surrounds everyone in the crowd. not a loud voice, not a soft voice; neither angry nor kind, but a piercing voice, both familiar and strange, burrowing itself deep into their souls* TONIGHT.... YOU WILL ALL HAVE F U N *Shake It Off starts playing*
#I never been to a TS concert#taylor swift#taylor nation#swiftie#tscreators#taylor alison swift#aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa#where lies the strangling fruit that came from the hand of the sinner I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead to share with the worms tha#gather in the darkness and surround the world with the power of their lives while from the dimlit halls of other places forms that never#were and never could be writhe for the impatience of the few who never saw what could have been. In the black water with the sun shining at#midnight those fruit shall come ripe and in the darkness of that which is golden shall split open to reveal the revelation of the fatal#softness in the earth. The shadows of the abyss are like the petals of a monstrous flower that shall blossom within the skull and expand th#mind beyond what any man can bear but whether it decays under the earth or above on green fields or out to sea or in the very air all shall#come to revelation and to revel in the knowledge of the strangling fruit#and the and of the sinner shall rejoice for there is no sin in shadow or in light that the seeds of the dead cannot forgive. And there shal#be in the planting in the shadows a grace and a mercy from which shall blossom dark flowers and their teeth shall devour and sustain and#herald the passing of an age. That which dies shall still know life in death for all that decays is not forgotten and reanimated it shall#walk the world in the bliss of not-knowing. And then there shall be a fire that knows the naming of you#and in the presence of the strangling fruit#its dark flame shall acquire every part of you that remains.#my blog
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charliemwrites · 2 months ago
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Unfamiliar Nobody
You are a witch preparing for winter. Luckily, you have an extra set of hands - if they'd ever help.
Content: Possessive behavior, Semi-Safe/Semi-Sane/Consensual Intimacy, implied (pseudo) cannibalism, Violence and Death, Unhealthy but Happy Relationship
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You haven’t been the same since the ritual.
Souls are tricky things, somewhere on that rickety fence between the Seen and Unseen, a bit of practical magic so common that people don’t think much of it.
Souls are like stones or plants. Abundant, but varied. Some are rare and precious, some are beautiful, some are poison. One soul does not weigh the same as another, and the beings that deal in their collection and sale value them differently. Souls aren’t rare and only some of them are powerful.
It’s a narcissistic misconception of humans - even the ones that can perceive beyond the physical world. That a soul is considered precious and coveted and powerful by all things of heaven, hell, and beyond.
Not so.
That said, like a bit of gold or a well-woven blanket, a soul can be commodified. Reshaped and displayed, butchered for parts, sold…
The selling of a soul has its merits, though not many. High risk, high reward sort of gamble. Tempting for clever witches - or desperate ones.
You were neither when you built the summoning circle that night.
You weren’t looking to forge any contracts or make deals beneath that moon. Didn’t expect to invoke any infernal beings or heavenly apparitions with the stars.
Well, best laid plans and all that - not that it had been an especially well laid plan anyway.
Baring your soul that deep into midnight had not yielded the results you intended. Or maybe it had and your expectations were just skewed. Souls are tricky things.
And yours hasn’t been the same since.
You always rouse as the sun begins to set. Late afternoon at the earliest, when most everyone else is finishing their suppers.
You can manage stark daylight, but poorly. It hurts your eyes and prickles your skin. A deep hood and long sleeves does the trick when required, but you don’t make a habit of it if you can help it, if only for the teeth that bury in your throat when you return.
Tend the garden in the dying rays, light the shop candles before night nestles in. Say your blessings, leave your offerings, wriggle out from beneath clingy weight to secure any provisions or materials from the town.
As the temperature cools and the shadows deepen, you settle into your work.
The shop once belonged to an apothecarist. Died in a plague some four decades ago, or so you’ve been told. No one of any skill or natural talent replaced them afterwards. Too frightened, perhaps, of what could be lingering within.
It wasn’t haunted until you (and your shadow) occupied it.
You’ve stocked it up quite nicely now. Herbs and spices, vegetables and fruits, roots and seeds. Thistles hang from the ceiling and bones rattle in the drawers. Mortars and pestles line a wall, weights and measures beneath the counter. Not a single thing labeled or organized, the latter of which disconcerts your… companion.
Fickle is not the word for him, but it’s the one you use.
(And he is a he, at least according to the long, thick cock he crams into you every chance he makes for himself. Though you suppose such trifles as gender are superfluous to nonhumans. A categorical fallacy for your own ease of reference.)
You told him once, that if he did not like the disarray of the shop, he was welcome to rearrange as he saw fit. In response, he left teeth rings around the base of each of your fingers, telling you how easy it would be to bite them off. He didn’t, of course - wouldn’t - but you spent a good portion of that evening updating the inventory logs (sat on that long, thick cock.)
The shop was never reorganized.
Tonight you wake to his tongue, a dark and wicked thing, improbably dexterous, lapping at your thighs.
“Winter comes,” he drawls into your skin. His voice is dredged up from the deepest pit in his chest, scrapes against his throat before nuzzling into your ears.
“I thought so,” you sigh, sleep laden and languorous. “Felt it on the wind yesterday.”
He hums. Or maybe it’s a growl. It’s hard to say when he’s sinking his teeth into the plush of your thigh, though he does it without hurry. 
For a creature without definite expiration, there is little need to be hasty.
You click your tongue when he threatens to break skin. His jaw locks like that, just on the verge of taking without being asked. This is his price for greeting the evening with you - or so he claims.
“We’ll have to begin preparations,” you muse to the inky ceiling. “I’ll make a list over tea. You’ll help, won’t you? What kind of winter will it be?”
He relaxes his bite, laps at the iridescent fluid left on your skin. His saliva, or what passes for it in this vaguely human form.
“Long,” he drawls. An unseen thumb rubs circles into your calf. “And frigid.”
You hum, can already see it in your mind. Howling winds and a silent earth. Still and peaceful, little creatures huddled down and hibernating. It was a good, warm, lush summer that promises a sweet, abundant harvest.
“A lot of snow?” you ask, fingers buried in something almost too coarse to be hair. 
He unseals his mouth from a fresh, livid mark on your hip. “Da. Snow.”
Your fingertips trail over the gnarled, raised topography of long-healed wounds. Marks that go beyond flesh, wounds of essence. No matter his appearance, he will always be scarred - disfigured, even.
Sometimes you fancy that he was some fearsome fae king or warlord of hell before retiring to become yours.
Sensing the direction of your thoughts, he nips at the meat of your thumb. Draws blood the time. You hook your index finger around a too-sharp canine and shake a bit. He grunts and slides his tongue over the pinprick of blood.
“Any storms?” you ask.
“Two,” he rumbles around your finger. “Maybe three.”
You didn’t used to love winter so. But this will be your third with him. As the climate chills and the nights lengthen, he comes into his patron season. It’s helpful to have a thing of the cold and dark when times are lean and everything (even people) lose their pretty foliage.
“Shall I expect more pelts, then?”
You balked the first time he brought (more) death to your door. Thought him cruel and ruthless. Perhaps he is without you to metamorphose the slaughter into necessity.
Furs for warmth, meat for food, bones for your work. Nothing gone to waste under your care.
“Pelts,” he agrees, “skins, down.”
You trace your thumb over the bridge of his crooked nose, press between his brows when he tries to tilt his head into the warm apex of your thighs. He bares his teeth against your wrist but cannot defy you.
“Tea for that drop of blood,” you bargain.
He sighs deep and vexed. “Mistress.”
Before slithering from your blankets, though, he buries his nose against your pubic mound and takes a deep, noisy inhale.
“Nikto!”
A village girl comes a little after the sun has fully set.
You finished your tea (and bread, for the price of a wet, filthy kiss) while making a list of preparatory chores. Have started grinding up rosemary to replenish your stock.
Nikto senses her before you do, pthalo eyes flicking up. She hesitates at the closed door, poised to knock, then decides against it and simply pushes in.
You pretend as if you’ve just glanced up from your mortar, an easy smile at your visitor.
“Good evening,” you call.
“E-evening,” she replies, lingering in the door.
While you’ve taken measures to keep the air of the shopfront clean and light, it’s something of a fruitless endeavor when Nikto’s made his den here. (Or more accurately, in the room behind the shopfront, where you dwell.)
Still, she only wavers another moment, finding nothing immediately alarming or perilous. She can’t see him lounging on the back counter like a lazy cat.
“Have you need of something?” you ask.
Your easy, friendly tone loosens her shoulders, coaxes her from the doorway.
“I’m here for something for my grandmother?” she says.
You tilt your head. “Anna?”
She blinks. “How did you know?”
Because Nikto grumbled it just now.
“You have her eyes,” you lie. “I have her medication just over here. One moment.”
You turn away to collect the little parcels that make up Anna’s bi-weekly order. Brews for her tea, ointment for her joints. You’ll mix extra as the chill sets in, fewer trips while seeing her through the harsh season.
“Usually Alexei comes to collect these things,” you say.
She rocks back and forth on her heels, a more curious eye trailing over your wares now.
“Mama and I have come to take care of nana. She’s getting older, you know. And this town has better prospects than our old village.”
You hum in agreement, neatly bundling all the items in a cloth and tieing a length of twine to secure it.
“Uncle Alexei is away with papa to finish sorting matters back there.”
“So you and your mother have come ahead, then,” you summarize.
“Mhmm!”
“Well, Anna is lucky to have you. She speaks fondly of you and your mother,” you say.
The girl lights up, cheeks rosy with pride. You slide her grandmother’s order across the counter.
“Anything else?” you ask.
“No, thank you!” she replies, dropping coins into your palm.
You glance at them (overpaid as usual, oh Anna) and sigh fondly.
“Hold on,” you call, “here.”
You pass her a little jar sealed in wax. She accepts it with a bemused smile.
“What is it?”
“For travel sores, when your father and Alexei return.”
She absolutely beams. Any apprehension she had when entering your shop is long melted away.
“Thank you, Miss!” she chirps, waving, and sweeps out the door.
Niko pounces in an instant, arms so tight around your waist that you don’t even stumble from the force.
“What’s gotten into you this time?” you ask.
“You were thinking of those men,” he grumbles. You’d call it childish if he wasn’t damn near mauling your neck.
“They’re well-paying customers,” you scoff, “and more good will is never remiss.”
He snarls, but moves on quickly. “You were so kind to that little girl. She had stars in her eyes.”
You hum in question, surprised.
“Makes me think of you with little ones. Younger ones.” He’s near rambling, drool soaking into the collar of your dress. “My brood. Clinging to your skirts and your hips. Getting sticky hands in the beeswax.”
You huff out a startled laugh. “You’re thinking of babies?”
He moans into your ear, pressed tight to your back. Broad palms knead at your lower abdomen.
“Little voices calling ‘mama’. They would all adore you, want to be just like you. Mother is god in the hearts of children.”
“All?” you repeat, twisting to stare owlishly. “How many is ‘all’?”
“As many as you will let me breed into you.”
Another laugh escapes you, a bit bewildered. He’s never spoken like this before, never seemed interested at all by the women (or their husbands) that come to the shop to ease their pregnancies or births.
“You couldn’t stand to share my attention,” you scoff. Which is to say nothing of it even being a possibility. You’re not sure that you and he could produce viable offspring.
He pauses, nose in your hair, considering.
Finally, he grunts, “Maybe.”
You’d thought so.
It’s not just the change in your natural sleep rhythms. You crave the iron of raw meat and inhale deep the burn of black smoke. Sometimes, you’re too preoccupied with the spill of ink on parchment, or the length and depth of shadows.
Subtle things, perhaps. A change beneath the skin, in the dark parts of your eyes.
You used to ask your questions in the sun, and look for the answers in the bloom of flowers or swirls of clouds. Now you whisper into abyssal shadows and they whisper back with a man’s rasp.
Not everyone can see it, the unusual glint in your eyes or the sharp edge to your smile. For those that do, it’s something of an open secret - that you provide more than helpful tonic and tinctures for common ailments.
A serum against pregnancy. A syrup for unkind spouses. Cut cords for bad friends and bent coins for poor business partners.
Tonight it’s the smith’s daughter. She’s just come into adulthood this past spring. A crown of youth on her brow, vitality draped around her shoulders. Darkened, this eve, by deals made with her as the currency. You see it beneath the sweep of her skirt, a chain of her father’s own making, a key in the hand of the mayor’s son. It drags her step in your doorway, rattling along the wood floors.
“Irina,” you greet.
She doesn’t admit it right away, demuring to purchase her father’s usual burn salve. You don’t pry, instead taking your time to spoon the thick, cloudy mixture into a small jar.
“You’ve…”
You tilt your head to show your attention, expression open. She clears her throat, smooths her skirt, tries again.
“My father designs to wed me to Boris.”
She blurts it like the words escaped between the gaps in her teeth, looks shocked in their wake You flick Nikto a reproachful glance.
“Is that so?” you reply mildly, as neutral as you can manage.
“I don’t want to,” she whispers, as though it is a shameful secret. But there is little shame to be found in your presence, and when your expression only reflects polite interest, she repeats herself, stronger. “I don’t want to. Boris is a coward and his father is…”
Mean. Lascivious. A bastard with a heavy hand and wine for blood, kind only to coin.
You don’t make her say it all aloud, you’ve heard it just fine.
“Is it an ear you’re after?” you ask. “I’ll listen.”
You do not offer more. It is something she must request of her own will. For your sake as much as hers.
It only takes another breath for her to gather the courage.
“Would you help me?”
“I would.”
You don’t jump as Nikto pours himself over your shoulders, teeth already scraping the nape of your neck. He’s hard and insistent against your spine, where scars of his teeth have begun to blossom. You sense that you’ll have a new notch for the collection soon, already feel slick and achy with the promise of his maw.
“What will it cost?” Irina asks, fidgety.
Your cunt three times over. Your blood on my tongue. Your juices down my throat.
“That will depend on our solution,” you say over Nikto’s sibilant entreaties.
Irina’s brow furrows. “Not coin?”
“Maybe coin,” you correct. “Do you want any of these three men dead?”
She startles, pales. Nikto groans in your ear, hips jerking hard, cock catching on the laces of your corset. Irina mistakes the sound for your shop settling, eyes flicking nervously around as if either of you will be caught.
“N-no!” she answers. “No, that’s too - I just want papa to change his mind. O-or for Boris to… to wed someone else. Is that wicked of me?”
You shake your head, soften your smile to ease her conscience. Once upon a time, you stood on the other side of the counter like she is now.
“Then coin won’t be necessary. I have a different price.”
Her shoulders lower, just a bit, curiosity where she should be wary. Coin is a paltry payment in comparison to things a creature like you could request instead. 
“What is it?”
“Scrap from your father’s forge, as much as you can manage, and whatever Boris gave you for your hand. Bring them to me tomorrow night.”
You fish a shirt button from beneath the counter. Prick your thumb on a needle and press the droplet of blood that wells into the smooth surface.
“This is a contract of my services,” you explain as it dries in the open air. Nikto inhales deep and ravenous, tongue flicking over the shell of your ear.
“If you take this, there is no going back. Do you understand?”
Irina hesitates; she’s always been a smart girl. That’s why she knew to come to you.
“What happens if I don’t come back with the payment?”
You flick a glance at Nikto, but he’s too busy toying with the ribbon around your throat. Patience fraying with each beat of your heart.
“Even I don’t know, but I’d rather neither of us find out, yes?”
“Alright. I understand.”
She accepts the bloodied button and drops it into the pocket of her frock.
“Tomorrow,” she promises, and steals out into the night.
Nikto bends you over the counter, heavy body flattening you to the polished wood. It’s unnaturally warm beneath your cheek. You suck in as much air as you can while he paws at the hidden parts in your skirts. He growls to find you wet and willing (always, regardless of what your mouth says) between your thighs. 
“Tithe,” he rasps, sinking to his knees.
Massive arms snake around your thighs as he finds his home between them. Buries his nose in the soft crop of curls so that his tongue and lips and teeth can partake in the sweet offerings below.
“All this for a severed tether?” you gasp, hips twitching in a bid to escape the too much, too fast, too good of it all.
His grip does not relent. On the contrary, it only tightens, dragging you down to smother himself in your cunt.
“Yes,” he hisses.
He takes and takes and takes. Sucks your clit until it’s throbbing at the slightest touch. Licks at the rim of your cunt, forcing his tongue deeper and deeper. Impossibly deep, until you feel the tip of it curl against the hard wall of your cervix, the root of it as thick as two of his fingers.
Your knees have long given out, your voice but a weak trill in your throat. It’s only when he hears you sniffling that he wrenches himself away.
“Give me,” he demands, surging up.
Laves that slick, black, inhuman tongue up your jaw, over your cheek. Doubles back to swipe at half-dried tears that dripped down your neck and onto your hands. He makes an obscene sound when the salt mixes with the dried blood on the pad of your thumb.
“I want to eat you,” he snarls, baring his teeth against the tender veins of your wrist.
“Maybe one day,” you pant, “when I’ve passed on. You can have my corpse.”
His eyes snap open, a manic rage burning so hot it feels cold. 
“Never,” he snarls, cruel fingers plunging into your tender cunt.
You cry out and grip onto his shoulders, fresh tears sliding down your hot cheeks. There is no mercy in Nikto, not even for you. He strokes and pets your walls relentlessly, abusing all the sensitive places he’s long mapped out. Brutal as the muscles in his arm bunch and jump with the pace and force of it.
“Never,” he repeats. Teeth in your throat but you can still hear his voice. It’s so loud and rough that glass rattles. “Just like this. You stay just like this for me. Mine, all mine. Always. My little witch.”
He makes you cum on his fingers, then jerks his angry cock using your release to ease the way. Spends himself in burning, sticky ropes directly onto your clit. As you drag in ragged breaths, he draws his sigil inside your cunt with your mixed fluids.
The bond has long been formed, there is no need to renew it. Your soul is no more or less his than before. You still shiver with the memory, an echo of the sublime sensation of your soul taking new shape. Making room for something else to lace through it.
“S-someone is coming,” you whimper, weak in every sense.
“Dmitiri,” Nikto answers. You knew who it was, of course, but you don’t think he would abide you saying any other name right now.
“Leave his order on the counter and make sure he pays,” you sigh, limping away in search of water.
Nikto may be a bastard, but he manages to follow your orders most of the time.
Irina returns the next evening with all that you asked. A bucket of metal scraps and shavings. In a little velvet pouch, a simple gold engagement ring.
“The button too,” you request.
Nikto, raven-shaped this evening, swoops in to snatch it from her fingers. She yelps, moon-eyed as he perches on a tall shelf and swallows the button down his scarred gullet.
“Should… should it eat that?” she asks.
You don’t even glance at him. “Too late now, isn’t it?”
She doesn’t look amused so you laugh softly and assure her, “He’ll be alright. He’s done it before.”
You turn away, scooping up the items for the spell.
“Now then, take this pin. Carve your name into one candle, and Boris’s name into the other,” you instruct.
“Which one is which?” she asks, a green candle in one hand.
“Your choice,” you reply simply.
When she’s done as you ask, you tie a piece of twine between the two, about halfway down. Set them on a metal plate facing each other and light first Irina’s, then Boris’s.
“Pull up that stool. Watch the candles burn down to the wick.”
It takes nearly an hour. You keep half an eye on it. Watch the candle meant to represent Boris start to eat at the twine, a slow encroachment towards the midpoint. Only for Irina’s flame to latch onto its end of the tie and scorch through the knot, the remaining length falling away.
Irina gasps softly, glances up to find you already watching. Studiously turns back to observe the remainder of the melt.
In the meantime, you continue forming the other half of your spell. Irina has been too preoccupied to notice the raven’s disappearance. Nikto is behind you again, guiding your hands to carve the woodblock in neat little peels. His fingers are threaded between yours, dripping raw power that you shape with intent. If Irina were to look, it would just seem that the candlelight casts strange shadows down your forearms.
When the candles have burned down to nothing, and Irina turns to you expectantly, you press a finger to your lips.
“Do not speak again until sunrise. When you get home, throw this into the hearth, as deep as you can get it. No trace of it will remain, rest assured.”
You press the carved wooden key into her palm. Her eyes trace the unfamiliar runes in wonder, but she keeps her silence and takes her leave with one final, grateful nod.
It is only just past midnight, but you yawn. The connection between Irina and Boris was not a strong one, but severing the covetous teeth of the mayor’s greed was tedious.
He has a weakness for fair hair and light eyes - both qualities passed down to Irina in lovely spades. Qualities his own wife doesn’t possess, but he would gladly see in his son’s if he had his way.
“Nikto.”
“All for a severed tether,” he purrs.
You tsk at him, shove his face away when he tries to steal a kiss.
“Finish the spell and then you will be rewarded,” you huff, waving him off. “Useless thing.”
He moans softly, eyes burning into you. “Useless,” he agrees, sharp teeth grazing your cheek. “Worthless.”
“Out with you. We’ve not all night,” you chastise.
He sinks slowly into the shadows; his eyes are the last to disappear.
Winter preparations are well under way.
A small mountain of firewood is steadily accumulating in the backyard, stacking higher and wider by the day. You’ve already finished harvesting the last of the garden, drying, preserving, and pickling by the jar. Have knitted half a dozen more shawls and socks with thick wool yarn.
Cough medicines, warming tinctures, lotions and ointments. You’re accumulating your winter remedies along the back wall and in crates beneath the counter, well-stocked for the town and smaller surrounding villages that frequent your shop.
Thus far, Nikto has brought you two pelts, and promised two more before the season truly sets in. A new pillow has also been added to your nest bed, a puffy, heavy thing of feathered down and cotton.
You like it so much that you bounce on Nikto’s cock until morning when he brings it to you, spitting into his mouth whenever he opens it in supplication. You drop lavender buds into the casing and breathe it deep as he lays you down after daybreak. It makes an excellent throne for your pelvis when you’re too worn (or over-pleasured) to hold yourself up any longer.
Still, as promising as your preparations are, you need items unavailable even in town. The journey to the nearest city is one day's (or night’s) walk there, and another back. Well worth the trouble.
Nikto has no particular affection for any dwelling, so long as it’s yours. He’s just as eager to travel as you are.
Before nightfall, you drop off any orders expected in your absence, and receive well wishes from your customers. No one asks why you are traveling alone at night. No one warns you that it would be too dangerous.
Nikto accompanies you along the well-trod road, a hooded figure more likely to be mistaken for the grim reaper than your familiar. He’s human enough if you don’t look at him for too long. A tall man thick with muscle, broad-shouldered, built for labor. Likely malformed beneath the scarf hiding his features below those blue eyes - or perhaps just shy.
Just don’t try to peer into the depths of that hood, or ponder that mysterious scarf for too long. The moon acts as a strange prism, waters down the light into eerie refractions. One might start to imagine sharp teeth peeking through ripped lips. Or glimpse poorly sewn hills of flesh, nothing but dark, empty space between the seams.
Luckily, there are no travelers on the road this late into the night. Any errant gaze is that of night creatures, and those know well to avoid the shadow at your side - and you by extension.
The trip into the city is no great adventure, but you weren’t looking for one. Nikto, you sense, is something almost like disappointed. You arrive in the small hours of the morning, just as the earliest risers have begun their day.
The innkeeper seems surprised by such an early (or late) guest, but is happy enough to welcome you in. Bread has yet to be bought from the baker, but there’s stew that’s been simmering overnight. It’s warm and hearty and thick. You eat two bowls with a cup of peach wine, pay for food and board for the next two days, and retire to the second story of rooms.
The bed is not nearly as comfortable as yours. The blankets are thin and woven, though they are layered enough to be warm. The mattress and pillow are both straw - comfortable by most standards, but a poor substitute for your cotton and wool and furs and down.
You make due on Nikto’s rumbling chest (prideful that you miss what he has so diligently provided) and let yourself drift into slumber.
At midday, you wake. City merchants aren’t accustomed to your odd hours, and you don’t want anything to be out of stock - you’re not the only one that’s made the journey for winter.
Luckily, it’s an overcast day and the sun isn’t too obnoxious when you venture out. You get a sweet bun from the bakery to tide your hunger while you shop. Follow Nikto’s whispering for directions, or to pick the best items of any selection. Spoil yourself a bit on honey from abroad and a new grimoire.
Return to the inn at the brightest part of the day for a nap. Rouse again in the late afternoon for more exploring and shopping, as well as a drink at one of the alehouses.
You’ve no friends in the city - or anywhere, really, for that matter. But being surrounded by good spirits and bright noise provides an unusual source of energy. There’s a band to watch and strong drink, some gambling that you amuse yourself meddling in from afar.
There are eyes on you, but there always are in such a busy place. You tend to attract very few gazes, but the ones you do will return time and time again, musing at the lone figure by the wall. None are brave enough to approach - especially not when it grows dark enough for Nikto to reveal himself.
Even he is in unusual form, telling you stories of a bygone time. A time when perhaps he was more finite than he is now. He uses names you’ve heard before, in passing, and chuckles at exploits more mortal than he deigns to participate in now. You like to hear it, like to provide him with the excess buzzing in your veins.
When the crowd begins to thin, you take your leave. He stays at your side (always too close, nearly underfoot) all the way to the inn, and is waiting in your room when you come up with the meal. He manhandles you into his lap and feeds you with his fingers, pours water into your mouth from his.
You stave him off until your food settles, and then he’s taking you into his lap. Has you twice before you doze off. Wakes you three hours later with his tongue lapping at your swollen folds. Has you twice more before you settle in properly until dawn.
The second day passes in much the same fashion as the first. Your indulgence this time is a pretty, slender knife, a length of ribbon, and a simple burgundy frock. The combination has Nikto salivating by the time you return to your room to rest. Not that there’s much to be had with you splayed out over your new garment, his hands and mouth and cock working you over until a puddle of slick and cum forms beneath your writhing bodies.
You send him to wash the stains in annoyance, and it’s returned seemingly pristine - though he gloats that the scent of your coupling remains. At least to him.
Nasty creature.
“If I get tired, you will be carrying me,” you huff on the road home.
He nuzzles his nose into your temple, a silent assurance that you need only say the word.
Halfway there, a band of highwaymen makes the fatal mistake of trying to ambush the two of you. Aware that anyone coming from the city will be laden with coins or goods, they would be correct if you were anyone else.
You click your tongue, steps never faltering.
“Kill anyone that’s taken an innocent,” you call over your shoulder.
“Mistress,” Nikto churrs into the air, breath so cold it sinks in the chilly air.
An unnatural growl reverberates off the trees. You don’t spare a glance behind you, steps easy and light, crunching over dead leaves and dry twigs.
A hand lands on your shoulder - heavy… and then not. Heat splatters and soaks into your sleeve, dripping down towards your wrist. The severed arm falls with a wet, fleshy thump.
Always so messy.
You tilt your head, veer off the road and follow your intuition until you find a stream. Humming, you shed your clothes and saunter into the gentle current. It’s frigid, only just unfrozen. You sigh, minding your step for slippery rocks as you wade deeper. The water rises past your scratched calves, over bitten thighs, soothes your well-used cunt and the bruises on your hips. Tingles over the silvery flesh of your scarred back until it’s nearly to your breasts.
Only then does the water darken around you.
Nikto’s hand closes around your wrist, draws your arm back until he can lick away the smears of a stranger’s blood.
Feast before the season’s famine.
You moan softly at the drag of his serpentine tongue along your skin. The ball of your shoulder, the curve of your tricep and bicep. Tickling the bend of your elbow… up your forearm… and wrist. Twisting between each digit. You lean into the sturdy pillar of his body until his other arm curls around your waist. You stand with him in the water like that, cradled by shadow and bathed in moonlight.
He is never hasty, but tonight he’s unusually slow. Almost lazy.
Wait, no. Not lazy. 
Deliberate.
Each flick of his tongue, scrape of teeth, brush of lips is applied with the same care and reverence afforded to an altar.
You tilt your head to rest against his shoulder, bare your throat. Peer through lidded eyes at the thick fingers twining with yours.
It’s as if he plunged his hands into a fireplace and didn’t care to dust away the charcoal and ash afterwards. It fades at the forearm into alabaster. In the crease of his elbow, it looks like he has ink for blood. You know from experience that it tastes of almonds and tannins, heavy on the tongue like thick wine.
You let him lay you down on the bank, dry and clean. He pampers you on his cock with slow, languid rolls of his hips. Grinds deep, pulls out only halfway to massage the head into that sweet spot over and over until you’re shuddering apart with a deep, heavy moan. He finishes on your stomach and thighs, drawing symbols into your skin before rubbing it in.
“Nikto,” you croon, thumb drawing a line down the left side of his face. From forehead, over his eye, down to the corner of his mouth where there’s an unnatural split. He lets you scrape your nail against the big canine, amusing yourself on the sharper bicuspid just beside it. “My Nikto.”
He purrs into your chest, drooling down your sternum.
“Who do you belong to?” he asks.
You smile, indulgent.
“I belong to Nobody.”
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There is a possibility of a second part. Maybe. If that's something people want.
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I LOVE BOOKS!!!!!!!
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