#but have you seen valko???

[maymaylyn]

AMARA "KOBUK" VALKO

Nationality: American, state- Georgia

Nicknames: Mara, Ms. Valko, codename- Kobuk

Personality: She is a soft-spoken but hardheaded ranch owner and is seen as shy; she just doesn't like talking to people unless she has to. When provoked has a sharp tongue and can easily anger, especially when family or the ranch is involved. Don't let her kindheartedness make you think she won't go down without a fight. You have to be tough on a cattle ranch.

Summary of Role:

Was a rancher, now a military affiliated pilot with small aircraft and helicopters. Since Odin hit the U.S., there is very little farmland, so her property in Georgia is now under military protection. Not that she wanted military involvement, but it's hard to say now when men with big guns surround you.

She runs the ranch and sharpened her piloting, mainly to run the ranch and export materials around the u.s./ to military bases. She wants as little military involvement as possible.

Appearance/Things about her:

-38 years old in 2027

-slightly tan skin

-black/dark brown hair

-when working, chaps, jeans, old t-shirt, and cowboy hat on unless piloting

-5'6", 135lb

-has a biological son, Hal Titus Valko, with Gabriel Rorke

-witch/wiccan/spiritual/has freaky shit going on in her head

Type (protagonist, mentor, etc.): a primarily neutral party, but she stirs the pot with her loyalty *cough* and having a son with Rorke *cough* to Gabriel Rorke.

Family: Her father and mother died when she was a teenager, leaving her the sole owner of the ranch. Never married and has a son with a baby daddy, Rorke, who is unaware that she got pregnant and had a child. No other living relatives.

Face claim- Marijka Hunsaker

@lemonqii idk who else wants to see this. I’m glad I’m finally posting it tho. Discord has already most of this.

[queenjulia11]

[the following was originally posted as a twitter thread on 1/15/2023. Also I fully acknowledge that the Haunted City fandom is like maybe 10 people, but if this gets at least one person interested I did my job].

Ok. Spoilers up to ep 13.

I need to talk about this show because I feel like no one else is and that's a crime. This is unlike any actual play l've seen in that EVERYTHING is improvised, including character backstories and relationships. This only makes it more impressive when the theme reveals itself:

Haunted City (if you ask me) is about what happens to people when their addictions are no longer available to them/no longer able to help them, and how that hurts both the addicted and those surrounding them.

Juliette is addicted to the idea of Ophelia, but when she finally has her back, she realizes that the person she loved and wanted more than anything is gone. Life can never be normal again. The Ophelia she knew can't be the thing that keeps her moving forward anymore.

But she still goes to her. She can't just go back to life without Ophelia again. She knows this devotion is bad, she sees how it's hurting Ekeprag, but she can't stop it. She doesn't want to.

Valkos is addicted to giving himself to the spirits of Duskvol because it makes him feel alive. He knows it's bad for him, and he does manage to turn it down a few times. He refuses to be Ophelia's vessel not only because it won't help Juliet in her grief, but also because it'll continue to tear him apart. He thinks The Path of Echoes will help him to control and manage this, but they turn him away. He isn't ready. They can't help him feel alive.

So he falls down the hole of The Builder — a being who won't refuse anyone who is willing.

Seljak doesn't start the series with an addiction. If anything, he's the one warning Valkos against it. He doesn't recognize that summoning Ophelia is feeding Juliette’s addiction; he wants to help his friend and a lost ghost. To Seljak, being a servant to the spirits is the greatest thing he could possibly do with his life. He wants to help. In doing so, his faith becomes an addiction and he doesn't even notice.

The Builder is his dream come true: a god who needs him. It doesn't matter that serving The Builder makes all the other ghosts fear him -- this is bigger than all of that. *This* is what he was put on this earth to do.

But when Valkos compares Seljak's devotion to Juliette's, he doesn't deny it. He knows. But it'll lead to freedom eventually, right?

They're trying to make each other understand their perspectives, because they all genuinely care about each other and seek to protect the family they've built, but they've just barely begun to realize that they're going in circles. And Ekeprag suffers as a result.

I can't help but remember how this crew started. Vowing to make towers fall.

And what are they doing now?

Building a tower.

Sorry for the longer one, but I have to thank @JCVIM, @rossbryant, and @Abzybabzy for their brilliant storytelling and performances. I can't wait to see where this all goes. (Hopefully somewhere where Ekeprag's okay? Poor guy…)

[I did add to this thread later, but I think I’m gonna post that as a reblog because this is already a longer one]

[petrikaira]

The Butler

Chapter 6: Douglas Fir

Pg 1 (Previous, Next)

Rating: T for Teen

“Come here, my darling puppy,” Queen Liita called. 

Valko held the roll of his eyes. It would do no good to let Queen Liita see him do so, for that was considered mocking the Queen. Mocking the Queen came with a punishment if she was feeling it. So, instead, he walked through the sprawling hallway of the fae palace to the Queen’s wide open sitting room.

“What is it, my Queen?” He asked, stiffly bowing as he must.

Up above, lounging with her gossamer wings beating, the Queen sat with a small, dull, light beside her flickering. Inside it sat the saddest, craven looking fairy he had ever seen, practically worshiping at the Queen’s feet. Sad red hair, black faceted eyes- an ugly little thing, for sure. 

“This is Douglas Fir, he will be your new footman,” Queen Liita said. “It was about time you had some help, hmm? And I’ve decided to be so kind to you.”

Valko straightened from his bow, his lip curling up. He had no intent to teach whatever stupid fae whelp the queen was forcing on him now. “I am afraid with everything I have to do, my Queen, I simply do not have the time to train a footman.”

The craven little fae looked over, his body curving deliciously towards the Queen. Valko couldn’t believe she was just letting him. He felt a stab of envy and pushed that down as the Queen’s eyes found him, greener than any plants.

“Valko, you are our Butler. Of course you can train him, it is part of your duties.”

She said it lofty and unbreakable. He could not argue this, even if she did not make him. He turned his attention to the flickering red light of his new fairy footman.

“Well, come along then.”

And so he had. 

For their first days, he had eyed Valko with his multifaceted eyes without saying a word. He had done every task asked of him without a hitch, and Valko was glad that at least the ugly little boy his Queen had given him was useful. 

Still, he was annoying. Every instance the Queen or King took to come visit to see how progress was going, Douglas Fir would over-do anything. He would make the silverware shine. He would dust the tree with skill as quickly as he could that the Queen and King had begun to eye Valko.

“Now Valko,” King Mifispectuus had said. “Perhaps you should be putting in as much work as our Douglas, here.”

And he had wanted to kill the boy. That was his roost. He was making him look bad. Valko had hated it.

He glanced back, down the hallway where Eksender Ryber was bursting from the card room door. The craven cheeks were gone. Plumper, now, the sallow disgusting look about the footman now turned rosy pink. He could hear the buzz of the fly wings behind him. 

“Valko of the Fae!” Eksender Ryber- or Douglas Fir yelled. “How dare you lie to me, kick me out, and run from me-”

“I am no liar!” 

(Previous, Next)

[kiarriptide]

Its been a hard day, really hard. I was camping out near Li'ar Mountain here in Sesnava when I got jumped by a wild Scyther, my team made short work of him but not before he sliced my arm, bad situation isn't it? I'm sorry to say it got worse, much worse.

Blood spilled off of me and onto the soil below, I didn't have my first aid kit in hand since Valko had it on his saddle. I approached him to unpack it and he got a whiff of my blood, the feral temptation took over his mind, he shut his eyes and tried to resist it as much as he could but it was too strong an urge, the noises he made were horrific, still he had not fallen victim to his bloodlust, not until he snapped open his eyes and saw the blood.

His pupils dialated completely and he bellowed hungrily as he stalked towards me with malicious intent, an unquelled fire in his eyes, I realized what was going on and backed off, urging him to resist it but he would not snap out of it. I knew Valko, the simple yet lovable destruction machine, but to see him degraded to a lethal monster was overbearingly terrifying. Have you ever seen a Garchomp go for the kill before? I have and what he was doing was somehow more surgical, calculated and scarier than any of the hunts I had seen him do.

He might as well have been faceless, no expression other than the urge to stalk and kill, and he was headed right for me. BB (Lucario) saw this and rushed to me, he closed the distance at suprising speed right as Valko went to strike and he shoved me out of the way and down a small cove, the rest of my team came to me and we fled the scene. I'm sitting at the nearest Pokémon center still shaking from that ordeal, I haven't gone back to look for Valko as I fear he may still be overrun with the desire for blood.

Never before had I even considered fearing Pokémon, even less so my own. But now I realize that you never really can tame a wild mon, less so a Pseudo. You can train it and be friends with it but you will never overwrite their wild instincts and desires.

[fmp2emilycywinski]

Symbols

I have no idea what these are or what they were used for specifically but I am researching it because there were hidden fumbles within this piece of history and it's really good for me to research since it relates quite a lot to Valko’s shadow wolf symbol.

This sheet was an attempt to know and influence the future and communicate with the gods. I'm not sure what that means but you can see many different symbols hidden within this sheet of paper, I'm not sure what they mean and the website seems to be having a hard time explaining it or I'm just stupid. Or I'm just really tired and I've been looking at this paper for too long.

But one thing that this reminds me of is the Vagabond Symbols / Hobo Symbols.

These symbols are very interesting and very lost in time since there isn't much documentation about them, there is a paragraph on it on Wikipedia and I found a page on Reddit so hopefully then helps, it helped me to figure out what exactly these are.

But from what I have been told by family and friends, they were symbols that were seen as spiritual that is set to protect anyone who wears them. So if it was storming or rough times ahead, as long as they wore them, it is said that they will survive. It was very popular during the great depression and was mostly used by “Hobos” since they were poor and were struggling the most.

But then after WW1 it became lost in time, and hasn't been mentioned in a long time.

One thing that reminds me of these is the Keys from Locke & Key.

Each key is unique and opens specific doors in this story. It's very interesting and the designs are very clever and I like them a lot. The keys also match some famous symbols you might recognize today, for example, Ying and Yang, girl and boy symbols and so much more.

[sachalxtremoille]

💘 …someone my muse has a crush on.

‘‘valko’‘

@valkothewolf

[doriwrites]

continuation of the continuation, third and last excerpt of this particular... draft? idk. once again, if you don’t read the two other excerpts you WILL be lost... yes this a threat (find them under the tag # where stories go to die)

 A few weeks later, he tells her he has to go (“A few days. Maybe more.”) and that he knows just the right babysitter (“Hey!”). The town is lively but she finds it less of a hassle with the cane and the pillowcase and the weird friendship thread. He introduces her to pink threads and says it’s Chinonso! when they say call me Chino! Over tea, they explain how they met Nasar so long ago you weren’t even an idea yet and how they bonded over their dislike for a man named Al. They tell her embarrassing stories and she laughs so loud that she chokes. When she asks if they’re a boy or a girl and they say maybe with ominous pink, she thinks so cool and vows to learn everything they can teach her. 

  When Nasar goes in the morning the new thread stays. It stays when Chino says I heard you had a thing for swords and throws one at her (“What about a wooden one,” she asks. “Wooden swords are for pussies,” they say. “I don’t think cats need—”).  It stays when Chino says hold it up until you can’t and she can’t eight seconds later (“Holler when you’re at eight minutes! We’ll talk!”). It stays when she’s sweaty and shaking and— and maybe she’s crying a little, too. It stays when Chino says you’re hella good at this, kid and she smiles so cheesy and sweet she gets a toothache. It stays even when soon has passed and he’s not back. 

 “Don’t worry about him,” Chino says, “he’s always been good at what he does. Even being late,” and their threads show a glint of steel and it reminds her of Little Death and a teacher. They’re pink and it reminds her of festivals and eyelids and sunrises or sunsets or both and she can’t remember whi— It reminds her of both the beginning of a day and its end. They’re pink and it reminds her of flowers and how sometimes they’re so thorny they won’t let you pick their petals. 

 The thread stays and she stops worrying. 

 When she can hold the sword up for eight minutes (“Eight minutes!”) Chino says good and sheathes it to her back. They walk her to a field where the grass reaches her knees. The wind is in her face and Chino says I’ll do your hair if you find the bells and throws said bells far, far away from her. They say I’ll be back and pink disappears just like green does. It takes a long time and she tries really hard to focus on the sound of tinkling in the breeze. She lets her threads reach out and it reminds her of a time they went up, up, up a leg— She lets her threads reach out and she feels them slither against the soil. It’s damp and it sticks a bit but she can feel a snail and doesn’t care much.  She falls on her butt sidestepping the biggest slug ever and she cackles like mad. It takes a long time but she finds them. She finds them and dances a little before she realizes she has to find her way out. 

 For half a minute, she’s scared because. Because she’s all alone with the bells and the crickets and the wind bites a punishing cold against her skin— What if she wandered so far, far away in the field Chino never finds her— and what if she never sees the other end of the funny looking thread— What if she has to fight and the orange threads crushcrushcrushcru— feel like blood for days and. What if she has to fight and they don’t. 

 For half a minute she’s scared, but there’s something like a sunset or a sunrise or both— yes, both. There’s something like the sun and how it feels on your skin on a summer morning. There’s pink threads and it reminds her of how a book sometimes needs a bittersweet end. She grabs a bunch when they’re within reach and wraps, wraps, wraps from her neck until it covers her ears. She’s shaking and thinking of oddly specific scenarios and how they always end with deathdeathdeath— “Kid,” she hears the sun, and she wants to say yes, I think I am one, “Bendis."  

  Hands are so heavy on her shoulders that she wonders if the world feels the same on Chino's, "Did you know," they say, "that there's a festival for the moon, here?"

 "Wha—," she chokes around a breath, "why."

 "The founder of this place— this village. It's not that old, and he's still alive and if you— ah! if you ever were to meet him! Would tell you all about how the moon guides lost souls here, just like it did him. It's a charming story. And so many people have corroborated it now that it became fact."

 "Did— did it guide you?"

 "... I think so. Yeah. It guided Nasar and I here, so long ago. Dragged us, even. Yeah," the pink threads feel both fond and mourning. "But. The point. Nasar will always, always find a way here and—"

 "But! But I won't! There's no moon here," she hits her chest clumsily, harshly, "only colors who don't look like ones and— and emotions too big for me!"

 "Ah...Do you want to talk about it?"

 She does. She talks and talks and talks. She says she's scared sometimes when candles and fires have gone out. She says it's stupid ("I don't even see the difference.") and Chino agrees ("Fear of the dark transcends us all," they say. "Why?" They shrug, "We've all lost things to the night." "...what does transcends mea—".) She talks about the threads. She says she's scared sometimes. When they're here and when they're not. When they feel louder than words and when they're not-even-a-color white— and when they don't. She says she's scared sometimes when they kill. 

 In a small voice, she talks about the new thread. She tells them how it’s always warm ("This one… is kind.") and how it feels like both Nasar and her (“Like— like everything is safe and I’m brave again.”). She tells them how it feels selfish (“Because it’s ours.”) and quiet (“Because it’s us.”). Chino says it can be your moon and she tells them I think it already is.

  But, "what if—", what if it goes. What if the blade leaves and the orange loses its edges. What if it turns to dustdustdustdeath— "What if— when. What when it's not here anymore?"

 "Ah, kid," Chino sighs and their threads soften, "you're breaking my heart." They sigh again, deeper, longer, shakier, "Listen. The moon— its metaphors, it’s all just that. Made up things people say to describe a feeling, yeah? Because the moon doesn't need to be seen, Bendis. It demands to be felt. And you— my cute little student, above all, know how that goes… The festival? It’s not a celebration about beauty. The moon is a fucking rock, yeah? But, it’s a celebration for bonds. The bonds people made here, in this village, where the moon led them. Let them, maybe. I— what I’m trying to say— yeah, believe me, I am— I am trying to say something. This thread thing going on? It’s all about bonds. And, yeah, Nasar and you have this disgustingly adorable one and— if you want to make it your moon, go right ahead. Your moon, your home, your— I don’t know, this little something that will always be above everything else? Go ahead, make it that. And the day it’ll be gone. That day… that day the bond won’t.  The bond, its love, its light— it stays with you. I can’t believe I’m saying that but— yeah. Shit, symbolism works better in small sentences…”

  She realizes she’s not afraid anymore. Instead, she thinks about Paprika and Miss Cynn. She thinks about a boy and his wolf. She thinks about Nasar and Chino and a man she’ll never meet. She thinks about the moon and its threads. “Should I make more?”

 “More what?”

 “More… bonds.”

  “I mean… yeah. Yes. Make them. And— and nurture them. You water them like a damn plant. And when it roots into your chest, that’s it. It’s yours now. Can never be undone.”

 She realizes she’s not afraid anymore. Instead, she thinks about bonds. She thinks about Paprika and wonders where in her orange she is. She thinks about Miss Cynn and wonders what colors are her threads. She thinks about the wolf. Remus. She thinks about him and wonders if he’s a moon, too, for the boy who’s like a tree. She thinks about Valko— about green and not-even-a-color white and institutes. She thinks about him and regrets. She thinks about Nasar and Chino and a teacher named Ringo. She thinks about them and the metaphorical moon who led them— let them, here. She thinks about pink and its glint of steel. About silver and its sharp softness. She wonders if they’re Ringo. 

  “...was that a Good Adult Talk?”

 The next day, Chino does her hair. They're on the porch and Chino's humming along the song that plays inside. The street’s facing them and the people are loud— their threads even more so. For the first time, she finds it all more intriguing than scary. The pink wrapped around her feels so… casual. It hums, too, along the song of Chino. With a sort of comfort one truly ever finds in thunderstorms or crackling fires. When you let the world move you. When you let yourself be. And she melts against it.

 She thinks of when Miss Cynn did her hair and told her just how untamed they were. She remembers how she agreed every time. But now, she isn’t so sure. Because Chino says, “Nah. They just need loving,” and she believes them.  There's a lot of oil and water and time. It takes so long her bum feels numb. But she watches threads without the fear. Because she focuses on Chino’s voice(s) until she hears nothing else. She wraps herself in the voices-threads-Chino— she wraps herself in them until she knows nothing else. The hands in her hair are like an anchor. She’s swayed by the waves of colors— so much of it. Oh, yes, she is swaying still. But there’s a song in her ears and a pillowcase over  her nose and she’s okay. 

  She thinks about how she can’t see the moon but the bonds instead. She thinks about the bonds and hesitantly reaches out. But. Maybe it’s a mistake because she’s only known Chino for a couple of weeks and— and yet. Yet it feels safe to reach out. Comfortable, even, and she knows— this won’t hurt me.  

  "You feel like a ship," they say quietly. And she thinks she understands. 

 The next day, there's a new thread. It hums with a song of hair and home. When she touches it, the pieces that make Chino-and-Bendis leave her with the feeling of sunlight on her skin. They leave her with a melody of curls and care. They leave her pink. 

  Her head is now full of braids and she likes it. They're big and short and she wonders if it looks great with the color she remembers being somewhat like the orange of her threads. Darker, maybe. Miss Cynn had taken to twist it into a knot at the top of her head for lack of known alternative. When she met Nasar, she had let it loose and felt better about everything. Now, Chino had  taken care of it like— like it was important. And even if she liked it natural, she loved it like that, too. 

 She spends ten minutes of every hour shaking her head really fast. She gets a mouthful of braids each time and laughs for reasons she couldn't name. She laughs, too, when Chino sends the bells so far she can't even hear them land. She laughs when Chino says well, kid, we don't have all day and pink threads stay for all of it anyway. She laughs when she finds the bells— so loud and so free she doesn’t even notice him. 

  But Nasar— his threads (the sword) are there. And she runs so fast she falls twice. She doesn’t care. She throws herself at him and he stumbles a few steps. His arms close around her and she might be crying a little but still, she laughs. Loud, free, and happy about everything. She wishes she could put more of him in her arms and her threads oblige. She lets them. When they wrap around his shoulders and his middle and his legs. She lets them when they wrap around his soul again. 

  They don't let go when she does. Just a bit. Her tiny hands are on his face and she notices the beard first. It's longer than usual and she wants to braid it like her hair. Then, his mouth. The corners are up but not enough for her taste. She puts two fingers there and pushes until she's sure his teeth are showing. She reaches his crooked nose and kisses the bump.

 Nasar brings a hand on her head— the one that could have crushed her but didn't, so long ago— until their foreheads are touching. She laughs again and squishes his cheeks. He huffs but the silver buzzes with warmth. She feels his I missed you and hopes he can feel hers. 

  She wants to keep clinging. And so she does. Chino gets their hug with her squashed in the middle. She doesn’t let go— they go back to the house, they eat and they laugh some more, but she doesn’t let go. When it's time for bed, she trades Nasar for his threads and wraps, wraps, wraps until there’s nothing left of her. 

 The next morning, a second thread starts from her chest and ends in his and it feels like a happy place. Nasar is a little bruised and Chino says —tells him, really— that he should rest for a while. When he stays in bed all day, she is right here with him, little hands all over his face because he’s real and she missed him. She missed him so much she cries a little when he tells them about his journey (“There were some… things to work out.”). How close he came to death (“A healer found me… yeah… a good one, too.”) Chino is in the bed with them and they listen,  stroking her hair when everything seems like too much. Pink, silver and orange  intertwine and she’s so very happy to be here that she cries again. 

 The next day, and the day after that, Chino attaches garlic to the bells. They put a second sword on her back and she can’t help but feel like Nasar’s delay caused some worry. Like it had made the unstoppable force turn into the immovable object. Or like— like it had made the unstoppable object turn into the immovable force. She remembers learning the word baffling not so long ago, and Chino’s behavior is it.

 She doesn’t complain because she’s learning something. Chino says focus on the smell and she does. She sits on her butt a long time, trying to smell garlic and hear bells. There’s a headache around her eyes and she decides she hates garlic. The swords are heavy on her back when she finally stands and she decides she won’t rest until she can run at her swordless pace with them on. 

 When she doesn’t train, she sits next to a bedridden Nasar. They talk about anything and everything until she remembers the book he gifted her on her birthday. About bloodlines. Magical ones. She gets pink in the cheeks when she tells him she forgot about it ("You were gone and Chino turned me into a sword wielding warrior and I was worried and busy and—", "Hey, it's fine.") and hurries out the room without the cane nor the threads to guide her (“Watch out for the door!”, “I know! I’ve been living here a whole month!”). 

  She opens the door without running into it, walks a dozen steps, takes a sharp right, five more steps, opens the door Chino said was green, walks in, sidesteps a lot of things she put on the floor (she only stumbles over a shoe thrown haphazardly in a sleep deprived state), reaches the mattress, lifts it and grabs for the book. She makes it back to Nasar’s room in under forty-six seconds and both of them are very smug about it (“That was fast,” he says, and she preens over it for two days). 

  They read. They read and when she has questions he answers as best as he can. There’s some kind of bitterness when he talks about magic. Like it did him wrong. Like it might have been a friend once. They read and she has a lot of questions. Is it like these genetics thing-y Valko talked about and am I one of them are the first ones. Nasar says yes and we all are. 

 “What do you mean?”

 “How many family names are in that book?”

 “Hum… about forty.”

 “Right. They are… for lack of a better word, they are the original families. Those whose ancestors were the first to awaken. Ever.” He sighs, “The common belief is that they were the first people. That we all are their descendants.”

 “Are… we?”

 “I don’t know. Maybe. Thing is, all those of us who don’t have a last name… Well, we don’t mean much for those families now. We… all we could ever offer them are batarsied versions of their magic.”

  “But— they do marry out of the family, right? Miss K always said it was nonsensical to marry a brother to a sister and that it was disgusting and—” 

  He laughs a little, “No. No, they don’t do marriage between brother and sister anymore… There was a time when… they tried. Thinking it would make the magic… purer. But it was defective. Every single time.” He sighs a little, “They do marry cousins. Fourth and up, though. They don’t want a repeat, right? And they do marry out of the family. They— they estimate, I don’t know, magical… affinities? Between two people. Overpowered babies are a must in these parts.”

 She nods because she thinks she gets it. She understands her threads are the result of a genetic mix. She understands she will never know which. Because she doesn’t have blood relatives. Because none of the forty-something families wield anything resembling her threads. There’s something like a fist in her throat. Because she gets it. She understands how she will always be made to feel inferior to them. Because no one sees the way she does. Because no one feels the way she does. 

  “Some… some people, like you, who’ve gone and awakened something— something useful,” he says and his threads quaver, “They… they take an interest in. It’s not rare, per say. More like, we don’t hear about those few until they… do something really— really fucking grand,” there’s a laugh there, too, but. It’s sad. “like, like saving the world and dying. But nobody cares about them if they just die…” he pauses and she hears his head hit the wall, “And yet. Yet, every time they make a mistake… they’re made an example. And when they’re doing just well enough they— they’re kept in a, uh, frontliner kind of thing, you know? Always the sacrificial lambs.”

  She understands. She understands and cocoons in silver. She understands more than his words and lets orange wrap up, up, up one finger, three, five. It wraps up his palm. Up his wrist. It squeezes a I’m here. 

 She has more questions. About the spells ranked above the letter A. About the families whose magic is called soft. And about families whose magic is called hard. She wants to ask questions but his threads wobble like a lip. Instead, she settles her back against his ribs, hugs the arm around her with one hand. The other is running its fingers on the page. 

   Inferis. They’re in the intermediate magic section of the book. It says they master illusions. It says their spells are ranked from C to AAA (she knows it’s the highest rank). The current Head is Vog’n Inferis and he has three sons from a mother whose maiden name was Erebus (she remembers reading about how they master darkness and thinking what the hell. She remembers Nasar saying shadows, night, black holes… who knows). It says he has six grandchildren already. It says all of them master spells ranked B and above. All of them but one. 

  Alekto Inferis is the youngest of three. Her brother, Nim, is the oldest and the only one on the page to have a little… star? Right beside his triple A (she scans the page again. At the bottom, beside another star, is written go to page ten. She finds two pages on Crafters. It says they are the one who make spells. It says they’re rare. These days, an awakening often bears similar magic. She reads new mutations and rare again.) The other one is named Sandor. Spells rank from B to A. But. Alekto Inferis. 

  Their mother’s maiden name was Papillon. 

 It says Alekto’s spells don’t go higher than a C. It says she didn’t inherit anything from her father’s side. It says she has soft magic… And it reminds her of a boy with green threads. (It reminds her of how quick and quiet their skimming of the Bel family page had been. Shifters. None of them said anything when they didn’t read Valko’s name on the Head’s family tree. None of them said anything when they read hard magic at the top of the page. None of them said anything when she turned the page before finishing it.)

 She lays awake for a long time, wondering if she's like Alekto Inferis and Valko or if they’re like her. 

 The next day, and the day after that, she trains. She searches the field while Nasar’s reclining on a rocking chair and Chino’s spread out on the ground. She searches for bells and garlic with two heavy swords on her back. 

 She trains. She trains even if she’s sweaty and shaking and crying. She trains even if it hurts. She trains so well Chino says okay, level up! and they give her a third sword. She’s lamenting about having to carry one more and how it’s unfair and ugh because— There’s something sharp under her chin. Something very, very sharp and— “Focus.”

  Chino teaches her how to fight. They teach her how to evade and faint, how to defend and— It’s hard. Because she needs to focus on the sound of Chino’s sword and their footsteps all at once. They teach her to block and attack. They teach her even if she’s a bit bloody and scratched and nicked. They teach her for days.  And she starts using her threads on the fifth. 

  They wrap around Chino’s sword. She doesn’t— she doesn’t really want to wrap them anywhere else. But the world’s moving along the sword. It spins. It feels like she’s always about to trip. She doesn’t really want to wrap them anywhere else. Not while fighting, even if— if it's training. The last time she did… Two lives. Two lives for three. But she needs to get better. Way better. Better as in the alternative is probably dying or worse like Nasar dying and you can’t— She needs to be good.

  So, uncertain but cautious, her threads edge along open shoes (“I’m about to wrap my soul around your toes.”). They wrap up, up, up an ankle and two (“Are you doing it?”) and settle around them with a squeeze (“Holy shit— you’re doing it!”). 

 The world has an axis again. And the sound, a provenance. 

She doesn’t see Chino move. She feels them. She feels them in such a way that she mirrors them instinctively. She feels them in such a way that she thinks they might mirror her… Which is— impossible. But she feels their feet and their steps and— She remembers meeting a ma-ri-o-ne-tti-st once, who made wooden dolls come alive with strings. Is that how it feels like? she wants to ask now (because— because she just has to pull—). But now, she feels like both the puppet and the puppeteer at once. 

  When Chino takes a step forward, she takes one back. When Chino takes a step back, she takes one forward. She finds herself moving along the song of Chino once more. She doesn’t grab at pink threads because her hands are full of sword but. She feels them, too. She feels them curious and intrigued and wondering. She feels them watching. 

  That day, Chino doesn’t attack. They feint and twirl and sidestep and— and it’s like they’re dancing. Bendis follows along. She synchronizes. And she finally hears. She hears Chino’s steps and how they’re different from hers. Louder. Surer. She hears the swords’ quiet cry when they touch. Quick. Sharp. She hears Chino’s breathing— she hears it because of how different it is from her own. Slower and calmer. She hears the rustle of a fabric she knows is not her sweater’s wool. 

 That day, she learns to hear again. First, she realizes, I need to know the noises that make me. Because— because sometimes she forgets about bodies. About her own, most of all. She thinks maybe she needs to hear herself to hear others. So, she listens to all the sounds she doesn’t make. 

  One night, when she’s in the room with the green door, she hears Chino and Nasar talking. He’s been out of bed for a few days but his pro-sthe-tic bothers him. He knows where to go to get it fixed, but… he seems unwilling. And she doesn’t need to hear the “...it’s too dangerous,” to know it’s because of her. They speak of the free cities and a market. They speak of debts and hotels and secrets. They speak of books and—  they speak of magic. 

 She hears a what if they find out and the answering they won't. "A simple ID check— it's all it takes. It could lead to— to a registration and it's not what she needs. Ever."

 "But—"

 "And what if she crosses paths with someone— someone who wants to hurt."

 "Listen—"

"There's no telling how her magic will react around so many others—"

 "Nasar," the scream is whispered and the following sigh swallowed. "Your leg hurts, we can tell. The mechanic can't make it? We go to them. And— we'll be there for the kid. There’s two of us, remember? And people we can trust to look out for her."

 There's a long pause and a long sigh, "...I guess we could introduce to the Librarian and—"

  In the room with the green door, she combusts, "I want to go!" 

  And they’re going the day after.

[rangerofpelor]

under the cut because this is long and highly self indulgent

but i’ve been obsessed with the concept of modern au valko/grisha where they’re assigned this guy to assassinate, but they also have to con some information out of him as well. thing is the guy is super secretive and stays holed up in his gated community, so valko and grisha have to go undercover as a newly wed couple who are moving into said gated community

valko is mostly the one hefting moving boxes from the van while grisha gets things set up inside. valko chit chats with the neighbors when they walk by on their daily jogs or while walking their dogs, and he’s super good with the neighborhood pets and kids, and it’s eventually revealed that he’s actually working as a groundskeeper for the community, so they’ll be seeing a lot of him around

and after they’ve settled in, a few days later, the neighborhood ladies come poking around the house during work hours, trying to get a glimpse of the mysterious person valko is wed to. they’re shocked to see a man, but they’re all quickly very excited to have a “gay best friend” to join their gossip ring, and they’re even more intrigued when grisha vaguely mentions that he’s a small businessman (”you’ve seen the way my husband dresses, obviously he’s not the one bringing in the money”)

anyway after dethroning the reigning queen bee (purely by accident, but he has a compulsive need to be in control and he just absolutely eviscerates her verbally), grisha gets roped into the ladies’ book club, where he “befriends” the target’s wife, and he uh...gets swept up into wine-mom facebook culture against his will, but he fits in so well

( “This house is awfully big for just the two of you. Have you considered adopting a dog or something?” one lady asks

to which grisha responds: “Susan, I have a husband. I can’t be picking up after two animals.” and everyone gets a good laugh)

anyway, the book club starts reading 50 Shades because of course they do, and for some reason the books really get under grisha’s skin. to the point where it keeps him up at night

*two am*

grisha: Valko, how do I let these ladies know that this book isn’t an accurate portrayal of BDSM without inviting questions about our sex life?

valko: *half asleep* what?

grisha: this is absolute drivel! and it’s not even good drivel! 

valko: grish...it’s just a book...go to sleep

grisha: no! you don’t understand! we work because we have complementary needs. a woman who’s not into the lifestyle and who really doesn’t know what she wants is a really poor partner choice for this guy

valko: grisha...i have to be up in four hours. i’m going to sleep

grisha: no! listen to me! it only works if both parties are getting what they want out of it! 

valko: ok darling

*later*

karen: *talks about how sometimes when she and her husband are feeling particularly kinky, one of them will tie the other up using his ties*

grisha: *literally had valko collared, bound, gagged, and blindfolded, while he carved his initials into valko’s chest the night before and the bloody sheets are currently going through a cold wash cycle in the laundry room* how scandalous

meanwhile valko has been slowly befriending the husband, and they’ve bonded over hunting. a number of the husbands go out during the fall to go hunting, and as the newest member of the group, valko is invited. the guys initially think about hazing him, but once he reveals that he knows his way around guns and that he’s a fuckin’ phenomenal shot, they welcome him in like he’s one of their own. they talk guns, previous trophies

anyway grisha and the target’s wife hang out a lot while valko and the husband are gone, and grisha starts working his claws into the wife, manipulating her and convincing her that she should poison her husband since she’s so unhappy. 

in the end valko manages to get the info out of the target and grisha manages to convince the lady to kill her husband and he even helps her transfer the life insurance money to an offshore account and gets her set up somewhere nice. 

[simonjager]

lamplight: 3am phone call between my muse and yours (lecia or valko)

“No, no, I have never seen this show... You want me to turn it on now? Lecia... It’s three in the mor... I miss you, too. Okay. I am turning it on now. Did you say it was on Netflix? No? Hulu? I do not have... oh, yes I do... I do not know the password.... I am sorry. Oh. I can use yours? Thank you. Remind me the name of the show? ... Which season? All right, I will watch this with you, but then I am going back to bed...”

[maymaylyn]

Amara Valko | Gabriel Rorke

FIRST MEET 2014

There was a woman in the creek. Not necessarily out of concern but curiosity, he pulled over his worn-out Chevy. It was a 1972 model, and Elias said he would help him fix it before their next deployment. He was going through Terra Bella and trying to get to San Francisco. Needing to get gas and taking a wrong turn to get to the highway, Gabriel wasn't expecting to see a woman face up in the creek on the outskirts of town. There weren’t any cars parked on the side of the road by this creek, but there was a gravel pull-off. He could care less unless they were his men, but it was hot, and she was a little too still in the clear water. He thought the woman might have been dead or had heat stroke. The drive was boring, and human interaction outside the military was scarce. At least this encounter might be interesting.

Slamming the door to his blood-red, beat-up possession and keeping in mind the knife on his belt he kept with him in combat. He made his way down the ditch to this body. Getting closer, he kept a defensive eye out of habit in his line of work. At the water's edge, he noticed it was roughly 4 feet at its deepest.

Now that he could get a good look at the woman, a thin, light blue dress flowed out around her. Her eyes closed, and her dark hair stood out against her pale skin. She was beautiful. She wasn’t dead, but since he stopped his little road trip, and curiosity got the best of him. Gabriel’s hands were on his hips saying with authoritative caution, “Are you alright, ma’am?”

Being greeted with silence and her eyes still closed, he called out again. This time, he could not help but let his sarcastic attitude shine through. “Are you a corpse?”

A chuckle came from the supposed corpse to let him know he was wrong. She turned on her back in the water before standing as gracefully as she could to face him. How the water ran off her body and splashed around her frame was almost ethereal. Gabriel took a breath and straightened up, seeing the sky-blue dress cling to her. He stared at her, keeping his eyes on her face out of respect; the fabric didn't hide much of her.

A warm breeze went by, and she tilted her head. She moved her hair over her shoulder, taking in his appearance. Cargo pants and a loose t-shirt with sleeves cut off, showing off tanned muscles decorated with scars. One scar, in particular, stood out against the rest. A hook shape is embedded on the left cheek, running up over his eyebrow. The air held a peaceful silence between them. She looked at him as if she recognized him from somewhere, putting an eerie feeling in his chest. If someone recognized him, it typically was never a good thing.

“You’re trespassing,” her sickly-sweet voice echoed in his head as if she were speaking in his mind rather than out loud. A shiver went down his spine, not out of fear; ha, no, this feeling was something heavier. Always being two steps ahead of everyone in resilience and physical strength is why he was The Ghost. The look of recognition from her, when he knew he had never seen this woman before, made him frustratedly confused. Not being one to back down, he spoke up, “I apologize for the trespassing; I thought I was just going to have to pull a body from the creek, darlin,” he forced his lips to turn up slightly. He didn't come here to scare anyone. Especially not-

“Amara.” “What?” “My name? It’s Amara, not Darlin.” Her tone was completely different from the sweet tone she had spoken a moment before. There was a mocking Southern accent when she said Darlin. Alright, so she wasn't just sugar. She had some fire in her blood, trying to threaten him and failing like many before her. Like anyone could make him feel threatened. That made the fake smile he plastered on into an almost sinister smirk—more like a sin if you asked her.

“Well, Amara, now that I know you're not a floating corpse, I’ll quit trespassing,” He took his hands off his hips and, not necessarily wanting to take his eyes off her, took some steps backward before finally turning away. He could feel her eyes on him the entire walk back to his car. It’s not like he didn't know the feeling of a woman’s eyes on him before checking him out, but this wasn't the same. He felt she was trying to break his mind and reveal his secrets. Combat was one of the few things that made him feel that way; it was a nice feeling to have something as divine as her challenge him.

His eyes returned to the creek, hoping to get one last look at her. The water was calm, and ‘Amara’ was not in sight. ‘Vanished like a ghost,’ he thought, how fitting. His joy in finding someone who brought such drive to his blood was gone and a sinking feeling was trying to overwhelm him. As he got back to the highway and headed north to San Francisco, he tucked the location of the smaller town away in his mind.

He had a whole month.

He’d find her again.

[petrikaira]

The Butler

Chapter 4: The Jails

Pg 5 (Previous, Next)

Rating: T for Teen

The Canis tilted his head again. “I’m fifteen in Canis years, but in human years- I’m over two thousand years old. I’ve seen more of this than you ever have, Valko of the fae.”

Valko felt his lungs deflate. He knew there were demons who aged in the way deep sea sponges did- unending, forever. At 42, both in his own species years and human years- and he hated that the stupid dog child had been able to guess his age at all- he could not comprehend living that long. To be a teenager for literal centuries. 

“Rough,” He said flatly. “Sorry about your extended puberty.”

The Canis laughed. “All puberty is rough, I am lucky because I never have to do second puberty.”

Valko stared off, for a moment. He supposed the kid had a point- but this entire situation irked him. It was like eating live fire ants while suspended over lava.

“You’re wasting my limited time before I get turned into a wriggling fae babe, Canis. Did you come to gawk?”

The Canis scratched at his eyebrow, bit his lip. Valko suddenly felt like the blushing girl at a ball, waiting to be asked to dance. Except he didn’t feel like blushing, and he didn’t feel like dancing with someone who had rolled on the floor for the fun of it.

“Only a little,” The Canis said. “Actually, I’m here because your butler credentials are outstanding! I don’t really have time for you to wait to grow into a fae adult so I can employ you, I’d just rather do it now.”

An idiot who rolled in dirt, not just the floor. Valko eyed him.

“So! What I mean is-” The Canis shifted, apparently taking his silence as a tacit agreement to whatever the hell the idiot was proposing. “I am Prince Yuki Canis, of the Demon City, and I have come to offer you a contract as our butler in training on behalf of my wife, Queen Aikaterine Canis.”

Valko’s ears laid back and he stared harder. He knew of the Demon City, and of Queen Aikaterine. He had considered going there instead of making his way to the fae, if only because they were demons that lived outside of Hell. The idea of living in a city run by the demi-gods that ran on chaos had been sickening. And this one didn’t seem to understand the rules of the fae.

“We have employment benefits!” The Canis explained further. “I know, you must be thinking ‘I didn’t like being a butler the first time, and now look where I am!’ But guess what? We offer pay for every hour you work! You’ll find our rate very competitive. We offer doctors and healers if you’re ever sick or injured on the job! And you get a day off, every week. Not to mention free lodging and board!”

Valko slowly blinked. Pay. Benefits. He had been given free range of the fae kingdom when he was dismissed, but his job was an every day-

What was he thinking? He was in jail. He was going to be tried for crimes against the fae court. He was in chains! He couldn’t just simply go with the first mongrel who shoved his way through the bars of his jail cell.

“You seem to not understand,” Valko said drily. “I am to be punished for crimes.”

Crimes he did commit. Crimes he would stand by. Crimes he would commit again, if he had the chance of not getting caught, this time.

Yuki Canis tilted his head the other way. Valko swore he could see the ghost of a tail slowly wagging, in concentration and friendship. “You have been punished though, and you have spent time in their jail.”

(Previous, next)

[kingsmakers]

All of your GoT ocs for the oc profile ask

Full Name: Shaera TargaryenGender and Sexuality: Female / BisexualPronouns: She/herEthnicity/Species: Dornish & Valyrian / HumanBirthplace and Birthdate: King’s Landing, Crownlands. 280AL.Guilty Pleasures: Actually enjoys donning nice dresses, when she manages to beat her twin brother when they duel, studying High Valyrian.Phobias: Someone betraying her trust. Shaera is betrayed several times through the course of her story, so it’s incredibly difficult for her to put her trust in someone, and when she does she’s so afraid that it will be used against her.What They Would Be Famous For: I would say for being a fantastic female monarch of Westeros. Shaera rules knowing it’s her duty and she doesn’t believe it’s a ‘right’ just because it’s her inheritance. She takes her responsibilities seriously, so she would be a much-loved queen.What They Would Get Arrested For: Damage to property or something of the like.OC You Ship Them With: Hmm this is tough. I can honestly see her having a bit of a crush on @have-fun-storming-the-kastle‘s Myra Stark, or @perfectlystiles‘s Celaena Baratheon.OC Most Likely To Murder Them: I feel like @susiesamurai‘s Ysaviel Martell would either love or hate her, since they’re technically cousins.Favorite Movie/Book Genre: TragedyLeast Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: Love trianglesTalents and/or Powers: Shaera is adept with small knives. Her Dornish side of the family considered it mandatory that she know how to fight, like her cousins the Sand Snakes. Shaera is also very emotionally intuitive, and in touch with her own feelings as well.Why Someone Might Love Them: Although dedicated to do her duty, Shaera isn’t emotionless - in fact she’s quite passionate and sensitive. She makes a very good friend, and you could definitely rely on her in times of crisis.Why Someone Might Hate Them: Sometimes, Shaera’s emotions can get the better of her - such as her impulsive marriage to Robb Stark. Although she sees the bigger picture, she does also have a bit of a self-absorbed element about her at times.How They Change: Shaera becomes a more level-headed and sensible leader. Initially she is passionate and subject to following whims, whilst as she matures, she thinks things through and makes decisions with more responsibility.Why You Love Them: Shaera is just a precious bean who deserves to be protected at all costs, like she’s honestly dealt a very harsh hand (by me, oops) and she’s just trying to cope with everything she’s experienced.

Full Name: Tamara ArrynGender and Sexuality: Female / HeterosexualPronouns: She/herEthnicity/Species: Andal / HumanBirthplace and Birthdate: The Eyrie, The Vale. 281AL.Guilty Pleasures: Coordinating pretty jewellery with her gowns, spending time with her children, sassing Cersei.Phobias: Losing her children or any other members of her family.What They Would Be Famous For: Most probably for being the last neutral party in Westeros. By the time Tamara swore allegiance to Aegon, she was the last of the Great Houses to choose a ‘side’.What They Would Get Arrested For: Probably murder or manslaughter - oh wait...OC You Ship Them With: Hmm I can’t really think of any male ocs but her and @starcrossedjedis‘s Tarlesyn Sand might get along!OC Most Likely To Murder Them: There are probably a bunch, anyone who’s pro-Daenerys really.Favorite Movie/Book Genre: DramaLeast Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: Ambitious women being ‘evil’.Talents and/or Powers: Tamara has grown incredibly good at manipulation. She reads people well, learns their strengths and weaknesses. Her skill at twisting people around her little finger is what led to her alliance with Aegon being mutually beneficial.Why Someone Might Love Them: Despite her machinations, Tamara can be witty and clever to benefit her family. She loves her children dearly, and doesn’t believe in overlooking her daughter when she has a son. She treats them both equally.Why Someone Might Hate Them: She’s ambitious and can overreach herself. She is also not afraid to make drastic moves to achieve the end result she wants - and it will eventually be her downfall.How They Change: Tamara was initially extremely proud and unwilling to accept that she might be able to have feelings for Jaime. Over time she’s realised that feelings aren’t weakness and she’s allowed to love her husband. She has also grown better at playing the game, and is soon to make a series of bold moves that will either make or break her.Why You Love Them: I see Tamara as a very morally grey character. She’s ambitious and manipulative, but she is also wanting to do what’s best for Westeros. She doesn’t believe in just giving up and letting things go, she will push until the bitter end.

Full Name: Delylah TullyGender and Sexuality: Female / DemisexualPronouns: She/herEthnicity/Species: Andal / HumanBirthplace and Birthdate: Riverrun, Riverlands. 281AL.Guilty Pleasures: Swimming in lakes and rivers, target practise with a bow and arrow.Phobias: Getting married and having a child. No joke, she’s really concerned about it. She knows how much depends on her acquiring a good husband and bearing a son, so it’s become something she dreads.What They Would Be Famous For: Being the thrice-wed Lady of Riverrun. Also her moniker of the Redfish for carrying out a particularly brutal murder.What They Would Get Arrested For: Public indecencyOC You Ship Them With: Ooh she and @moirei‘s Syrius Reyne Dalt might be cute tbh.OC Most Likely To Murder Them: Not sure on this one tbh. Maybe a Lannister oc?Favorite Movie/Book Genre: Action/adventureLeast Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: Women only considered ‘strong females’ because they can wield a weapon - there’s so much more to women than that!Talents and/or Powers: Delylah is relatively good at using a bow and arrows, however it’s more a hobby than something she considers a skill. She is also a very good swimmer, and would want all of her children to learn to swim from a young age as she did.Why Someone Might Love Them: Delylah definitely adheres to the Tully words of family coming first. She’s incredibly close with her father, grandfather and great-uncle, and dreads anything happening to them. Despite her struggles with the idea of being a wife and mother, she is still willing to do her duty.Why Someone Might Hate Them: Delylah is quite feisty and her position as heir to the Riverlands means she hates being looked down upon for being a woman, something that can really agitate a lot of men. Often doesn’t know when to shut up.How They Change: Delylah grows up from a fiery young girl to a woman with a sense of purpose. She finds having her first baby very difficult, from the pregnancy to having a newborn child, but she perseveres because she knows how important it is, and grows to love her baby.Why You Love Them: Delylah goes through a lot in order to save her family, but she does reach her breaking point. Although she wants her own freedom, she also knows it’s not a realistic option, so she goes for the next best thing - a convenient marriage with love as part of the equation.

Full Name: Medea BaratheonGender and Sexuality: Female / HeterosexualPronouns: She/herEthnicity/Species: Andal & Valyrian / HumanBirthplace and Birthdate: Storm’s End, Stormlands. 273AL.Guilty Pleasures: Drinking wine, attending extravagant parties, giving her opinions in council situations.Phobias: Her children being taken from her if she remarries, losing her independence.What They Would Be Famous For: Being the mother of the king, Valko Swann.What They Would Get Arrested For: Something to do with intoxicationOC You Ship Them With: She and @the-winter-falcon‘s Alaric Martell, although it’s kinda canon in the sense that they are lovers, it just doesn’t stay that way.OC Most Likely To Murder Them: Anyone pro-Targaryen or who just generally hates Baratheons.Favorite Movie/Book Genre: ComedyLeast Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: One-dimensional villains.Talents and/or Powers: Medea has power and authority - as the King’s only sister, she is seen as a handsome marriage prospect, despite the fact that she has wed and had children from a previous marriage. Her status as a widow means she also has a degree of independence, which she is reluctant to give up.Why Someone Might Love Them: Medea is quite easy-going and likes to have fun, however there is a serious side to her and she is very good with children and giving advice in general. She isn’t hateful or one to hold a grudge, and does try to understand her enemies’ way of thinking.Why Someone Might Hate Them: She can often be seen as overindulgent, and particularly in a culture that shames women for extra-marital sex, the fact that she sleeps around as an unwed woman leads to some referring to her as a whore.How They Change: As Medea’s children grow up, her relationship with them becomes different. Her eldest son is eventually the king, and she knows that as a young man, he may not always listen to her or take her advice. She doesn’t want to smother her kids, but wants them to know that they are loved. She also warms to the idea of having more children, as she and Jaime have several.Why You Love Them: It’s kind of nice to have a character who is already a mother at the start of the story, who’s a bit ‘older’ by Westeros standards (aka not a young maiden), as she has a bit of a different perspective on the world and different way of living.

[verbjectives]

hey....have a thieves guild era valko thing that’s been sitting in my google docs for like two months now. it’s got some waxplay in it tho so just a heads up also sorry to everyone on mobile who don’t get the read more cut, this is gonna take a bit to scroll past

You never considered yourself particularly drawn to fire. Not the same way some of the other guild members were. Sure, it had its practical uses but the type of reverence you’ve seen others behold it with had always manage to escape you.

But you think that you might be beginning understand.

Fire is....versatile.

After days in the dark, it’s a welcome sight, yet there’s always that primal fear lingering just behind the eyes that no one can escape. They want to get closer, to take comfort in the light and warmth, but not so close that they are burned. It’s funny, you think, that we love and need something that could so easily destroy us.

You’re sitting at a small table in one of the barrack’s common areas, watching a candle burn. The flame flickers and dances, bringing the shadows around you to life. The wax slips down the stick like sweat from the brow. It’s enchanting in a way. Alluring. Even the slightest breath causes a quiver, and how the fire fights to stay alive. It’s beautiful. You want to see it destroy. Consume.

You want to hold it against someone’s hand and watch as the skin on their palm blisters and blackens.

You want to see someone squirm.

“You’re not turning into a pyromaniac on me, are you?”

The words slide like ice down your back and your eyes snap up to see Grisha slip into the seat across from you. You didn’t hear him enter. Then again, you never do. Shadows and silence, like everything else in the world, seem to submit to his will. You’ve learned long ago not to jump at his sudden appearances. It’s happened often enough that the general lack of noise was in itself a dead giveaway.

You’ve known him long enough to see the subtle look of disapproval on his face. Grisha doesn’t care for that which couldn’t be controlled, so you can only reason that he doesn’t care much for fire. It’s wild. Erratic. Unpredictable.

You sit up straight and set the deck of cards you were absentmindedly shuffling down on the table. “No,” you say, leaning back in your chair. “Just thinking.”

The mild disapproval shifts into mild curiosity. Grisha reaches for the stack of cards and shuffles them. “Care to share?” he asks, setting the deck back on the table.

You cut it and he takes it back to deal a hand. You take your cards and sigh. “It’s nothing, I just…” you shake your head, “I’ve got this guy in the chair and he’s been….difficult to crack.”

Grisha begins to organize his hand. “I take it he doesn’t have any family, otherwise you would have brought them in already.” He looks at you pointedly. “Right?”

You throw down the first card with more force than you had initially intended. The implication that you were lazy and didn’t bother looking into this man’s family as a viable way to torture him was, frankly, insulting. (As if you didn’t know that the most effective way to torture someone was to make them watch as you hurt the ones they love.) “Right,” you say, trying to mask your sneer as a smile, even though you know he saw it. “No friends either. Nothing to lose other than smaller bits of himself.” You draw from the deck. “He does have clients, but they’re important enough to make him worth more to us alive than dead, so I can’t do anything that’ll actually kill him.”

Grisha plays his card and draws. “How many fingers are gone?”

“Left hand is missing three, all his nails are gone, and his right hand is completely shattered.” You try to slip two cards from your hand into the discard pile, but you’re stopped by a sharp warning noise. Grisha gives you a look that tells you that really, you should know better than to cheat while playing against him. He’s right, you really should, but there’s always that glimmer of hope that maybe someday you’ll get away with it. Reluctantly, you pick up the discard pile, adding the cards to your hand. “Asshole has a stupid high pain tolerance. Most people would have given in by now.”

You play in silence for a few rounds, during which Grisha was forced to pick up the discard pile as well, putting the two of you back on equal ground. Eventually, Grisha speaks. “I could talk to him if you wanted.”

His tone is casual, but you hear the smug smile hiding behind the offer. I can do it if it’s too hard for you, is what he’s really saying. You bark out a laugh, which comes out much harsher sounding than you thought it would, and you look at him with narrowed eyes. “Believe it or not, Grish, but I can do my job without your constant assistance or supervision.” You play two cards at a time this round, dropping them on the table, not bothering to be sneaky about it. And you stare at him, challenging him, daring him to do or say something about it.

A vein throbs in his jaw and his eyes darken, but (to your disappointment) he maintains his composure. “I’m just trying to help you, Valko,” he says with a gentle shrug, playing his next card. “I’d hate to see you punished because you weren’t able to finish an assignment.”

You’re not sure how much you believe him. Lately it feels like all of your conversations with him are a sort of song and dance, and you’ve been struggling to keep in time. You think he means what he says. He really would hate for you to receive punishments from higher ups. But you also don’t think he’s necessarily saying what he means. Is he saying this because he’d hate to have your use temporarily taken away from him, or would he hate it because he wouldn’t be the one punishing you?

“Whatever,” you say. You don’t push it because you really don’t want to think about it. You lean in to gather the cards to shuffle for another hand, but Grisha reaches out and snatches your wrist, pulling your arm across the table. Cards scatter and fall to the floor. His grip is so tight that the bones in your wrist shift and grind together. You grit your teeth in pain, and you meet Grisha’s gaze. And he just stares back at you with those cold blue eyes of his and that wicked smile he gets whenever he has an idea. “The hells, Grish?” you growl. “That fucking hurts.”

He pushes the sleeve of your shirt up to your elbow and he grabs the candle from its holder. “Don’t be an infant.”

Your eyes flick back and forth between him and the candle in his hand. You struggle against him, but his grip only grows tighter. He’s far stronger than he looks. (Or maybe you’re just weak to his touch). He brings the candle closer, holds it just above your arm, and the realization hits you.

He lowers his voice dangerously. “Hold still.”

Your heart races in your chest. You hear the blood rushing in your head, and by the look Grisha is giving you, you know he feels your rapid pulse where he’s gripping your arm. You want to say that what you’re feeling is fear, but the heat in your body betrays you. (This is excitement, and both of you know it.) He tips the candle down, the flame hovering above the exposed underside of your forearm. The wax slowly crawls down the stick, and a groan escapes your lips before the first droplet lands on your skin.

A cruel smile cracks his face in two. You can only recall a handful of other times you’ve seen him smile so wide. “Good boy,” he says softly. “Let me hear you.”

His grip on your arm doesn’t weaken as he pours drop after drop, and you follow his instructions. Each time a new drop lands on your arm, you feel the muscles twitch.  You clench your fist, nails biting into your palm and your head falls to rest on the wooden table. A sharp intake of breath when each drop of wax lands. A low whine shortly after it cools. You know you should be embarrassed by the noises spilling from your mouth, but you can’t control it. (You want to keep him satisfied.)

The heat seems to move from your arm down into the pit of your belly, where it settles and burns steadily. You shift uncomfortably in your seat and the nails of your clenched fist dig tighter into your palm. It’s too much (it’s not enough). You want it to stop (gods you want more).

He’s definitely enjoying this, the sick bastard (but so are you).

What would your mother say?

By the time he finishes you’re left breathless and the skin on your arms feels raw. You would be shaking if his grip weren’t so tight. “Chin up,” he orders, and you obey without hesitation. The world is fuzzy except for him and where he touches you. Your gaze falls to your arm and you let out another strangled moan when you see that he’s written his name using the wax.

He leans in close -- dangerously close-- and you feel the warmth of his breath against your neck and ear. “Now imagine that on open cuts,” he whispers, low and dark, and your breathing hitches. “The wax will dry out the skin.” He traces the outline of the wax with his other hand, making the sensitive skin tingle just beneath his touch. “It’ll itch.” In one swift movement, he scratches his nails across your arm, ripping pieces of dried wax from your skin.

Gods it hurts. (It hurts so good). You cry out and every muscle in your body suddenly seizes and relaxes, leaving you feeling boneless and floaty. (It’s not an orgasm, but it’s damn close to one.)

You can feel him smiling from where his face lingers so close to yours, and your brain is fuzzy, but you manage to turn to meet his eyes as he leans away. His hold on your wrist slackens and he changes his grip so that his thumb is rubbing gentle circles where your pulse thuds in your wrist. The tone of his voice changes. “It would be terrible for anyone,” he says, as if he were discussing someone having their coin-purse stolen, and he gingerly peels the remaining wax off your forearm. “Especially for a man who can’t use his hands. Don’t you agree?”

Your head feels heavy but you nod it slowly because any words would be incoherent. Cold hands run over the tender skin of your forearm and a soft sigh escapes your lips, and you watch as Grisha moves his hand back and forth across the welts. Eventually, he leans back, giving his work one last approving look before slowly lifting himself out of the chair. As he walks past you, he gives you a small pat on the cheek. “Give him hell,” he says, before stalking back into the dark tunnels.

You sit there, trying to regain your composure and regulate your breathing. You don’t exactly understand what happened just now, but whatever it was, he certainly left you wanting more. The wax was painful, sure, but that was only for a moment. The attention he gave you, the touch, it felt...good. You wanted to feel it again. He’s always so busy these days, and he never seems to have time for you anymore. But you look down at his name written on your skin and you think that maybe this is just a reminder that he’s still there; that even when he’s away, he’s still with you. He’s always with you.

You take a moment, blinking yourself back to reality and shaking yourself from the haze. You collect the playing cards from where they scattered, give them one last shuffle, and tuck them inside a breast pocket underneath your armor.

You’ve wasted enough time. You have to get back to work. But at least now you have a fresh approach.

You’ll have to thank Grisha later.

[tinyoctopuswrites]

[Reaper76 Week] Day 3: Thankful

Thankful — Gratitude/ Admiration

Summary: In which Reaper considers death by spork.

“Lawson, stand down,” Soldier barked out.

The rest of the squad materialized out of thin air. In hindsight, they'd probably picked strategic points to study their approach and waited for the opportune moment to make their presence known. If they'd wanted him dead, Reaper would have already had a bullet through his skull. He recognized a few faces: Hendricks, Valko, and Eakman. None of them looked happy to see him, but he didn't blame them.

He kept his hands held up, the palms flat and exposed. Anyone with half a brain knew the gesture meant nothing, as he could draw a shotgun faster than they could react, but this Lawson didn't seem to know that. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Reaper noted he had some of the worst trigger discipline he'd seen in a long time. Lawson was going to shoot him—or worse, Jack—by accident.

"But sir—"

"I said, stand down," Soldier repeated, an edge to his voice that brooked no argument. There was the old Strike Commander; a wave of nostalgia curled low in his gut. "Until further notice, Reaper will be my guest." "Yessir," Lawson choked on the word.

"The other two lagging behind are with us as well." Soldier jerked a thumb behind him. "We encountered omnics in the area, so stay alert. Report back to Chu after you've finished your patrol."

Reaper half-expected them to salute as they departed. Jack, when he put on his command voice, could make anyone into a soldier. Some of the squad gave him final, lingering glances before they turned and marched off. He didn't blame them for being suspicious, though he wouldn't want to be caught alone near Lawson. Blood was a bitch to remove from leather.

"He had good intentions," Soldier said as they began to walk forward once again. It was the closest thing to an apology he would get.

"Tell him it's a magazine, not a clip, and maybe I'll forgive you." He snorted. "Smart enough not to trust me, but he doesn't know his own weapon. What kind of outfit are you running, Morrison?"

"Good help is hard to find these days." Passive-aggressive as always. Reaper hadn't realized how much he missed it. For now, at least, it reminded him of better times. Jack may have had his red-orange visor, but Gabriel was the one wearing rose-tinted glasses.

[ Ao3 || FFN ]

Masterpost || Day 1 || Day 2 || Day 3 || Day 4 || Day 5 || Day 6 || Day 7

[harmonylight]

Thanks for the tag! This is last 7 sentence from my valkos au wip

Pyrrha wasn't sure what to do about the situation she had gotten herself into as she watched Nora feed her child, this woman had clearly been running from something because the gash on her forehead was definitely not from being hit by a car. Nora was still really wary of her, her eyes kept drifting to all the windows and doors in the apartment and her body was all tensed up  ready to leave at moments notice.

"So can I just say how sorry I am for hitting you with my car" Pyrrha said while rubbing her arm nervously. 

"Its ok, I probably should have been looking where I was going"  Nora replied as she fed Oscar a spoonful of mashed bananas.

"I hope I'm not being to intrusive  but what were you doing out there so late?" She asked and immediately Nora seem to loose a bit of colour in her face and froze up slightly

"It's...a long story, that I really don't feel comfortable sharing" she replied her voice solem 

"I'm sorry I didn't mean to press" Pyrrha apologise quickly, Nora gives her a small smile at that appreciating that she was going to leave the issue alone before going back to feeding Oscar. For some strange reason that smile filled Pyrrha with a strange warmth maybe it's bebecause that was the first time I seen her smile so far Pyrrha wondered

Alright you try it as well my friends

@duganator01 @pottermusprime @wobblyjellyfish

Heads up seven up

tagged by @littleferal to post the last 7 sentences of a wip 😘 You get some Frankie goodness also! 

“I’d say she’s taken a liking to you already. It was nice meeting you. Stay warm!” He waves before turning to make his way out of the patch, talking with Mia the whole way. It was…the cutest thing you think you have ever seen. You watch him as he leaves, wondering if you may ever happen upon him again before returning to work. Time to check for lost children in the corn maze.

no pressure tags! @yespolkadotkitty @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @absurdthirst and if anyone else wants to do it!!

[ofmagnhild]

yes hello I don’t know how to do this thing but let’s do it anyways since I missed the actual 100 follower mark

HEY! YOU READIN’ THIS! YEAH, YOU! YOU’RE FOLLOWIN’ ME? YOU’RE RAD, AND I THANK YOU FOR FOLLOWING ME! consider this my way of jumpin’ through that screen of yours and giving you a big ol’ hug!

under the cut tl;dr: me being extra and gay and extra gay about my friends

Okay, but in all seriousness, thank you all so much for following my train wreck of a blog. I absolutely adore Nora as a character, and I’m glad I can portray her well. Without further ado (is that how you say that?), I’m gonna rant about some of my favorite RP partners.

@achillaea Dev is a blessing. She kept Pyrrha alive by being canon divergent, A+ job doing that, friend-o. She was my first major shipping partner (spurring my adoration for the ship Valkos), she’s one of my favorite writing partners, and honestly, she’s just an awesome person to talk to! I suck with words when it comes to, like, me talking, so I apologize if any of these rant things seem lackluster, but I just have to say that I love Dev, and I’m gonna give her a big bear hug if I ever meet her in person.

@starsetdiva MAY’S NEON IS LIKE 8 MILLION TIMES BETTER THAN CANON. She adds depth and backstory to a character that we didn’t really get shit for in the show, and she makes it work, it’s actually amazing. Also my other favorite shipping partner, it’s a tie between May and Dev since we all ship together. May’s also an awesome person to talk to out of character, the memer that she is.

@saecris I don’t talk with Nine much (which I would love to change!), but the one serious thread I’ve done with them is honestly one of my favorite things. Not only is it one of the few non-romantically charged things that I’ve seen between Ren and Nora, but it’s actually serious and I’m so excited every time I see Nine reply to it. On the other hand, they’re a great sport regarding crack things, like the whole glitter ordeal that happened not too long ago. Nine’s rad, yo.

@crowndefiant Cassie is an awesome Weiss. We’ve literally only done, like, one thing together if I recall correctly, but holy shit, her Weiss is spot on. It’s genuinely terrifying, like, I hear Kara’s voice for Weiss when I read anything Cassie writes in character. How the hell do you do that, TEACH ME- no, but seriously, A+ Weiss. We haven’t talked much out of character, but she seems hella nice, too. 

@saintlyhilt Okay so we’ve literally done nothing together yet but we’re planning a thing and it’s great. Finally, some Jaune/Nora interaction. This Jaune is, like, so great? Punch me in the face if I’m wrong here, honestly, and I’ll be damned if I’m getting a black eye today. I look forward to the things we have planned, or anything else we might get wrapped up in together in the future.

EDIT: FUCK-A-DOODLE-DOO HOW COULD I FORGET YOU

@gcmbolshroud Rad Blake blog. I don’t think we’ve done much ever since I moved my blog to it’s own primary blog, but still, I loved our threads on my old blog. I liked talking with you out of character, and I really think we should do more stuff at some point! Nora and Blake have literally zero interaction in canon and I’d love to change that.

uh

they’re the only people I can think of at the moment, so I apologize if I missed anyone, but I love all of my mutuals, and we should really talk more! I don’t bite, you guys!

and once again, thank you all so much for following me, enjoying my stuff, and whatnot, it means so much to me, y’all have no idea. I love you all, and my wrists are getting sore, so I should stop typing now

bye!