#flame in the dark

[books-in-a-storm]

My Library📚

Flame In The Dark, Faith Hunter

[dark-romantics]

[mournfulroses]

Alfonsina Storni, tr. by Dorothy Scott Loos, from Selected Poems; "Sweet Vision,"

[darkartfinds]

“Dark flame” by Natalie Shau

[hallowshumour]

Poison pill. //ft @sexydotjpg 💚☣️

[pricetagged]

Part 2 of that wifehunter john piece instead of working on my wips 💖

Masterlist l Previous l Next

Warnings: implied stalking and voyeurism. Nothing too bad...yet.

Unedited, typed on my phone during break, abrupt ending (part 3 ig?)

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He thumbs at the book, tracing the swirls of your penmanship until the ink fades off and the paper turns to felt. It leaves his fingertips stained, dark as indian ink, and he can't help the satisfied burr that catches his breath as he presses the sticky whorls of his prints into the pages.

Stained. Blackened.

Imprinted.

It's what he wants to do to you in something more indelible than ink, something that would burrow under your skin and linger. (This parasitic desire, he'll bury it in you, make you feel his presence deep in your guts, squirming and wriggling at the back of your mind-)

Of course he returns the book. Returns it to you marked and dogeared and of course you're grateful for it. Tripping over your words and choking on the thanks that build up and tumble from your delicate throat, feelings and words too big for you. 

He knows that, sees the slight hesitance in your eyes as they flit to the window where he knows your useless Buck is ambling about. Shambling. (This marriage is a sham, his claim on you is a sham, one that John is more than willing to seize upon and squeeze until it all crumbles and all that is left is you malleable and soft in his hands).

"Where...where did you find this? I thought-" He sees how you choke down condemnations, not wanting to crack open that door that leaves your husband exposed.

Is it loyalty? Obedience?

Whatever it is, he wants it. Wants to redirect it his way. It itches at him, sits awkwardly like a broken seam, seeing you waste this fidelity on something still wet behind the ears.

On a man who can't even protect his own home, can't even cherish his own wife and has to call John in to pick up the mantle-

"It's good work. Shouldn't leave it lying around, sweetheart," he raps against the front cover, needs to do something with his hands before the impulses take over and he does something hasty. Something that would send you darting back to your husband's arms instead of in to his. "Would be a real waste if it got lost. Taught me how to transplant herbs, now I've got some parsley on my windowsill that's still alive."

It's a lie. He must have strangled the roots, harvested it too soon, something-

But it makes you happy. He can see the glow that warms your cheeks and brightens your eyes. They way your face plumps up, softens, due to your shy smile.

"You should've tried mint, first. It grows like crazy, basically does its own thing. Basil, too." You're grinning, in your element out here. Surrounded by green and the rich, earthy scent of the soil that you till. Geosmin. Oakmoss.

"I'll have to get you over to show me sometime."

He plays gallant so well, offering to help you with the weeding and trimming. It wouldn't be the first time he got down into the muck and the mire. Wouldn't be the first time he stuck his hands in, got them caked and dirty right up to the elbow in order to get what he wants. In order to do what needs done. It's as familiar to him as the uniform he wears.

And your company makes it so much more pleasant.

You smile at him, glancing up from the flowerbeds each and every time he passes you a tool. Eventually you feel comfortable enough to call for him - John? - to tap at his wrist and redirect his hands around the roots and stems below you both. It's a beautiful symbiosis: you, who are so good at wringing life and he who is so good at taking it.

He catches the way the living room curtains twitch, the shadow of the young buck pacing and pawing just out of sight. Too much energy, not enough courage. Not seasoned enough to come out and plant himself between the challenger and his wife. It's stable vice, sending him spinning, uselessly watching as John sidles in and digs his paws into the very foundations of the house. It makes him smile, big and broad as he tugs at a particularly stubborn weed with a grunt.

And when you can't quite get the rubber of the yard gloves to slide over your wrist, he just has to help you. Has to grip at your soft forearm, cooing as you wince.

"Big pull, that's it sweetheart."

You brace yourself so well, pulling back in a counterweight that just digs his fingers in tighter. Blinking back tears, you laugh a little awkwardly. A little thrilled.

And you thank him for it, shaking your arm out and stretching your fingers. All damp from the soil and your sweat.

Unoticing uncaring of the ring that's no longer on your finger.

He has the urge to shake it out of the glove onto the dirt. To burry it and trample all over it until it's dull and forgotten and dead.

But -

But it's still warm from your hand.

It's so fragile, too small to fit properly over his thick fingers and swollen knuckles.

He thumbs at it on his drive home, plays with the smooth face and angled edges as he thinks.

He won't give it back, the thought draws a scoff as he signals into his driveway. No, the only way you're getting a ring from him is on the same day that the ink dries on your marriage license.

But there's the matter of that ugly possesive thing that lives in his ribcage, so close to the surface that the lines blur and shimmer until he's not sure which skin he's wearing. It has him feeling hot, burning up and itching to watch the fall out.

He settles on the settee, cigar in one hand and your wedding ring in the other.

It sits tight just barely at the first knuckle of his forefinger. The screen in front of him illuminates it, makes it glint cold and sharp as it moves lower and lower, over the slight give of his stomach until it reaches the bulge pressing into his zipper. He palms himself, hisses as he feels the metal dig in a little to the sensitive, aching flesh.

With another slow drag, he flicks open his fly and settles in.

Even the slight pixelation of the monitor can't disguise how pretty you are.

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Someone with a big brain please help me to name this haha 💖

Sorry for the delay. Been super demotivated lately. Still got several k of wips that need attention :/

[stardreamt]

I’m bout sick of these people

[spookyfresa1997]

my eternal flame

via digital diary by spookyfresa1997

[mother-lee]

Martin Constable

[akiyart]

In the embrace of messmer's flame 🔥

[books-in-a-storm]

Book Mail

Flame In The Dark

[the-raven-and-the-tower]

A snoop through Lucanis's room in the Lighthouse; Signs of a Struggle

Lucanis is doing a damned good job holding it together considering everything he's been through. He's keeping a tight grip on his emotions and using the job to focus himself, but if you stop in to check on him... there are a few clear signs that not all is well.

Baby boy picked a room without windows, yet he's still craving light. For an assassin who has spent most of his life very comfortable in the dark, he’s avoiding it now like he’s avoiding sleep.

There are FIFTY SEVEN candles in his room. Fifty six of them are lit. Look at the variety. He found every spare candle available to him in the Lighthouse and possibly dragged a few back with him from the Cantori Diamond or Dellamorte estate.

^ Short candles, tall tapers, all in various states of use, ALL LIT. One very different candle in a silver candle-holder, maybe from the Diamond or home

^ Another silver addition, this time a candelabra with similar style to the last one and an elven lamp, similar to the one Rook decorates their room with.

^ Three more styles of candlestick holders in with all the standalone candles I'm guessing he found around the Lighthouse.

^ Terrible shot, but he also has both wall torches lit, which were the only lights in that space when he moved in IIRC

And what's more, he has enough coffee stashed in this room to give niacin flush to an elephant.

There are ELEVEN coffee cups sitting out and two more sitting ready next to the gifted coffee set. (Also, he has no coffee in his mug if you sneak a peek into it.)

^ Seven of the cups are within reach of his right hand, where he sits on the bed.

^ There's another in front of his hookah pipe. Couple more in the second shot, I missed a picture of one somehow. There are two unused cups sitting ready behind his gifted coffee set that definitely doesn't look like it's for tea...

^ Coffee beans and I'm guessing the two sacks next to the basket are full of the same. His empty cup below, cuz it makes me laugh.

Next, the bed. It gives me vibes of the crappy bedroll Astarion sleeps on in BG3. Look at this thing.

You can see where he tried scrubbing the grime away before giving up and deciding to just live with it. We know there are other beds in the Tower, Taash and Davrin both have cozy ones when they arrive.

Whether or not Lucanis had the conscious thought of "what he's worth / deserves", this is how he values himself. This is what he chose to sleep in... likely with the thought that he's going to be avoiding sleep at all costs anyway, why does it matter what shape the bed is in?

He brought barely any personal possessions with him. Lace is the same way, but Bellara's room is full and we found her packing list (adorable). Neve, too, has brought books, papers, a spare leg, tools to work on it with... Even Rook has a scene where they decorate their room with possessions that are meaningful to them.

But if we go looking through Lucanis's personal belongings, we find barely any of them. And what few there are, we find mixed among the team supplies or shoved under them.

^ Here, is hookah pipe is neatly shelved in the corner, and we find a a heavily-armored and well-locked chest tucked among the fruit. I might be looking for meaning where there isn't any but... Lucanis has got himself tucked away in the pantry, his walls up and himself still locked away in the Ossuary of his mind.

^ Better view of the chest.

Underneath one of the moved shelves is a Crow-themed rug, with almost all details hidden under supplies for the team, another big basket of coffee beans and another presumably-locked chest.

Under the bed, we find another rug, rolled up and not set out even though having it laid on the floor inside of the bed would be more comfortable. He spends a lot of time sitting on that bed, having a rug to put his feet on could be nice and yet... it's under the bed.

The only other Lucanis possession I could find in the room is his bag, shoved under his bed. He's a boujie boy, but it's not a boujie bag. It's utilitarian and well-used, shoved under the bed until he needs it.

To end on a slightly happier note... his brewing bench outside the pantry door is pretty neat.

^ I wonder where these mugs are from and what the designs represent.

^ Any idea what this is, anyone? The thing hanging from the chain?

Oh, and guess what was under the brew station! MORE COFFEE!

[veinsfullofstars]

“Any more stupid questions?”

Bonus live reactions to being saved from a Dark Matter ambush:

Started 07/13/24, finished 07/27/24, updated for color correction 11/02/24. | Kintsugi AU Masterpost

[silverequation]

the Solaris Project was supposed to create the flame of hope that would change the world, rectify past mistakes and avoid bitter fates

after beating Solaris Silver became the symbol of hope that moves through time to rectify mistakes and disasters and avoid bitter fates. Silver is the real flame of hope

[val-of-the-north]

Apocalyptically bad first impression

[weirdlookindog]

Alberto Martini (1876-1954) - Love / Source of the Living Flame, 1914

from the 'Misteri' series, published 1915