#ii darkfic idea

[danderling]

BLOOD WARNING

Zero mentioned like. A Trophy darkfic at some point and I imagined he would be like a classic thriller horror movie antagonist

Like the mask and everything

If I were to ever expand on this it would be full of thriller references (maybe even Carrie White…. The bottom rigjt was a vague reference to it)

[infinite-ticking-clock37]

What the fuck have I done

This feels so wrong dear god

[ilovethetalkingclock]

considering making a semi-darkfic that explains within the show itself why oj is silent in the invitiational finale

[rook-specter]

should I through my talon into the darkfic pile and make an ii darkfic

[haru-sen]

Rite of Conquest

The road to Moonrise Towers is paved with good intentions, bad circumstances, and hard decisions. In the wake of tragedy, Zevlor bends the knee to the Absolute. (NSFW) AO3 CW: Darkfic, Absolute Zevlor, torture, bad boundaries, toxic dynamics, dubcon

Spoilers: Act II

A/N: This is a dark AU with the same Tav/backstory as Through the Gates of Horn and Oak (only with Act I going terribly wrong and things snowballing). You don't need to read it to understand events, but it helps. I have feelings on Absolute Zevlor who is a completely different character than canon Zevlor. After being horny for sitting on this idea for months, this is the take I felt comfortable running with. Tagging "dubcon" because of the inherent power imbalance and "fearousal" aspect. It's the bad boundaries and manipulation one expects for a villain romance, but I won't be writing explicit noncon. Special thanks to @theemptyislost for dragging me down this dark road and @ada-melodies for cheering me on.

The voices were getting louder, the argument finally cutting through the fog in your aching head, the rush of murmurs starting to break apart into words you could parse.

“-poaching my catch-”

“You’re welcome to try, aberration. She is not yours to kill.”

And all the while, someone was screaming.

You tried to lift your head, to open your eyes, but a wave of nausea racked your body. Instead you only found darkness, tinged with salt and bitterness, blood and bile on your tongue.

That got your attention. You were hurt, badly.

Your awareness spread, and instinctively you tried to curl up into a ball, tried to summon your limbs to protect your core, but they did not move. Cold metal bit into your wrists and ankles – cuffs from the feel of them, cuffs that were partially supporting your weight, keeping you upright. Fuck. Rough wood scraped against your back. It was a rack then.

The air was chilly and someone was screaming now. No, more than one person, a chorus echoing off the stones. They were in pain. They were being torn apart. They were screaming and screaming and it hurt to hear.

But it would hurt a lot more once it was your turn.

Your heartbeat sped up, your breathing growing ragged. But you already hurt all over. Dull aches reverberated in your skull, making it impossible to focus. Sharp pangs cut through your chest and abdomen when you tried to draw in more than half a mouthful of air. Needling pains shot from your extremities up your limbs. Your wrists vacillated between deep aches and a strange bone-numbed throbbing.

Nerve damage? Probably.

Broken bones? Almost certainly.

Severe concussion? Most definitely.

You were in rough shape, but it seemed like you were mostly in one piece. With a pained hiss, you forced your eyes open. You were off the ground, secured to a rack. The torchlight was painfully bright. Your head lolled to the side, and you hung there, closing your eyes as you tried to regain your equilibrium.

Shhh, beloved. It will be well. A cold voice, a soothing caress went through you, briefly silencing the pain, giving you a chance to clear your hazy mind.

You could not hear the others. You could not hear him. But your parasite was there, oddly docile. Your gear was gone. You could not sense any connection to magic, but you could feel the few illithid powers that you took, sparking in your brain. But there was no desire to join the Absolute, so your dreamer’s influence was still working, even if you could not speak to him.

What happened? You struggled to recall where you were and how you got here, wherever here was.

“She’s awake,” an unfamiliar voice drawled. It was masculine and terribly bored.

“My lord-” Another man spoke, and you recognized that angry tone. That was the bastard who hit you in the ribs and nearly broke you in half.

Something sharp gripped your chin, raising your head, talons dimpling your skin.

You grimaced and opened your eyes: they knew you were conscious. Best to see what these Absolute bastards wanted from you.

Burning orange eyes met yours, and you stared in shock as a familiar figure tilted your head up, his body blocking your view of the others. He stood taller than you recalled, horns gleaming, the firelight lending him a hellish cast. But you would recognize Zevlor anywhere. You tried to speak, but nausea flooded your senses, and you dropped your head, whimpering.

“Broken ribs, shattered left knee, right arm is...mangled, and a concussion – her pupils don’t match,” Zevlor said, his tone dry, but there was a marked tension in his voice as he looked you over. “She’ll need healing if you want her to last long enough for an interrogation.”

You shuddered, gazing up at him in mute horror, your mind snapping from slow drudgery to racing panic. Instinctively, you reached for him with your tadpole and then recoiled at what you discovered. “Z-”

“Shhh,” he said, leaned closer pressing his thumb over your lips. “I know you’re fond of improvisation, but you were not meant to sabotage Marcus. Doing so was a show of disloyalty to the Absolute. You had one job, my dear, and it was to help us return Isobel here. You did well to lure her out, but what changed?”

The world spun and you closed your eyes; you did not have to pretend to be hurt to buy time. You were in bad condition. But you dangled from your chains, trying desperately to parse what happened. No, none of that was true. You were never part of any plan to capture Isobel. Weakly, you raised your head, looking at Zevlor’s eerily calm face.

He met your gaze, his expression severe.

And whatever his loyalties, you understood that he was throwing you a lifeline, at great risk to himself.

Wheezing, you struggled to recall bits of the fight. It was a rescue mission. Until Marcus swung his club, grotesque wings snapping open. Isobel screaming. Injured-

“Do what you will. But we don’t have all night, commander.” That unfamiliar voice did not sound impatient though, more eager.

Sighing, Zevlor squeezed your jaw. In his other hand, he flicked the stopper off the top of a bottle with his thumb and poured the cool liquid into your mouth. He kept it at a slow dribble, giving you time to swallow, his fingers holding your mouth open.

You recognized the sweet, almost musky flavor of a high level healing potion. Gradually, the pain in your chest and head began to subside.

Just as quickly, Zevlor released his grip on you, resealing the potion.

You shuddered, taking a moment to breathe with minimal pain.

“I don’t see why you’re wasting healing on a corpse,” Marcus sneered.

“I told you, aberration, my subordinate is no fool. Her machinations are usually well-executed. And if I’m wrong, I suppose you’ll get what’s left of her,” Zevlor said coldly.

Marcus’ nasty laugh let you know that you would definitely not like that.

“You have a surprising amount of trust in this subordinate,” the unidentified man said. “So, my wayward True Soul, tell us, why did you interfere with Marcus?”

You coughed, tasting blood, hoping your lies would land, despite your condition. “My orders were to bring in Isobel unharmed,” you rasped, your eyes firmly shut as you considered your story, tried to recall what details you could. “And I was doing that. She left the boundaries of the inn-” To rescue...oh. Oh no. You shuddered violently, but kept the mounting feelings wrapped tightly in your chest. You could not panic now. You needed to sell your tale if you wanted to live. “If you check my pack, you’ll find a Potion of Angelic Reprieve. I was going to slip that into her water – she goes to sleep, we bring her in, she wakes up safe and sound. No fuss, no mess.”

There was a rustling as someone went through your bag. “Hmm,” the unknown man said. “Go on.”

You shuddered. “But then Marcus rushes in and demands she come with him, declares that he has orders to bring her in. So of course she fights back, and I think my wounds are a telling indication of his martial prowess. That greatclub against an unarmored cleric? The opposite of unharmed.” You coughed, recalling the bone-shattering pain as he smashed your torso with that weapon. “I got between her and Marcus.” That, you thought, was probably the truth. “If we stopped Marcus together, that would keep her intact, it would cement her trust in me, and it would ensure I could give her the sleeping potion without suspicion.”

“That is not-” Marcus blustered, armor clanking as he stalked toward you.

Zevlor just clicked his tongue.

“Stand down,” the mystery man stepped closer and Marcus froze. “That is much how Isobel tells it, without the ulterior motives, of course. Well done, True Soul. My daughter is most concerned about her friend. In fact, your presence, your roundabout tactic ensured that I was able to reunite with her. All my people had to do was take you into their custody to gain an assurance of her cooperation.” The half-elf was tall and clad in heavy steel armor molded to resemble monstrous bones. Though his hair and beard were gray, that colorlessness seemed to extend to his skin, the luster gone from not just his body, but his very being, despite the power coming off him. The only splash of color was a brilliant pink stone in the center of his chest. He smiled almost beatifically at you, like a proud father, and your heart sank as you recognized the infamous General Ketheric Thorm.

Isobel was his daughter? Your head swam as you tried to consider the implications. But it was no good. You were fading again.

Zevlor took a step back as Ketheric turned to him. “Unorthodox, but effective. I am pleased to see that I was right to put my faith in you, commander. Your work is as thorough as ever. Take your subordinate, unless you want Marcus to dispose of her.” Ketheric Thorm looked around the chamber. “This only held my attention because my daughter asked it of me. It behooves you all to remember that I have more important things to do than mediate your petty squabbles.” He smiled coldly at you, and it was the smile of a corpse. “True Soul or not, I do not tolerate failure. Just ask True Soul Baenre. Oh wait, you cannot.” He laughed and turned on his heel.

Zevlor and Marcus stood at attention, until Ketheric’s heavy footsteps faded.

“Get out,” Zevlor said, his voice a low growl.

“This isn’t over,” Marcus snapped. “You think you can protect your treacherous slut?”

“Run back to Balthazar, aberration. I still hold my command. This one is mine to use as I see fit.”

You could feel Marcus’ rage through his tadpole, but unless he wanted to directly defy Ketheric’s orders, he had no choice but to back down. You sagged in your bonds, even as Zevlor unlocked the manacles.

First your ankles, then your wrists, and unable to stay on your feet, you stumbled off the table, right into him. You leaned against his chest, hating how your body went limp against his, how you inhaled his familiar scent – leather, smoke, and armor polish, how you let him gather you up in his arms.

“Drink,” he said gruffly, giving you the rest of the potion. “No more discussion. Not here.”

You reluctantly downed the rest of the potion, head resting against his chest, as he carried you out of that accursed torture chamber, through the dungeon, and up the stairs. What in the nine Hells was going on? Why was he here? Where were the other tieflings? What had he done? Your head hurt, your vision flickered into blackness. But even in that state, you knew, you realized it the moment you saw him: Zevlor had no tadpole.

##

“Come on, chief. Just a little farther,” Mol told you. “The others, they’re in bad shape!”

Swearing under your breath, you led Karlach, Astarion, and Shadowheart through the cursed lands. Isobel, a Selûnite cleric, came with you, offering her aid.

You were relieved that the tiefling refugees made it this far. After Kagha enacted the Rite of Thorns, you were afraid they’d be slaughtered by the goblin cultists. You took steps to try to ensure their safety, but it was a risky gamble. Getting trapped in the Underdark for so long had put you behind schedule. And then the detour to the githyanki creche had gone...badly. Losing Lae’zel was a blow, but…

No, she made her choice.

Still, you were worried about the tieflings and their sweet reluctant leader who spent a night with you before you parted ways. So when you heard about the injured refugees, when you saw Mol in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, you did not think twice.

You should have.

A man appeared behind your group. “Isobel, I’ve just gotten word. I need you to come with me. It’s an emergency – Jaheira’s orders.”

“Marcus? What’s happened?” she asked, voice going high with alarm. “We have to aid these people first.”

The Absolute wants her alive. Marcus’ psychic voice halted you in your tracks.

You turned to face him, even as he brandished that greatclub. “We must hurry!”

“Tav?” Isobel asked.

Your defiance was instinctive. Fuck the Absolute. “Stand back, Isobel. Marcus isn’t on our side. We’re going to have to fight our way out of this one.”

“Pathetic,” he sneered at you. “The Absolute sees all, you fool.” And then he threw his head back and screeched.

Winged aberrations appeared overhead, dive-bombing you as they shrieked in response to his call, blatantly targeting Isobel. You and Karlach moved to her defense, with Karlach taking point, and you trying to field the others. Absorbing hits was not your specialty, but you did your best to shield Isobel. The clerics needed to be in good condition, needed their spells if they were going to help the refugees.

So when Marcus hit you with his greatclub, and Karlach started raging, you swayed on your feet, trying your damnedest to stay conscious.

Yes, beloved. You are doing well. The voice was whisper soft and feminine, pleased as it took your pain. Together, we will do great things.

The blows that should have brought you down, felt like nothing, and you tore through those damned monsters, even as Marcus turned tail and fled.

Staggering over to the upset cart, you were shocked to find Ikaron crouched down, a rueful smile on his face.

“Sorry, Tav,” he said, and struck you in the head.

##

“You could let her die,” the words were cool and unbothered, spoken like a teacher helping a child walk through a math problem. “I am neither able nor inclined to force your hand. You are welcome to make your own choices. Like before, I am merely making a recommendation.”

A sharp intake of breath. “She betrayed me.” Isobel’s words came out stiff, almost pained, with less anger than you expected.

“Thought the tadpoled couldn’t defy orders. How then’s that any kind of betrayal?” a small voice piped up.

“But she-” Isobel fell silent, possibly holding back because she was arguing with a child. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

You had no trouble picturing Mol’s impish shrug.

“Mebbe not, but if she dies, you’re not going to find out, are you?” Mol asked, sounding a little too smug when it was your life on the line.

You wanted to open your mouth, to tell Isobel not to underestimate them, but all you could taste was blood.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Isobel repeated, a cool hand resting on your bare stomach. She hissed as something shifted under her touch and pain lit up your nerves. Bones creaked, fractures reluctantly knitting back together. Torn flesh mended, the skin tightening, the nerves throbbing, at the forced reshaping. It burned, more than any healing had ever before, and you screamed, arching off the bed.

“What’s happening?”

“Hold her!” Isobel shouted.

“What did you do?” Zevlor snarled.

“I was healing her!”

You bit through your lip, tasting more blood as your muscles contracted and you tried to curl into a ball.

Someone forced a leather strap into your mouth and then gathered your wrists above your head.

“I don’t know what happened,” Isobel said, real fear in her voice.

There is a price for my favors, beloved. It is all right to scream, to beg for my mercy. There is no shame submitting to my power. That sultry voice purred in your head. Your prayers are my due. Your body is my vessel. Your life is in my hands.

You caught a glimpse of a pale woman, her hair platinum, her leather armor covered in spikes, the piercings in her skin painful to behold.

She held you there in that state of transcendent agony, to the point where your ties to your body seem to fray, and the pain became white noise, a pulsing cushion around your disembodied soul. It was beautiful and terrible and you wished you had eyes so you could close them to get away from her.

I will mold you beyond the limits of your flesh, you simply must choose to endure, beloved.

And then she let you rest.

##

When you awoke this time, the pain was diminished, the sort of ache you expected after a few days of healing and recovery. You were not in fighting shape, nowhere near it, but you were not in agony any more either.

And you were still alive, which was a good thing.

That you were in the custody of Absolute forces, which included a man you once trusted, was not.

You lay in a double bed, the blankets soft, the furnishings antique but stately. You wore a too-large white shirt that skimmed your thighs. Well, if one was going to sell themselves to a cult, they might as well get nice accommodations out of the bargain. Groaning, you tried to sit up, but found your left wrist manacled to the bedpost. Swallowing roughly, you blinked several times and rattled the short chain.

“You were seizing.”

Sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed, a book in hand, Zevlor regarded you, his expression flat, almost too calm.

“What happened?” you rasped.

He shut the book and rose, walking around the bed, his footsteps slow and measured. He still wore scalemail, though in the muted green and black of the cultists. It appeared to be better quality than before, the same with the greatsword on his back. He moved like a predator, his tail swishing almost lazily as he reached the nightstand and loomed over you.

Your breath hitched, but you did not look away from his face. There was a new scar along his cheek and something markedly different about the way he looked at you now. No warmth, not like before, just hard assessing eyes with a predatory gleam. You had to steel yourself so as not to flinch under the weight of his gaze.

He sat down on the bed beside you, the mattress dipping low under his weight. He reached for a pitcher on the night stand and poured a glass of water. Then he slid one hand under your neck to help you raise your head and held the glass to your lips.

“Take it slowly,” he murmured.

You shuddered, the movement causing your abdominal muscles to cramp. Flinching, you tried to relax, the cool sweet water a balm on your dry throat. You drank greedily, not caring that some trickled down your chin. You drained that glass. “More, please,” you said, sounding more like yourself.

Zevlor silently set the cup down and you stiffened. Was this where the negotiations started? And for what?

He plucked a handkerchief off the nightstand and gently blotted at your face and down your neck, drying you off.

You held still, your sluggish mind taking in the large chamber. One bed, a fireplace, an elegant desk, bookshelves, a weapon rack, a table to seat four-

“Do you think you can hold down food?” he asked, refilling your glass.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly, though your stomach clenched, a pained contraction. You were starving, but you had enough experience with hardship to know that you could not just gorge yourself.

He nodded and held the glass up, letting you drink.

“I could probably manage it myself, if you-” You lightly jingled the chain, mustering a smile.

Zevlor watched you thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think so, not yet anyway.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You had a fit when Isobel healed you,” he said. “Kicked, fought, and bit yourself, though I don’t believe you were conscious for it. Care to explain?”

“...I’m not sure how,” you said, your stomach dropping, the breathy whisper of a goddess echoing in your head.

Zevlor studied your face, like his scrutiny could peel back your skin, your lies, and your secrets.

You held that gaze, your smile turning hard. “I have questions for you too.”

“I’m certain that you do,” he said coldly. “But despite what we do behind closed doors, I don’t answer to you, my dear. It would behoove you to remember your place.”

You gritted your teeth, sucking in a breath at that implication. Well, why else would the “commander” deign to interfere for an underling? It made for a plausible story, and you had actually slept with him, a sweet desperate comfort when there was little else to find solace in.

More importantly, him sustaining this act meant this room was not secure, or at least, you could not speak freely here.

You had questions, had concerns. You did not trust him implicitly, but Zevlor had taken a risk to save you. You were on the same side, for now.

“Isobel?” you asked.

“Unharmed,” Zevlor said. “And relieved to be finally reunited with her father. Despite your trickery, she still asks about you.” He gave you a long look. “It would be unwise to upset her.”

“Is she-?” you trailed off, unsure how to ask your question.

“She is free to come and go as she pleases, so long as she stays on the fortress grounds. The entire thing was an unfortunate misunderstanding, not an act of defiance,” Zevlor said and you knew that to be untrue.

At least, you thought you did. Did that mean she avoided being tadpoled for the Absolute? You swallowed carefully. “What of my squad? How long have I been out? And what am I wearing?”

“No fatalities reported, but we lost contact. You have been unconscious for the last three days. Tilses and I have been treating you, with occasional visits from Isobel. The shirt is mine.”

You furrowed your brow, glancing at him. “My pack?” You should have had spare clothes in there.

“Secure,” he said without batting an eye. And with it, all your weapons, lockpicks, and alchemy supplies. Fuck. “But you’re in no condition to go back out there right now.”

You glared at him.

He smiled tolerantly at your irritation, like he was enjoying denying you.

You rattled the chain, a little harder this time. “Sir, I can feed myself and there are personal things I’d rather take care of privately.”

Zevlor gave you a wry smile. “My dear, I’ve spent too long nursing you back to health to risk a relapse. You’ll do as you’re told, and if you prove able, then you’ll regain your privileges.”

You grimaced.

“And perhaps, as a start, for my peace of mind, you could tell me what caused that fit,” he said, his tone silky.

You turned your gaze upward, at the high vaulted ceilings. So this was where the bargaining really began. Telling him some of it probably wouldn’t harm you in the long run and you had to do something to “earn” his trust, though honestly, between the two of you, obviously he was now the untrustworthy one. “I can ignore pain during battle. But if I do, afterward the healing isn’t gentle. Everything comes back on me, possibly worse.” You closed your eyes. “I’m simply borrowing against myself.”

Zevlor grunted. “This is a new development.”

“Yes,” you said.

Zevlor rose a retrieved and covered bowl from the hearth. He sat back down on the bed, plucking a spoon from the nightstand.

“Zevlor, please-” you said with a wince.

“Humor me, Tav,” he said wryly, spooning some stew into your mouth. It was not up to Gale’s standards, but it was a palatable fish and potato soup and it warmed your empty stomach. “Even with my intervention, your survival was far from a sure thing.” He did not look at you when he spoke. He just offered you more chowder and you were too hungry to argue. “You would do well to avoid Marcus now, he’s one of Disciple Balthazar’s minions, and he is holding a grudge.”

Zevlor fed you slowly, his hands steadier than you remembered. In fact, there was something very different about him, even without the tadpole. And where once he seemed so tired and lost, there was now a determination to him, an unbending force that you did not recognize and it unsettled you.

“Would you like more?” Zevlor asked.

“No thank you, Commander.” You lay back on the bed, suddenly very tired. Had he drugged you? Closing your eyes, you took deep steadying breaths, focusing on your condition. No, you might have been out for three days, but you were still exhausted, the injuries and subsequent healing taking their own toll on your body. You likely needed to eat more, but rushing would just make you sick.

“You don’t have to call me that in private, Tav,” Zevlor said quietly.

“Should though. Feeling off and don’t want to get sloppy. I understand that these stakes run high,” you said, resting your free hand over your eyes, perhaps sounding a little more pathetic than you felt to see if you could garner sympathy. You didn’t know exactly why Zevlor saved you or what he expected in return. You might be fond of him, but you certainly didn’t trust anyone in this place.

A warm hand cupped your cheek and you stiffened.

“Don’t do anything foolish, hm?” he said softly, one hand on your hobbled forearm. “It isn’t just our fates that are intertwined.”

You opened your eyes, to see Zevlor unlocking the cuff on your wrist. He looked at the faintly abraded skin and clicked his tongue.

“That isn’t necessary, Zevlor,” you said, your lower lip wobbling, not really having to feign the hurt in your voice.

He flinched. “I wish I could believe that,” he said. “Come, if you’re able to stand, you can step behind the screen and clean yourself up. If you need assistance, I’ll be on the other side.”

##

The screen was placed at a forty five degree angle to the wall, forming one entrance to the nook. On a small table, there was a basin of warm water, a cake of soap, and clean rags. Underneath was the chamberpot. You stripped off Zevlor’s shirt and your smallclothes, noting from the lack of copious bloodstains, that someone had already cleaned you up at least once.

Your body was covered in bruises, healed scrapes, and scars, the worst of it centered on your abdomen. Sitting like this hurt, but you could manage on your own, and for that you were grateful. You were pretty beat up. Your knees bent. Your ankles turned. You stretched your arms and hissed when your right arm would not go above your shoulder. That would need more care and special treatment. A sling perhaps.

After taking an inventory of your wounds, you considered your situation.

You saw Ikaron. You heard Mol. Zevlor mentioned Tilses. And you understood his caution– their continued safety depended on Zevlor’s status.

Zevlor was not acting alone. And Ketheric called him “commander.” You knew Zevlor used to be a Hellrider commander, but how the hell had he convinced Ketheric to trust him, and without a tadpole even? Why would the others bend the knee to the Absolute? Were they tadpoled? You were missing too much information and if the room was not secure, you could not just flat out ask.

“Are you all right?” Zevlor asked, his tone gruff.

“Fine, just slow,” you said, scrubbing dried blood out of your hair. You were also very aware of his attraction to you. And you could use that to your advantage. Escape was not impossible. But as you were, you would not get far. No, the strategic choice would be to heal, gather intelligence, and try to contact your friends. Maybe Isobel would be able to tell you more.

And keeping Zevlor sweet would help expedite the process.

“Is there more water?” you asked. “I can reuse this, but…” The water had turned an unsettling color.

“I put a pot on the fire,” he said. “Give me a moment.”

You sat there, draping a cloth over your chest.

There was a knock on the screen.

“I’m facing away,” you said.

You felt his presence behind you, that disconcerting aura sending shivers down your spine. With your wet hair falling over your face, you slowly turned to look at him over your shoulder.

Zevlor stood very still, carrying a large steaming pot of hot water in one hand. His eyes widened as you looked up at him.

The cold raised gooseflesh on your damp skin and you shivered.

He clenched his teeth, then set the pot on the table, his arm extending just over your shoulder, his skin radiating heat.

“My range of movement isn’t what I thought it was,” you said hesitantly and turned back to look up at him. “I can’t quite reach my back. I’m sorry, do you mind?”

He exhaled, a ragged sound. He reached over your shoulder, that fierce gaze on your face as he took another clean cloth off the table and dipped it in the hot water. “Turn around,” he said, the words coming out harsher than you expected.

You faced forward, flinching as he placed a too-hot rag on your bare skin. Spine arching, you sucked in a breath at the scalding temperature. You did not have tiefling heat resistance.

“Too hot?” he asked, his tone guttural.

“Yes,” you said. “But it’s better than being cold.”

Zevlor dipped the cloth back in the water and wrung it out, waiting a few extra seconds before touching it to your skin. You sat up straighter as he rubbed circles along your shoulder blades. Despite the roughness of his voice, his touch was careful, almost reverent.

One hand gently swept your hair up as he washed the back of your neck and your shoulders. Those areas were not entirely necessary, you managed that much, but you said nothing.

It was a soothing rhythm, the splash of water, the soft scraping of the cloth on your skin, his halting breaths. It had been a long time since someone did this for you.

But you were not falling asleep, not lulled into restfulness by his touch. His talons lightly grazed your skin, his fingers lingering on your spine. His hands were gentle, but the motions were firm. Something lightly brushed your hip, and you saw Zevlor’s tail rapidly snap away from you. No, this was not innocent. This was the attentive care of a lover, an intimacy not given to an ally, nor a captive. This was Zevlor blurring the lines.

You could work with that.

You leaned forward, reaching up to get another cloth, if only to reapply some heat to your front.

Light pressure and sparking heat shot through your nerves as his palm rested on your lower back. “Does this hurt?” he asked.

“A little,” you said, because it ached. “Did the wound reopen? How bad does it look?”

“It looks like it’s healing,” he said, not immediately moving his hand. A low exhalation, and he tensed, before dipping the cloth in hot water and continuing the path down your bare back.

Zevlor took his time; it might only have been a few minutes, but it felt much longer. He finally finished at your waist. Taking deep breaths, he rose. “It’s done,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Sorry to trouble you and thank you,” you said, turning to give him a rueful smile.

Hunger, clear and demanding, burned in those wild eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His tail lashed back and forth and he gritted his teeth. “I’ll get you some clean clothes,” he said, keeping his tone surprisingly even.

You had not done much, but it seemed you had pushed him too far, an idea that did not bother you as much as it should have. Unwise as that was, he certainly deserved some discomfort, if only for chaining you up.

He returned with a man’s shirt, another white one, and your spare smallclothes from your pack, set them on the table, and abruptly left.

No, Zevlor was not unaffected by you. And as you clenched your thighs, your pulse stuttering, you were also very aware of the fact that you were not unaffected by him either.

##

“We were so worried about you,” Tilses said, combing your hair out. Mol straddled the chair, looking bored as you sat on the edge of the bed, slowly eating another bowl of soup. Zevlor abruptly left soon after you emerged, so he was out and doing Absolute knows what, and they were clearly your minders. “Asharak’s afraid that you’re going to hold a grudge.”

You made a polite laugh and did not reassure her. Asharak was alive too. All right. Instead of arguing or asking important questions, you sat there listening to her make friendly small talk till you finished your soup. Your body would not heal without food.

“Your introduction smoothed things over,” Tilses said hesitantly. “Dror Ragzlin was very happy with the quality of weapons Dammon constructed and believe it or not, Zevlor was able to convey his brute strength in a convincing way.”

Brute strength? Zevlor? The man was not weak, but he did not look like the type to impress a hobgoblin barbarian with his lean build and wiry muscles.

As if sensing your incredulity, Tilses hastily added, “the intelligence about the Emerald Grove went a long way.”

Well, it couldn’t be helped. Halsin wasn’t happy about it, but Kagha enacted the Rite of Thorns and neither friend nor foe could breach those protections, not with the resources available.

“He still needed a lot of help though,” Mol said. “My gang made a habit of listening at keyholes and we made good use of your...alchemy.” You gave them extra poison, invisibility potions, and subtle tools of sabotage. Whatever you could spare, which admittedly, was not a lot.

“...Minthara did not approve, but me, Arka, Cerys, Asharak, and Zevlor managed to put up a good enough showing that they allowed us to stay.” Tilses gave you a weak smile.

Neither of them had tadpoles either. But you wondered how many actually survived the trip here.

“My crew was alive when you saw them last, right?” you asked quietly, reaching out with your mind.

“Yeah,” Mol said, her feelings not quite open, but easy enough to read. “You were in the worst shape. Honest.” She gave you a toothy smile. “Isobel is fine too.” Her tone was nonchalant, but her confidence flickered. There, she was holding back something. You tried to glean her surface thoughts, reaching out with your mind.

“Have you heard anything from them?” you began.

“We need to focus on other things,” Tilses said, flinching. “Tav is still recovering from her injuries. We should let her rest.”

Mol gave you an uncomfortably knowing look. “Sorry, chief. Commander’s orders.”

You winced as Tilses took your bandaged wrist and secured you to the bedpost. “That really isn’t necessary,” you said.

“Commander’s orders,” Tilses said awkwardly.

“And you’re fine just chaining an injured half-naked woman to your commander’s bed?” you asked archly.

Tilses gave you a wounded look. “We both know he’s not like that, Tav.”

You said nothing.

“You were badly injured and had an abnormal reaction to the healing. We had to take shifts looking after you,” she said. “And once you can walk about, you’re going to need to be careful; we aren’t the most popular faction here. The commander can be harsh, but he’s looking out for all of us, Tav.”

You took a deep breath, knowing that if you pushed her too far, she’d report it to Zevlor. “I know. I don’t mean to be difficult, I’m just tired and in pain,” you said quietly, wincing as you laid back down, pulling the blankets up to your chest.

“I understand. I wouldn’t like it either,” Tilses said, trying to sound conciliatory. “But you’re safer here.”

Mol just snorted. “No one’s safe here. And I get why she’s unhappy: the commander snores.”

##

You awoke to hinges creaking, a soft murmur of voices, a “that will be all, Tilly,” and then the thud of the door clicking shut.

Like everything here, the room cloaked in shadow. But now the fire burned low and these castle rooms were drafty. You had burrowed under the heavy blankets, legs curled against your chest for warmth.

Zevlor was quiet as he stood by the table, reading over some documents. You watched through slitted eyes as he then fed them into the fireplace. He stood there watching the papers burn, slowly removing his gauntlets. The cuirass was next, which surprised you – those usually needed another person to help with the weight. Though perhaps Tilses had undone the fastenings before she left. He removed the pieces by himself, setting them on an armor stand. Then he picked up a bucket of water, and went behind the wooden screen to clean up.

The water was likely cold.

You lay there, listening to the faint splashing. He was very quiet. It was several minutes before he emerged dressed only in a pair of black pants that hung low on his lean hips. He toweled off his hair, hanging the cloth to dry by the fire. It fell loose around his shoulders. He glanced toward you and then went to the other side of the bed.

The mattress dipped as he slipped in beside you, the covers rustling.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you feigned sleep, body going limp. There was less than a foot of distance between you. And you bit your tongue as his tail brushed your knee.

And it occurred to you that maybe you should not have been so casual around him earlier. The Zevlor from before was a shy gentleman, respectful and considerate. This version of him though? You had your doubts.

Zevlor sighed softly, shifting beside you. You struggled not to tense as he leaned over you, knuckles briefly brushing your cheek. “You can stop pretending, Tav.” His voice was soft, tinged with amusement and a warmth that felt wrong. “I know you’re awake.” His thumb ran across your bottom lip. “I’ve spent the last few days watching you drift in and out of consciousness. I can tell the difference.”

Shit.

Very slowly, you opened your eyes. He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, his other hand now resting on your cheek, keeping you in place. He watched you carefully, like you might bite. Well, it was a possibility: you were practically a cornered animal.

“I was trying to go back to sleep,” you said, your voice rusty.

“I am sorry to have disturbed you then,” he said, not at all sounding like he bought your excuse. “How is your pain?”

“Manageable.”

“Are you hungry? Tilses says you didn’t eat much.” His demeanor was friendly, almost normal. It was the sort of thing he would have said to you back at the Grove, doting on you like he cared. In this moment, it made your stomach turn.

“Food doesn’t sound good right now. I don’t want to overdo it.”

He studied your face, those orange eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Would you like some water?”

“I can reach the glass on the nightstand,” you said. “It’s only half empty.”

Zevlor rubbed his thumb along your cheekbone.

You closed your eyes, knowing that if he pushed this, you would not be able to mask your reluctance. But whatever it took, you were going to survive this. And you would pay back whatever was inflicted on you.

Zevlor blew out a breath. “Tav, you needn’t worry.” His voice was flat. “I’m not going to do anything to hinder your recovery.” But his hand remained on your face.

“I think I need some water,” you said, sitting up slowly and pulling out of his grasp. You maneuvered awkwardly with the chain, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed into the cold air. Your right arm was stiff, but you managed to turn sideways and reach the glass. You picked it up and slowly drank, your back to Zevlor, his gaze prickling at your skin.

You drained the glass, but sat there for awhile, your toes growing icy. You did not want to slide back into bed beside him, did not want to bask in his warmth, nor offer him the comfort of your presence. A dull fury began to build in your stomach, a flickering rage that wanted to lash out at him, yourself, and whatever else was in your path. What had you expected when you suggested that he “pretend” to join the Absolute against the druids? Not this, not seeing him getting along swimmingly with the damn cultists. In his place you might do the same; whatever it took to survive.

But after your ordeal with the neogi, you were no one’s property. That would not happen again. If this Elturian bastard thought he could keep you in this state-

You sucked in a deep breath, quashing that rising emotion. It was entirely justified, but letting it color your actions would not help you. You had not survived this long by giving into your base emotions. You endured what you had to, biding your time through it all, and when the moment came, you did not hesitate.

But you had to be patient.

You could do that.

Reluctantly, you set the glass on the nightstand, and lifted your legs onto the bed, sliding under the covers, entirely aware of Zevlor’s gaze on you.

He drew back slowly, laying on his side to face you.

You reclined on your back and closed your eyes.

But you remained wide awake for a very long time.

##

Zevlor downed his coffee and solid breakfast of porridge and ham. These damned undead armies kept ridiculous hours. He had not slept well in days, but that was nothing new. Getting by on very little sleep was practically a Hellrider tradition. Making do was one of the habits that simply stuck, especially now.

He knew that there would be a price to pay for taking this path, paid it in part already. But there was always more that he could lose, more that had to be sacrificed for the plan. After what happened to Cerys, well, he was keenly aware of that. Running the tally of liabilities, weaknesses, and “acceptable losses” was nothing new to him, but these were razor thin margins and the simplest slip could spell death for everyone under his care.

But what other choice did he have? His old ethics were luxury when survival was on the line. No, there were no other options, let alone good ones. And like the devoted paladin he had once been, he was fully committed to this course of action.

He had hoped, even prayed to all the faithless gods, that you and Halsin would not come here, that you would find another way forward.

But had he meant it? Truly?

Because here you were now, in a place as dark as Avernus, and he was just so damned relieved to see you alive. It had taken some work to keep you that way, but bringing a “cooperative” Isobel back, went a long way in placating Ketheric and cementing his place at the general’s side.

And you were here now, sleeping fitfully in his bed, just barely maintaining a mask of civility, undoubtedly plotting your escape. It pained him to see you so unhappy, but for now, you would have to endure, just a little bit longer. This was for your own good, though he already knew that trying to convince you of that right now was a lost cause. There were too many things he could not tell you.

He would simply have to keep a closer eye on you and ensure you toed the line.

The memory of your little display yesterday made him clench his teeth. Inviting him to once more touch that bare skin, those coy looks, the sight of you naked in his chambers... By the Black Hand, you were truly a godsdamned menace.

He blew out a breath as he pulled on his gauntlets, adjusting the straps and flexing his fingers carefully. Another complication; he would have to stick closer then and quickly discourage any escape or sabotage attempts, while not giving that damned necromancer and his minions an opening to use against him.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the cuff on your wrist. That would not hold you for much longer. Harsher methods might be necessary. For your good, as well as his.

Turning away, he picked up his sword. It would not do to keep General Thorm waiting.

[gmod]

idea ive been tossing around: generic ii darkfic slop that slowly has its own characters becoming self-aware. something something one of them directly hijacks an entire chapter to talk w/ the viewers something something

[scaphismpriest]

which of your comics/fanfics did you have the most and least fun writing and if it's okay to ask, why?

If I had to rate them from most fun to least fun this is how I would rate my II fanfics/comics/AU series 1. Liminal Insanity: Revival 2. Paint Cans 3. Thy Evil 4. Haunting Relapse 5. Liminal Insanity 5. Yang's Trial I would say the most fun I've had writing is Liminal Insanity: Revival, which I'm currently working on, its been super fun to make horror series alot like Paint Cans but in an ARG survival setting where it merges existential horror and infection horror, It's still a work in progress and I've been having alot of fun coming up with all these spins on it. Paint Cans is what got me into writing more, since it's a year old I've learned ALOT from it that I can do better, I kinda didn't really mean for the series to get big as it is now since it was a challenge for myself to write how to portray downwards sprials better since Paint Cans merely happened because I was annoyed with how other II darkfics portrayed the villain with no reason or motivation or just made them purely evil out of nowhere, I also wanted to try to write a villain you could sympathize with, making the art scenes was really fun! Thy Evil has been something I've been working on that's been on the back burner for awhile, I want the story to be sort of epic moralistic thing, I have alot of fun ideas for it and the one-shots are clearly prototypes for now and not really canon for TE, I dont really got the time to actually focus on it now but when I get the time I'll develop it into an actual series! Ohhh boy, Haunting Relapse, I think after Paint Cans I could outdo myself, and I did for sure, but I had set such high expectations for myself into trying to perfect things which had caused me to stress out over it which I shouldn't have done. It was awesome to write some things like Knife's dream, OJ's hallucination, Origami's appearance etc, but other than that I had less control over writing some things because of my co-writer which shout out to him for fixing pacing and writing. I think I can say that Liminal Insanity is just Liminal Insanity: Revival, but less fun and more goofy and cartoonish than its Revival counterpart which has become way more serious toned, It was cool back then when I made it but now looking at it it's pretty underwhelming in my eyes since I see revival as its successor and way more creative when it came to existential horror themes. Yang's Trial, jeez where do I start this comic was SUPER time consuming, this is when I realized making a comic in the first place would be very labourus, especially if you put effort into the art and keeping track of colors. Plus the story didnt really have a solid bridge when it came to finishing it, I just had the idea that was like "hey what if this happened" situation-fic, but other than that, that was about it, It was kinda doomed in the beginning. I sometimes have thoughts about finishing it, but it's not fun to work on. Plus the concepts I had for it didn't age well in my creative eyes so I didn't really want to work on it anymore.

[postalninja]

Hi Ninja! For the end of the year fanfic asks 😊

11. fandom you enjoyed writing for the most this year

14. a fic you didn’t expect to write

15. something you learned this year

11. Hmm, good question! I think Octopath Traveler II, because it was fun to write something during the height of the fandom buzz with my first fic, and though my second fic didn't get much attention in comparison it was the most fun I've had writing pretty much anything and ended up being some of my best work! 14. There are several fics I didn't expect to write this year, but the most far out is definitely Hearts Live By Being Wounded! If you'd told me last year that I was going to write a Care Bears darkfic AND that it was going to be for university I would have never believed it. By that same token, I was not expecting to write Canterbury Tales fanfic or Beauty and the Beast smut, so it was certainly an interesting year! XD 15. One realization that only occurred to me late in the year (which I should have caught on to before, honestly) was that I was being too hard on myself for struggling with writing for fanfic exchanges at the beginning of the year, and forgiving myself for not having the energy to participate in them at all near the end of the year. Looking back, most of the exchanges I've written for were during 2022; you know, the year when I was on medical leave/unemployed. Of course I don't have that kind of time now, and of course I shouldn't expect myself to match that output (five works for Hurt/Comfort Exchange 2022, anyone?) So as much as I've enjoyed participating in exchanges, I've had to let go of the idea that I can feasibly keep participating in all of the same ones I've done before. Maybe in 2024 I'll be able to manage one or two... but I won't force it.

[marquisedegramont]

i. blog rules

౨ৎ Do not interact if you're racist, homophobic, sexist/misogynistic, transphobic, ableist, xenophobic, fatphobic besides I’m like six out of the seven of the things you’d hate on that list. Any hate will be blocked/ignored. And also discourse in fandoms. But I’m okay with answering asks that pertain to advice (I’ll try to give good advice to the best of my abilities hopefully.)

౨ৎ I don’t really do requests anymore because my academic life is taking over me + mental health issues. If you send in something I might write it, if I like the idea. Feel free to ask me for sequels I think that’s really lovely that people like my writing <3 Please also be more descriptive in your requests, and include a broader concept. But if you don’t mind anything I’m gonna write for your little idea then don’t worry about it!

౨ৎ Note that my writing style can be triggering sometimes as I use vile imagery and rather dark metaphors which include graphic descriptions of gore and cannibalism but I’ll try toning it down

౨ৎ English is my first language I just don’t respect English enough. And I also know five other languages that I respect more than English.

౨ৎ I also don’t like it when people give unwanted criticism. Or they reply to my fic saying they don’t like the character I’m writing for. It’s just plain out stupid if you do that and I trust that you have a brain that’s working.

ii. fic rules & boundaries

🔪 will write: fics, hc lists, quick drabbles • bd/sm • sub!reader or sub!character • afab + amab!reader • darkfics • hurt/comfort • blood & (light) gore • whump (focused on caretaking sorryyy) • light cannibalism • threesome/polymary (ffm, mmf, fff) • character x oc (if ur my friend hehe)

🗡 will not write: underage/illegal age gaps • rape • s/a • vomit in terms of sex • scat/shit • piss/omorashi • necrophilia (unless it’s a zombie or a vampire) • extreme gore • real people x reader

⛓ kinks i would luv to write: bondage • femdom • brat taming • teratophilia • sub men • praise

iii. fandoms & characters

john wick

john wick • marquis de gramont • the adjudicator (cont.) • santino d’antonio • ask for others cause i can write most of them

vampire: the masquerade - bloodlines

sebastian lacroix • nines rodriguez • jeanette/therese voerman • cuthert beckett

resident evil

lady dimitrescu • dimitrescu sisters • donna beneviento

˚｡★ all works belong to @marquisedegramont. please don’t from plagiarising any of my works and do not repost/translate/modify/copy onto any platforms because i will be very sad and you don’t want to upset me right…. unless you’re my close friend you’re allowed to translate these because i love u/p

[friglounge]

i thought I posted about this idea before but I cant find it but should I make an ii Murder Time Darkfic where salt and pepper are the ones who do all the murdering and it is focused on hotel oj while iii is going on so mephone isn't there and they can't recover people because of it and also only contestants who aren't in season 3 are there and even sometimes the out contestants come back to the hotel in the middle of it all and they have to stop the returning iii contestants from telling mephone and maybe getting the ones they've killed revived and exposing them for doing the murdering and and and and

[danderling]

A wHILE ago @knific aka Zero mentioned a Trophy darkfic au or smth then I sketched an idea for fun but now im genuinely considering expanding this

Hlelp should I do it should Trophy fans finally get their evil thriller Trophy darkfic au

[ruiniel]

Fandom: Castlevania series (2017-2021)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

Pairing: Alucard x Reader

CW: Erotica, Blood Kink, Hematophagy, Out of Character, Alternate Universe, Dark Crack, Gratuitous Smut, AU interpretation of Alucard, Angst, Bloodlust, Dark Magic, Inspired by Castlevania, Psychological Horror, Gothic, Dubious Consent, Self-indulgent Darkfic what else, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Shapeshifting, Dark Fantasy, I mean it's show!Castlevania, so really..., No Fluff detected, OK maybe a smidge of it, Dead Dove etc

Summary: You're asking for things you... shouldn't?

Also on AO3

All characters depicted are 18+ of course. Please curate your own experience. Do heed the warnings.

II.

“Rules…” Adrian repeats, looking thoroughly unconvinced. He drags a hand over his face, rising from bed and reaching for his trousers.

You bite down hard on your lip and wrap the towel around your frame again, a little disappointed at having ended your spontaneous tryst with your stupid idea. “Yes, for example, if… if we have some sort of signal, or you take only enough that the risk of going feral is reduced? Or maybe there are other measures?” Bindings and weapons come to mind, but knowing his past, those choices are out of the question. You’d die before suggesting such a thing to enable your own gratification; not that you’d know how to properly wield anything sharp against someone else anyway. Not that you could ever hurt him. But it’s the most obvious option, and by the pallor on him, you know the thought also crossed his mind.

But he says nothing of it. He fastens his trousers, then comes and kneels before you as you slide towards the edge of the bed, your legs dangling back and forth. He places his palms flat on either side of you, watching you intently.

“Is there a danger of you… of turning me?”

Adrian shakes his head, a smile forming on his lips. It’s rather bitter, too, and your heart sinks. “As I am, I cannot turn a human as a full-fledged vampire would; nor have I ever tried. I do not possess the proper amount of power to complete that transformation process.”

“Well, then…” you rub the back of your neck.

He frowns. “My God...” His expression turns incredulous. “You will not give in, will you?”

Your face feels hot again, and you lower your eyes, chastened. Your voice comes barely audible when you speak. “I just thought you might enjoy it. I… I trust you, and think you ought to, as well.”

He looks down at the space between you for a long moment. “I can’t believe I’m considering this,” Adrian murmurs. His hand finds your thigh, and you feel the warmth of him through the material. “Vampiric urges are unpredictable. I might… be tempted to take more, despite any rules,” he says. “I have no inkling of what… of what effect your blood would have, especially considering our connection. Usually, sharing has deep visceral effects on both the drinker and the one who offers, on a level you cannot comprehend; on a level I cannot comprehend.”

All good arguments, but his words do nothing to scare you. “Adrian,” you smile at him, “I’m positive neither of us would mind that aspect too much.”

He sighs, rising to his feet. “Listen to me. I don’t want to deprive you of anything on my account.” His lip quivers, his eyes boring into yours. “Not to say a part of me doesn’t yearn to hold you down on this bed and do precisely as you ask.”

Your heart tumbles when his gaze morphs into something else, and you see a new expression on his beautiful face; something close to hunger, shaded by desire.

You stand and near him. “Think about it?” God be good, you know there is nothing logical about your wish, and you don’t doubt the truth of his words against it. “Maybe something comes to mind?” He has far more knowledge on the matter than you, after all. “I want to see you that way. I want… I want both of us to feel what it’s like.”

Adrian laughs, short and dry, bringing you to him and you fall into his warmth, all but moaning when he tightens his grip. He lowers his head to you and presses his cheek to yours. Another sigh. “… you little beast.”

~~

The porcelain cups clink together as you retrieve them from the kitchen cabinet and place them on an embellished silver tray. The kettle whistles and you rush to remove it from the stovetop, then carefully pour hot water in a large cast-iron teapot. The smell of cinnamon and marigold teases your nostrils, and you breathe in deeply, content, adding a few pieces of dried apple you found in the pantry to the blend. You take a seat at the long wooden table, stirring the tea with one hand, your face in your palm. You gaze out the window as you wait for the flavors to meld, watching the swirling dance of snowflakes, your thoughts on all and nothing. Winter shrouds the land and came early this year, bringing with it bursting gales. You consider yourself lucky to have proper shelter and the company of the one you care for.

Your thoughts stray to Adrian, and the day’s events. The weather is certainly a powerful enough incentive to find many occupations indoors. Sometimes you help him with the inventory he’s making of the artifacts in the Belmont Hold, and today was one such day. You treasure that peaceful silence as you work together, and you’re sure there is a rather silly smile currently plastered on your face. Eager to see him, you stand and check the tea, deeming it ready. After filling each cup you carefully lift the tray with both hands, setting towards your destination through the lamplit corridors. That lightning is used to illuminate the castle is still a wonder to you, as are many other things you learned in the time spent here. Reluctant at first, Adrian had been instrumental in offering you another perspective on the workings of nature, of the world.

You walk on until the door to the study comes into view. It was left ajar, and shivering lights splash over the darkened stone tiles. You follow and cross the threshold, carrying your tray with tea. The room is lit bright orange and warm, and you see Adrian, seated close to the lively hearth, sunken in a comfortable crimson armchair, his fine shirt rolled up to his elbows. His cheek rests in his palm as he turns the page of a tome lying open in his lap.

You go to him, placing the fragrant tea on an elegant little table next to the armchair. Adrian does not lift his gaze to look at you, but a smile tugs at his lips as he turns another page. “Thank you.”

You look at him from under your lashes, doubting you’d ever seen someone as lovely as he, so serene and absorbed by his lecture. The ever-present gaunt misery on his drawn features has lessened of late, which is a great relief.

The ravaging winter outside means spending most of your time inside the castle, and reading in the evenings is a pastime you share. You've lost count of the occasions you fell asleep here, a forgotten book set on your knees, your feet warmed by the hearth, and your eyes closing to the falling snow beyond the window layering the land in sparkling white.

You peek closer at the stack of books on the table which Adrian must have found in the vast library of his forebear. You feel their thick bindings with your fingers before taking one manuscript in hand. Your eyebrow quirks as you read the title. The Kitāb al-Bulhān. You place it back, and take another. A copy of the Picatrix. Adrian looks up from his reading, his golden eyes on your movements, and you meet his gaze briefly before you catch the title of the manuscript he’s currently perusing. The Hygromanteia. All grimoires; treaties on magic, demonology, and alchemy.

Adrian reaches for the tea and takes a sip. His eyes close, and a soft smile changes his face. “You added cinnamon,” he says, watching you sweetly as he places the cup back on the table.

He’s so grateful and so enjoys the smallest gestures of kindness and consideration, you cannot but feel a flicker of joy brimming in your chest; anything, you’d do anything for him. With mischief on your face, you move behind the armchair, leaning over; your seeking hands gently slide down his chest, your chin rests on his shoulder. As always he smells divine, and you can’t help the rush of need singing through your core as you stare at the tome splayed over his knees.

“Searching for something?” you ask, watching the yellowed veal pages.

“Perceptive,” he deadpans, and you huff in feigned irritation. His quips and jabs are always playful, never malicious. A tremendous difference from how things stood between you in the beginning.

“Does that mean you will not tell me?”

Adrian turns another page, tilting his head up so his face comes buried into your hair. “I actually will, as it concerns you. Well, us.”

“Oh.” Your eyes narrow, attempting to decipher the script he had scribbled on a note held over the pages. But the symbols - or letters? - are foreign to you. “What language is this?”

An elegant hand reaches and long fingers glide through your hair as you nuzzle against his neck. “Enochian,” Adrian says.

An occult language, but that’s all you know about it. Of course, your interest is aroused, and you’re eager to find what he discovered this time, what this is about.

“Come here,” Adrian whispers, and not wasting a beat, you shift around the armchair as he sets the manuscript aside and pulls you down to him.

You fall into him, arms winding around his neck; his hand rests on your hip, your legs haphazardly dangling over the armrest as you gaze into the velvet gold of his eyes. You often wonder, belatedly, if he possesses some sort of charm or glamor, that he so easily stuns you, and not a few are the times you must still your rushing heart, quell your restless breathing. You watch each other in silence, shadows and firelight dancing over your features. But there’s no impishness about him now; instead, you sense that restlessness from the other day.

“After your… request,” he begins, looking at you meaningfully, “I wanted to see if there are any measures recorded to aid in containing vampiric urges. I’ve found nothing in the Hold, but my father’s library holds records from most if not all schools of magic that ever were.”

He’s actually been looking into that? You perk up, and a fang catches his bottom lip as he watches you. He smirks, knowing he’s gotten your attention, surely attuned to the trepidation flowing through your blood.

You lean closer, placing a quick peck on his nose. “And?...”

“And, after much sifting through many spell books, I’ve found this.” He reaches for the piece of parchment with the Enochian script and points at one specific symbol. “This, is the letter Ur, the equivalent of the letter L,” he says. “It symbolizes luciftias, meaning, roughly, light bringer.”

You admit, your linguistic skills are far from proficient compared to his, but you squirm in his lap. Your damned curiosity is peaked, and there’s no going back. You stare at him, expectant. “How is this to help? What is it?”

Adrian hesitates. “A seal. If you still wanted to go with that madness, there is a spell that could…” he frowns, seeking for the right words, “that would prevent a feral vampire from acting out on their urges. But…” he brings you closer.

You’re still floored and have a hard time believing he actually looked into this, and it must show on your face. “But?”

“The binding spell only works if bound in blood. Human blood. Your blood.” He tilts his head to the side, watching your reaction. ”Your pulse is running.”

You swallow, your body tensed and hot from both the fire and the way he sees through you. Damn his abilities. “Go on?”

“It’s rather simple, based on the writings at least." He brings you closer to his chest. “All you’d need to do, should the situation call for it,” he takes your hand, placing it to his heart, “is write the symbol in your blood over my skin, here. Once the sharing takes place, your blood has power over my kind for a little while, as we do over you.”

You blink, clutching at his silken shirt. “That… that sounds easy enough.” Certainly better than daggers and silver cuffs. “But maybe… it wouldn’t be required.”

Adrian takes your chin between his fingers. His eyes follow the quiver of your mouth before he leans in, and you taste warm cinnamon on his lips. Your lower body presses down on his hips, and you swallow his gasp before he severs the kiss. “I take it, you like my solution,” he coos warmly against your cheek.

Like? Like? You’re a shaking heap of eagerness streaked with self-loathing for pushing this. Your nails graze the back of his head before you run your hands through his soft strands. Your hand slips down to the seam of his trousers, lower. Slowly, shamelessly, you stroke him in languid movements; his eyes flutter closed, his head falling against the backrest. You almost don’t say it, but the words escape you of their own will. “Shall we put it to the test?”

Adrian frowns but you rise and kiss him before he can offer an answer, swallowing his sigh and moving in his lap to straddle him, gripping his shoulders as he hugs you to him; his hips lift slightly for more of your pressure. There is no better reply than the tightening of his arms around you, trapping you as though afraid you’ll dissolve in the grey mists of some fancy of the mind.

As if you would ever leave. Not because you owe him so much, your own life included. Not because of the misery you witnessed and tried to shear through again and again just to reach him, however brutal — though understandable — his rejection at first. Most of all, it’s because he is the embodiment of all you thought you’d never find in someone else. Understanding and affinity, companionship. You know he needs these as much as you or anyone else, these pitifully human but essential commodities of the soul. He never said it to your face, not yet at least. There was no moonlit confession or vow of togetherness, but he shows it. Oh, how he shows it. Even now his hand runs up and down your back, the mellowing crackle of the fire the only sound apart from the beating of his life against you.

His response is your undoing, the way he slowly nips at the flesh of your lips, gentle not to hurt you. Always, always so careful, as though you are some fickle reed swaying in the wind, prone to breaking at the snap of his fingers; in a way, you are, everything considered.

“I’ll take this as a yes ?” you mumble into his mouth.

Adrian leans forward with you in his arms and your head falls back as he presses short kisses up your sternum, his warm breath seeping through your clothes, bringing you up to him again until his lips find your neck, and you jolt in delight as he sucks the sensitive skin into his mouth. There’s something different about it this time; purple marks form in his wake as he follows along your jaw then leans back in the armchair, draping you over him. His lips are soft against the shell of your ear. “How would you like to go about it?” When he looks at you again, there is no shred of hesitation in his stare; only driven purpose, leaving you hopeless with want.

You grin and rush for an open-mouthed kiss to his cheek, then the tip of his chin as Adrian raises his gaze to the ceiling. You dare another kiss lower, to his throat, feeling the compulsive swallow; he grasps your rear with both hands to bring you even closer, and low words you barely hear fade into the night.

It’s hard to breathe with the heel of his palm pressing into your lower back so he can grind you against him, and you bite down a troublesome moan. You remember his question. Barely. “We… we find a room?” Well, at least you’re trying.

A soft puff of laughter tickles your ear, tingling hot down your spine. The bastard.

“How... practical of you,” Adrian says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You grumble something about his dry remarks as you melt against him like ice beneath the flaring desert sun.

“As you know, there is no shortage of rooms here,” he adds. His hands are on your hips, ever so slowly tipping your lower body back and forth. “Or beds…” he ends on a gasp as you hoist yourself up briefly then press down, teasing his rock-hard arousal.

But aside from that, you’re already a trembling mess of limbs and need, and have no worthy comeback. Your mind is clouded, and all you need is him, no barriers in between, physical or otherwise. “One… bed will be enough, I would think.” You grin, a light bite on his lip.

His eyes are black pools rimmed with gold again as Adrian stares at you. “You would think.”

You swallow, suddenly needing some of that tea to ease your dry throat. He loosens his grasp as you reach back and bring the cup to your lips; the rim chinks against your teeth as you drink. “Then,” you dare, placing the cup back and nestling into him again, “All we have to do is get there,” you say brightly.

Without a word Adrian shifts beneath you, body tensing as he rises with you still clinging to him. “Take the note,” he urges and you do so, staring at the one-letter symbol as you come to your feet. If this is what it takes to help his peace of mind, so be it. He breaks away, heading over to a wide desk where he opens a drawer and retrieves a flat rectangular box of dark lacquered wood. He places the container on the desk and opens it, then turns to you, watching as you stand there with the Enochian seal crumpled in your hand and curiosity on your face.

Your eyes widen when you see the object he now holds up before you. It seems to be a small type of rondel dagger. The slim blade gleams back at you, reflecting the fire from the hearth in reds and yellows; it has a tapering needle point that is meant to pierce, not to slash. He flicks it in his hand once, glancing at you, and the blood drains from your face as you realize what he’s doing. Adrian points at his wrist, then his forearm. “One short prick is enough.”

You gulp. “But, wouldn’t you…” You can’t resist asking.

Adrian shakes his head. “You don’t want a feral predator at your veins or anywhere close to you like that, believe me. And only a few drops are needed to use the seal.” He walks over to you, reaches for your wrist and presses the slight blade into your shivering palm.

Your fingers wrap around the metal hilt and it’s cold against your skin, encrusted with a small glimmering ruby. You stare back up at Adrian, whose expression gives nothing away. Weapons. However slight, however small; still, it is a weapon, one he allows close, despite knowing the vulnerable state he’ll be in. “And you’re fine with... this?” you turn the object in your hands.

“I would not have given it to you otherwise,” he says. His smile is kind, but a little tight. “It is meant for you, and not for me, after all.”

You nod once, wrapping the note with the seal around the hilt, then look at him. You throw a fleeting glance at the door, your blood a tempest in your veins. Adrian brings you in and you rise on tiptoe so your arms can slide around his neck, realizing it’s suddenly too hot in the study as his palms gently cup your face. His touch feathers lower, along the groove of your neck, his thumbs ghosting over the pulse points.

When Adrian tilts his head and his mouth leaves warm trails upon your throat, your knees buckle. “Now,” he begins, grinning knowingly at the useless state you’re in, one he’s reduced you to, after mere moments. “If you don’t mind, I would do the very romantic but equally outdated gesture of carrying you to the aforementioned bed?”

You huff, but the apprehension and stress sluice from your body like a poisoned stream. You breathe into his hair as you’re plied against him, sending a few golden threads astray. “I don’t mind.” You’re trembling all over as he bends forward and his arm slips behind your knees, and lifting you up, aims for the door in his feline tread. A muted sort of cheer brightens his somber features as you hold on to him and press your nose to his bare collarbone, basking in the scent of crushed roses and wine.

The blade has warmed in your grip. His caution is unnerving and still seems misplaced to you, but this might be well worth it. He will try this with you for your mutual enjoyment, and that trust means more than you could ever express. It’s all something to learn from, besides. And if, if anything should go awry, you know what to do. You have the seal. Nothing can go wrong. Right?

AN: if Alucard seems a little too cautious, it's because in my headcanon, the act of blood drinking is something conflicting to him for many reasons (some more obvious than others).

The grimoires called out here do exist in reality, as did the concept of Enochian, a constructed language. But I've twisted things a little.

Chapter I - Chapter III

[ilovethetalkingclock]

Deep in the woods, Suitcase uncovers an enigmatic sapient artifact: A talking tooth known as the Fang of Lycaon. The Fang promises that when it is in their grasp, they will be able to enact the perfect revenge on those who wronged them. Suitcase is very intrigued, but will they be willing to go as far as the Fang wants them to?

Expected from me? Yes, I won't deny that. Expected for an II darkfic in general? I don't think so.

I've noticed a surgence of II darkfics and it motivated me to work on my own, giving Suitcase a chance for a revenge story with the twist based on old werewolf myths that rather than shifting bones and growing hair, they would shed their skin to reveal their lupine form. Combine that with a talking suitcase and BAM! Perfect idea!!!

Coming soon, hopefully!

[greensaplinggrace]

do you have any darklina fic recs?

I certainly have a few! But first I want to clarify that I don’t really read fic when I’m writing it, and since I have so many fics in the works right now, I haven’t really been reading a lot of fanfiction. So this list probably won’t be as extensive as it could be.

Here are some other great fic recommendation posts, however:

DARKLINA FIC RECS by @vicioux

DARKLINA FIC RECS // part ii by @vicioux

Darklina Ruling the World Together Fic Recs by @clubofthestarlesssaint

Tumblr Ficlets

Aleksander’s First Memory by @kestrafagnor

Fivan Talk About Darklina by @jomiddlemarch

a little light in the great, big dark by @valkyrhys

Alina tells Mal she’s with Aleksander by @lorsanbitch

Darklina week day 5: intimacy & touch by @starlesscne

AO3 Fanfiction

if it ain’t me by larry_hystereks (Incomplete - 10/13 Chapters)

alina’s in her second year at Yale when she meets aleksander at one of his frat parties.

a hookup with the potential for more, only if alina wasn’t still struggling to piece herself together from last year’s breakup.

or: alina, zoya, their trust issues, and the men that fall for them

---

I’m only at about chapter 6 of this fic currently, but so far it’s one of my all time favorite Modern AUs. The characterization for Alina and Aleksander is incredibly well done, and the entire fic itself is so feminist and queer in such a refreshing way. Aleksander and Alina are bisexual as fuck, both with their own separate complex lives, and much of Alina’s own traumas and relationships are explored outside of Aleksander.

There’s some Zoyalina, with Nikolina friendship and endgame Zoyalai. There’s some mystery and some tension, but nothing too extreme, and a lot of the fic is merely an exploration in growth and overcoming one’s history and learning how to move on in healthy ways. I love it.

She Wears a Collar (With My Name) by Ceris_Malfoy (Complete)

She is immortal, and whatever lingering hints of humanity she may have once had have long been bleached from her heart.

I will grant you one wish, boy, if it is in my power to do so. What does a Shadow Smith most want?

"You," he answers.

Written for Darklina Week 2021 - Day 2: Role Reversal

---

This piece is just exquisite. This author’s writing style is one that I particularly enjoy. Their stuff is always so uniquely composed and crafted, and this one especially is a work of art. The way Darklina as a relationship is portrayed in particular is fascinating to me because it’s a role reversal but it’s still so complex. Aleksander’s character is nailed.

the bright sun was extinguish’d by athousandwinds (Complete)

Somewhere, deep in the dark forests of Ravka, a boy grows up on stories of Sankta Alina of the Wastes, the Sun-Scorched Saint.

---

This fic is just straight up magnificent. It’s so engaging and I love love love the way a role reversed Aleksander who joins the army is portrayed. He reminds me so much of Demon in the Woods Aleksander, as if he’s exactly what a grown version of that young boy would be. When I say I adore his characterization in this I’m not lying.

If I wanted any completed fic I’ve read to have a second chapter, it would be this one.

Winter in the Little Palace by redisxwing (Complete)

Written for Yuletide 2020.

Baghra and Alina's wildly different perspectives on the Darkling, and how things could have gone if nobody listened to Baghra.

Warning: Baghra is written as a harsh and arguably abusive parent, and this is darkfic about that relationship, with a side of shipping. Everything is terrible (except the parts that are pretty much okay).

Canon divergence pretty much as soon as Alina gets lessons in summoning.

This fic is likely not compatible with King of Scars (or any subsequent work).

---

As is said in the summary, this one makes Baghra a bit more extreme. If you’re a fan of Baghra, this fic probably isn’t for you. But since I’m not a fan of Baghra, I had no problems with it.

My biggest praise for this fic is in regards to the character interactions and the POVs. There’s a brilliant grasp of unique perspective and how to convey it, and that talent is carried over into the way character interactions are brought to life in the text. Also, there’s a scene where Alina gets kind of protective of the Darkling, which is one of my biggest weaknesses when it comes to Darklina.

Good Ideas by FelixRivers (Complete)

Alina Starkov had a very good idea. Aleksander Morozova would definitely agree. (or: Alina wants to go camping and Aleksander won't complain)

---

This fic is just straight up adorable and hilarious. They’re such a cute couple and Alina’s POV is great. It’s just pure fluff and humor 💕

I’m not a bad girl, but I do bad things with you by SanktaJenya - @sankta-arya (Complete)

Winter had been hard on Old Baghra and Ana Kuya was worried about her, so she decided that Alina should make the trip to her cottage on the other side of the woods to bring her some food and kvas. On her way there, Alina meets a stranger...

Darklina Red Riding Hood/Company of Wolves AU

Darklina Week, Day 4, Fairytales

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This fic has a splendid grasp of tension and atmosphere. It’s very enchanting and dark and intriguing, and it nails those aspects with absolute precision. I love the style and the way the fairytale is incorporated into the narrative. It’s truly a masterpiece.

The Wretched by @aceofnowhere (Complete)

“We are strangers, but I want to help.” He growls at her, mocking and mistrustful. “I understand,” she said. “You think I am one of them. I certainly look like one of them. But I want to help you. Will you let me?” Prompt: fairytale. Alina saves a dragon.

---

Okay so I’ve mentioned this one before as one of my Top 5 fics of all time and I still stand by that. I can’t even describe why I love this fic so much except that the pacing is amazing and the prose is stunning and the story is beautiful. Aleksander is a dragon and Alina is a witch, and their relationship is just so...interesting and fascinating and lovely. I would literally kill for this fic. There’s such a softness to it as well. Such a tenderness. Idk, I just really love it.

Show Me Who You Are (I Want To Know) by Ceris_Malfoy (Incomplete - 12/?)

Alina takes her future in her own hands and makes her own decisions.

---

This is a great “what if Alina had stuck around after the reveal” rewrite. It doesn’t have Mal bashing and in fact still writes them as close friends, which is something I’m fond of in Darklina fics. Aleksander is allowed to be soft and Alina is allowed to be powerful, and I really enjoyed the take on their dynamics as a power couple wherein Alina is given a lot of control.

There’s something to be said for the way Aleksander is written in the scenes where he must be honest and earnest with Alina. I really enjoy the way they both come to equal ground, and I’m even more fond of the way Alina is allowed to grow darker without losing her light. She also engages a lot with quite a few other characters, developing tons of friendships and alliances on her own that help strengthen her as an individual character.

on this bridge between starshine and clay by @rhea-imagined (Complete)

"His breath narrows for a moment, his fist clenched tight before he forces himself to loosen it. She is his only opportunity for salvation, but vulnerability is not a cape he wears easily. “In those days, there was less prejudice against Shadow Summoners. But everyone fears the dark, in one way or another.” He does not look at her as he waits for the penny to drop, half-hoping it stays suspended in the air."

In which Alexander comes clean to Alina and tells her about his true identity in hopes that this will help convince her to take down the Fold.

A rewrite of the fountain scene in episode four, with a good!Darkling that is trying to make amends.

---

This is my all-time favorite good!Aleksander AU. He’s kept in character despite the major changes made to his motivations, and Alina is given a lot more agency in her own story. It’s the first fic in what might become a series, but it can stand alone beautifully.

I love how Aleksander and Alina’s relationship is allowed to grow tense without breaking, and how it’s a clear sign of change but not abandonment. I love how both characters are able to think for themselves and become self-aware and are given the chance to think critically. I love the character interaction so much because it’s honest and fresh and engaging. Everything from the smallest action to the most off-hand thought is in character and meaningful and incorporated with an amazing style of writing. It’s a very refreshing piece, and the writing only makes it that much better.

Bunnies of a Feather Stitch Together by Ill_Ratte (Complete)

"Just as Alina called to the light, gathering and twisting it into a ball in her hands, the door swung open.

Kirigan blacked out the door frame. His appearance enough would have surprised Alina, but there was something clutched in his arm, something dark and floppy. It almost looked like the stuffed toys that had been passed around to the younger Orphans." - Alina and The Darkling bond over a love of soft things

---

Soft stuffed animal shenanigans. Bits of trans!Aleksander, which I’m very fond of, as well as just a lot of fluff with a bit of something bittersweet and sad in a good way.

Half Lie by Ill_Ratte (Complete)

"Baghra always talked of the demon that had stolen her daughter." Or, Alina learns the hard way that the Darkling isn't the only one who deals in half-truths

---

This one is trans!Aleksander, and it handles it in a very interesting way. It’s quite sad, and deals a lot with Baghra & Aleksander’s relationship through Alina’s POV. I want to give a warning for transphobia, because it does center around that a lot as the premise, but it really is worth the read if that isn’t a trigger for you. This is one of my favorite trans!Aleksander fics, and the way it handles emotion and grief and pain is quite extraordinary.

The CEO and Helioseismologist by mrthology (Complete)

Aleksander Morozova doesn't get sick. He's the CEO of one of the most successful companies in the world, one that he had built from the ground up with blood, sweat, and tears. He exercised daily (usually), maintained a healthy diet, and kept himself fit.

He wasn’t sick.

Too bad no one believed him. And too bad Genya decided to call Ivan to take him home before also calling Alina to take care of him.

Maybe, just maybe, being sick wasn't so bad. Especially not when he has such a wonderful girlfriend.

---

Both of the fics in this series are great, but I love this one in particular because I’m an absolute sucker for hurt/comfort. Anyone who’s been on my blog for a while knows that it’s my all time favorite trope to read, and this fic fits the hurt/comfort trope to a T in the best of ways. It’s very tender and in character, and Aleksander and Alina are so soft with each other. It’s adorable and really makes you feel for Aleksander, and the caretaking is done perfectly.

All the different layers of dark (thousand little suns) by Anuna (Complete)

One month after the Winter Fete, Aleksander returns to the Little Palace, and Alina has been missing him.

Or

Episode five canon divergence in which Alina had never left Os Alta.

---

This one is soft emotional hurt/comfort smut. They’re both so open and vulnerable with each other, and it’s so beautiful to read. I love the writing style and the emotion in this one. It makes my heart ache in the best way.

An Honourable Man by liviy695 (Complete)

A reimagining of the scene after the winter fete. Alina catches a glimpse of a caring Darkling after he returns from integrating the Conductor. Plus, no Baghra interference.

---

This one is what it says on the tin, in that Baghra doesn’t interfere and they’re allowed to talk after the Darkling interrogates the Conductor. But more than that, it’s a great imagining of how a scene where Aleksander reveals Marie’s death would have gone. There’s a sort of quiet to it that I appreciate, with grief and solemnity weighed against care and vulnerability.

I see the real you (even if you don’t, I do) by Anonymous (Incomplete - 8/?)

A series of questionable decisions lead Alina to meet the Black General a bit earlier. Butterfly effect ensues.

---

I’ve only read half so far (I hadn’t realized it had updated!! 👀👀) but I’m already in love with this fic. Alina’s dialogue and perspective is perfect, her relationship with Mal and the other cartographers is great, and I really enjoy how much personality she has. Aleksander is so smitten, but more than that, his characterization is soft but not weak. It feels almost as if he’s swept up by Alina, instead of the other way around, and I quite like that.

Of parenting by Anuna (Complete)

Alina finds out how her husband handled yet another parenting situation.

---

This is pure adorable Darklina parenting fluff and I live for it. Yet it doesn’t lack depth and in fact explored Alina and Aleksander’s relationship with parenting quite well.

i have a longing by LRCee - @ladylyannastark (Complete)

“So, Alina Starkov, risk-taker, how did you end up being editing’s newest wunderkind?”

Alina Starkov is rising in the publishing world. Singlehandedly responsible for editing (see: rewriting) the hottest book of the year, she lands a coveted spot at Morovoz Publishers. It's the position she's always wanted, at the biggest publishing house in the country. Life is perfect. That crush on her boss though, that's gotta go.

---

OKAY! I LOVE THIS ONE SO MUCH!! Let me tell you, as someone who is not too fond of Boss/Employee dynamics, I was very wary going into this fic. But boy did it deliver in a way that was perfect for me.

The relationship that develops between Aleksander and Alina is complex but healthy, and it never feels as if there’s too much of a power imbalance or anything that would make Alina feel forced or unhappy. The tension lies purely in how she fears others will perceive her, and not in how unhealthy her relationship with Aleksander is. For somebody who’s often attracted to unhealthy ships, I have to say that my favorite fics are usually ones that don’t have that type of dynamic between the characters. This fic delivers on that.

Also, Aleksander’s POV surrounding his struggle with his Russian heritage and his feelings for Alina is amazing, and has some of the best writing and characterization I’ve seen.

You receive: an evil demon; I receive: human souls by @aceofnowhere (Complete)

The next morning while she tried to tell herself it was a dream, that of course there wasn’t a fucking demon in her house, she found a note taped to her fridge.

“You might eat this shit,” it had written, “but I would like some fucking souls please.”

Darkling Week Prompt 7: free choice. Alina has a demon in her house.

This is absolute crack, and I have no idea what the fuck is wrong with me.

---

May I just say that this is the most fun I’ve ever had when reading a fic. It’s interesting with a bit of mystery, and Aleksander as a little shit of a demon is hilarious. Alina in this fic is great too. It’s such a unique take on her POV, especially when you reread it after knowing the ending. 10000/10, this fic is brilliant in every way and I love it.

I had been lost to you, Sunlight by BrytteMystere (Complete)

A Girl became a Woman, became a Sankta, became a Goddess.

Or: An Immortal Alina calls upon merzost to reunite with the Prince of Shadows she lost long ago. She may have lost herself in the process.

But then again, maybe time and endless wars did that instead.

---

You really just have to read this one to get it. It is utterly haunting and fascinating in the best of ways. The writing style is strange and novel and fits so well with the story being told. The composition of the fic as a whole is genius.

I Look Inside Myself (And See My Heart Is Black) by Ceris_Malfoy (Complete)

"When is a monster not a monster? Why, when you love it, of course."

Written for Darklina Week 2021 - Day 6: Favorite Quote • King & Queen • Monster

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Once more, this author comes through with an absolutely breathtaking writing style and story. The imagery is elegant yet brutal, simultaneously horrifying and glorious. There’s a certain way these stories are written, like fairytales, where the beautiful becomes the macabre and becomes ever more stunning because of it. It’s very dark but in a good way - an almost bewitching way.

Afterlife by @aceofnowhere (Complete)

“You are asking me to leave?”

“Not asking, shadow,” she said. “Telling. Time to get unlost, loser.”

Day 3 Darklina Week prompt: Modern AU (I mean, barely)

Alina expels ghosts from purgatory.

---

@aceofnowhere once again bringing the best of the paranormal to the Grishaverse. Literally everything you write is amazing idk why I’m even pointing out individual fics when I could just rec your whole page. But anyways!! This is fun and interesting and Alina is a badass. Aleksander is, of course, compelling and dark and kind of a little shit, and it’s all incorporated seamlessly into an existential paranormal narrative.

Once Upon a Shooting Star by Ceris_Malfoy (Complete)

"But most of all, she was drawn to a vast darkness that reached out above all of them, a void so hungry for companionship that she knew she could fulfill."

---

Let. Alina. Be. Feral!! Anyways, I clearly have a type when it comes to storytelling, and it’s whatever the fuck this person has got going on. Feral!Star!Alina is literally the light of my life. Her interactions with not only other people but the world in general are so well done, but my favorite parts about this fic are the numerous ways her relationship with Aleksander is described and depicted.

I love the dark and light imagery, especially with how it’s portrayed as them filling in the gaps of each other’s lives and supporting each other instead of trying to block each other out. There’s such clear passion and joy and love and devotion between them. The central focus of this fic is on her and Aleksander’s relationship, the interplay between them and their powers and the way her light fills his loneliness, the passing of adoration and trust and reliance between them. It’s very beautiful and I love it.

A Blaze of Light by Keira_63 (Complete)

They discover the Sun Summoner in the burnt-out remains of the Shu laboratory in which she has spent the last seven years of her life.

Or, the Darkling finds himself with a Sun Summoner whose greatest wish is to burn Shu Han to the ground. He is happy to oblige her.

---

👀👀 Badass Alina and Badass Aleksander. The ultimate power couple, and Alina burning a path through Shu Han before they both burn a path through the world together. The darkness and rage in this one are handled very well, and the way that rage turns to coldness and then resolve is done so well. This fic is very cathartic and also very furious, and reading it is certainly a trip down emotion lane.

One more for the Road by Rist (Complete)

He returns to the war room shaken, and finds an Alina that cannot leave without at least having tried.

---

This one hurts so much but its soooo gooood!!! Very smutty but also very tender and very bittersweet. Sad and soft all at once. I just... love the way Alina and Aleksander are written so much, and Alina’s complicated feelings for him are explored in such detail and depth. This one is truly worth the read.

[misscricket]

Canders

Oh @stark-illerbase, let me take you on a journey...

Anders and Carver don’t like each other in Act 1 of Dragon Age II. That’s putting it mildly. Carver is a young man probably suffering from PTSD, grieving over his twin sister and struggling with the new life his brother and mother are pursuing. He strongly identifies as a Fereldan, hence the tattoo he got at Ostagar being a mabari, and he sees his mother trying to recapture the Amell name and legacy as almost a rejection of the Hawke lifestyle back in Lothering. As to the PTSD, not only did he see his beloved Twin sister get crushed by an Ogre right in front of his eyes, he was also at the Battle of Ostagar. He had to be dragged away from the battle by his fellow soldiers and told to run for it, or else he would have stayed, and fought and died right there, so determined was he to protect his country and family.

“ Said he wanted to protect his family. That someone had to, because his father had died and, well you know how the Champion turned out. Carver took it real serious...” (World of Thedas Vol 2)

Along with a love of using a sword, this was Carver’s motivation for signing up with the army, the Blight was threatening his home, and his family, and he saw it as his duty to protect them.

“The more ground we lost, the harder he swung that plank of a sword of his. He was shouting that we had to win, that it was to keep our homes safe. I swear he was crying when we finally tackled him, but damned if I’ll hold that against him. It took three of us to drag him to cover. I had to slap him back to his senses, to make him see that killing five, or ten, more ‘spawn wouldn’t matter. The wall was on us, and dying there wasn’t going to help anyone. I said if he wanted to do his family good, he’d get them safe. “  (World of Thedas Vol 2)

So he’s a bit of a prickleberry.

And then in comes Anders. Instantly he’s hyper focused on Carver’s brother, because Carver’s brother is a Mage. And Maker have mercy Carver has been hearing about the Mage plight for years. His whole bloody life actually. 

He acutely understands the realities of living with an Apostate mage family, from the perspective of someone inside the family unit who doesn’t have magic himself. He couldn’t be too good at anything, or excel, because it drew attention. He wasn’t a Mage himself, but he too lived as an Apostate, in fear of drawing the Templars gaze.

And then Anders says, 

Anders: I'm sorry about your sister. She sounds like a special girl. 

Carver: Why? Because she was a mage? 

Anders:  (If Hawke is male) Your brother says she had a good heart. Being on the run never made her bitter. (If Hawke is female) Your other sister says she was a good person. That she never turned down a chance to help people. 

Carver: Yes, yes. I'm sure the Chantry's got a shrine with her portrait on it. 

Anders: I was trying to be nice. 

Carver: Stick to surly. It works for you

And then this one

Anders: You don't like me, Carver? 

Carver: I don't like you. 

Anders: That's unfortunate. Hating someone just because they're a mage is a shameful thing. 

Carver: I don't hate you because you're a mage. I hate you because you won't shut up about it. 

Carver: Oppression this, templars that. I'd heard enough long before you. 

Anders: Maybe it's time you put some thought into it.

To Anders, Carver looks like the sullen, angry, bitter brother of two Mages, resentful of their powers or perhaps, even, hating them because of them.

This isn’t the case. Carver bitches and moans about his siblings, but most of his gripes are familiar to anyone who has an older or over achieving sibling.

When there is a legitimate threat, Carver immediately steps between Hawke and danger. When Fenris snarls about Mages, Carver, unprompted, says.

Carver: You have a problem with my brother/sister, you have a problem with me.

It’s instantly protective, and it’s far from the only incident in the game. He continually worries whenever Hawke talks to Templars, or stirs up Mage trouble, not because he hates Mages but because he’s worried for Hawke.

Anders however can no longer seem to see greys, it’s all black and white for him. Either you’re for Mages and then you want wholescale freedom and down the Templar order, or you’re a Mage hater, and as good as a Templar.

Carver’s stance on Magic is actually one of the most subtle and nuanced in the game, if not the whole series. He understands the dangers on a level most people, who haven’t lived with unfettered magic, can’t understand. But he also understands the joys and love of those with magic, and doesn’t believe locking them up in the Circle to be the right thing, despite his potential choice to be a Templar.

So Carver and Anders...

Enemies to Lovers

The fit this trope beautifully. Even in Act 1 with surly Carver and judgy Anders. But throw in Carver either being a Templar, the thing Anders hates most in the world, or him being a Grey Warden, the organisation Anders rejected. Oh the potential for angry arguments and heated kisses.

They are not so ideologically opposed that I think they couldn’t understand each other I think, and I think if they actually hashed it out together they’d actually find a lot of common ground. It’s just whether they could get there without the prickles throwing them off course is the question...and no Carver isn’t the only prickly one.

Templar Carver

Carver joins the Templar order for two reasons.

1. His brother/sister hasn’t returned from the Deep Roads with the rest of the expedition. Bartrand has likely told him they’re all dead. That leaves him and his mother alone in the world, and Carver can’t get work. The Guards won’t have him because Aveline told them not to, and the other options are mercenary jobs or the Templars. He no longer has any mage siblings to worry about being caught, and he doesn’t have to disclose that he had Mages in his family if he doesn’t want to.

2. His namesake was a Templar. I think giving him his piece of his identity makes Carver interested in the order in a  different way. Up until then they’ve kind of been the boogeymen of the Hawke children’s lives. ‘Be good or a Templar will get you’. But his father named him after a Templar, ‘skill thoughtfully applied’. There was some value to that path. And you can’t tell me that Carver wasn’t, in many ways, his family’s personal Templar. If Bethany or Hawke had fallen...would another Mage have been able to stand against them? They would have needed a swordsman. Carver.

Anders thinks Carver has joined the Templars out of spite, or hatred. But there is a wonderful array of fiction you can have with Anders and the Order and the fact they are continually trying to hunt Anders down. Carver wouldn’t stand for it, if one of his brothers companions was threatened, and he certainly wouldn’t want him to be hurt, killed or made Tranquil, which would have been his fate should Meredith have gotten her hands on him.

Grey Warden Carver

As for the Grey!Warden path, Carver thrives as a Warden, he blossoms under that structure and purpose where Anders did not. But they have the connection of Anders having been the one to beg Stroud to take him, to put him through the Joining.

We also know that Carver knows Nathaniel, who was friends with Anders during Awakening. This likely means he knows a number of the Ferelden Wardens, and you can’t tell me they wouldn’t be curious about Anders.

Alternate Universes ideas I have toyed with writing

Tevinter - Mage Healer who refuses to use Blood Magic and the son of a powerful Mage house who doesn’t have magic himself.

Special Agents AU - Agent Hawke and Anders have a turbulent relationship because the boy always comes back hurt.

Coffee Shop AU - Anders is an overworked and exhausted Doctor. Carver is his caffeine supplier.

Werewolf AU - Alpha Carver learns that being dominant doesn’t always mean barking orders, and Omega Anders learns that brooding wolves are definitely better lovers.

Mirror Universe - What it says on the box...darkfic.

Angel AU - Carver is Anders’ guardian Angel, and he grumbles about it a lot. He also keeps losing his feathers everytime he swears, and it makes Anders laugh at him.

and many many more.

To close out this rambling dissertation on the beauty that is Canders (praise be)

Enjoy this lovely fanart drawn by the talented @frikadeller in a commission for @autumnyte-old​

Case closed!

[fth2018offerings]

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Decepticonsensual Auction #1

Type of fanwork: fanfiction Subtype(s): N/A Fandom(s): MCU (all), Transformers (all), Gotham Highest rating creator will work with: E (explicit) Length: 5k words (minimum) for a bid of $10; beyond that, an additional 1k words (minimum) for every additional $5 bid (so, minimum of 6k words for a bid of $15, 7k for a bid of $20, etc.) Especially interested in: I am especially interested in: slow-burn romances, rarepairs, enemies having to work together, darkfic (especially involving captivity and interrogation), smut, alternate universes/alternate histories. (This is by no means a complete list, just some ideas to get you started!) Unwilling to address: I will not write: underage sex, watersports or coprophilia, pregnancy, kidfic. Within Transformers, I do not have a very good grasp of series that did not have an official English language release, such as Victory, Super-God Masterforce, Beast Wars II, etc. Notes:

Minimum Bid: $10

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