[ He had laughed, at first. What other reaction could there be to the disappearance of one of his most talented young Grisha? Where could she possibly have cared to go, and why? There was nothing that the Little Palace did not offer her, no luxuries that she was not afforded. There was no reason for her ever to be tempted by the ludicrous notion of flight. He had never been troubled to think he might wake one day and find her absent. A meager jest, it must’ve been; was this going to prove to be some sort of demonstration of what she had accomplished over the last few weeks? A grand accumulation of her brilliant prowess after years of training? Was her conspicuous absence the even more conspicuous gambit to draw a crowd? To secure an audience for when she did in an hour reveal herself?
She did not emerge within the hour. She did not emerge at all that morning, or by noon, or by the time the sun had melted and then bled to nothing. By that point he was no longer laughing. A careless, detached amusement festered quite rapidly into outright suspicion. She would never have left voluntarily, out of some mad whim of her own, so someone had taken her. This was a crime. Suspicion, being an impotent fuel, gave way to fury. She was going to be returned, and whichever imbeciles had been bold enough to try and swindle her away would pay a price that did not come with forgiveness. The Darkling was protective of every Grisha under his protection, of course – he would recoup and avenge any of them. The dangerous vitriol of his reaction in this particular case was nothing exceptional. He would have torn apart his study in an anguished rage regardless.
Finding her is, of course, nigh impossible. He has seen to it himself that she is trained not only to be ferociously powerful, always commanding the full thrall of her power, but that she is trained in the art of subtlety, too. The art of commanding with a glance can be as devastating as unleashing a boiling sheet of white light. Earning respect is twice as lasting, twice as successful, when it is won before any demonstration of physical power. He has impressed upon her the necessity of moving like a shadow, and now she has proven that she can be just as elusive. How convenient that she has taken the light with her, leaving him armed with nothing to carve her from the darkness. Where would she have gone? Who would she have allowed to take her?
And then, just as inexplicably as she vanished, she returns again. Naturally, seamlessly, as if this circular travel of hers is as predictable as the sun’s rise and fall. It isn’t – having left him this way is not natural, and it is not going to be repeated again – but the aggressive impulse that wants to greet her is tempered by his relief. She is unharmed. She is, in fact, the opposite of harmed – she is amplified. She is brighter even than she was before. The look on her face is one he must, in bewilderment, take as pride. She is glowing. He has seen her glow, has seen her summon a euphoric light that illuminates her from within, but she looks now to have taken on a new cast. As if ‘bright’ has been given an enhanced definition.
He won’t acknowledge the defiance of her departure by greeting her now with rejoicing relief, so he orders brusquely that she present herself to him. In his own study, after he has composed himself into the unruffled, sleek commander he is. She owes him an explanation, after all – she ought to come and offer it to him for acceptance or refusal. She is indebted, owing him not only an answer but an apology. So he comports himself as if he has not been sleepless for the last handful of nights, arguing himself out of every asinine paranoia of where she could have gone and why.
Now he sits behind his desk as if it has only been an hour since the last time he was inconveniently interrupted – since the last time he has spared her a thought – glancing up when she steps into the crypt-silent room. It’s a flick of grey, the glint of a glare through a sheaf of black hair that has fallen across his eyes. A jerk of his head tosses it aside, and he collects his attention back over the parchment he writes upon, as if resuming a more significant task. He makes his voice as disinterested as he can, though the pulse that threatens just beneath it, the thrum of electricity that has always seemed to bind them, is alive and unsteady, trembling. ]
You do understand the absolute stupidity of what you’ve done, right?
[ it begins with a dream: a white fairytale of freshly fallen snow, as glittering as the knowing eyes of morozova's stag. or perhaps it begins earlier, a future reflected in the darkling's piercing look the night she's herded into his care, a wild slip of an orphan corralled behind the little palace's walls — with luxuries that have done so little to domesticate her, no matter the years of a soldier's training. perhaps it begins at the heart of the world, as grisha vows would have her believe — i have seen your heart at the making of the world. a silly sentimental thought that has always warmed her, and an oath she finds herself summoning to the tips of her fingers, the stag's ancient stare seared behind her eyelids. familiar eyes, alina finds herself thinking; like glittering darkness held in aleksander's gaze, endless with knowledge beyond her understanding. as though a man and a beast have both foreseen her belonging, guiding her light to where it will shine brightest.
she confides in no one. not genya, her truest friend — only friend in this den of vipers, eager to strike at her with their poisonous reminders of her unique position. not the darkling, despite the keen edge of his gaze — steely as a blade, glittering gray twice as sharply — and how often it feels as though he slices to cavity in her chest until she's pouring out her heart and its poorly kept secrets onto his floorboards. the temptation is there once, twice; there is power in holding a favored position at his side, after all, no matter the twittering gossip from the grisha that flock through these halls. favored. chosen. bitter little songs that have echoed after her footsteps since her arrival. she is all of those things and more, but — it chafes where it had once been comfortable, an insult that brushes against her bruised pride. she can't — won't — rely on aleksander to nurture the power she so desperately needs by delivering her the stag wrapped up in a pretty bow.
it isn't her finest plan, all of its details forgotten in the wake of her impulsive desire to escape his protective shadow. if he knew, he might call her mad. if he knew, he might think of her as little more than a girl with a mind still cluttered by childish things. if he knew, he might locate the stag for her, dragging to her doorstep like an overgrown cat depositing a gift. somehow, that's the worst fate of all — a testament to how incapable he must find her, how guarded he keeps her, how little she has proven herself within these walls. there is no world where she will ever be more than his ward, more than his protege — where he will ever see her as his equal — if she cannot prove it.
and so she sets off without warning, wrapping strands of sunlight as he's taught her, threads of brightness that obscure her from view — a trick she has played on ivan countless times to escape his hawklike guarding, taking flight out of his view. she returns home in much the same fashion — a flashing specter that settles into a tangible girl, bright and glowing. the black shroud of her kefta cloaks the bloody speckles drying on her palms, a sickening imitation of the paints and charcoals that often coats her skin. he would give you anything, if you thought to ask for it, genya had teased one morning, before alina had silenced her with a flick of water from her tub. books for her idle sketches, flakey pastries when she grimaces at the first touch of herring to her tongue, the fine frills of her nightgown — the stag, too, if she had thought to ask for it.
if only taking it hadn't felt so much — more. if only taking it hadn't felt so right, its molten power pouring through her like liquified gold in her veins. she can sense its pooling heat even now as she stands before him, too intoxicating to be replaced by remorse. it sits in her veins, a glowing star pulsing brighter, as she eyes him with a disappointed frown. where she had thought there would be pride, there is only ...
nearly nothing. a scolding. the stag's antlers drag its points across the pale column of her throat, hidden by the draping fur of her kefta, as if pricking her with the offense he's caused. stupid. nothing about this newfound power is stupid. ]
No. [ not a hint of sarcasm. her reply is (perhaps infuriatingly) sincere, and without self-preservation when she knows well enough that he'll be displeased with it. let him, alina thinks; then the both of them will be displeased with each other. you can't coddle me forever. you wouldn't have lectured fedyor if he did what i have. those childish defenses flicker and fade on her tongue, though they scrape her throat as they're swallowed down. she can't act petulant if she wants him to regard her as more than the little girl who had tracked mud into his palace, more than a pupil. her chest rises and falls with the words she has to bite back. she can hear his droll response already, anyway: fedyor is wiser. he would have never run off in the first place. ] You didn't call it stupid when Ivan claimed his amplifier.
[ she drops her gaze to his stack of endless parchment as though they've personally affronted her with thieving his attention, moving forward to round his desk. with careless ease and all of the comfort of a housecat, she sidles onto it — a silent demand for attention. hungry for it, as she's always been, even as he denies it to her. especially when he's chosen to deprive her of it. her gaze only snags on the ink staining the parchment for a moment before it rises, trying to chase his own. look at me. ]
Or when Zoya fought hers. [ she miserably fails to keep her resentment from seeping through, acrid at just the thought of zoya nazyalensky and her constant hostility. nevertheless, it stings — to confront the cuff wrapping zoya's slim wrists, to let her gaze wander to the forepaw dangling from ivan's chain. the stag had always been hers to claim, her vicious appetite whispers to her as it stirs; aleksander has no right to deny her a power that belongs to her, and her alone. ] Why should I be any different?
[ after a delay, she chases her begrudging afterthought and amendment of, ] Sir.
[ Her first strike is, naturally, at the faces of those who have come before her. Others with a sliver of potential, those who had found ordinary success in claiming amplifies of their own. She bears in mind, of course, the bearpaw which hangs heavy at Ivan's sternum, the fangs worn like jewels at Zoya's wrist. She thinks herself of a similar caliber, deserving of the same luxuries, entitled to the same glories. She refuses outright, to absolutely no surprise on his part, that she has blundered, that she is to be held accountable for any of the assorted disasters which might have befallen her. As she stands before him, she wears the pouting frown of a child who has just demonstrated a purported stroke of genius, only to be informed that it is a disgrace, and trite at that.
The fur of her kefta shields her throat, drapes her slight form in its rich and sweeping folds. She takes this, too, for granted: that she is an acknowledged Grisha in his own keep, that he has allowed her freedoms rarely granted elsewhere. She wears that revered raiment as if she expected to find it awaiting her each morning, as if it were little more than a slip she donned until something more resplendent was delivered. Her hair falls dark against her pale cheeks, and he wonders, as his eyes flick in practiced disinterest over her imperious bearing, what she encountered during her escapade. Is there unwashed blood in drying trails upon her hands, down her slim torso? Does her back, like Zoya's, bear frantic new scars?
No, she says, in sugar-sparkling petulance, defending herself with the achievements of those she delights in likening herself to. He remains seated, unmoving, only his eyes tracking her as she rounds his desk, as impartial to the fact of his space as a wandering cat would be, feet light, tail twitching in agitation. Her dark eyes intrude upon his disbanded parchments, though he knows she cares little for what might be written there, and his own gaze slowly scales the impudent fact of her body until he reaches her face. She is, he knows, waiting for him to meet her eyes, to be speared like a wriggling trout by the neat hook of her stare. He allows her this for only a moment - a glance just long enough to impart to her a low, smoldering fire - and then he reaches past her, tugging a trapped piece of parchment from beneath her thigh. ]
Ivan was given my explicit permission, Miss Starkov. He earned that privilege, and he has never given me reason to doubt that he is deserving of the power vested in him. He is loyal, which is to say, trusting, and not in the habit of reckless misbehavior.
[ He regards the freed parchment with a perusing interest he pointedly does not give to her, tipping his head so black hair sweeps across his brow. ]
Miss Nazyalensky, [ he goes on, his voice darkening with a purposeful, fond warmth, for no other reason to incite his present pupil to crude jealousy ] claimed hers in an act of bravery and clever heroism. You, on the other hand, [ and here his voice takes on the same disapproving edge he'd greeted her with, the tired scorn of one who has seen through a shoddy sham ] acted on impulse and defiance. Let me arrive again at the point that you have behaved stupidly.
[ He glances up from the paper held before him, a reluctant glimpse given to a thing wholly undeserving of the effort it takes to lift his eyes. He notes, even so, how the unsteady candlelight catches in her hair, how it dances before it is swallowed by the dark, how it glides its fingers over what little is bared of her skin, hungry. He knows exactly how that light will harden to fractured crystal in her eyes when her patience begins to fray, and how lovely a sight has that always made? The frustration of a taunted animal too long chained, aching to be turned loose, to prove the worth of its burning energy; how that aggravation will consume the short quick of her temper, how it will turn to pleading, whether she knows it or not.
Sir, she has the sense to append, and his shoulder blades lift, the poise of an animal in anticipation, a tangible pleasure. He does not allow the smile that waits at the corner of his lips to show. He feigns a vast apathy toward the magnitude of what she has done. ]
Neither my Heartrender nor my Squaller was so fixated on being the same as everyone around them. Tell me, then. Was it worthy of a song? Did the sky itself tremble to behold you?
[ if she's guilty of any crime of stupidity, it's this: handing him the blade to carve her with, every slice he delivers burning its mark into all of the pieces he finds lacking. no matter how those blows glance off of her, too armored by her satisfaction, she can still feel the full force of its impact — the brunt that tries to knock away her pride until she's fallen from her pedestal, as if she has not earned the right to her power. as if ravka is misguided in elevating her toward divinity, desperate in their hope for a guiding light. those old, pricked insecurities ache with fresh soreness — but they don't sear with the same intensity of her fury, something fiery in the flaring amber of her eyes.
she turns that blistering stare on the darkling, daring to burn brighter than the smoldering look he throws her. a meager meal for a girl so starved for the attention he allows her, made into something gluttonous and greedy. it's treasonous to consider the thoughts that race through her mind, defiance that would see any of his lesser grisha — less valuable than the sun summoner, emboldened by the knowledge that he is in needs her power as he has needed no other's — punished. she will show him, if he does not believe in her as the world does. if he will not offer her the same faith, if he does not think this show of power is worth a second glance.
the way to accomplish that is not, she knows, through childishly tearing apart ivan and zoya; it's only the darkling's emphasis on lessons of strategy, a skill she hasn't fully absorbed when she's a creature of impulse and instinct, that prevents her tongue from delivering a lashing. loyal, which is to say unimaginative. are you sure we're talking about the same zoya, by the way? she does nothing heroic unless it's for her own benefit. she swallows the words down like jagged glass in her throat with a petulant little twist to her nose that gives away her desire to behave sourly. sullen, like the deliberate swing of her legs as she sidles along the wooden edge of his desk, demandingly placing herself in his focus, the corner of his parchment and its inked words caged beneath her weight. ]
Maybe it would have been stupid. [ she hasn't missed the rise in his shoulders, like a preening beast. it feels like a bumbling technique, not nearly as gracefully delivered as his orders and decisions, but — she's hungry to slide back into his good graces. ] If anyone else had trained me.
[ instinct leads her to boldly and mindlessly reach for him — a brush of her hand combing the messy swipe of that fallen hair upward, rearranging it back into its usual orderly state. the stench of blood and sacrifice follows the trail her hands take, as though she is still fresh from the slaughter, muddied by the rivulets of blood that have dried across her palms, beneath her kefta, intertwined in dark locks of her hair. messier than she had wanted it to be for an animal that had given itself over to her, that had chosen her to carry its power. guilt swells up in her stomach, though it does nothing to drown the contented thrum of power swimming in her veins. ]
Your Heartrender and Squaller are the same as everyone around them. Their amplifiers wouldn't be so common if that weren't true.
[ the dividing line she draws between herself and the other grisha startles a large part of her, after so many years of wistful looks and longing for their acceptance, wishing to blend into the swaths of etherealki blue in the courtyard. she wonders, for a moment, when that had occurred — if she had accepted it as soon as she had fled, or the moment the antlers had graced her neck to distinguish her as something other. too rare, too powerful, to be anything other than what she is truly meant to be.
an equally large part of her is too hungry for his approval, to set herself apart in his eyes, to be singularly important in ways zoya and ivan may never be. and so she doesn't withdraw her words, chin jutting out in its conviction, as though proving to herself that she won't waver on that point now that she's made it. ]
There isn't any glory in killing the only one of its kind. [ a brief overcast of melancholy clouds her expression, lips pressed together in a frown; she and the stag aren't so different, in that regard, defined by their power. singular, too unique not to be hunted. more than that, the stag deserves more respect than aleksander has given it for the life it had offered to her, with his mocking talk of songs and trembling skies. ] But it chose me. Anyone can try to conquer and claim what isn't given to them, but being chosen is a greater gift.
[ over her kefta, her fingers flutter away to idly trace the clothed outline of the necklace she has crafted for herself, more valuable than any jewel. ]
[ Marriages were built on worse arrangements, Alina thinks. Sol Koroleva is just yet another role Ravka asked of her, and although some days it hardly felt like Ravka deserved the exhausting efforts required the stakes were simply too high to refuse. The mantle of Sun Saint was already heavy, queen ultimately added little to it but gave her another person to shoulder the burden. She wonders how he manages the role so masterfully. Just charges forward even when the strings of fate that hold them in the positions the play for Ravka make themselves known. He doesn't shake them off, doesn't fight against them or run away like she's inclined to some days. He accepts them, courageous and tenacious, in a way that deprives them of their power.
It had not always been so easy between them. Not long ago she had felt an uneasiness in his ambition, a twist in her gut when she thought he was simply another man like the Apparat or the Darkling who might seek to shape her into something that is ultimately useful for them.
It feels sickening to admit out loud, but it was his monstrous transformation that brought them together. Without the third amplifier, the Firebird ever elusive, Alina's power was not great enough to vanquish all of the Fold. Slowly and steadily, she is able to reclaim pieces of Ravka. She was able to push the demon out enough to return Nikolai to her.
And although it did not entirely vanquish the monster, it was good enough to move forward. After one particularly brutal transformation, Alina gently clasped his hand as he admitted that he was tired, that he feared himself and the bloodthirsty potential that laid inside of him. Leaning close, she felt like she could only offer trite words of comfort except for a sentence echoing in her mind. Gently stroking her thumb across his cheek she told him that she would never turn away.
And then he kissed her. It is not the kiss of a whirlwind electric clash of that she shared with the man who seemed to resent the part of him that might regard her as a person and not a tool, where desire was as destructive as it was alluring. The sort of temptation that was as enticing and as painful and fruitless as trying to catch a flame from a candle.It is not the longing kiss of the boy who wanted a girl that she can no longer be back beside him. A pair where one seemed to dim as the other grew brighter. A kiss of the sort of love that will never go away or be forgotten, but the memories would be as sorrowful as they were beautiful.
No, it is neither of those things. It is like a river, steady and dependable. A current that's powerful and strong and persistent enough to mold the earth to its will if given enough time. It's something that could both sweep her away and cradle her if she wanted it to. Not perfect, but still right. Something that didn't need her, but she could choose all the same.
They wed shortly after.
And although the king and queen share separate quarters, the servants note the frequent visits they pay to one another. No one but the two of them are allowed in the King's quarters, Alina departing each evening and returning each morning.
They are in his rooms now, her back fallen against a truly inordinate amount of pillows, his heavy iron shackles looped around the posts, ignored for now. The Lantsov emerald glitters in the low lamp light, twisted in his golden hair as he feasts between her legs. Nikolai's fingers dig into her thighs, holding her open to lavish her with his mouth. As it turns out, his silver tongue had many talents. Relentless and stubborn and not content to to ever be something as truly horrible as just adequate at anything, the young king took to studying the art of making his bride come with an unrivaled dedication once she had allowed him into her bed.
Just as she had vanquished Nikolai's more constant connection to the Darkling, Alina thought she might have been successful too in severing the tether that hangs between them, having not experience the pleasure of his visits since before their wedding.
She had thought she would be mortified, terrified, horrified if he ever slipped out of the shadows as he is now, the sound of the world dampening around her as he stands in her quarters, her naked and spread open, sweat glistening on her brow. Instead, she finds a sort of vengeful pride swelling in her gut, growling like a lioness considering her hunt. ]
Kolya—
[ A private name, but she rarely calls him Nikolai in their bedroom. To change would be suspicious. She is not finished, but she beckons him up with her hand pressed to the back of his neck. He kisses her lithe body before pressing against her mouth and she revels in the taste of herself on his lips. Confused, he presses his forehead to hers asking if everything is alright, and of course she shakes her head no. ]
I just want to try something different.
[ Alina wonders how much the Darkling can see of Nikolai, if he can tell how she's rolling him onto his back or that she's spreading her thighs over his face. Standing at the foot of their bed, it should be obvious to him what she means to do when she leans over, the characteristic stroke of her hands up and down. The slip of her lips around the head of his cock. The flick of her eyes up to the specter observing them, watching her take another man's cock in her mouth while he pays generous devotion to her cunt. ]
[ Death would have been too simple, of course. His Sun Summoner radiating knives of light, slicing the Fold to ribbons, razing all that had stormed down the length of Ravka for so long. Dispelling its monsters, rescuing the valiant heroes who had devoted their paltry lives to what they took to be something greater. Establishing herself as a living saint, climbing to a lofty pedestal and reigning as no king or queen had reigned before. She would be bathed in snowy white light and a sea of admiration, awash in glory and love. Not love, perhaps; the commoners would expect too much of her to truly love her. She would be a slave to them, no matter how splendidly they bedecked her as a saint. She would always be in chains. He often reflects upon this point, polishes it like a favored blade, tests its edge with a silky smirk.
Had she thought to defiantly seize back some small part of her destiny by wedding the false prince? Had she thought that perhaps she could earn something akin to true love after all? Is she fool enough to believe the golden-haired fop will ever worship her as a woman, and not as an idol for him to triple his own worth? Surely she is clever enough to see all that she can ever hope to be in that regard. There is, she will find, nothing more crippling than the pursuit of love. She will waste years of her life chasing something that will never be returned to her, and it is in shame and exhaustion that she will realize she has run nowhere at all. She will find herself back where she began, empty-handed, willfully distracted by anything that is not the power that cries within her. Denying it, refusing how it pulses in her like her own blood, which it always will. She is so maddeningly insistent on wasting so much time, and so much of her ripening potential. If pure, unbridled rage could keep him alive, it would have. Perhaps it was due its credit.
She lacks the discipline and the strength to destroy the Fold. Does she cling still to the frivolous notion that it can be done without him? Do she and her gallant young king murmur deep into the night of how light will triumph over darkness? He is tormented quite reliably with visions of what transpires between them when the rest of the palace sleeps. Does she go to him, or does she summon him to her? Does she arch beneath him in the throes of genuine passion, nails scraping up her king’s back, or has she been subdued by the weight of her duty – does she merely tolerate the witless buffoon as he buries himself within her, sheathing his substandard sword? He doesn’t know. When he reaches for her, feeling in the dark for the sliver of their bond, there is only a gaping silence. She has resolutely shut him out. Whether this is a failure of his own will or a demonstration of her kindling power, he cannot be certain. Is she so empty-headed, so whimsical and vapid that she has given herself over fully to her new life? Has she forgotten that he lives at all, now that she has a gilded title and a marvelous throne and a glorious purpose?
It is with a stab of unbecoming, sincerest surprise, then, that he finds himself standing at the foot of her bed. His vision is at first a restless black, the suggestion of movement in a dark wood. His senses are those of a wolf: there is the sound of rustling, breathing. There is flickering light, and as the vision before him resolves into familiarity, his fingers flex with the instinct to touch. Pale, bare skin tempts his dark eyes, and once she takes shape, reposed in her pleasure, his gaze roves, consuming. Shameless, without the grace to act as if he has appeared here by mistake. To act as if he feels anything but a ravenous delight at having found her this way. Not alone, as that gift would have been too simple in its ecstasy. No, she is with her false king, and it is a head of golden hair that gleams between her thighs. Paying meager homage, he assures himself, unpracticed and inelegant, unremarkable in his outlook on human pleasure. Still, even while he knows Nikolai could never do to her the things he himself could, the Darkling bristles with a rabid fury. How easily had she given herself away like this? Who was she thinking of when she was at last driven over the edge, presuming she had ever accomplished true satisfaction at all?
And even so; even so, in spite of the scathing glare he levels with her face, he feels a twinge of excitement when she turns the king onto his back, when she claims his face with open legs, and descends upon him with first her hands and then her mouth. His own cock, he is enraged to feel, is easily baited by this farce – an insistent stirring beneath the layers of black he wears, a coarse twist of the basest lust. Refusing to break from the silence with which he has come to this scene, he watches with what he can muster of cool indifference as her lips take her husband into the flower of her mouth. This was no slip of careless fortune. She had wanted him to see her for the first time again like this, hadn’t she? Flagrant in her betrayal, giving to another with lush warmth what she had so frostily denied him.
He takes a step closer, holding her eyes once she has made clear that she means to insult him with a pointed stare while she wastes her glories upon someone so far beneath her. The hammer in his chest is, he knows, his jealous heart, but beneath that short-fused instinct is something darker, something deeper, something that is reveling in this little sham of intimacy that he was never meant to see. And regardless of whether or not she meant to invite him here, he has decided that she will not push him out. So he observes her as if judging a fledging Grisha on her performance, his fingers rising to curl slowly around the edge of the bed’s footboard. If this had been him, he likes to think, she would not have had the composure to raise her eyes away from him. She would already be writhing, one gasping cry rising into the next, nothing but him on her mind, nothing but the insatiable glide of his tongue where she would be, he knows, desperately, pleadingly wet.
He dips his head in as if to offer advice, his voice thick with venom. ]
Something different would be thinking of your beloved king instead of thinking of me. You’re aching for me even now.
[ So easy to bait, Alina finds. It is a point of shame, for her, of how naive she was; how easily lured to this idea of belonging, played masterfully by him as he plucked the strings and spun a story of all they might accomplish together. And she, desperate for belonging, desperate to be treasured had so easily believed, slipped her head through the snare like the curious fox, placed the pad of her foot in the center of a steel-jawed trap, the illusion hiding the traps so thin that any animal less desperate or less hungry or less lonely would have known to avoid them.
But the white-knuckled grip he has on the bed and the sting in his voice is proof enough that no one is immune to these games. While later she might feel ashamed for the truly unforgivable way she is using the private exchange between a husband and wife as a knife to execute her vengeance, now she cannot wrench herself from the sinful grip of lust and pride that heighten each slip of Nikolai's tongue against her, his nose and chin soaked more and more as he fixes his his lips around the bud between her legs, his favorite way to pay respects to Sankta Alina.
Relaxing her throat, she takes Nikolai as deeply as she can manage, and she does not fight noise that reverberates around his quarters as her husband unwittingly bucks into her mouth, the chamber echoing with matching groans from both of them. Sex is an inelegant and messy thing, and too much of a performance would give the Darkling the satisfaction of thinking she needs anything but the unfiltered pleasure that her king can give her as often as she pleases, and that he is deserving of no more attention than she might give to a moth chasing the candle-light in the dim quarters.
Although in the safety of sleep her traitorous mind might supply a set of pale and long fingers that tease between her legs or a deep voice steeped in darkness murmuring in her ear, it is always her husband who she wakes with the warm glide of her center, only her husband who she lets spill himself inside of her. And that is what matters, right? Not that her mind unfocused in the delirium of pleasure might occasionally land on someone else, but that she has made her choice and continues to make it each day. ]
I have been thinking of my king's cock all day— [ is her ultimate answer, although she acts as if she is only talking to Nikolai of course, her head turned over her shoulder, her hand replacing the pace of her mouth, stuttering as she moans at the continual efforts of his devoted mouth. Kissing his shaft, she lays her head on his thigh, her breath making it obvious how close she is to being pushed to the edge.
Suddenly, she lifts her hips from his grasp and he follows with a noise of inscrutable protest, his hands grabbing at her ass to close the space between them. ]
No. [ Her breath and heart racing as she wrestles with this self-imposed denial. Before she can convince herself otherwise to just indulge at his mouth again, she presses to her knees, lining herself up to slot themselves together. ] The only place I am going to come tonight is on my husband's cock.
Edited (html is hard) Date: 2021-08-14 10:20 pm (UTC)
[ when nichevo'ya bum-rushed him off his own ship in a blur, nikolai hadn't expected the follow-up bit of consciousness to be — somewhere? somebody's quarters. the darkling's quarters, he's astute enough to piece together with context and the goth grandpa aesthetic of it all.
nikolai really thought the darkling would be boring enough to kill him outright if he ever had the chance. he just hadn't credited the other man with enough creativity for anything else, and that was on him. he takes stock of himself — weaponless, but not bound down. in bed?? his eyes skim the darkness, trying to parse anything besides black from the shadows. ]
If you wanted to spend time alone with me, surely there was a better way to go about it.
[ he calls out in a very usual arrogant tone, keeping his unease lodged firmly in his chest. forming some kind of escape plan could wait until he was actually sure he was alone — unlikely. ]
[ The venerable prince so woefully captured - or was it the undefeated Sturmhond at last snared? How would Nikolai write that miserable tale with the pen in his hand? It doesn't matter, of course, for that is not where the pen presently lies, and it does not matter which name he prefers, nor which face. He could have been no one at all, if the Darkling preferred artless mediocrity, which he did not now, and never had. To leave the dashing prince dead, or to leave the devilish privateer dead, would have been no victory at all. It would have been a shameful waste, moreso.
So there has been no death, of either the heroic or the catastrophic sort, and when Nikolai wakes, it feels to the Darkling as if he has been waiting a solid year, feeling the weight of each day. A sweet indulgence, savoring each moment that way - so many of his days were little more than brute endurance, the prison of persisting, knowing there would be no end. But to this wait, this lapse of well-rewarded patience, there would be an end. He would be met with bright hazel eyes, and there would be nothing that is not his.
The voice that greets him is the tawdry arrogance to which he has become accustomed; there is fear beneath the bluster, as ever. To be alone, he thinks, is no idle observation made. The prince knows he is not alone, and may not ever be again, should his captor be of a mind to share his company. To possess it, as it were.
Rising, he meanders his way to the bed, heeding no sense of urgency. Gray eyes make a new account of his capture, noting again the same inventory of details he had already made himself familiar with, a smile stirring at the corners of his lips despite his habit of holding himself impassive. This victory is too exquisite, too singular a joy to keep smothered. Life is too short - for some, anyway - to not have a glimpse of it. ]
Neither one of us has ever had the patience for negotiations, have we? This is a bit more decisive. I would've thought you'd appreciate a forthright completion.
[ it takes all the inner strength he has available to not just blurt out "a what now?" maybe he's still disoriented from being stone cold unconscious for who knows how long. he props himself up by his elbows, staring the darkling down. (sitting all the way upright feels too nauseating. did he sustain a concussion?? ? ) ]
I thought the points of negotiation were clear. [ in kindergarten terms: give ravka back. it was more complex than that, of course, but returning the throne (to.. uh… him) would be a great starting point. better than the finishing point that "completion" suggested. ] Unless you're holding out for… what, a day in your honor? A parade?
[ while mouthing off, his mind is racing (or trying to. it's doing a warm-up jog) trying to figure out what the darkling could possibly want by keeping him here. why was he not imprisoned properly? that would have made more sense. unless he did plan on some form of negotiation. maybe he was a fancy political prisoner of war. (that the darkling was keeping in his own quarters?)
just to cover his bases, if "political prisoner" was the correct answer to his capture: ]
If you're going to torture me, I'd prefer you avoid my face. It is one of my best features. And when I say face, I mean the whole general head area. Hair, too.
[ If the points of negotiation were ever clear, there would be no need for negotiation. The outcome would be plain and inarguable, with none of it contested. The points of negotiation were nebulous, fickle, mercurial. There was no stability in negotiation, which was why so many shambled into violence, or were drawn out into fruitless deliberations in which neither party was bold enough to set forth their terms and refuse to accept anything less. How many wars could have been avoided if a single man engaged in the negotiating had possessed a backbone?
There are those hazel eyes, then, open at last, glaring at him like the points of two flaming arrows in the dark. A threat? It's hardly for a man trapped to make threats, but the prince has never been one to abide by cautious logic. And just as neither of them would ever behold a parade with any real joy rollicking in their hearts, he knows any semblance of domesticated negotiations would be lost here, in the dark of this room. There are other arts practiced here, far removed from the husk of politics.
He continues forward, rounds the edge of the bed, and reaches a gloved hand to smooth a wrinkle that had answered the prince's waking, the shift of weight that has him now on his elbows. ]
You're accustomed to having what you want, I know, but that is not the same as negotiating. It is also not the same as ruling.
[ The prince wants, naturally, to have Ravka returned to him, as if he were in fact a prince. He presumes this can be done with wit and courage and the fanfare of the commonfolk. There is more to be had, however, than thrones and parades and splendid negotiating.
Curious eyes find his captive's face, which he would not argue is a comely enough feature. It had already won a great many fools over, clearly. He takes a step closer, regards the face in question as it is carved from the shadows, as faint ghosts of light from the window reach thin fingers over the slope of princely nose, the edge of princely jaw. ]
Why would I torture you? You have nothing to tell me. [ Nothing that he does not already know; nothing that he could not have already taken. His voice is unconcerned, conversational. ] You'll keep your face half the time, because you're right, it is your finest feature. But I've been thinking that you should be made to wear a little black, every now and then. I've thought it for a while, actually, but now I know just the way.
[ (a reenactment of nikolai's brain cells: nikolai: i am one of the common folk, i understand their struggles, i'm just like anyone el— anyone: you can't have whatever you want nikolai: j'excuse? i don't believe you. i'm calling the police )
anyway — his brow furrows at that, jaw clenching. what did the darkling know about either? negotiating or ruling? he refuses to accept that anyone else might be better at the job. if they were, what exactly was he playing at here? he could have continued on having wild adventures as sturmhond.
he's still hard at work trying to figure out what the darkling wants out of him. the only thing he hates more than not getting what he wants is not having any idea what's going on. ]
You're picking my clothes? I thought you just said no torture.
[ he fashions a quip out of what he thinks he understands (which isn't much, but he'd rather die than admit to it). it seemed unlikely that "keeping his face" had much to do with wearing black. but that didn't fit as well into said quip, so. ]
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timeasmymeasure
◉ for sunsummoner.
Date: 2021-08-03 03:55 am (UTC)She did not emerge within the hour. She did not emerge at all that morning, or by noon, or by the time the sun had melted and then bled to nothing. By that point he was no longer laughing. A careless, detached amusement festered quite rapidly into outright suspicion. She would never have left voluntarily, out of some mad whim of her own, so someone had taken her. This was a crime. Suspicion, being an impotent fuel, gave way to fury. She was going to be returned, and whichever imbeciles had been bold enough to try and swindle her away would pay a price that did not come with forgiveness. The Darkling was protective of every Grisha under his protection, of course – he would recoup and avenge any of them. The dangerous vitriol of his reaction in this particular case was nothing exceptional. He would have torn apart his study in an anguished rage regardless.
Finding her is, of course, nigh impossible. He has seen to it himself that she is trained not only to be ferociously powerful, always commanding the full thrall of her power, but that she is trained in the art of subtlety, too. The art of commanding with a glance can be as devastating as unleashing a boiling sheet of white light. Earning respect is twice as lasting, twice as successful, when it is won before any demonstration of physical power. He has impressed upon her the necessity of moving like a shadow, and now she has proven that she can be just as elusive. How convenient that she has taken the light with her, leaving him armed with nothing to carve her from the darkness. Where would she have gone? Who would she have allowed to take her?
And then, just as inexplicably as she vanished, she returns again. Naturally, seamlessly, as if this circular travel of hers is as predictable as the sun’s rise and fall. It isn’t – having left him this way is not natural, and it is not going to be repeated again – but the aggressive impulse that wants to greet her is tempered by his relief. She is unharmed. She is, in fact, the opposite of harmed – she is amplified. She is brighter even than she was before. The look on her face is one he must, in bewilderment, take as pride. She is glowing. He has seen her glow, has seen her summon a euphoric light that illuminates her from within, but she looks now to have taken on a new cast. As if ‘bright’ has been given an enhanced definition.
He won’t acknowledge the defiance of her departure by greeting her now with rejoicing relief, so he orders brusquely that she present herself to him. In his own study, after he has composed himself into the unruffled, sleek commander he is. She owes him an explanation, after all – she ought to come and offer it to him for acceptance or refusal. She is indebted, owing him not only an answer but an apology. So he comports himself as if he has not been sleepless for the last handful of nights, arguing himself out of every asinine paranoia of where she could have gone and why.
Now he sits behind his desk as if it has only been an hour since the last time he was inconveniently interrupted – since the last time he has spared her a thought – glancing up when she steps into the crypt-silent room. It’s a flick of grey, the glint of a glare through a sheaf of black hair that has fallen across his eyes. A jerk of his head tosses it aside, and he collects his attention back over the parchment he writes upon, as if resuming a more significant task. He makes his voice as disinterested as he can, though the pulse that threatens just beneath it, the thrum of electricity that has always seemed to bind them, is alive and unsteady, trembling. ]
You do understand the absolute stupidity of what you’ve done, right?
slaps my macaroni tag art in here
Date: 2021-08-07 07:32 am (UTC)she confides in no one. not genya, her truest friend — only friend in this den of vipers, eager to strike at her with their poisonous reminders of her unique position. not the darkling, despite the keen edge of his gaze — steely as a blade, glittering gray twice as sharply — and how often it feels as though he slices to cavity in her chest until she's pouring out her heart and its poorly kept secrets onto his floorboards. the temptation is there once, twice; there is power in holding a favored position at his side, after all, no matter the twittering gossip from the grisha that flock through these halls. favored. chosen. bitter little songs that have echoed after her footsteps since her arrival. she is all of those things and more, but — it chafes where it had once been comfortable, an insult that brushes against her bruised pride. she can't — won't — rely on aleksander to nurture the power she so desperately needs by delivering her the stag wrapped up in a pretty bow.
it isn't her finest plan, all of its details forgotten in the wake of her impulsive desire to escape his protective shadow. if he knew, he might call her mad. if he knew, he might think of her as little more than a girl with a mind still cluttered by childish things. if he knew, he might locate the stag for her, dragging to her doorstep like an overgrown cat depositing a gift. somehow, that's the worst fate of all — a testament to how incapable he must find her, how guarded he keeps her, how little she has proven herself within these walls. there is no world where she will ever be more than his ward, more than his protege — where he will ever see her as his equal — if she cannot prove it.
and so she sets off without warning, wrapping strands of sunlight as he's taught her, threads of brightness that obscure her from view — a trick she has played on ivan countless times to escape his hawklike guarding, taking flight out of his view. she returns home in much the same fashion — a flashing specter that settles into a tangible girl, bright and glowing. the black shroud of her kefta cloaks the bloody speckles drying on her palms, a sickening imitation of the paints and charcoals that often coats her skin. he would give you anything, if you thought to ask for it, genya had teased one morning, before alina had silenced her with a flick of water from her tub. books for her idle sketches, flakey pastries when she grimaces at the first touch of herring to her tongue, the fine frills of her nightgown — the stag, too, if she had thought to ask for it.
if only taking it hadn't felt so much — more. if only taking it hadn't felt so right, its molten power pouring through her like liquified gold in her veins. she can sense its pooling heat even now as she stands before him, too intoxicating to be replaced by remorse. it sits in her veins, a glowing star pulsing brighter, as she eyes him with a disappointed frown. where she had thought there would be pride, there is only ...
nearly nothing. a scolding. the stag's antlers drag its points across the pale column of her throat, hidden by the draping fur of her kefta, as if pricking her with the offense he's caused. stupid. nothing about this newfound power is stupid. ]
No. [ not a hint of sarcasm. her reply is (perhaps infuriatingly) sincere, and without self-preservation when she knows well enough that he'll be displeased with it. let him, alina thinks; then the both of them will be displeased with each other. you can't coddle me forever. you wouldn't have lectured fedyor if he did what i have. those childish defenses flicker and fade on her tongue, though they scrape her throat as they're swallowed down. she can't act petulant if she wants him to regard her as more than the little girl who had tracked mud into his palace, more than a pupil. her chest rises and falls with the words she has to bite back. she can hear his droll response already, anyway: fedyor is wiser. he would have never run off in the first place. ] You didn't call it stupid when Ivan claimed his amplifier.
[ she drops her gaze to his stack of endless parchment as though they've personally affronted her with thieving his attention, moving forward to round his desk. with careless ease and all of the comfort of a housecat, she sidles onto it — a silent demand for attention. hungry for it, as she's always been, even as he denies it to her. especially when he's chosen to deprive her of it. her gaze only snags on the ink staining the parchment for a moment before it rises, trying to chase his own. look at me. ]
Or when Zoya fought hers. [ she miserably fails to keep her resentment from seeping through, acrid at just the thought of zoya nazyalensky and her constant hostility. nevertheless, it stings — to confront the cuff wrapping zoya's slim wrists, to let her gaze wander to the forepaw dangling from ivan's chain. the stag had always been hers to claim, her vicious appetite whispers to her as it stirs; aleksander has no right to deny her a power that belongs to her, and her alone. ] Why should I be any different?
[ after a delay, she chases her begrudging afterthought and amendment of, ] Sir.
spills glitter everywhere
Date: 2021-08-21 06:25 pm (UTC)The fur of her kefta shields her throat, drapes her slight form in its rich and sweeping folds. She takes this, too, for granted: that she is an acknowledged Grisha in his own keep, that he has allowed her freedoms rarely granted elsewhere. She wears that revered raiment as if she expected to find it awaiting her each morning, as if it were little more than a slip she donned until something more resplendent was delivered. Her hair falls dark against her pale cheeks, and he wonders, as his eyes flick in practiced disinterest over her imperious bearing, what she encountered during her escapade. Is there unwashed blood in drying trails upon her hands, down her slim torso? Does her back, like Zoya's, bear frantic new scars?
No, she says, in sugar-sparkling petulance, defending herself with the achievements of those she delights in likening herself to. He remains seated, unmoving, only his eyes tracking her as she rounds his desk, as impartial to the fact of his space as a wandering cat would be, feet light, tail twitching in agitation. Her dark eyes intrude upon his disbanded parchments, though he knows she cares little for what might be written there, and his own gaze slowly scales the impudent fact of her body until he reaches her face. She is, he knows, waiting for him to meet her eyes, to be speared like a wriggling trout by the neat hook of her stare. He allows her this for only a moment - a glance just long enough to impart to her a low, smoldering fire - and then he reaches past her, tugging a trapped piece of parchment from beneath her thigh. ]
Ivan was given my explicit permission, Miss Starkov. He earned that privilege, and he has never given me reason to doubt that he is deserving of the power vested in him. He is loyal, which is to say, trusting, and not in the habit of reckless misbehavior.
[ He regards the freed parchment with a perusing interest he pointedly does not give to her, tipping his head so black hair sweeps across his brow. ]
Miss Nazyalensky, [ he goes on, his voice darkening with a purposeful, fond warmth, for no other reason to incite his present pupil to crude jealousy ] claimed hers in an act of bravery and clever heroism. You, on the other hand, [ and here his voice takes on the same disapproving edge he'd greeted her with, the tired scorn of one who has seen through a shoddy sham ] acted on impulse and defiance. Let me arrive again at the point that you have behaved stupidly.
[ He glances up from the paper held before him, a reluctant glimpse given to a thing wholly undeserving of the effort it takes to lift his eyes. He notes, even so, how the unsteady candlelight catches in her hair, how it dances before it is swallowed by the dark, how it glides its fingers over what little is bared of her skin, hungry. He knows exactly how that light will harden to fractured crystal in her eyes when her patience begins to fray, and how lovely a sight has that always made? The frustration of a taunted animal too long chained, aching to be turned loose, to prove the worth of its burning energy; how that aggravation will consume the short quick of her temper, how it will turn to pleading, whether she knows it or not.
Sir, she has the sense to append, and his shoulder blades lift, the poise of an animal in anticipation, a tangible pleasure. He does not allow the smile that waits at the corner of his lips to show. He feigns a vast apathy toward the magnitude of what she has done. ]
Neither my Heartrender nor my Squaller was so fixated on being the same as everyone around them. Tell me, then. Was it worthy of a song? Did the sky itself tremble to behold you?
sprinkles sequins to distract from my turtle-y tagging speed this month
Date: 2021-08-29 12:26 am (UTC)she turns that blistering stare on the darkling, daring to burn brighter than the smoldering look he throws her. a meager meal for a girl so starved for the attention he allows her, made into something gluttonous and greedy. it's treasonous to consider the thoughts that race through her mind, defiance that would see any of his lesser grisha — less valuable than the sun summoner, emboldened by the knowledge that he is in needs her power as he has needed no other's — punished. she will show him, if he does not believe in her as the world does. if he will not offer her the same faith, if he does not think this show of power is worth a second glance.
the way to accomplish that is not, she knows, through childishly tearing apart ivan and zoya; it's only the darkling's emphasis on lessons of strategy, a skill she hasn't fully absorbed when she's a creature of impulse and instinct, that prevents her tongue from delivering a lashing. loyal, which is to say unimaginative. are you sure we're talking about the same zoya, by the way? she does nothing heroic unless it's for her own benefit. she swallows the words down like jagged glass in her throat with a petulant little twist to her nose that gives away her desire to behave sourly. sullen, like the deliberate swing of her legs as she sidles along the wooden edge of his desk, demandingly placing herself in his focus, the corner of his parchment and its inked words caged beneath her weight. ]
Maybe it would have been stupid. [ she hasn't missed the rise in his shoulders, like a preening beast. it feels like a bumbling technique, not nearly as gracefully delivered as his orders and decisions, but — she's hungry to slide back into his good graces. ] If anyone else had trained me.
[ instinct leads her to boldly and mindlessly reach for him — a brush of her hand combing the messy swipe of that fallen hair upward, rearranging it back into its usual orderly state. the stench of blood and sacrifice follows the trail her hands take, as though she is still fresh from the slaughter, muddied by the rivulets of blood that have dried across her palms, beneath her kefta, intertwined in dark locks of her hair. messier than she had wanted it to be for an animal that had given itself over to her, that had chosen her to carry its power. guilt swells up in her stomach, though it does nothing to drown the contented thrum of power swimming in her veins. ]
Your Heartrender and Squaller are the same as everyone around them. Their amplifiers wouldn't be so common if that weren't true.
[ the dividing line she draws between herself and the other grisha startles a large part of her, after so many years of wistful looks and longing for their acceptance, wishing to blend into the swaths of etherealki blue in the courtyard. she wonders, for a moment, when that had occurred — if she had accepted it as soon as she had fled, or the moment the antlers had graced her neck to distinguish her as something other. too rare, too powerful, to be anything other than what she is truly meant to be.
an equally large part of her is too hungry for his approval, to set herself apart in his eyes, to be singularly important in ways zoya and ivan may never be. and so she doesn't withdraw her words, chin jutting out in its conviction, as though proving to herself that she won't waver on that point now that she's made it. ]
There isn't any glory in killing the only one of its kind. [ a brief overcast of melancholy clouds her expression, lips pressed together in a frown; she and the stag aren't so different, in that regard, defined by their power. singular, too unique not to be hunted. more than that, the stag deserves more respect than aleksander has given it for the life it had offered to her, with his mocking talk of songs and trembling skies. ] But it chose me. Anyone can try to conquer and claim what isn't given to them, but being chosen is a greater gift.
[ over her kefta, her fingers flutter away to idly trace the clothed outline of the necklace she has crafted for herself, more valuable than any jewel. ]
Would you like to see it?
(nsfw) attempts to npc nikolai also blurs timelines
Date: 2021-08-07 04:33 am (UTC)It had not always been so easy between them. Not long ago she had felt an uneasiness in his ambition, a twist in her gut when she thought he was simply another man like the Apparat or the Darkling who might seek to shape her into something that is ultimately useful for them.
It feels sickening to admit out loud, but it was his monstrous transformation that brought them together. Without the third amplifier, the Firebird ever elusive, Alina's power was not great enough to vanquish all of the Fold. Slowly and steadily, she is able to reclaim pieces of Ravka. She was able to push the demon out enough to return Nikolai to her.
And although it did not entirely vanquish the monster, it was good enough to move forward. After one particularly brutal transformation, Alina gently clasped his hand as he admitted that he was tired, that he feared himself and the bloodthirsty potential that laid inside of him. Leaning close, she felt like she could only offer trite words of comfort except for a sentence echoing in her mind. Gently stroking her thumb across his cheek she told him that she would never turn away.
And then he kissed her. It is not the kiss of a whirlwind electric clash of that she shared with the man who seemed to resent the part of him that might regard her as a person and not a tool, where desire was as destructive as it was alluring. The sort of temptation that was as enticing and as painful and fruitless as trying to catch a flame from a candle.It is not the longing kiss of the boy who wanted a girl that she can no longer be back beside him. A pair where one seemed to dim as the other grew brighter. A kiss of the sort of love that will never go away or be forgotten, but the memories would be as sorrowful as they were beautiful.
No, it is neither of those things. It is like a river, steady and dependable. A current that's powerful and strong and persistent enough to mold the earth to its will if given enough time. It's something that could both sweep her away and cradle her if she wanted it to. Not perfect, but still right. Something that didn't need her, but she could choose all the same.
They wed shortly after.
And although the king and queen share separate quarters, the servants note the frequent visits they pay to one another. No one but the two of them are allowed in the King's quarters, Alina departing each evening and returning each morning.
They are in his rooms now, her back fallen against a truly inordinate amount of pillows, his heavy iron shackles looped around the posts, ignored for now. The Lantsov emerald glitters in the low lamp light, twisted in his golden hair as he feasts between her legs. Nikolai's fingers dig into her thighs, holding her open to lavish her with his mouth. As it turns out, his silver tongue had many talents. Relentless and stubborn and not content to to ever be something as truly horrible as just adequate at anything, the young king took to studying the art of making his bride come with an unrivaled dedication once she had allowed him into her bed.
Just as she had vanquished Nikolai's more constant connection to the Darkling, Alina thought she might have been successful too in severing the tether that hangs between them, having not experience the pleasure of his visits since before their wedding.
She had thought she would be mortified, terrified, horrified if he ever slipped out of the shadows as he is now, the sound of the world dampening around her as he stands in her quarters, her naked and spread open, sweat glistening on her brow. Instead, she finds a sort of vengeful pride swelling in her gut, growling like a lioness considering her hunt. ]
Kolya—
[ A private name, but she rarely calls him Nikolai in their bedroom. To change would be suspicious. She is not finished, but she beckons him up with her hand pressed to the back of his neck. He kisses her lithe body before pressing against her mouth and she revels in the taste of herself on his lips. Confused, he presses his forehead to hers asking if everything is alright, and of course she shakes her head no. ]
I just want to try something different.
[ Alina wonders how much the Darkling can see of Nikolai, if he can tell how she's rolling him onto his back or that she's spreading her thighs over his face. Standing at the foot of their bed, it should be obvious to him what she means to do when she leans over, the characteristic stroke of her hands up and down. The slip of her lips around the head of his cock. The flick of her eyes up to the specter observing them, watching her take another man's cock in her mouth while he pays generous devotion to her cunt. ]
no subject
Date: 2021-08-07 08:23 pm (UTC)Had she thought to defiantly seize back some small part of her destiny by wedding the false prince? Had she thought that perhaps she could earn something akin to true love after all? Is she fool enough to believe the golden-haired fop will ever worship her as a woman, and not as an idol for him to triple his own worth? Surely she is clever enough to see all that she can ever hope to be in that regard. There is, she will find, nothing more crippling than the pursuit of love. She will waste years of her life chasing something that will never be returned to her, and it is in shame and exhaustion that she will realize she has run nowhere at all. She will find herself back where she began, empty-handed, willfully distracted by anything that is not the power that cries within her. Denying it, refusing how it pulses in her like her own blood, which it always will. She is so maddeningly insistent on wasting so much time, and so much of her ripening potential. If pure, unbridled rage could keep him alive, it would have. Perhaps it was due its credit.
She lacks the discipline and the strength to destroy the Fold. Does she cling still to the frivolous notion that it can be done without him? Do she and her gallant young king murmur deep into the night of how light will triumph over darkness? He is tormented quite reliably with visions of what transpires between them when the rest of the palace sleeps. Does she go to him, or does she summon him to her? Does she arch beneath him in the throes of genuine passion, nails scraping up her king’s back, or has she been subdued by the weight of her duty – does she merely tolerate the witless buffoon as he buries himself within her, sheathing his substandard sword? He doesn’t know. When he reaches for her, feeling in the dark for the sliver of their bond, there is only a gaping silence. She has resolutely shut him out. Whether this is a failure of his own will or a demonstration of her kindling power, he cannot be certain. Is she so empty-headed, so whimsical and vapid that she has given herself over fully to her new life? Has she forgotten that he lives at all, now that she has a gilded title and a marvelous throne and a glorious purpose?
It is with a stab of unbecoming, sincerest surprise, then, that he finds himself standing at the foot of her bed. His vision is at first a restless black, the suggestion of movement in a dark wood. His senses are those of a wolf: there is the sound of rustling, breathing. There is flickering light, and as the vision before him resolves into familiarity, his fingers flex with the instinct to touch. Pale, bare skin tempts his dark eyes, and once she takes shape, reposed in her pleasure, his gaze roves, consuming. Shameless, without the grace to act as if he has appeared here by mistake. To act as if he feels anything but a ravenous delight at having found her this way. Not alone, as that gift would have been too simple in its ecstasy. No, she is with her false king, and it is a head of golden hair that gleams between her thighs. Paying meager homage, he assures himself, unpracticed and inelegant, unremarkable in his outlook on human pleasure. Still, even while he knows Nikolai could never do to her the things he himself could, the Darkling bristles with a rabid fury. How easily had she given herself away like this? Who was she thinking of when she was at last driven over the edge, presuming she had ever accomplished true satisfaction at all?
And even so; even so, in spite of the scathing glare he levels with her face, he feels a twinge of excitement when she turns the king onto his back, when she claims his face with open legs, and descends upon him with first her hands and then her mouth. His own cock, he is enraged to feel, is easily baited by this farce – an insistent stirring beneath the layers of black he wears, a coarse twist of the basest lust. Refusing to break from the silence with which he has come to this scene, he watches with what he can muster of cool indifference as her lips take her husband into the flower of her mouth. This was no slip of careless fortune. She had wanted him to see her for the first time again like this, hadn’t she? Flagrant in her betrayal, giving to another with lush warmth what she had so frostily denied him.
He takes a step closer, holding her eyes once she has made clear that she means to insult him with a pointed stare while she wastes her glories upon someone so far beneath her. The hammer in his chest is, he knows, his jealous heart, but beneath that short-fused instinct is something darker, something deeper, something that is reveling in this little sham of intimacy that he was never meant to see. And regardless of whether or not she meant to invite him here, he has decided that she will not push him out. So he observes her as if judging a fledging Grisha on her performance, his fingers rising to curl slowly around the edge of the bed’s footboard. If this had been him, he likes to think, she would not have had the composure to raise her eyes away from him. She would already be writhing, one gasping cry rising into the next, nothing but him on her mind, nothing but the insatiable glide of his tongue where she would be, he knows, desperately, pleadingly wet.
He dips his head in as if to offer advice, his voice thick with venom. ]
Something different would be thinking of your beloved king instead of thinking of me. You’re aching for me even now.
no subject
Date: 2021-08-14 10:20 pm (UTC)But the white-knuckled grip he has on the bed and the sting in his voice is proof enough that no one is immune to these games. While later she might feel ashamed for the truly unforgivable way she is using the private exchange between a husband and wife as a knife to execute her vengeance, now she cannot wrench herself from the sinful grip of lust and pride that heighten each slip of Nikolai's tongue against her, his nose and chin soaked more and more as he fixes his his lips around the bud between her legs, his favorite way to pay respects to Sankta Alina.
Relaxing her throat, she takes Nikolai as deeply as she can manage, and she does not fight noise that reverberates around his quarters as her husband unwittingly bucks into her mouth, the chamber echoing with matching groans from both of them. Sex is an inelegant and messy thing, and too much of a performance would give the Darkling the satisfaction of thinking she needs anything but the unfiltered pleasure that her king can give her as often as she pleases, and that he is deserving of no more attention than she might give to a moth chasing the candle-light in the dim quarters.
Although in the safety of sleep her traitorous mind might supply a set of pale and long fingers that tease between her legs or a deep voice steeped in darkness murmuring in her ear, it is always her husband who she wakes with the warm glide of her center, only her husband who she lets spill himself inside of her. And that is what matters, right? Not that her mind unfocused in the delirium of pleasure might occasionally land on someone else, but that she has made her choice and continues to make it each day. ]
I have been thinking of my king's cock all day— [ is her ultimate answer, although she acts as if she is only talking to Nikolai of course, her head turned over her shoulder, her hand replacing the pace of her mouth, stuttering as she moans at the continual efforts of his devoted mouth. Kissing his shaft, she lays her head on his thigh, her breath making it obvious how close she is to being pushed to the edge.
Suddenly, she lifts her hips from his grasp and he follows with a noise of inscrutable protest, his hands grabbing at her ass to close the space between them. ]
No. [ Her breath and heart racing as she wrestles with this self-imposed denial. Before she can convince herself otherwise to just indulge at his mouth again, she presses to her knees, lining herself up to slot themselves together. ] The only place I am going to come tonight is on my husband's cock.
an au of ruin & rising stuff bc i do what i want
Date: 2021-08-30 02:20 am (UTC)and the goth grandpa aesthetic of it all.nikolai really thought the darkling would be boring enough to kill him outright if he ever had the chance. he just hadn't credited the other man with enough creativity for anything else, and that was on him. he takes stock of himself — weaponless, but not bound down. in bed?? his eyes skim the darkness, trying to parse anything besides black from the shadows. ]
If you wanted to spend time alone with me, surely there was a better way to go about it.
[ he calls out in a very usual arrogant tone, keeping his unease lodged firmly in his chest. forming some kind of escape plan could wait until he was actually sure he was alone — unlikely. ]
🖤
Date: 2021-09-02 05:44 am (UTC)So there has been no death, of either the heroic or the catastrophic sort, and when Nikolai wakes, it feels to the Darkling as if he has been waiting a solid year, feeling the weight of each day. A sweet indulgence, savoring each moment that way - so many of his days were little more than brute endurance, the prison of persisting, knowing there would be no end. But to this wait, this lapse of well-rewarded patience, there would be an end. He would be met with bright hazel eyes, and there would be nothing that is not his.
The voice that greets him is the tawdry arrogance to which he has become accustomed; there is fear beneath the bluster, as ever. To be alone, he thinks, is no idle observation made. The prince knows he is not alone, and may not ever be again, should his captor be of a mind to share his company. To possess it, as it were.
Rising, he meanders his way to the bed, heeding no sense of urgency. Gray eyes make a new account of his capture, noting again the same inventory of details he had already made himself familiar with, a smile stirring at the corners of his lips despite his habit of holding himself impassive. This victory is too exquisite, too singular a joy to keep smothered. Life is too short - for some, anyway - to not have a glimpse of it. ]
Neither one of us has ever had the patience for negotiations, have we? This is a bit more decisive. I would've thought you'd appreciate a forthright completion.
no subject
Date: 2021-09-02 10:04 pm (UTC)I thought the points of negotiation were clear. [ in kindergarten terms: give ravka back. it was more complex than that, of course, but returning the throne (to.. uh… him) would be a great starting point. better than the finishing point that "completion" suggested. ] Unless you're holding out for… what, a day in your honor? A parade?
[ while mouthing off, his mind is racing (or trying to. it's doing a warm-up jog) trying to figure out what the darkling could possibly want by keeping him here. why was he not imprisoned properly? that would have made more sense. unless he did plan on some form of negotiation. maybe he was a fancy political prisoner of war. (that the darkling was keeping in his own quarters?)
just to cover his bases, if "political prisoner" was the correct answer to his capture: ]
If you're going to torture me, I'd prefer you avoid my face. It is one of my best features. And when I say face, I mean the whole general head area. Hair, too.
no subject
Date: 2021-09-03 12:49 am (UTC)There are those hazel eyes, then, open at last, glaring at him like the points of two flaming arrows in the dark. A threat? It's hardly for a man trapped to make threats, but the prince has never been one to abide by cautious logic. And just as neither of them would ever behold a parade with any real joy rollicking in their hearts, he knows any semblance of domesticated negotiations would be lost here, in the dark of this room. There are other arts practiced here, far removed from the husk of politics.
He continues forward, rounds the edge of the bed, and reaches a gloved hand to smooth a wrinkle that had answered the prince's waking, the shift of weight that has him now on his elbows. ]
You're accustomed to having what you want, I know, but that is not the same as negotiating. It is also not the same as ruling.
[ The prince wants, naturally, to have Ravka returned to him, as if he were in fact a prince. He presumes this can be done with wit and courage and the fanfare of the commonfolk. There is more to be had, however, than thrones and parades and splendid negotiating.
Curious eyes find his captive's face, which he would not argue is a comely enough feature. It had already won a great many fools over, clearly. He takes a step closer, regards the face in question as it is carved from the shadows, as faint ghosts of light from the window reach thin fingers over the slope of princely nose, the edge of princely jaw. ]
Why would I torture you? You have nothing to tell me. [ Nothing that he does not already know; nothing that he could not have already taken. His voice is unconcerned, conversational. ] You'll keep your face half the time, because you're right, it is your finest feature. But I've been thinking that you should be made to wear a little black, every now and then. I've thought it for a while, actually, but now I know just the way.
no subject
Date: 2021-09-03 01:36 am (UTC)nikolai: i am one of the common folk, i understand their struggles, i'm just like anyone el—
anyone: you can't have whatever you want
nikolai: j'excuse? i don't believe you. i'm calling the police )
anyway — his brow furrows at that, jaw clenching. what did the darkling know about either? negotiating or ruling? he refuses to accept that anyone else might be better at the job. if they were, what exactly was he playing at here? he could have continued on having wild adventures as sturmhond.
he's still hard at work trying to figure out what the darkling wants out of him. the only thing he hates more than not getting what he wants is not having any idea what's going on. ]
You're picking my clothes? I thought you just said no torture.
[ he fashions a quip out of what he thinks he understands (which isn't much, but he'd rather die than admit to it). it seemed unlikely that "keeping his face" had much to do with wearing black. but that didn't fit as well into said quip, so. ]