I need just ONE icon of him smiling come on screencaps...
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shadowfolds
2021-04-25 08:00 pm (UTC)(link)
Yet here you are, bent on thwarting my efforts to remain utterly humourless.
Itβs almost effective. But the impossible is nothing if not difficult to achieve.
[ from here ]
without vegetables, agreed. i don't think you need them.
[ She writes as if she's an expert sext-er and not awkwardly fumbling through this, unused to being seen in such a way. maybe it's time to forge her own path instead of the one charted out for her though. ]
that's a good start. my mind always wanders when i'm on the cusp of sleep. it's harder to remember why you shouldn't want certain things.
without vegetables, agreed. i don't think you need them.
[ She writes as if she's an expert sext-er and not awkwardly fumbling through this, unused to being seen in such a way. maybe it's time to forge her own path instead of the one charted out for her though. ]
that's a good start. my mind always wanders when i'm on the cusp of sleep. it's harder to remember why you shouldn't want certain things.
Well, to be honest, the Palace stew would be terrible with them. But not for this.
I don't know if I should envy you, or feel relived that I've never managed to forget why certain things are out of my reach.
And what might that be, you might ask. It's fair skin; pale against my dark sheets. It's soft hair on my pillow. I reach out in the middle of the night, and there's someone there to reach back. The crackling heat of a first kiss, and the breathless anticipation of a second one.
I don't know if I should envy you, or feel relived that I've never managed to forget why certain things are out of my reach.
And what might that be, you might ask. It's fair skin; pale against my dark sheets. It's soft hair on my pillow. I reach out in the middle of the night, and there's someone there to reach back. The crackling heat of a first kiss, and the breathless anticipation of a second one.
That doesn't stop hope, even if it would be the most sensible thing.
Yes, damn you. When I wake up, the darkness thick enough to swallow up any sounds farther away than my own bed, that's when I want it so much that I can taste it. That's when I feel the ghost-fingers of whoever I yearn for against my skin. On my lips. I can feel her legs wrapped tightly around my waist and if I hold my breath, I swear I can almost hear her gasping.
Yes, damn you. When I wake up, the darkness thick enough to swallow up any sounds farther away than my own bed, that's when I want it so much that I can taste it. That's when I feel the ghost-fingers of whoever I yearn for against my skin. On my lips. I can feel her legs wrapped tightly around my waist and if I hold my breath, I swear I can almost hear her gasping.
i would guess whoever's caught your attention is thinking of you too awakened by an ache she can't soothe herself.
she'd probably think of your lips, hot and pressed up against her neck.
or your fingers, greedily gripped around her wrists or digging into her thighs.
or your eyes, dark and intense, watching from your spot between her thighs.
she'd probably think of your lips, hot and pressed up against her neck.
or your fingers, greedily gripped around her wrists or digging into her thighs.
or your eyes, dark and intense, watching from your spot between her thighs.
I live in hope that this could be the truth.
Is mind-reading another one of your talents, miss Starkov? Because you take the words right out of my mind, the ideas grabbed straight from out of a dream. Of a naked body, spread out before me on the softest bed in the Palace. A dream about her gasping moans and my mouth sliding over her skin. Of exploring her body, that first careful taste to learn what makes her groan and gasp and give herself to me. A chance to worship her lips, to watch her head tip back in ecstasy when I slip my fingers inside of her.
Waking from a dream like that, I am nothing but a man desperately longing for this woman to come to me.
Is mind-reading another one of your talents, miss Starkov? Because you take the words right out of my mind, the ideas grabbed straight from out of a dream. Of a naked body, spread out before me on the softest bed in the Palace. A dream about her gasping moans and my mouth sliding over her skin. Of exploring her body, that first careful taste to learn what makes her groan and gasp and give herself to me. A chance to worship her lips, to watch her head tip back in ecstasy when I slip my fingers inside of her.
Waking from a dream like that, I am nothing but a man desperately longing for this woman to come to me.
i guarantee she's thinking of the same.
she'd be so wet from the anticipation alone. being lavished like that... is she used to it? she might make noises that she never has before. her hands would curl in your hair, buried there while her whole body would be pulled as tight as a bowstring. she'd clench so tightly around around your fingers, trying to memorize the feel of it.
are you merciful? would you bring her to the brink over and over again and make her beg. what would you whisper into her thighs to coax her over the edge?
just send her a video of you eating a fig and you might find her in your bed.
she'd be so wet from the anticipation alone. being lavished like that... is she used to it? she might make noises that she never has before. her hands would curl in your hair, buried there while her whole body would be pulled as tight as a bowstring. she'd clench so tightly around around your fingers, trying to memorize the feel of it.
are you merciful? would you bring her to the brink over and over again and make her beg. what would you whisper into her thighs to coax her over the edge?
just send her a video of you eating a fig and you might find her in your bed.
I don't just want her to think of it, I want her to dream of me and me alone. To wake up sweaty and aching for me.
I hope she's untouched, that she has known no other touch than mine. That it will always be my hands on her body, when she tosses and turns in her narrow bed at night. That it's always going to be my mouth and my lips, licking her open and getting her ready. I think about her body shaking, how tight she might be around me when she comes. Around my tongue or my fingers or my cock.
What do you think about, Alina, when you touch yourself in the dark?
I hope she's untouched, that she has known no other touch than mine. That it will always be my hands on her body, when she tosses and turns in her narrow bed at night. That it's always going to be my mouth and my lips, licking her open and getting her ready. I think about her body shaking, how tight she might be around me when she comes. Around my tongue or my fingers or my cock.
What do you think about, Alina, when you touch yourself in the dark?
i think of hands that aren't my own. fantasies of how they got there and why they're touching me.
maybe we had snuck away from a dinner or the fete, so hurried that he'd just press me against the door of the first empty room we could find. i'd feel the hard line of his cock pressing between my legs, and i'd know that i did that. that it's because he wanted me. that we were in a ballroom full of people and he could only look at me, think of me.
he'd fall on his knees in front of me, push my gown out of the way, guide one of my legs over his shoulder just to put his mouth on me.
that he'd make me come harder than i'd ever have on my own.
how he'd lift me up like i was nothing, how his cock would stretch me like nothing else has before.
that he'd tease me about being loud as he had me against a door, but i don't think he'd actually want me to be quiet.
maybe we had snuck away from a dinner or the fete, so hurried that he'd just press me against the door of the first empty room we could find. i'd feel the hard line of his cock pressing between my legs, and i'd know that i did that. that it's because he wanted me. that we were in a ballroom full of people and he could only look at me, think of me.
he'd fall on his knees in front of me, push my gown out of the way, guide one of my legs over his shoulder just to put his mouth on me.
that he'd make me come harder than i'd ever have on my own.
how he'd lift me up like i was nothing, how his cock would stretch me like nothing else has before.
that he'd tease me about being loud as he had me against a door, but i don't think he'd actually want me to be quiet.
[ cont. ]
[ Alina has the distinct feeling that she is in danger. But that's never stopped her before and she isn't about to let it now. ]
Unfortunately I've left all my blessings in my chambers.
Somewhere along the way I got soft.
Warming stones and silk sheets aren't necessities but that doesn't mean I'd say no to them.
Is that a promise?
I should have figured you'd like the hunt.
[ Alina has the distinct feeling that she is in danger. But that's never stopped her before and she isn't about to let it now. ]
Unfortunately I've left all my blessings in my chambers.
Somewhere along the way I got soft.
Warming stones and silk sheets aren't necessities but that doesn't mean I'd say no to them.
Is that a promise?
I should have figured you'd like the hunt.
Edited 2021-06-26 21:16 (UTC)
I see you still haven't learned your worth.
Warming stones and silk sheets are always necessities. Do not settle for less.
[ i should have figured you'd like the hunt. it's a truth that welds itself to her bones, thrumming and heavy. she has been vicious in her hunt for recognition — the right to earned power and prestige. if the world would not acknowledge her worth, she would seize it herself — bleed for it, battle for it, snap it up into her jaws until none could thieve it from her again. she wills the thought away, but the thrill of clawing into alina —
it remains, a rush of heady adrenaline storming in her veins. ]
No. A warning.
Why hunt willing prey? I prefer to toy with mine.
You sound like you want to be played with, Starkov.
Warming stones and silk sheets are always necessities. Do not settle for less.
[ i should have figured you'd like the hunt. it's a truth that welds itself to her bones, thrumming and heavy. she has been vicious in her hunt for recognition — the right to earned power and prestige. if the world would not acknowledge her worth, she would seize it herself — bleed for it, battle for it, snap it up into her jaws until none could thieve it from her again. she wills the thought away, but the thrill of clawing into alina —
it remains, a rush of heady adrenaline storming in her veins. ]
No. A warning.
Why hunt willing prey? I prefer to toy with mine.
You sound like you want to be played with, Starkov.
Entertainment has to be found somewhere other than the Fetes, you know. Besides, I do enjoy the expression Fedyor makes when he doesn't expect me to know what goes on within these walls.
I appreciate it and I'm sure some ghostly ancestor would love to hear what drama occurs in our small corner of the world.
I appreciate it and I'm sure some ghostly ancestor would love to hear what drama occurs in our small corner of the world.
The most stubborn of spirits can still be broken. All it takes is a skilled hand.
One that knows when to withhold pleasure, and when to offer it as a gift.
I'll enjoy taming yours.
[ not breaking it, no. zoya's own spirit is too indomitable, too fanged and too savage, not to be called to that same wildness in another soul. ]
An easy challenge is neither worth my precious effort or my valuable time. Do you doubt my ability, zaika?
Or are you so desperate for punishment tonight? Is little Alina tired of being treated like delicate glass?
Go on then, if that's your plan. I do love having an excuse to leave you bruised and sore.
One that knows when to withhold pleasure, and when to offer it as a gift.
I'll enjoy taming yours.
[ not breaking it, no. zoya's own spirit is too indomitable, too fanged and too savage, not to be called to that same wildness in another soul. ]
An easy challenge is neither worth my precious effort or my valuable time. Do you doubt my ability, zaika?
Or are you so desperate for punishment tonight? Is little Alina tired of being treated like delicate glass?
Go on then, if that's your plan. I do love having an excuse to leave you bruised and sore.
It is rather odd isn't it?
They expect saints to be precious, meek things and then ask them to carry out their vengeance.
Praise the saints' bravery as if they actually had a choice.
They absolve themselves because they have distance from their seat in the pews.
So no, Zoya. I don't doubt you.
You don't hide what you want behind a more convenient lie.
You own it.
They expect saints to be precious, meek things and then ask them to carry out their vengeance.
Praise the saints' bravery as if they actually had a choice.
They absolve themselves because they have distance from their seat in the pews.
So no, Zoya. I don't doubt you.
You don't hide what you want behind a more convenient lie.
You own it.
The boat to Novyi Zem is overcrowded. Cramped and damp, with the miserable murmur of voices from every corner as a dull susurration accompanying them night and day. The tenor changes along with the sea; panicked scatterings of prayer when the waters are rough, pattering, easy conversations when waters are calm.
Their trio of companions make themselves at home one way or another. There are days when Mal joins Jesper to gamble on the deck, or observes Kaz making a circuit of the deck, or climbs up into the rigging alongside the sailors. The restless prickle of anxiety he'd carried out of the darkness with him has settled, grown muted in the course of their crossing; there is only so much planning to be done aboard this ship.
It still circles at the edges of their conversation. A snippet of when we disembark— or we must be sure to—
But there is not yet conversation tonight.
There is the two of them, tucked close on deck. The sea is choppy, and their cloaks are damp, and Mal stands very close to her, arms bracketing her to keep Alina steady as the boat plows forward towards the uncertain future they've chosen for themselves.
"Are you tired?" is an idle question, perhaps not worth breaking the quiet over. "It should be safe to go down. Madame Apolena should be asleep by now, so we won't hear of her bad knees and neglectful sons."
"I don't want to go down yet," which is not a yes or a no to his initial question, but the soft loll of her head to the side, the slow blink of heavy lids speaks for her.
Dull and cloudy skies make her hands look even paler against the deep brown taffrail of the ship, but the skies and temperamental are not the only thing that steal the color from her cheeks, not the sole source uneasy nights that leave her tired into the day. She strums her fingers, imagining the light twirling around them like she might fidget with a pencil. Sankta Alina is a title she is not ready to reconcile with, but in tucking it away she hides another part of herself, bright and bold but not at all suited to subtlety.
Invisibility is their safety here, but no mastery of light or shadow is needed to accomplish that. There is some nostalgic comfort that sits in being anonymous and ordinary. Ghosts that can slip away unnoticed.
His bicep makes for a comfortable place to rest her head, his body the protective shield and comfort of a home she never had, a warmth echoing a comfort she could never concretely place. There is so much uncertainty ahead of them that she has grown less cautious with Mal. Hesitation is for those who have the luxury of time, although there are still questions she cannot put words to, instead asked and answered in held breaths and gentle touches, steadier than the rocky seas below their feet.
"And she's just lonely," not to be too defensive of Madame Apolena, but that's a feeling Alina understands well.
"Her snoring is worse than her stories though," Alina muses ideally, having given up on trying to keep her eyes open, and settling for just pillowing her head against Mal's arm. "Worse than your impression of a bear in hibernation you do each night."
Dull and cloudy skies make her hands look even paler against the deep brown taffrail of the ship, but the skies and temperamental are not the only thing that steal the color from her cheeks, not the sole source uneasy nights that leave her tired into the day. She strums her fingers, imagining the light twirling around them like she might fidget with a pencil. Sankta Alina is a title she is not ready to reconcile with, but in tucking it away she hides another part of herself, bright and bold but not at all suited to subtlety.
Invisibility is their safety here, but no mastery of light or shadow is needed to accomplish that. There is some nostalgic comfort that sits in being anonymous and ordinary. Ghosts that can slip away unnoticed.
His bicep makes for a comfortable place to rest her head, his body the protective shield and comfort of a home she never had, a warmth echoing a comfort she could never concretely place. There is so much uncertainty ahead of them that she has grown less cautious with Mal. Hesitation is for those who have the luxury of time, although there are still questions she cannot put words to, instead asked and answered in held breaths and gentle touches, steadier than the rocky seas below their feet.
"And she's just lonely," not to be too defensive of Madame Apolena, but that's a feeling Alina understands well.
"Her snoring is worse than her stories though," Alina muses ideally, having given up on trying to keep her eyes open, and settling for just pillowing her head against Mal's arm. "Worse than your impression of a bear in hibernation you do each night."
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