Prompt... How about... soulmate mark on your soulmates body. Could be first words, matching mark, soulmates injury on ur soulmates body for example. What kinda soulmark au dealers choice 😅
I'm having flashbacks to ur amazing soul mate fic for reylo Skymarked Souls, so would loooove too see ur take on a soulmate mark with oshamir x
Omg okay this is 100% cheating because I wrote this when the show was airing and never posted it - and also I apologise because it’s based on the exact same scene as my last post - BUT have some first word Soulmate AU! ALSO - thank you for your kind message Anon, I can’t believe anyone remembers those old fics! It really made my day!💜
Ship: Oshamir || Rating: T || Words: 2100ish
Osha’s entire life has been defined by one word.
One incredibly, overwhelmingly, ordinary word.
Hello.
The small greeting, written in a messy, angular hand over the left side of her ribs has changed everything.
At first it’s a blessing, tangible proof that - no matter how much she loves her sister - she’s not Mae. She’s different, they’re different. She may be one of two but they’re not identical in every way, the word is hers and hers alone. It doesn’t matter how mad Mae gets, or how worried her mothers seem, it’s something just for her and she holds onto it - no matter how selfish it sometimes feels.
Then her world burns, she meets the Jedi, and the word becomes a curse.
The day Sol finds out is the third worst in her memory. Sol’s disappointment is seared into her brain, another Padawan tattling on her after they’d shared the showers after a training session. When he’d pulled her aside his expression had been so final - like a failure, another death.
Still, he’d softened the blow - explaining in his softest, most careful voice that the word was the mark of a soul mate bond, a perfect prophecy of her future partner's first interaction with her. It could happen to anyone, Sol told her, force sensitive or not. Her soul was meant to meet with another, to intertwine in a dance older and vaster than the galaxy.
“Why?” she’d whispered around the knife suddenly lodged in her chest.
“People are flawed,” he’d answered so, so patiently, “we don’t always recognise our match - we can be pushed, persuaded, blinded by our own prejudice… the words ensure we do not miss our moment.”
It wasn’t the answer she wanted, or the question she was asking. When she asked ‘why’ she hadn’t meant ‘why do they exist?’ but rather ‘why me? Why now? Why has the universe forsaken me again?”
It felt like a cruel trick, the council always said she couldn’t let go of her attachments and this just proved it.
It wasn’t fair. She’d wanted so much to be her own person, to forge her own path, but it had been snatched away from her again - set fire to by her own skin this time.
Sol had tried to console her, telling her that it wasn’t impossible for her to be a Jedi, that there were others with marks - they were rare but they existed. It just meant she had to work harder.
And she did.
She worked harder, and harder and harder and so damn hard, and it didn’t change a thing.
Here she stands with the fruits of her labor, an out of work Meknek chasing her dead sister through a strange world on the orders of people she’ll never be good enough for.
Osha doesn’t flinch as she walks the streets of Olega through a hail of ‘hello’s, two dozen greetings in a half dozen languages as the street hawkers try and draw her attention towards their goods.
Hellos are a prophecy she no longer believes in, not after she’s heard so many of them. Yord. Jecki. Padawans and masters and mechanics and absolute strangers. She’s drowned in hellos over the years and none of them have changed a goddamn thing, they haven’t kept anyone from leaving.
Her soulmate, whoever the hell they are, has never bothered to show up and she’s long since stopped looking.
Swallowing down her feelings, Osha forces herself to focus through her discontentment, she sees a woman selling scarves at the side of the street and remembers her mission. Mae is alive, the focus of so much of her rage and hatred and love, Mae is alive and Osha has to stop her.
Fumbling with her credits, Osha swaps a handful for a length of dark wool, looping it around her neck in the way her sister has been seen wearing. She straightens her back beneath it, trying to carry herself like she imagines Mae would as she eyes up her destination.
She can do this, even if she’s not a Jedi anymore she can still do her best to save them. For Sol and his endless hope, for Kelnecca and his kindness to her, for Indara and Torbin who saved her even though she couldn’t save them.
Squeezing her hands tightly at her sides she strides towards the apothecary, the noise of the street fading as she ducks between the blast doors.
The shop is small, cluttered, the air heavy with a mix of herbs and extracts, sweet and earthy and almost nostalgic. The man she’s here to interrogate is slumped against the wall behind the counter, he’s youngish and scruffy looking with magnifying lenses covering half his face and a pale bloom cupped in his hand.
Clearing her throat she begins her ruse, “Hello?”
The stranger glances up with a smile and a wave, a brief noise of surprise followed by a cheery, “Hello..”
His voice is pleasant if unremarkable, and the fact he’s just repeated her word only makes her heart jump for a single beat, and only because she was just thinking about it. If anything it reminds her just how stupid the Force was to give her ‘Hello’ in the first place, the words are supposed to ensure she doesn’t miss her fated match and yet, for all the dozens upon dozens of times she’s been given that first hello, nothing ever changes.
He glances back at the plant again and she determines this particular stranger isn’t any different, the disappointment now a mild throb rather than the aching pain it had been a few years ago. He isn’t a good candidate anyway, not if he’s supplying poison to her murderous sister.
“Hi,” she says after an awkward pause where she tries to find her footing, the mission had sounded so simple when Jecki suggested it but now she’s here, sweating under the coarse wool of her new cloak, she can’t seem to wrap her tongue around the right words.
How does one successfully pretend to be the Jedi-killing assassin twin they’ve believed to be dead for 16 years?
“Hi?” he repeats, almost a question as his attention fixes on the flower again for a long moment before, with a blink and a shake of his head, he perks up, “hi!”
Kicking away from the wall he pulls the goggles off, casting the plant aside as he fixes her properly with his attention at last.
—-
The word has been there as long as he remembers, too long perhaps, a simple thing in a delicate, sloping hand. It is his only constant, the only thing that remains even as he changes names and identities like other people change clothes. It is his secret, his comfort, a tether to the world when all else fails and the universe threatens to crush in on him completely.
Hello.
A greeting, a start, a reminder that - no matter how long it feels like he’s waited - it won’t be forever. His match is promised, destined, waiting for him somewhere out there in the reaches of space and time. It doesn’t matter how many would-be pupils fail him, he knows she won’t.
His perfect partner.
His soul mate.
Her.
“Hello.”
It takes all his years of training to keep his eyes on the bud in his hands and his body where it stands, going through the motions of the charade even as something inside of him swells. Hundreds of people have said it to him before, maybe thousands in his too-long life, but not like this, not like she does.
The woman’s voice forms the slants and shapes of the handwriting over his heart perfectly, her presence filling his head like the smell of ozone after the rain. And, when he finally allows himself to look at her properly, fully, he finds it impossible to look away.
She’s magnificent.
She looks like Mae, structurally at least, but she’s not her, there could never be any mistaking that. She wears her face in a completely different way, all wide eyes and expressive lips, and the Force… it moves around her like nothing he’s ever seen before. It’s like a shoal of fish, a mass of living, breathing energy that twists and turns and follows her every breath. It’s as drawn to her as he is.
“You alright?” He makes himself ask, placing the goggles aside with a silly flourish and a distracted fumble, his hands are unforgivably clumsy, suddenly out of sync with the rest of him as he rounds the counter, “you’re back so early?”
Not-Mae’s throat moves as she swallows. Osha, his mind supplies to him as he follows the movement, this is Osha, the dead twin… only, not so dead it seems. Very much alive in fact. Thank the stars.
“I wanted to see you,” she says, her chin held up imperiously even as something in her eyes wavers.
I wanted to see you too, he thinks with a pang of yearning so deep it makes his bones ache, for so very very long…
Outwardly however he only allows a fraction of his surprise to register on his face, pointing to himself in confusion, “see me? Oh…”
His eyes dance over her again, thinking how easy it would be to snatch her away right here and now. A twist of his powers, a few shortcuts, and they could be out of the city before anyone even realized, somewhere far away where they can do this properly. Like they were supposed to.
He doesn’t of course, not just because she doesn’t seem to have realized the importance of their meeting yet, but also because there is the looming presence of the Jedi she’s brought with her waiting in the wings. They’re somewhere just beyond the perimeter of the shop and, he’s pretty sure, they’re listening. Which is really very annoying.
Still, eons have passed in the time he’s waited to meet her, he’s confident he can keep himself together for a little longer. Just a little though. Just long enough to play this game out to its conclusion then… well, then the galaxy is their oyster.
“Uh Mae…” the name sounds wrong as he says it but he reads the flicker of pride in her eyes just the same, so pleased with herself for her little deception, “are you ok? Did the poison work? Wait…”
He tilts his head, tasting his teeth with his tongue as he approaches again, voice dropping as he feels her excitement warring with her anxiety. Such a beautiful contradiction, “you killed Torbin without the poison… he will be so pleased.”
And he is pleased. So very pleased. He’s so close to her now they’re sharing oxygen, his eyes flickering over her again without his permission - wondering where beneath her layers his handwriting sits, is it over her heart? Her arms? Her stomach? Her thighs? His fingers flex, palms itching with the urge to touch her, to search it out himself right here and now.
Patience, he snaps at himself as he finds her eyes again, deep, true brown and fixed on him,
where they belong. Where she belongs.
“No, I used it,” she says, her outward confidence barely masking the waver in her emotions, how uncertain she’s become as he prowls towards her, crowding her space, “I just… wanted to thank you.”
He has to stop himself from imaging all the ways she might choose to thank him, she’s still pretending after all. Pretending in a way that makes it clear she hasn’t seen her sister in a very long time, Mae is many things - stubborn, stoic, fierce, strong, fickle - but grateful is not one of them. Desirable isn’t either, at least not to him, Osha however…
He bites his lip, moving closer before he can stop himself as he draws the charade to an end at last.
“You look exactly like her,” it’s almost a lie, for all their cosmetic similarities Osha is a different creature entirely, his eyes feasting on her without restraint as he presses into her space.
For a moment she lets him, lets him crowd her, lets him breathe her, her eyes wide as he considers if she’ll let him kiss her too, let him…
She jerks back, breaking the spell as she raises her blaster towards him and the Jedi flood in, leaving him to fall back into his bumbling persona. He raises his hands, all clumsy innocence as he picks up the game again, plays his moves like he had always planned, but his eyes never leave her - not for long anyway.
Ben Solo served as bodyguard for vampire qimir who find his soulmate who reborn as Osha whose student Rey who is vampire hunter
So this prompt was a little too complicated for one scene and I couldn’t quite figure it out, so I ended up streamlining it down to ‘Vampire!Qimir looking for his reincarnated love Osha’ - hope that’s okay! I can always try a reylo ficlet in another prompt 💜
Ship: Oshamir || Rating: T || Words <1k
What cruel twist of fate is this?
Qimir has waited centuries, endured a hundred thousand empty nights in the numbness of her absence. He has seen kings raised up and cut down and the world carved up anew, all while gathering his power in the shadows, biding his time for the day she returns to him.
This day.
The memory of their parting haunts him still, the feeling of her blood soaking his shirt as vivid now as it was then. Her hands ashen and shaking as she’d clutched his face and made him swear he would not follow her into death. Promising him on her last breath that she would come back to him as he cried salt into her wounds. No matter the cost.
So he has waited, for far longer than she could have ever dreamed, far longer than any other soul might, for this one perfect moment. Her return.
The great ballroom is lit up like daylight, candles glowing from every sconce and chandelier as the rich and beautiful of the city mingle together. Everything here is rich, the fabrics and finery and endless wine - the food probably too, not that he can taste it. It is a far cry from the grimy violence of the first life they shared, but now they are too.
She looks exactly like the portrait, the painting offered up to him by a willing acolyte in hopes of gaining his favour. The eldest Miss Aniseya in repose. She is dressed much the same now, her hair twisted up in the latest style and pinned with flowers, the lace-trimmed bodice of her gown rising and falling with every promised breath as the blood pumps steadily beneath her skin.
She is here. She is alive.
Only… only it’s not her at all.
Oh, she looks like her alright, just as the portrait had promised she would. The same features, the soft heart shaped face and tantalizingly full lips, the warm brown eyes and delicate brows, but it’s not her. This person is wearing his beloved's face all wrong, her posture at odds with his memory and her soul…
He cannot feel her as he once did.
There’s no spark beneath his skin, no rush in his stolen blood as their eyes touch across the room. She glances at him for a fraction of a fraction of a second, just long enough to dismiss him before she turns away completely.
The pain cripples him, a physical thing that pushes him backward into the shadows at the edge of the room. He seeks comfort in the darkness, the glass-fragile hope he once held shattered inside of him and leaving him bleeding from within.
This is the cruelest punishment the gods have yet devised for him. A hundred-fold payment for his sins, all his wrong doings thrown into sharp relief by this… this cheap facsimile of what he loves most.
“Miss Aniseya!” A voice calls to her, her stranger’s eyes widening as another young woman approaches through the crowd, “Maeho! It is Mae, isn’t it? Forgive me, I always confuse you and your sister.”
Maeho. Even the name is wrong, it sits like a rock in his throat. He knew she would not bear her old name any more than he does, but Maeho? It just doesn’t fit.
“No, no, you are right,” the woman replies, the cadence of her voice setting his teeth on edge with its unfamiliarity, “and even if you weren’t I shouldn’t take offence, it’s the eternal burden of being a twin I fear.”
It doesn’t matter that he’s halfway across the ballroom, Qimir hears the words as if she’s shouted them. The world shifts beneath his feet.
A twin?
He doesn’t dare believe it, all the black hatred in his soul retreating at once, smoke blown away by a hurricane as he clenches his hands so hard his nails pierce the skin.
This woman is clearly not his beloved, but her sister…
He doesn’t dare to breathe, hanging on their words as his dead heart thunders in his chest.
“You are terribly identical,” the friend says, touching her gloved hand to her neck with an awkward laugh, “is she with you? I didn’t think you would be in town for a few weeks yet.”
“I came ahead with Mother Korill,” the twin says, “my sister will be in the north a while longer, she couldn’t pass up the chance to speak to Doctor Sol when he arrives next week from the continent, you know how she is.”
“A regular bluestocking, through and through,” the friend agrees, “still I don’t envy her the climate up there, it’s still so cold up north, isn’t it? And so inhospitable. Give me ballrooms and beaus over blustery moorlands any day.”
“That’s Osha,” the twin sighs, “she has always cared more for science than society, but how have you been? Has town changed much in my absence?”
Osha.
Osha.
He whispers the name to himself, tasting it on his tongue even as the rest of their conversation sweeps away from him.
Perhaps this is another false promise, perhaps he will go north and find a stranger in his wife’s body again, he doesn’t know… but he has to see for himself.
The uncertainties are endless but one thing is for sure, if it is her, if she has finally returned to him, then no creature living or dead will keep them apart. He will not lose her this time.
So this WIP has been languishing in my folder for 8 months, it’s a Hades/Persephone Oshamir AU I started writing in a fever dream only I never got past the set up! I still love some of the ideas in it though and think there’s a story there, so who knows, maybe I’ll write more even if it’s just in snippets - let me know what you think fellow acolytes!
Fandom: The Acolyte || Rating: T || Words <2k
There is a balance to the mortal world, Verosha learns it at her mothers knee, her head pressed to Mama Aniseya’s beautiful batik skirts as she weaves jewel-toned threads into her tapestry.
There is day and night, light and dark, life and death.
“And neither is better than the other,” Mother Koril interjects, as she always does, nodding her head at them from where she measures the threads Aniseya uses to weave life into being, “the world needs both, do not let them convince you that night or dark or death is wrong simply for existing.”
There’s a firm look in her eye as she casts her gaze between Verosha sitting on the left and Maeho sitting on the right.
“Very true, Mother Koril,” Aniseya nods, “one cannot be without the other. The mortals need the dark to appreciate the light, they need death to appreciate their life.”
“What about here?” Osha asks, marvelling as a new skein is added to the pile, a cord of white and gold that shimmers warmly in the basket waiting to be added, “is there balance in our world too? Even though we don’t die like they do?”
“Some gods have died, sweet girl, but you’re right - it is not like the mortals. You mustn’t worry, we have our own balance,” Aniseya replies, pulling a hand from her shuttle to stroke her daughters hair, “like here - we have the balance of our work, there is the one who measures and the one who weaves, and - when you’re older - we shall have the one who cuts too.”
Osha has heard that story too, the destiny promised to her mothers’ child long before their birth. Mother Koril measures the life thread to its natural conclusion, Mother Aniseya spins it so, but it is imperfect still. Unbalanced. Some threads break, others unravel, the one who cuts is the God-Queen’s answer - decreed from high upon her mountain throne.
The one who cuts will snip threads loose before their time, she will be a gentle chaos that prevents a crueler fate.
“The two who cut you mean,” Mae corrects from the otherside of her lap, toying with a long string of purple thread that has yet to be chosen for the tapestry, “there’s two of us after all mama.”
“There are two of you,” their mother nods, “but I do not yet know if you are both to serve this way. Only the destiny of mortals may pass through our hands, our own is not so easy to weave.”
Osha shivers despite the warmth of the fire in the hearth, her hands clenching around the edges of her shawl as she stares at the threads her mother weaves.
She doesn’t want to cut them, not like Mae does - her eyes lighting up every time she points out a thread about to snap or a snarl about to form. Osha doesn’t see the tapestry the same, the threads, the lives, she doesn’t want to cut. She wants to… grow.
“It will be both of us,” Mae nods, undettered, bright and sharp as her scissors will inevitably be, “just wait and see.”
—
The man in their halls is nothing like anyone she’s seen before, her mother’s have priestesses of course, dryads and nymphs and devotees, but they are all female. Weaving fate is a woman’s art, and her mothers have never countenced men in their private domain. Or visitors.
Now there is both.
He stands at the open archway to the courtyard, an equally strange woman at his side, both are old like her mothers - quite grown and out of place as Osha peeks around the edge of the doorway to the inner sanctum. They are dressed in bright fabrics, glowing with an inner light that seems out of place in this quiet, dark place she has grown up in. Their temple sits half-way up the Gods mountain, overshadowed by the hanging rocks above and protected by the great forests below. The sun here is a weak thing, filtered through the clouds that cling to their lands, their part of the balance has always been shadows and secrecy.
“Oshie,” Mae hisses beside her, a familiar hand tugging at her sleeve, “we’re not supposed to be here.”
The order was given as soon as the strangers were sighted beyond their borders edge, the twins sent to their rooms and told not to come out until called for.
“Shh Mae,” Osha shushes her quietly, squeezing her hand when she pouts, “we’re just looking.”
She knows the stories about the dangers of curiosity but it doesn’t stop her from moving forward, tugging her sister behind her as she presses her face to the gap in the door.
“A rumour reached the mountain top,” the woman says, nut-brown hair braided over her shoulder and a white robe like milk and moonlight covering her, “that you have two children instead of one.”
“Who says?” Mother Koril snarls, and Osha doesn’t know why she’s so angry, “what proof do you have?”
“They were seen,” the woman replies, calm in the face of her anger, “by the great tree at your borders.”
Osha bites her tongue, guilt catching in her chest at the admission. It is her fault, her mothers tell her not to go past the garden gate but she cannot help herself. There is so much beyond their courtyard she hasn’t seen, so much she wants to see. To find peace in the leaves and flowers of their world, alone, although Mae always follows.
“What business is it of yours besides?” Koril hisses, her rage hanging thick in the air.
“Hello there,” the man is speaking to her, her heart tipping over itself as she looks up into dark eyes fixed solely on her, “what is your name little one?”
Her mouth opens, hanging their silently for a second as she takes him in again. Dark hair, dark eyes, dressed in robes of gold like fresh wheat and a circlet bearing the symbol of the sun.
“My name is Sol,” he adds when she gets caught on her words, his smile like summer as he crouches down to her level, “and this is my friend Indara.”
“M-my names Osha,” she squeaks, “Verosha, that is.”
“It is lovely to meet you, Osha,” he says, cocking his head to the side, “would your sister like to join us too?”
Startling, Osha realises belatedly Mae hasn’t followed her in, instead she’s standing in the shadows on the otherside of the doorway glaring at her furiously and shaking her head.
“Verosha,” Mother Koril scolds, “you should be in bed - come along.”
“Wait-” the man named Sol says, holding up his hand, “please, it would be an honour to meet your children.”
“Only if you allow it,” the woman named Indara adds quickly, uneasy as she fixes a hand on Sol’s shoulder and squeezes tightly, “we will of course respect your domain.”
“They may join us,” Mother Aniseya says from out of Osha’s line of sight, “if they choose to, Koril - please.”
“You do not have to do this,” Mother Koril whispers to them, grasping for Osha with one hand and Mae with the other.
“I want to, mother,” Osha hears herself reply, something in her chest lifting, a thread of curiosity she can’t help but pull at as she steps around the raspberry-red skirts of her mother and into the kitchen proper.
“Hello, you must be Osha’s sister,”
Mae doesn’t answer, mouth squeezing shut as she shunts her chin away from him, but Osha cannot help herself.
“This is Maeho” she says, “we’re twins.”
“So I can see,” he smiles again, “and what are your destinies, little ones, what will you be when you are grown?”
“We are to be the one who cuts,” Mae says proudly, her chin jutting out even as Osha shrinks back at the words, “it was foretold.”
“Both of you?” He asks, eyes crinkling as he purses his lips, “I did not think it was role for two.”
“We do not yet know their gifts,” Mother Aniseya steps in, “they are still so young, there is time.”
Indara nods but Sol shakes his head, even as he grows flowers from light in the palm of his hand, Osha’s eyes wide as she watches magic unlike anything performed in the halls of her childhood.
“I have a gift I could bestow,” he offers easily, “it was entrusted to me a long time ago but I have never found its rightful ascendant, until now I think. Here, Lady Verosha, Lady Maeho -”
He offers them the flowers, the blooms still glowing and warm to the touch as Osha plucks one carefully from his hand. Marvelling at its beauty even as Mae turns away, tugging fruitlessly at Osha’s sleeve as she ignores the offering.
“You are kind, Lord Sol, but it is unneccessary,” Mother Aniseya says suddenly beside them, Mae darts eagerly behind her skirts but Osha does not move. She is held in a gravity of wonder, the warmth of true summer sun licking through her finger tips as she touches the silk-soft petals of the bloom. She has never seen a flower like it before.
“What gift is it?” She asks him, curiosity unchecked and mouth unfiltered, “could I make things like this?”
Beautiful things, not cutting down lives but growing and blooming and living. She wants it so much her chest feels like it’s going to burst from the want of it.
“And much more besides,” he tells her in a conspiratorial whisper, “this gift… it is to become the one who grows, who blossoms in all circumstances. Would you like it, Verosha?”
“Sol,” the Lady Indara warns from a world away as the image Sol paints makes Osha’s head spin, “you shouldn’t offer it so easily, you know the consequences if she were to accept. Lady Aniseya, I am sorry for-”
He waves off the concern like he’s swatting a fly, his attention only on her as he asks gently, “the flowers in the courtyard, you grew them didn’t you?”
“Moon blossoms,” she nods, “and the grey herbs by the path. I like… I like to grow things.”
The sun itself couldn’t touch the bright burn of his smile as he beams at her, so bright she feels blinded. Warm in the glow of his approval, of the possibilities he opens to her.
“Osha,” her Mama’s voice catches her, her hand clasping her shoulder and breaking the spell, “this is no simple thing, if you were to accept you would have to leave here. You could no longer be a daughter of the Thread, you would be giving up your life, your family, even your sister…”
The thought of it is alien, they have always been two, always, but it still burns in her.
“We will leave you to discuss it,” Indara says, pulling her companion away at last, “if we may trouble your hospitality, there is a bier out by your gate that would do us well for the night. We will call again tomorrow for your answer.”
“As you say,” Aniseya nods, “you are welcome to stay for the night.”
The invitation is genuine but the subtext is clear, they are welcome for the night - and only the night.
She has until sunrise to decide, but in her heart she’s already accepted.
I did this as a second part to the Cat AU - hope that’s okay! Part one here! Thanks so much for the prompt 💜
Ship: Tasertricks || Rating: T || Word count: 450ish
“Why are you being kind to me?”
He eyes her from behind the bars, the ache from his cuffs a dull reminder of how shut off he’s become from everything he once was. He’s a shadow of himself, a failure in any form, and yet… there she sits anyway.
The woman, (Darcy, she tells him, not that he uses the name, it wouldn’t do to encourage her after all) wrinkles her nose at him.
“Kind?” She repeats, her attention entirely fixed on the playing cards in her hands as she shuffles them around, “please, I’m whooping your ass dude. You got any sevens?”
“Go fish,” he sighs, rolling his eyes at the ridiculous phrase but letting the game play on, “that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
It’s ridiculous, even the guards avoid him - for good reason. He is the would-be destroyer of their world, the monster of New York, the fact she has so thoroughly inserted herself into his life is beyond him.
What is this but kindness, unlooked for and underserved as it is?
Without her visits he would be almost always alone, trapped with his worst memories as he waits a judgement he thinks might never come. Perhaps this is his punishment, to be locked up and forgotten. Disgarded by everyone.
Everyone but her.
Still, he had railed against it at first, feigning disinterest every time she showed up with her food and games and conversation (her endless conversation,) but with a creeping, inevitable slowness he had succumbed to his curiosity.
Now here he sits, basking in her presence as he indulges her in her ridiculous midgardian card games just to keep her close for a little while longer.
“You’re the one who keeps stealing my cat,” she waves her hand distractedly at the creature asleep on his bed - his only other visitor - before shuffling her cards again, “besides someone’s gotta make sure you don’t escape, considering how rich he is Stark has really cheaped out with the security detail around here.”
It’s all half truths and lies but he doesn’t mind, fixing his own hand instead as he shifts on the cold tile floor.
Part of him knows what folly this is, chides him constantly for not using her more effectively. He should be manipulating her even now into securing his freedom, perhaps he still will, but the larger part is disgustingly content. Just as docile as her fat, flea-bitten cat as he sits on his side of the bars and purrs, letting her constant chatter wash over him and fill up every hollow, blackened place inside of him.
Darcy is an outlier in his not inconsiderable existence. Unaffected and unfiltered, she doesn’t seem to care about his status, or his ire, focused instead on her cat and her opinions and - damn him to hel - he finds himself wanting to get on the good side of both.
Idiot creature that he is.
“And you are trained for the job are you?” He snipes, falling back into the comforting embrace of sarcasm as he nods his head at her cards, “I will take your queens now.”
He thinks he would take her too, if only she’d let him.
Hey, I've got an incredibly stupid question, but it's bothering me. For your commissions, do the buyers get a physical print, or just the digital?
Not a stupid question at all! I only provide the digital files, however commissioners are free to print the art out however they like for their own personal use! 💜 Hope that helps! 💜
enemies forced-to-team-up-due-to-extenuating-circumstances-therefore-their-dynamic-must-change-as-they-finally-travel-together-as-equals to lovers. This is the vibe for both padmaul and ghoulcy.
This is also the vibe that has my heart in a fucking vice grip. It is Peak Vibes👌👌👌
