#//another day another neglected female muse

[writermuses]

[ladyduellist]

Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

Tensions rise before the unlikely travelers enter the monastery.

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Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

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Chapter 19: Gods

Ao3

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Word count: 5.5k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Language, Act 1 Spoilers

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I write this in haste as the githyanki attack. 

Our forces have been exhausted and we will all be dead by day’s light.

The lance has failed and so have our pleas.

Kind stranger, if you find this note, please know I have prayed for you. 

— Novice Monk, last words written on his inner forearm in ink

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Folklores have a knack for possibly foretelling a person’s future, molded with lessons in mind. Sketched orations implanted within the mind’s eye, traditionally passed down. 

But, what lessons—what excuses—were to be instilled after the atrocities the Crèche Y’llek githyanki inflicted on Rosymorn Monastery, especially when there were no survivors left to tell the tale?

Death had abounded and it claimed more than the previous worshiping inhabitants. It came for the wall mosaics whose chipped pigments had fallen into lifeless heaps upon skeletal laps following their demise. Its veil, hushed away lost voices that chanted as lamp wicks were lit. Even toppled over cups of wine, that soaked and stained neglected tables, were unable to escape the vagarious phantom’s euthanizing stroke.

“This place is deader than I am,” Astarion mused, kicking aside what appeared to be a femur bone with the tip of his boot. “Shame, I was looking forward to a livelier welcome.”

He found himself stalking around a statue dedicated to Lathander, situated in front of the old monastic building portico, wondering if this god had been one of the many that didn’t respond to his prayers while he was being psychologically marred and beaten endlessly. Nearly forgotten generations seemed to be lost to another version of himself as he disdainfully stared up at the stoned infant with a gold metal sun orbiting its body affixed in the dawn lord’s grasp, signifying renewed births. His eyes traveled lower, to the end of the god form’s flawless marble tunic folds, noticing a carved skull pressed heroically beneath its foot. He briefly turned his head away, scoffing at the absurdity of such a visual odium.

Even the undead must suffer your ruling that they are unworthy of saving, Astarion thought, frowning. It was pointless to beseech the mute supreme vessel, knowing not even a rebuttal would be granted to his rightful questions over the gods lack of mercy. 

Inferior soul, how do you cry out,

Knowing no one will hear you.

With blurred light and seeping dark, 

Hope dangling on words that do not reach. 

His attention turned to Lae’zel as she maneuvered her body in front of an upright banner she discovered, tracing her sinewy fingers along symbols drawn into its hide. “Tir’su script. Kin is close,” she noted ,”Perhaps further inside this insipid place.”

Shadowheart cast a subdued yellowish light—enough to read the script—on top of the hanging animal skin. “Your language. What does it say?”

“Vlaakith’ka sivim hrath krash’ht. Only in Vlaakith may we find light,” Lae’zel responded with pride, letting her fingers loiter above the scrawlings.

Astarion abandoned his quest cursing the Morninglord, approaching the two women in a sly stride. “So, the gith replaced those doing works for one god, with their own. I suppose our civilizations aren’t totally incomparable in that regard. We all do have a tendency to make everyone acknowledge that in which we worship, don’t we?” he wise cracked.

“Githyanki do not worship any gods nor follow religion. We venerate Vlaakith and to forsake her means we become the blood and meat for which she sates her dragons,” Lae’zel corrected. “The people here didn’t survive because they were weak. Weak minded and weak of brawn. Not because my people meant to ideologize them to our credence.”

His arms folded against his chest, deviously rising a thick brow. “Oh dearest Lae’zel, you don’t have to belong to a religion to be religious. Whatever that you hold in highest faith is your god.”

The gith fighter growled as she fiercely advanced towards Astarion, her cinnamon hair vibrant in the sun’s path. She pointed a single elongated nail at him. “Argh! You know nothing of what you speak anymore than you know about my queen! And you are wasting time by casting your ideas about this world’s ideologies into our conversation!”

Up close, her slitted irises seemed to open wider, like a crack in the earth beckoning him into a citrine mine. It was oddly riveting to the spawn how naïve the githyanki were about the material plane despite them using it to cultivate their crèches. Prematurely in their journey, Lae’zel informed the crew this was because they chose to disengage entirely from other ethnicities due to them possibly “tainting” their society. Everything to the gith became a means to an end, including their propensity to be certifiably evil by most standards.

But for all the destruction the slender astral plane-dwellers committed on the living plane, they proved to be the only race capable of continually decimating illithids, halting their grand design. 

However, a part of him could not—albeit infelicitous—wholly begrudge them for their attitude involving strangers. The gith had only known the claws of enslavement to the mind flayers for generations until their subjugated chains were broken, a situation all too familiar to him. He understood how trust can turn into an abstraction under those conditions, eavesdropping like a floating dandelion seed on its conceptual edge. 

“I think that’s quite enough,” Shadowheart intervened with ambivalence laced in her tone. A dispelled cantrip, that was assuredly prepared for them if they persisted in their bickering, fizzled out in her palm. “In case you’ve both forgotten, we are being hunted by the same people that may also have a cure for these cursed worms in our heads. Time is not on our side, so either we shut up and work together or we might as well do ourselves a favor and kill each other off now.”

He viewed the cleric from his peripherals, scarlet irises aglow in jouissance. “As you wish. Thinking outside the box isn’t for everyone anyways,” he mumbled in a gibe.

Shadowheart disregarded the vampire, refocusing their conversation onto more productive measures. “Lae’zel, what can we expect once inside this crèche?”

Lae’zel herded her concentration sluggishly away from Astarion. “They will be on high alert, probably seeking information about the artifact weapon. Your presence alone is going to cause skepticism, so do not expect them to have mercy if you get out of line.”

The healer nodded, patting the purse containing the icosahedron prism fastened onto her hip. “And how exactly are we to safely enter without them attacking on sight?” 

“They will receive me with no issue, but you three will have to roleplay as my servants if we are to peruse their compound,” Lae’zel decisively advised, gesticulating between Shadowheart, him, and the bard that was in the near distance behind him. 

Now that Astarion pondered it, Tav had remained eerily quiet since they reached the derelict building. His ears perked back, listening for any signs of movement from her.

Ah. There. 

The songtress’s lissome boot soles reverently landed, crunching over the littered ground, likely scrounging about on one of her many humanitarian crusades examining the obvious holy edifice’s monstrosities. Really, he had come to distinguish all his traveling allies' footsteps apart, but he would only find himself drollingly smirking particularly at Tav’s beats. While she held tightly onto her deepest inner thoughts like a hyper judgemental woman clutching her pearls, her mood was always evident through her footfalls. A heavy scuff typically meant she was angered. Soft quick pitterings were often created during her busiest chores in camp. Or, the most curious of them all: the choreo-esque silken soar of her feet as she played the lute. Curious because she rejected the idea of dancing, but it was so prevalent in the way she moved—the way she fought. 

Tav’s familiar heartbeat meandered closer to them, out in that stygian sea upon the unpleasant waters of her thoughts. Those numerous abnormal pulses that led nowhere, on the outskirts from where he was positioned. Sounds that made his mouth a watering delinquent portal to which he almost lacked the discipline to stop himself from placing the flat of his ravening tongue against her chirring arteries.

“Servants?! I am certainly not agog over that,” the vamp spluttered out as he indignantly threw up his arms. 

“‘Star,” Tav greeted him quietly as pewter shaded buckles from her rapier scabbard faintly brushed against his side when she finally appeared.

He rotated his head, studying Tav’s profile carefully. Her skin, still somewhat wan from his earlier feeding, held onto fresh drizzly beads of sweat along her hairline. A sunken seam deepend horizontally on her forehead as her gaze epoxied itself to Lae’zel. Something was on her mind, cysts filled with fluidic profundities that began to gestate as they embarked into the monastery. 

Leftover wafting traces of coppery blackberries from his bite wound on Tav, rose from her flesh like an exorcism, injecting into his nostrils when he inhaled. There was a certain amount of pride he felt as a man, knowing his fang marks were seated into her delicate neck. A consensual hunter and prey dynamic that tickled his nightly creature’s base instincts imagining her running beautifully through a thick forest for him to capture, her sighing and sighing and sighing his name. Perhaps he would ask her one day to—gods, he must still be reeling off the potency from her stimulative blood.

“And where have you been, songbird? Leaving me all on my own to babysit these two bores, tsk,” he teased, inflecting his tone an octave higher.

“You can take it out of your blood tax later,” the bard suggested, struggling to exert a fleeting chuckle. She looked up at him. “Mind if I cut in?”

Grateful for the interruption, he nodded. “Then, how could I say no? By all means.” He held out his gloved hand, palm up, giving her the opportunity to purge her mentations.

Tav sucked in a breath, then gradually released it. “They���re all…dead. Every monk, every pilgrim—deceased. And this was all done for the sake of constructing a crèche?” she steadily broached, wasting no time in getting straight to what was disturbing her. “Lae’zel, what did the people here do to deserve such a sentence?” 

Discovering in person just what the githyanki were capable of, coupled with a drafty air that had coagulated with whistling gusts leading the imagination to believe it was the spirit's moaning screams yet wandering the monastery’s halls, would change the dialogue for anyone—especially Tav. Astarion realized how dangerously stupid it was for her meddlesome lectures to take precedence now when there wasn’t a godsdamned thing they could do about the age-old murderous scene. Repeatedly poking the wasp’s nest—Lae’zel included—meant that a remorseless horde of gith would be released upon them sooner rather than later. 

He leaned down, lips an inch away from the backside of Tav’s ear. “What are you doing?!” he breathed through gritted teeth.

Tav didn’t respond, but instead knocked her hip into his, pushing him aside. He scudded back a couple feet from the force, leaving him at a loss for words. If she is hellbent on being stubborn, then she can deal with her crippling demise on her own, he chided to himself.

Lae’zel’s sight narrowed at the elf. “It had nothing to do with what they deserved, but everything to do with being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Let’s hope your next words are sharper than your mind,” she clucked loudly.

“Insulting me while I’m trying to understand what happened here isn’t going to deter me,” Tav replied, her reddening ears poking out from her messy updo in a curbed anger hidden to everyone except Astarion. “Travelers came here searching for answers to their prayers and the explanation they received was their lives snuffed out by a race that feels as superior as false gods.”

“Tav, you’re—“ Shadowheart cautiously began, stepping forward.

“I’m what?! Going too far?” Tav mocked, shifting her body weight onto another leg. 

Those leaden fissures Tav tried to keep knitted closed, had volleyed the bitter dark within her that had been progressively increasing for weeks. She never treated people this way—patience rarely thinned—and Astarion understood his judgment about the burdens she carried that changed the formulaic taste of her crimson, were correct. Her annoying kindness suited her more than this unseemly behavior. In the aery realm that housed her encumbrances, she paid for his and their companion’s indiscretions to demonic toll-houses without question. A regretful muscle twitched in his cheek, recognizing he played a part in her present suffering. Birds like Tavelle were meant to fly, but everyone took advantage of her tender mercy, devoid of thinking about how shattered her wings would become under their own roods. 

“I know you’re upset—and you should be—but Lae’zel had nothing to do with Y’llek’s aggressions. Your blame is misplaced,” Shadowheart tried again after removing a stray hair that had crept into her mouth. 

Tav turned her head, overcome with embarrassment that flushed the roundest parts of her cheeks. 

The gith puffed out a short breath, rolling her war torn eyes. “What would you have me say? Attaining somewhere on the material plane we deem to be safe for our young and unhatched to develop is completely normal in our culture.“

Dense air sourly blew through the bard’s nose. “But at the cost of our plane’s lives, right? What is normal to your kind is not normal to ours. Have you ever thought about that?” she contended more politely, refacing Lae’zel. “This is wrong to us! If only your people would try seeking help from ours, rather than raiding their homes and murdering innocents immediately, you may be surprised how many would be willing to offer their aid.“

“And should that mean something to me?” Lae’zel bit out emotionless. “Githyanki do what is necessary to survive.” She held a balled up fist tightly against her chest as she drew a path into Tav’s personal space. “When I was still but a welp in training, I had already felled three of my comrades. Was I praised or reprimanded for such feats? No. They died proud, honored to have served Vlaakith and the cause of her people. Can you say in good faith that most of Faerûn would do the same?”

All three companions regarded Lae’zel glumly. Her accusations against their continent’s residents was an uncomfortable realization that nobody in their sane mind could refute. How many other adventurer’s were actually out there at this very second willing to brave their own lives to end the corruption of The Absolute and mind flayers alike? How many would risk confronting that disquieting underbelly of fears that the gods they forfeited everything to, would never intervene, even as a holocaust roared throughout the lands? The hard truth was that most would rather go with the flow in their complacency than try to act out of real conviction.

That kolk whirling behind Tav’s blue-steel eyes from their boiling exchange, began to become little more than a single stir by a divine empress’s gilded spoon in a favorite cup of tea. By the way she sucked in her cheek, Astarion knew she had grabbed a chunk of wetted flesh to gnaw upon, calming herself from making a rash remark. Her mouth unlatched. “I will not disagree with your sentiments about how disunified Faerûn remains, but it’s still our choice to make. Ripping that away from us because the githyanki feel it’s okay, is no different from the control the illithid held over your race, it’s just executed differently.” 

Was she prepared for the aftermath if she kept pushing?

“Hey.” Shadowheart discreetly tapped on the spawn’s shoulder. He turned around, vaguely listening to Tav and Lae’zel resume their argument, mouthing an irritated “what” as voicelessly as he could muster.

“We are about to enter enemy territory and I have a stolen treasure from them in my bag,” the Sharran healer whispered. Her anxiety was evident in the way her glassy blown pupils stared back at him, nearly twitching with fright over what lay in store for them. “If you think for even a second they’re going to allow us to enter their crèche while tensions are high, then prepare to be beheaded for sport.”

He shrugged his shoulders, still mildly irked at Tav. “Then I guess we’ll have to wait until they both stow this fribblish nonsense or one of them incapacitates the other,” Astarion hushed in return. 

Shadowheart shook her head, her perfectly styled ponytail accessories moving in tandem with her movement. “Or you could be their mediator,” she suggested with a crafty smile.

“Have you gone and smacked your moody undersized head on a Selûne statue?!” he snapped louder than intended. A silver curl uncoiled in haste, matching his incredulity. “You saw how Tav reacted when we tried to reason with them.” He instinctually peeked beyond his arm, checking to see if the others overheard them. 

“For god’s sake, would you at least try?! I don’t care if you have to throw Tav over your shoulder like some neanderthal to drag her away, but they need to be separated so they can both cool down!” Shadowheart uncharacteristically begged while the other two women continued their squabble. Her lips pouted together. “And my head isn’t ‘undersized.’ I didn’t ask to be born as a half-elf you know,” she added, self-consciously touching her crown.

Astarion’s fingers rubbed at his temples. This was wholly Tav’s fault! In a moment of weakness, fantasizing about drinking her blood earlier, the cunning vixen snuck in and somehow persuaded him to accompany them to this devil-ridden location. And now, he’s expected to wave a wand like some magical fairy eldmother to make everything cheery bright rainbows again?!

No matter how inconvenient this was, he definitely wasn’t interested in perishing so early on into his attained freedom. He understood that Tav would be the easier of the two lionness’s pouncing on each other to lure away given her affinity towards him. She may be pissed at him afterwards, but it was the lesser risk between that and Lae’zel hanging his head as an ornament above her tent. “Ugh, do I have to do everything around here?” he flung out, feigning a yawn. 

He scratched at his jaw, trying to wrinkle the matter in his brain together from its usual smoothness. Which tactical options did he have? Flirtily suggesting a threesome while a plethora of vacant skeletal crania’s watched, seemed inappropriate for their dilemma. He could pull out a knife and threaten them to cease, but knowing Lae’zel’s temper, she would stake his ribs the moment she saw it. Blackmail? Hmm, no, that was out of the question too. Tav barely offered up anything about her private life and Lae’zel could escape to the astral world whenever she pleased. Fuck he hated details and sticky complicated plans. 

Alright, fine, he’d just go with ole reliable: winging it. 

“I’ll stand by in case things go…amiss,” Shadowheart said placidly. “Good luck.”

He briefly shut his eyes, hand sailing through his waves to refix the stray hair coil tarrying on his forehead, and readied himself as acting liaison to enter the mine field exploding behind him. 

Lae’zel stepped inward near Tav, armor clanking around her midsection. “It’s no wonder Astarion finally decided to leave your bed,” she maliciously taunted, ”With all your unceasing blathering, it leaves little room for warmth.” She slanted further in, speaking directly into her rival’s ear. “Tell me which is true: that you actually duped yourself into believing you gave him gratification or he faked it the entire time because he pitied your loneliness?”

Astarion instantly squinted at Lae’zel, revulsed at her upturned sneer. He despised her obtrusiveness, remembering how she made it clear she only desired his body at one time to satisfy herself. The back of his neck felt clammy imagining how her gropes would have branded his raw flesh like every other person he pressured himself into fucking. 

He dragged his vision to chance peering at Tav, dismissing the muffled constriction that surged through his chest at the sight of her. She stood utterly silent, vocal cords snipped from the seething woman’s comment. Without a tourniquet to halt Lae’zel’s gashes, her lips had heated to a bolder pinkish plum shade, doe eyes rapidly blinking aside a misty haze. Astarion heard her heart chambers clamp tightly, fractured by the usurped recollection of their flawed and failed relationship pricking into her like a pincushion. 

A pleased grin spread across Lae’zel’s mouth as she scanned the bard’s reaction. Her pitch coal grease paint, thumbed onto the scope of her face, appeared glossy from the sunlight beaming on her. “If this ishtik falls apart at the slightest mention of her inadequacies, then she is unfit to lead us,” she snarled.

Despite him refusing to divulge the specifics from his trauma, sex had become a sensitive subject for both him and Tav. Centuries long transgressions that damned him every waking second. They shared a vulnerability—an elegy to pleasurable touch—that connected them in an unexpected and broken manner initiated by different needs. 

Messy flashbacks of his sexual encounters with Tav that had already been fading—as they often did with his lovers—percolated throughout the vampire’s mind. As vehemently as he tried to bury it, one memory resisted against the gravitational pull from the black hole within his soul: her giggles as florets spilled like dove feathers from her hair while they were intimate against a tree. A rare innocent pause that counterbalanced his despair but for a few moments.

In his restless trances, those flowers would sometimes arrive, each hidden in inconspicuous locations within his dreams to find. They were often accompanied by Tav’s sweet laughter that he caused. It dawned on him how often he would chase after that sound until he woke, trying to relive that brief interim of genuine mirth he summoned from her throat. He ignored it until now, but he had never generated that kind of joy from a sole creature in his entire undeath. Regardless if that night in the woods had led to them sleeping together or not, she would have still had the same reaction if he made those trite blooms flounce out of her hair in any other way.

He suddenly found himself wanting to protect those epiphanies and the peculiar agreeable sensation within his life-deserted body that he was aghast to identify. When did his general antipathy towards Tav start to evolve into him not quite disliking her as much anymore?

Astarion pretended to cough into his fist, cutting through their quarrel. “I do believe you and I need to exchange a few unpleasantries,” he firmly stated with a guileful tug at his mouth. 

“Do we? Then speak,” Lae’zel growled in her usual raspy tone, spindly hands landing onto her hips. She squinted her left eye at him.

“I’ll make this quick.” The ground held unwavering paces as he sidled up to the astral soldier. He tilted his head to the side, rubbing his impeccable jawline with his thumb peeking out from his fingerless gauntlets. “Don’t you perhaps think you should be more concerned about why it was I who rejected you that day after our spar when you practically begged me to take you back to my bedroll for a romp?” he blatantly expressed, glaring at her through darkened eyes. “Pity Tav? Ha! No, darling. I pitied you and that’s why I let you down as politely as I did.”

The hammering from behind Shadowheart’s breast clogged his ears. An “ah, shit” drawled off her tongue, shocked and worried. 

Tav's hand covered a gasp as her enlarged eyes sharply turned to gaze at him, exerting no amusement at his smug jab. 

As for Lae’zel’s reaction, she gnashed her teeth so raucously together, she could have broken through a mollusk's shell. Astarion staggered back just as a flurry of words in her native language raced from her voice box, faltering but once to catch her breath. She pointed at the group: cursing, spitting, putting her hand onto the lengthy grip of her sword, removing it, until she angrily threw her arms up in defeat. “After we extract the tadpoles,” she heaved, “I never want to see any of you ever again. Be grateful I will allow you to live yet.” Neglecting to wait for their responses, she tilled her battle sandals into the ground, disappearing into an unventured area adjacent to the portico. 

Frowning, Shadowheart cleared her throat. “Tav, mind if I borrow Astarion for a minute?” 

“Sure,” Tav croaked out. She looked past the cleric at the nondescript foreboding entrance into the monastery, giving the doors a simple head flick to notify them where she planned on retreating. 

He clocked Tav as she weaved a route through scattered rubble, leaving their vicinity. “Who knew I had such natural chops as a peace—”

Shadowheart twisted to meet him, rabidly grabbing at the straps attached to his breastplate and pulled downwards. “You donkey!’

His hands flew up on either side of his head. “Whoa! What exactly is the problem? You should be thanking me. Per your request: they aren't fighting anymore.”

“I didn’t ask you to make it worse!” Shadowheart exclaimed, tightening her hold. “I don’t know if your meal ticket from earlier super infused your bluntness, but with the utmost generosity, would you kindly fuck off for a bit so I can think about how to resolve this? Go check on Tav.” She released the straps, propelling him backwards.

“How rude! You know, all this excitement has made me work up another appetite and I can’t feed on Tav again until she’s rested. What do you have to say for yourself?” Astarion taunted, letting his fangs poke out beneath his weasel’s smile.

“GO!” Shadowheart shouted, balling her fists.

The songstress was leaning against a cool stoned wall, embellished with grayish tiles, when he eventually made his way to her after refitting the crookedness in his chest piece. “The gall of that woman, honestly,” he complained, sending an accusatory glance over his shoulder at a pacing Shadowheart. “You do a favor for someone and when it’s not exactly how they would have done it, they blame you for the outcome.” 

Tav knocked her thumb knuckles together, nails clicking in unison. “Why did you stick up for me with Lae’zel?”

“I wanted to help?” 

“Don’t lie to me,” she said, raising her head to scrutinize him. 

Astarion cocked his hip out, resting his hand on it. He had no intentions disclosing to her what was stroking his dead heart, that palpable echo of flowers and laughter betraying him. “Can’t you just appreciate that I probably saved you from becoming a ‘minced bard pie’? I don’t see why you have to make this more complicated than it already was,” he groused.

She blinked at him. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, turning her neck. “I do appreciate what you did back there, it just wasn’t…expected, I suppose.”

“I can be generous,” he asserted, crossing his arms. 

Tav gave a snide chuckle. “News to me.”

“See, if you needed further proof that you need some time to release all those built up gremlins inside you, that was it,” he smirked, playfully tapping the tip of her shoe with his boot. 

A simper quivered at the corners of her lips, one she seemed like she was trying to hide by immediately squatting down near the doors next to them, hovering over two pairs of remains. She reached down to pick up an age-tarnished prayer book that was loosely crammed between one of the skeleton’s fingers. 

Tav stood back up, smile replaced with a distant melancholy. She patted the book’s front cover. “May I read something to you?” 

“Are you going to read a prayer for my salvation?” the pale elf mused, indenting his index into the middle of his chin. 

The book opened with her diligent fingers. Pages turned with crisp crackles, frictioning against old endpaper glue, as she read its contents to him. “Glory to you, Bringer of the Dawn! My wife and I have been trying to conceive for nearly two years now with no luck. We’ve long been followers of your blessed creed, and visit Rosymorn every tenday to worship at your altar.” 

She took a breath, then continued. “Please Lord, I know you’ve given us a lot already, but if you hear our prayer, grant us this one wish, and you will find us in your service tenfold. This is all that now stands between ourselves and everlasting joy. We have faith in you, Lathander, and are grateful for the many blessings of your light.”

Astarion hoisted his right eyebrow in disbelief. “Don’t tell me that’s what rattled you? All that drama earlier because you read a flimsy supplication from some dust-covered bones?”

“It wasn’t my intention for things to get out of hand as they did with Lae’zel,” she lamented. Beneath every pronounced word, a shakiness started to emerge in her voice. “But the contents of this book had nothing to do with my disagreement with her.”

He padded closer to her. “Then, what was the purpose of reading that husband and wife’s prayer to me? They’re dead and it’s apparent that the gods couldn’t have cared less about granting that couple their wishes,” Astarion mentioned, glimpsing down at the deteriorating book. “I should know; I prayed to them all.”

“This isn’t about the damned gods!” Tav blurted out in frustration. She let the prayer book slip from her grasp, landing askew onto a bed of pebbles. “Years ago, I had to accept—“ she stalled. 

He inspected her, tilting his head curiously. The visage that took place on her face was similar to when she spoke to Mayrina shortly after they sent Auntie Ethel to the hells: an intense, almost withdrawn, stare. He recognized that expression, how rigid her whole person had become that day. How different she acted after seeing Mayrina’s belly round with child. “‘Had to accept’ what?” he asked.

Clenching her eyes shut, she shook her head. “Nobody knows what happened to me that day. I just want somebody to know,” she managed to whisper, contrite over her verbally collected thoughts.

“Darling, I have to admit, your whole mysterious lady act is going way over my head this time,” he said, perplexed. Respecting their terms to avoid touching each other as minimally as possible, he skimmed just the tips of his fingers along the outer edge of Tav’s shoulder, bidding her to look at him. 

Under his contact, she jerked ever so slightly as if finally noticing his proximity. “S-sorry. Gods, I must sound crazy,” she huffed nervously, lungs stammering as her breathing increased. “Astarion, I want to trust someone so badly that I ache, b-but I can’t. Even now, as I tried, everything still turned to ash on my tongue.”

Her admission stunned him, never being one to divulge the weaknesses she kept at bay. “Hold on. Take a few deep breaths.”

Lash after lash lifted, revealing Tav’s set of bleary dilated vesseling eyes that bore into his. Her sternum rose and fell, respiring their common air. “I wanted somebody—no, not somebody—I wanted you to know.”

“Why?”

Tav’s hand moved in a way like she wanted to grab his hand, but instead let it slink back. “Because you’re the only one I’ve ever felt might understand,” she confessed.

Stricken with a salvelike buzz dawning through his consciousness, Astarion couldn’t resist tucking dark brown hair strands behind her ear. Red eyes traced a  circular outline of her freckles that mesmerized him so. His pitch lowered to a woolly undertone unnatural to him, balmy and wicking her ills. “You really are reckless, aren’t you?”

The upper bow of Tav’s lips parted from the bottom, a blush rushing northward into her cheekbones. He could feel her lukewarm breath exhale into the dip of his clavicle while she examined his face, provoking a tense quake descending his spine. “Is that your way of saying you’re concerned about me?” she crooned. 

“Stupid boy,” Cazador’s taunt resounded in his brain. 

Emotions careened through him as dead leaves being whisked aside by an autumn wind, reluctantly revealing a new growth until being blanketed in death once more. Astarion’s hand quickly retracted, realizing he made a vital mistake. “I—,” he began, flustered, unsuccessfully quelling the contortions in his stomach. Anxiety raged through him, tingling his skin in a domino effect. “Will you just go shove off somewhere for a bit?!” 

Tav backed away. Crestfallen. Betrayed. Shifting her eyes back and forth as her skin pinched between her brows. He dipped his chin, shunning himself for every time he felt a modicum of emotion towards her. 

Her back turned on him, beginning to trudge in the direction of a broken stained-glass pane. “Don’t follow me,” she insisted, tears filling the lower ridge of her eyelids as she pivoted halfway to observe him. “I mean it.” 

As she left, Astarion’s vision floated to the prayer book that lay deserted next to where Tav once stood, unable to shake the thought that whatever she lost, the gods must've forsaken her too.

[saffronandperi]

Casting Call: Season Five

Saffron and Peri: Season 5 Casting Call

Saffron and Peri is coming back with a fifth season and we need more voices!  

If you’re interested in lending your voice to the fifth season of Saffron and Peri, we have a form for you to fill out, and a list of characters for you to get acquainted with.

Once your form is filled out, and an mp3 file of your audition is ready, please email us at SaffronAndPeri @ gmail.com (no spaces). 

Please note that your audition has to be crisp and clear, and it is very much preferred if you have access to recording equipment. 

The deadline to submit your audition is Friday, August 25th. 

Feel free to leave me a message if you have any questions. Good luck! 

Character List

The Seven Dwarves: 

Sunny Day:

Gender: Any 

Description: Dwarf, Copywriter at the Ad-a-Day Agency

Personality: A self-proclaimed poet. A bit dreamy and easily confused.  

Lines: 

I brought another poem.

This is dedicated to a true friend and honorary dwarf *Ahem* 

Snow White, Snow Bright, 

Still your star shines oh so Bright. 

Minnie Day:

Gender: Female  

Description: Dwarf, Receptionist at the Ad-a-Day Agency

Personality: Self-obsessed and dramatic. If you like, you can try a stereotypical valley girl accent

Lines: 

Hey guuurrrll, Snow, you look so good for a dead person! 

As you probably already noticed, the first thing upon entering is me, Minnie Day. The face of the company. 

Tutu Day:

Gender: Female  

Description: Dwarf, Fashion Consultant at the Ad-a-Day Agency

Personality: Condescending and snobby. Thinks she knows best. The type of person who calls everyone “dear” and never means it.

Lines: 

Oh yes, your complexion is as blindingly pallid as the first time we saw you.

Seven League Boots are SO last season, dear. Perhaps you should pop those in the donation bin?

Wendy Day:

Gender: Female  

Description: Dwarf, Graphic Designer at the Ad-a-Day Agency

Personality: Morose and very prone to crying. Some lines of dialogue will just be incomprehensible sobs. 

Lines: 

Sn-Snow, I want you to know.. *weeps*

*weeps like she’s trying to say something* 

*weeps more desperately*

Arthur Day:

Gender: Male  

Description: Dwarf, Accountant at the Ad-a-Day Agency

Personality: Polite, non-confrontational. A very practical dwarf who’s very good at math.

Lines: 

Magic? No no, it’s not magic. Excellently crafted, yes, but not magic. 

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh - OOOF.  *bumps into a wall here*

Farah Day:

Gender: Female   

Description: Dwarf, Talent Scout at the Ad-a-Day Agency

Personality: Outgoing, a go getter, and never misses a chance to do business. Likes to encourage people to be as motivated as she is. 

Lines: 

Ignore Minnie! Hi, I’m Farah. Farah Day of Ad-a-Day Agency. Did anyone ever tell you that you have a gorgeous profile? And your friend here has the most beautifully manicured claws I ever saw! Did you two ever think of modeling? Our card. 

Sadie Day:

Gender: Female   

Description: Dwarf, Manager at the Ad-a-Day Agency

Personality: Full of eldest sibling energy. Organized and meticulous, but still makes the business feel like a cozy family affair. A little sarcastic. 

Lines: 

Welcome to the Ad-a-Day Agency! Founded by seven siblings - we apply our dwarven diligence and craftsmanship to create top notch, top trending advertising campaigns. 

Other Characters: 

Grock: 

Gender: Male   

Description: Rock Troll, Secretary/hired goon/transportation at the Detective Agency.

Personality: An intellectual snob who thinks very highly of his own “genius”. Constantly neglects his job to work on his plays. Abrupt and insulting, he does not take kindly to interruptions or criticism. 

Lines: 

 Silence! The muse has called to me! I must write!

Interior: detective office. An under-appreciated and undiscovered playwright stares soulfully out the window. Enter: two hooligan youths. Youth 1: Hark noble faced Sirrah, word of your wordsmithing and crime solving has reached us in yonder far away lands

That, you myopic munchkin, is precisely the point!

Prince Bartholomew: 

Gender: Male   

Description: Prince and ex-husband of Snow White. 

Personality: Has courtly manners and a gentle spirit. 

Lines: 

 AAAAGGHHH. ULP (like he’s being choked. In this scene, he’s attacked and the attacker goes for the throat) 

Forgive me if this is crass, but isn’t Snow White dead? 

Thank you, your majesty, for allowing us to join you today. 

Mrs Garden: 

Gender: Female    

Description: Human, Grieving mother. Middle aged

Personality: Usually quiet and soft-spoken 

Lines: 

 I can’t imagine anyone heartless enough to do such a thing!

Now, now, let’s not be too hasty. 

Mr. Garden: 

Gender: Male    

Description: Human, Grieving father. Middle aged. 

Personality: More talkative and action-oriented. A good foil to his wife. Grief translates to anger for him.  

Lines: 

If I ever get my hands on whoever did this…. 

Donna: 

Gender: Female    

Description: Human, young college student. 

Personality: Usually kind, but has a dark side that comes out when someone hurts her friends. 

Lines: 

*grief stricken* I tried! I tried! I tried everything under the sun! Nothing would work.

Have you ever heard of the “quiet ones” who suddenly go violent? That’s me. 

Rhubarb: 

Gender: Female    

Description: Fairy 

Personality: Dramatic as all fairies in this universe are. Hot-headed and jumps to conclusions frequently. 

Lines: 

Ahhhh! Thank you both so much for coming!! 

Oh, I’m so glad that stereotype about how teenage girls love to solve mysteries is true!

Agghhh, okay, so I threaten to do creative and violent things sometimes! But what fairy doesn’t??

Guard: 

Gender: Any    

Description: Prison Guard.  

Personality: Stiff and rule-abiding. 

Lines: 

you have fifteen minutes. No funny business. 

Saffron and Peri Voice Actor Form

When emailing us your audition, please fill out the following form and include it in your email. 

Name/Contact Information:

(Please provide your name and an active email address where you can be reached.)

How you would like to be credited: 

(If you don’t want to use your actual name and have a stage-name you would prefer to go by, please state it here.)

Part(s) auditioning for: 

(Please list the part or parts you are auditioning for.)

Previous Experience:

(If you have had any previous experience lending your voice to a podcast or other such project, please list them here.)

Commitment:

(Can you assure us that you can submit your work within the time limits we set? If you have a minimum amount of time you need to provide us with your work, please state it here. Example: “I can only record on weekends” or “I need at least a week to record an episode”)

Social media:

(Please list any social media accounts like Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr, or some other site. Please let us know if you would like us to link to your accounts in our cast page, that way listeners will be able to find you elsewhere if they’d like.)

[intoxfolklorex]

Jamie Parker

Full Name: Jamie Parker

Age: 24

Sexuality: Bisexual

Occupation: Journalist Intern

Family: Siblings: Alexei, Arthur, Freddie, Ella, Saige, Ryan, Morgan, Daisy

FC: Tom Holland

TW: Child neglect, abuse

You must have an active thread with one of my female muses to do a M/F ship with this muse.

As much as he likes to pretend otherwise, Jamie Parker remembers everything that happened to him before his last name was Parker. Born to a drug addicted mother, Jamie never met his father– the man had taken off before Jamie was even born. Before he turned four, Jamie had been taken off his mother twice by child protective services but for some reason they believed the woman when she said that she had changed and could be trusted with him again.

When Jamie was five years old he was taken away from the woman for good and Jamie tries not to think about her again. When he does all he thinks of is the neglect and hatred that he held for her. From the day he was taken from her Jamie was bounced from foster home to foster home but nothing ever seemed to last longer than a few months. He often got put into the worst ones, the couples only doing it for the money and the ones who prioritised their own children over the foster kids.

This went on for ten years until Jamie was given a new social worker, one who seemed to care about making sure that he was put into a good place. He was fourteen when he was told that there was a nice man who really wanted to foster him and soon enough he found himself being fostered by Joseph and Paul Parker. A couple with seven children already.

Jamie spent most of his time believing that they were going to find a reason to send him back and so he was the biggest asshole that he could be. It was ultimately his new brother, Alexei, who convinced Jamie that having them as a family wasn’t all that bad.

But all good things tend to come to an end and Jamie heard his dads talking about paperwork one day and that was when he decided to run. He wasn’t going back into the foster system, not after a year and a half of being happy. He bolted and was found a few hours later by his fathers, who told him that they weren’t sending him back. They wanted to make things official and adopt him.

He was ecstatic when the adoption finally went through and he became Jamie Parker. Jamie finally knew what it meant to be loved by a family and he loved every part of it. Another shock hit him when a year later they asked what he wanted to study at college…. he’d never thought he would get the opportunity to study at all.

Jamie chose journalism and went to a community college so that he could still be close to his family. He had never had that before, he didn’t want to be alone again if he could avoid it.

Now he’s doing a journalism internship and seeing where the future will take him.

Jamie is only interested in muses aged 21 and older.

Like for a starter from this muse.

Check the link in the source for the rest of my muse bio starter calls.

[tenuovs]

𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏  .  .  .  now  introducing  her  royal  highness  !

( alicia vikander, cis female, she/her, 39 ) ** ♔ announcing INGRID GUSTAVA NILSSON,  the QUEEN OF SWEDEN ! in a recent portrait they seem to resemble ALICIA VIKANDER. it is a miracle that SHE survived the last five years and for that reason, they are FOR the kingdoms working together. reflecting on them now, they remind me of ACUITY LIKENED TO THE SILVER DAGGER, IT’S GLINT HIDDEN UNDER REFINED SILKS, A ‘MONA LISA’ SAT ATOP A THRONE; AMBIGUOUS AND VAGUELY THREATENING  — ALWAYS TEN MOVES AHEAD; A CHECKERBOARD DANCE TO PROTECT A KING.

                                   ❝ .  .  .  something  wicked  this  way  comes  . ❞

     ˢᵖⁱᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇˡᵒᵒᵈ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᵗᵉᵉᵗʰ , ᵍᵉᵗ ᵘᵖ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈⁱʳᵗ ʸᵒᵘ ᵃʳᵉ   𝚊  𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗 .                                                                                                                                            ⁱ ʷⁱˡˡ ʳⁱˢᵉ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖʸʳᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁱⁿᶠˡⁱᶜᵗ ᵐʸ  𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚎  𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎  .

MUSE INSPO: amy dunne ( gone girl ), india stoker ( stoker ), margaery tyrell ( game of thrones ), margaret of anjou ( queen of england / real life history )

trigger warnings  — murder, child neglect ( emotional ), allusions to uncomfortable age gap relationship / child bride ( nothing explicit ), violence, blood.

you were not born into instant disappointment as all girls did to their fathers. you were welcome from the beginning, or rather you were seen to be of some use. you brought with you a guileful opportunity, one all mothers in some way pushed upon their daughters, but unlike most, the goal wasn’t simply to marry well and to be satisfied with what you received. power desired power, like a flame that engulfed kindling. your existence was at the centre of it’s success. that did not mean you weren’t a mistake nonetheless. born from a moment of impulsive passion and foolish notions of having it all, your mother almost lost it all to a general. a nameless nothing who hadn’t a penny to his name with delusions of running away with a married noblewoman and living happily ever after. instead of any of those things, she stayed, determined to maintain her wealth and status. her desire to possess ever more outweighed any other. it was drilled into you, men will fail you ingrid, your reputation is everything. in one deceptive manoeuvre, your father was made to believe that you were his true heir, with no trace of proof that could say otherwise, the lie was buried and forgotten.

your childhood consisted of befriending the children of those that were in power or held positions in the presence of them. you were a tool, sharpened to a point to be as useful as possible. well read in the tactics and strategies of war ( your father’s doing, because what use was it have a woman in the room if she did not educate herself on the things that mattered ? ), a tongue mastered in the ancient languages and intricate footwork that mesmerised and enchanted. on the cusp of womanhood, you were promised to another, a boy you had become attached to along with a third. your union had been prewritten, a destiny you did not question. except your father did  — just once. a chance encounter with a french duke nearer to death than he was a peer to you; all but salivated at the chance to take a young bride. he provided everything your parents, ludvig and klara wanted, increasing wealth and the prestige only a dukedom or royalty could provide. unfortunately, on the wedding night, the duke collapsed and died before your marriage could be consummated and thus your childhood engagement was reinstated, to your relief. 

you understood from a young age that to get ahead as woman was to keep your wits about you, never waver in your ambition and to always think ten steps ahead. your beloved shared a secret and it sparked within you a hope to gain the upper hand your mother and father had hoped for. the promise of a queendom was a notion you humoured lovingly at first, but once the match had struck and the breath had been smothered out, you steeled yourself. gone were the days of reckless frivolity and wreaking havoc for the fun of watching things lay waste by your and your companions hands. your motivations differed from your parents, something you did not fully realise until the crown sat atop your head. the whispers they continued to lend to your ear, a prod or poke in a particular direction that benefited them. it was then, after rebelling against them by traipsing through the streets with your lovers, marrying someone who you were equally if not more devoted to  — having a life independent from them, that you saw your role clearly.

you were a pawn, not a queen.

you woke to the glint of a knife, before you could think to do anything, you covered your husband’s body with your own. a silenced scream trapped in your throat as you clutched your insides and willed them to stay put. collapsed and shaking, you would not regret dying for a true king. usurpers and assassinations be damned, you could not understand why the good your king had done for the country did not outweigh personal vendettas. your husband’s screams and the cold marbled floors stained with your blood were the last echoes your mind felt before the world turned to black. 

                                              you would survive, but at what cost?

to trust was to contribute to your downfall. the people had made their decision. they desired a world built on fear and war and so they shall have it. peace had no place here anymore, they belonged to treaties and civilities with other kingdoms. there was nothing that would stand in their way. another pair of eyes only meant another witness to watch what they had made them become.

[djarinsbeskar]

Dorne Part 2 - Boxer!Din AU

A/N: A cheeky birthday gift for my darling CiCi @astroboots I hope you have the most wonderful day, filled with laughter, love, lots of Riley cuddles and gifts galore! Thank you for being one of the most precious friends I've been lucky enough to meet and spend every day annoying, being a menace to, chatting with you and getting a glimpse into that beautiful brain of yours. Hope you enjoy it my love! I’m sorry it’s a bit of a mess asdfghj.

Word Count: 2.7k

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warnings: SMUT! MFF oral sex (female receiving).

Main Masterlist | Boxer Materlist | Dorne Part 1

“I wanna see if she’s as greedy for pussy too, baby—”

“Mm, you’re just full of good ideas today, sweetheart.”

You preened under his praise, ass pressing back in a feline arch where he bunched your dress up. Your guest was still busy on her knees—dutifully lapping at his cock while he pressed an indulgent kiss beneath your jaw, inhaling the perfume you favored and the musky—primal scent of arousal that clung to your flushed skin. He nosed along the line of your jaw, your fingers carding through his hair, completely lost in each other as he found your mouth again—a low groan lost along your tongue when the woman hollowed her cheeks around his sensitive head.

“First… I wanna see how greedy you are for pussy.”

The low lights cast shadows across your features, but the way your eyes darkened—pupils dilated and ringed with kohl and mascara—ritual paint for a sacrifice to a heathen god—had him snarling at the worship you and your companion lay against his body. He swallowed thickly at the striking smirk that morphed on painted lips, grazing his mouth but avoiding a kiss as you dragged them down the exposed length of his torso.

The length of your dress shifted like water—deceived his lust addled eyes to appear like the wily, tempting swish of a fox’s tail as you slinked down his body to stroke your fingers through the other woman’s hair.

You purred something into her ear – secret and alluring – a siren call that darkened her gaze as she turned away from his cock, fist slowly stroking him as you tempted her to stand with your mouth on hers, tongue stroking into her mouth as you rose. She was helpless to resist – fuck how could she – the way your eyes indulged in her bountiful curves and striking silhouette highlighted by a silver dress that ended up in a pool on the floor when you pulled the straps down and let gravity do the rest.

“No underwear?” you hummed as you circled the woman gracefully, and while your guest was naked and breath-taking, his eyes were just as easily pulled to your form as your legs extended with each step in an effortless prowl, without the bolstered force of a male—but softer, deadlier. A lioness—a hunter. His.

Fuck—

You made him sit—made him wait. And fuck, he indulged your little power play—it was enticing, for now. That’s what he told himself as he watched the scene unfurl before his eyes.

The noises you were able to drag out of your guest were filthy as she lay sprawled like a decadent buffet on the oversized ottoman – the quilted velvet easily the size of a king sized bed where it sat under the dark light in the center of the room – and was his sponsors ingenious way of getting around the ‘no bed’ situation in Dorne. Din couldn’t count the number of times he had to stop himself from gripping his cock to stroke some relief as your tongue delved expertly between her folds.

His fingers curled into his thigh, one hand massaging his balls distractedly as his lips twisted into a snarl.

The raven haired beauty – curls chaotic and wild fanning around her head – arched with a graceful bend in her spine. A dancer. Din mused as a licorice black melted into whiskey orbs—filling them with need as rich as his appetite for sex. They dropped to your hand pressing into the supple, toned flesh of her thigh to spread her legs wider. All part of the show… giving him a perfect view of the glistening slick gathering between puffy lips you were holding open with your other hand to flick your tongue over her hooded clit and curl up to gather that arousal on it.

“Mm… baby—she tastes so good…”

You were on your knees on the ottoman—down on your elbows with your ass in the air for him to watch the barely-there strip of fabric you called underwear darken with your own desire, gorgeous thighs accentuated by the suspenders that made up that fucking sinful lingerie set he had bought for you.

Fuck you were gorgeous… pink tongue that had lapped at his cock earlier now dripping saliva onto the pretty pussy of your guest, fingers smearing it into her slick with quick rubs over her clit and slit—making her cry with the pleasure as wetness leaked from her cunt and into your mouth. He could feel his muscles hum, a tense film of pressure running along his nerves and making him need to move. To stalk over there and take what as his. Waiting only made his neck strain with the growl he directed at the ceiling and your mischievous giggle incite a feral snarl in return.

“Come taste,” you looked over your shoulder, lips shiny and swollen from where he had ravaged your mouth—eyes weaving a spell over him, and he was helpless to resist you. He shot up, a bullet—a bull towards the cape as you refused to break eye contact when you kissed her navel, beckoning him over.

He was parched.

And your mouth was the first thing he needed. Hand moulding over the curve of your ass to dip along that strip of fabric between your cheeks, he pressed his fingers against your slick pussy lips from over your underwear and devoured your mouth. Groaning at the combined taste of your natural essence and the sweet tang of your guest, an accented aroma that brought you both to a frenzied high as his tongue greedily pillaged every drop.

The dancer – he decided she must have been – keened as he lost himself in your mouth, pulling his attention down to her naked form. He moaned with a feral lace of pride as he saw your fingers disappearing into her cunt with long, teasing strokes—your mouth finding his neck as he watched. Eyes only falling shut when you bit him. Bit him so hard his cock twitched violently—a silent claim in this hedonistic indulgence.

Mine.

The mark said.

Fuck, you were perfect. He gripped your jaw from where you were worrying a trail of marks into his flesh to kiss you hard,

“Back to work,” he growled.

And just like that, the dynamic shifted—an easy dominance he knew you weren’t strong enough to resist. Not when it was him. You might dominate your guest, but you would submit to him.

Challenge flared in those orbs, the woman on the ottoman gasping your name when your disobedience, your defiance showed itself in a third finger inside her dripping cunt—a hard swipe across her clit. Retaliating. He led your head down, back between her legs, and you followed—caught off guard when his free hand tugged your panties to the side to give your pussy a series of quick slaps.

You were drenched.

Slap slap slapslapslap—you mewled into her pussy, sucking her clit into your mouth as you fingered her—his own fingers grazing your neglected clit and making you push your ass back against him. He dropped to his elbow beside the dancer – Ally? Abby? Still no clue – and dropped his mouth to one of the peaked tips of her breasts. They were begging for attention, crowned in the glisten of his saliva as his tongue circled one, then the other—graveled growls soft and honey sweet against her skin while he stroked your hair.

“Talented, isn’t she? That tongue is a sin—”

“So greedy for my girl’s tongue…”

“Why don’t you beg for mine?”

And she did.

She begged. Begged for your tongue—begged for his, begged for you both. You glanced up her body, a landscape of willowy curves and heaving breasts as warbled pleas spilled from those pretty lips. You withdrew your fingers – she sobbed – to paint that body as you moved up it and Din took your place. Streaks of sticky slick stained her skin in the journey your fingers took up her toned stomach and between her breasts. You caught her whimpers with your mouth when Din’s tongue dragged a long swipe along her cunt, his facial hair sanding against soft skin and making her spasm under his tongue at the mixture of sensations. So different to the softness of your body.

He growled into her wet heat when she managed to pull your breasts from over the top of your bra, a pert nipple swallowed into her mouth when you leaned up enough to let her play. Giving him a sinners view of your wet cunt and rapturous expression when your head fell back between your shoulders as you leaned over her face, letting her ravish your tits and make moans spill wantonly from your lips.

It drove him wild, and he channeled it all into devouring her pussy with rapt dedication.

“Open,” he snarled when her legs tried to close around his head—her gasp of pleasure muffled around your breast when he forced even more juices from her as two thick digits speared her entrance. You keened, arching your back as you held her head to your breast, grinding your hips back in some desperate attempt to find relief. Relief your guest gave you with her fingers between your legs, rubbing over your clit in frantic swipes over your underwear.

“Din,” you panted, and he was delirious.

Drunk on the taste of you both, drunk on the fact that even receiving pleasure from another—it was his name you moaned. He wanted to take you right then and there, but fair was fair.

Your guest sobbed when he pulled away—cunt clenching where his fingers once were and the orgasm that had been cresting ebbed with a rock of her hips as she chased it. You dropped a kiss to her cheek, soothing her cries for release as you cupped her jaw to swallow them.

Din watched your hand slither down to her cunt once more, fingers splitting around her clit lazily while he shed the open shirt he still had on, kicking his pants off while he was at it.

“Up here, sweetheart—” he commanded once he was free, heavy cock in hand when he settled down on the ottoman. He smirked at the cogs turning in your head—shown in the glint of curiosity in those gorgeous eyes before you crawled into his lap to cup his cheeks. You cleaned his face of the other woman’s essence with kitten licks and languid kisses, and he almost lost himself in you—almost. He turned you with a guiding hand to your shoulders, your back to his chest while he nudged your temple with a growl, “gorgeous… so fucking gorgeous—”

You wriggled slightly – poor thing… untouched, desperate for relief – and he hooked your legs over his, spreading your thighs wide for the dancer to see how wet you were—her dark eyes turning obsidian as she crawled on all fours between your legs, kissing you indulgently and then him.

“Make my girl feel good, then you can cum,” he purred against her mouth, turning to press a kiss into your temple when you whimpered, your hand having dropped to stroke over your clothed clit.

He pulled it away – behave, baby – and you whined into his mouth as you turned your face up to kiss him, whispering against his mouth in nonsensical strings of babble—asking for more, please please please Din.

The woman watched you in awe, the control you had over her melting to willing submission as you kissed his scruffy jaw with wet licks.

The temptation to just fuck you right there and then—to turn you over and mount you roared in his mind with a territorial claim. Your pleas whispered so softly into his skin, he ached to fill you—to turn those pleas into cries of bliss as he sank his cock into you. Not yet. He wanted to see you come undone on another’s tongue as he directed them. The indirect pleasure he would give you—it was impossible to resist.

He pulled your panties to the side again as the woman kissed up your thighs, across your navel – that’s it… tease her – and the air on your cunt – soaked with desire – made you bite your lip, eyes fluttering closed when her wet breath fell onto it.

“Spead her open for me—” Din hummed, revelling in the wet squelch of them against her fingers as she opened you wide, her eyes full of hunger and her tongue flicking out across her lips. They lifted to him, her thighs rubbing together from where her own naked cunt was exposed and wanting as she waited, nuzzling her nose into the seam of your thigh—the trembling clench of your pussy finally making him show you some mercy.

The image of another woman’s face buried in your cunt when he finally allowed her to slake her hunger for your arousal made him feel more powerful than any victory in the ring, any bowed submission by bolstered masculinity from unworthy adversaries. It was an incomparable lust—to see you pleasured this way—framed by his body, the tongue between your folds under his command, and the both of you eager to please him—to please each other. Masculine pride that didn’t need overbearing territoriality, but a guiding hand and the trust you both put in him. That is what made his cock leak and twitch against your back.

“Avoid her clit—”

You whimpered.

“Two fingers in that needy cunt… listen to how soaked you are baby—”

She fingered you diligently, slender digits echoing the patterns he knew would have you crying—have you squirming had he not kept you prisoner against his chest—patterns he dictated. A swipe to your clit by her thumb, a mercy on her part—and he snarled a warning down at her.

“Slower, slower—she likes to be edged, don’t you, sweetheart?”

His arms kept you at his mercy, your body open and wanting as the siren between your legs slurped and sucked and spread your wetness—had you quivering under her tongue. He could hear it. The wet drags—you always got so wet, and the velvet soaked beneath you only proved the fact. Her tongue circled your clit, dropped down to prod your entrance on his command. You knew it—that was why your pleas were directed to him, your nose buried into his cheek as you babbled incoherently – touch me, touch me please – your fingers clawing at the back of his neck.

“I am touching you—” he muttered as he ghosted his lips across the arch of your neck that lay in vulnerable deference against his shoulder—hands tweaking pebbled nipples after he had unhooked the front of your bra, rolling them in coarse fingers before he gave one of them a quick slap, “what do you want, baby?”

You rutted your hips down to push your cunt further into the dancer’s mouth, her moans of approval making you sob at the vibrations, the dual clash of soft wet tongue and rough dry hands on your breasts. He snarled a command to suck your clit—the woman’s fathomless gaze meeting his as her ruby lips wrapped around that pretty little bundle of nerves to make you bow up out of his lap, your hands gripping her curls to claw her closer with a litany of curses and fuck fuck yes—yes more more more—

“Stop.”

Your sob was heartbroken as your orgasm slipped from your grasp – wind through the pampas grass – and you turned, his hand tangled in your guest’s hair to yank her back, and you dropped to engulf his cock in your mouth. It made him choke—made him forget for just a moment as his head fell back and a guttural moan dropped from his mouth in encouragement.

Din dragged the woman up as you sucked him off—kissing your essence right off her with long licks and plundering swipes into her mouth, his hips lifting to push himself deeper down your throat as it convulsed around his girth with a gag.

“I make you both cum, understand?” he growled—smirking when you both nodded deliriously—you with a messy mouth and stroking the length of his cock as it rested against your cheek, and her pussy drunk delirium fogging her gaze.

“Good girls…”

Taglist | Form

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Some moots who might enjoy: @highsviolets​ @krissology​ @charnelhouse​ @thepoisonofgod​ @uncle-kenobi​ 

[sciapod]

Babe I’m gonna leave

Pairing: Soft!Billy Lee x Female OFC Warnings: 18+. Slight dub!con/rough sex, somewhat body worship, fluff if you insist, mostly just slight angst. Word Count: 〜1.6K A/N [summary]: What would happen if Billy Lee fell for a woman?

Masterlist

Go ahead and listen to the songs [linked like this] before reading on, just to set the mood.

🖤 Smut somewhere under the cut 🖤 Tags in the reblog. Let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list 🖤

[Babe I’m gonna leave you - Led Zeppelin]

He tried to ignore the knot in his stomach as he flicked his cigarette away and walked over to her. He snaked his arms around his queen and smelled her hair. How could he be without her? Was there a way to take her with him? No, he knew that wouldn't be possible. He entrusted her to take care of the rest of the flock while he was away. He relied on her. Needed her to stay. Surely, he'd come back and be with her again, right?

He knew well enough that there was much risk in this endeavor he was going on, but preferred not to word his concerns. He preferred… a slight distance to the reality of things.

Which included her. She didn't even seem real to him. That's what attracted him to her, how he got… entranced. There was an ethereal feel to her, that he had never known before. His vision had always been to reach a similar level himself and though he acted the part convincingly enough, this one… this woman manifested what he was aspiring for. Alas, his prideful facade and sense of authority to the group forced him – no, neglected him the chance – to fully show his adoration and appreciation for her. The group… every other person in the group had come by him for another reason; to be saved, somehow. He had to live up to this expectation, this legend he had constructed about himself, and now he was conflicted. The summer had come, now it was time for him to leave. His duty as a leader called him elsewhere.

***

[Magic Carpet Ride - Steppenwolf]

For once alone and away from the group, he was having a particularly glorious day.

She was not, yet still… When he noticed her for the first time, standing there on the beach alone, there was something about her that struck him. She seemed… regal. She was wearing a long, loose dress. The dark blue fabric was so sheer that, as she stood in front of the setting sun, he could see every curve of her body. He admired her slender frame as he walked closer. She was not petite, although definitely not tall either, but she seemed… elevated.

What’s your name? Who’s your Daddy? Is he rich like me? he mused as he walked.

When she turned to the sound of his voice, he had to stop to pinch himself in the arm. Truly, who was this woman? She gave him a timid smile as she watched him approach her, whereas the smile on his lips read ‘charmer’ to the last letter. He was bemused by how short she actually was, when he finally came closer.

They didn’t talk much that day, not that day either, one should say… He simply took her hands in his and sang the lyrics to Steppenwolf's Magic Carpet Ride.

For what seemed like the first time, she felt the storm that had lingered in her eyes drift away. He could see the change happen as he sang,

Why don't you tell your dreams to me, Fantasy will set you free…

From time to time thereafter, he’d still see traces of the same storm in her eyes and every time he wished he could take her hands and sing,

Close your eyes now Look inside now Let the sound Take you away

Since she entered his life, since she joined them, nothing was ever quite the same. His view, his perspective… Everything changed. Simply her presence, the glow she emitted – he couldn't ignore it.

He’d steal moments to hold her tightly and put on a brave face as he whispered soft musings in her ear. Lyrics from love songs that he knew she couldn't take seriously, and while her laughter was another kind of music to his ears, they also cut deep scars. He desperately wished she knew the sincerity with which he chose those exact words.

***

When he got the chance –no girlies or goons asking for his attention– he liked to watch her from a distance. He’d dream about her narrow waist, soft bottom, firm bosom; a perfect handful for his hands … He’d dream about her hair, reaching midway down her back, some days wavy like that of mermaids in fairy tales, some days completely straight. He always wondered how she managed this.

He’d dream about how her eyes shifted color when the clouds in them lifted. Some days they were blue, other days more green, others again almost grey. It all depended on her mood.

Her mood… though she laughed and smiled easily, this wasn't her usual, inherent demeanor. There was an eerie serenity to her. A seriousness, as if she was scheming or lost in deep thought, once again taken hostage by that storm. She often had a smart remark to the girls' simple minded talks and ideas. He was equally often amused that he was the only one who caught her sarcasm and recognized her for what she was: Superior.

He couldn't place an age on her, he never bothered to ask. It never mattered. She had the faintest crows feet on the sides of her eyes and a few almost invisible lines on her forehead and between her brows. She worries too much, he'd think at the chances he got to admire them up close. He knew she'd gone through a lot, suffered much pain, this was after all how he had found her, as with most of the other girls. They were always… lost. But with her… this one was different. They’d had fleeting chances for deep conversations and while, to his standard, they had shared a lot, there was always something left unsaid. He dared not ask about this. With all the other girls he could ask them whatever and tell whichever stories. He'd usually make them up on the fly, only ever sharing crumbs of who he really was, but with her… With her he was an open book and often he didn't even need to speak a word. It was as if she just knew and accepted it. Accepted him. Maybe even loved him for it, whatever it was he had done or thought. He loved her for this, but he never dared say that either. Only masked in a song … Did she understand that too?

He preached to the group about things like this… Being your own God and such. Love and such. But it was only something he truly knew in relation to her and he didn't have the words to express that either… Nor could he, ever. What would happen with the 'crew' if they knew where his true devotion was? He dared not think it, dared not push it.

***

There had come to be an expectation for him to be with the other girls. It was part of his role. He'd take them to his room at random. Indeed at random, for while he enjoyed the excitement and thrill so obvious in the girls when they realized the chance they had been given, the gift they had been granted to spend the night with him – oh, and how he relished being served so eagerly – at some point through the night, he'd drastically change. He’d flip the girl on all four, not bearing any longer that it wasn't her face looking up at him, not her voice moaning in delirium, not her breath grazing his skin, not her flesh taking him in… He'd flip them around, letting out the suppressed rage that lurked in his depth and rush to his own release with a reckless pace. The girls never complained, he had already made them cum multiple times by then… It was just the way it was. It was… what could be expected.

She'd hear everything, lying in the bedroom next door, reading a book. Or she’d be sitting in the common room with a cigarette and a cup of herbal tea ready for the girls when they came out and were sore… If he came out as well, he always had the feeling that she saw right through him, her lips wickedly curled on one side. He’d blow her a kiss and force a confident smile and she’d return the favour by handing him a cigarette and sliding his preferred whiskey across the counter. They’d never exchange a word, but he’d never feel as strong a longing for her as on those nights.

***

[Love me two times - The Doors]

He draped her hair on one side of her neck and kissed the bare skin of the other.

“Ssssh, someone will see us,” she said.

“No, not behind these,” he yanked gently on the sheets flowing around them, the ones she had been busy putting up when he found his way to her that morning.

“Hush, they can see right through to us,” she said, diverting his lips but still sneaking her hands into the back pockets of his jeans, pulling him closer.

“Babe, I’m gonna leave you,” he hummed between nippling on her earlobe, “I'm goin' away.”

“I know, darling, you've been saying that all along. I know,” she said as she rolled her head back against his chest.

“Love me two times, baby,” he continued, ignoring the voices in the distance that began questioning where he was.

“Shh, baby, I'll be right here when you come back.”

“Love me twice today,” he sang now, slowly grinding his hips against her body. She sighed.

“One for tomorrow, one just for today…”

Birds sang coyly around them and impatient voices grew louder.

“Baby,” she rejected.

“Love me two times, girl,” he turned her around so he could look into her eyes. The storm was back.

“I'm goin' away...”

[adelindschade]

A Thousand Ambitions (A Thousand Cuts, Part 27)

The Valkyries have an ambition for an Academy 

“What is this place?” Emerie scrunched her nose at the desolate valley.

“An old war-camp.” Nesta neglected to say which one. Emerie squinted, already calculating that perhaps it was tied to Cassian. Nesta was hesitant to elaborate on the suspicion it had been the one Cassian razed alongside his brothers, where his mother toiled and ultimately perished.

No one wanted anything to do with it. Especially not Cassian.

“It looks barren.” Gwyn mused somberly, as if feeling the despair of its previous life.

“It hasn’t seen life in centuries,” Nesta confirmed.  Snow covered whatever remnants of its old foundations, the ones Nesta hadn’t had a chance to reutilize for Windhaven. Trees were beginning to sprout but they did not tower like others did.

“No one will touch it and it’s far from Windhaven, or any other camp, to rouse mischief from unsettled males,” Nesta explained. “I’m not sure exactly how we’ll erect a school here with what remains, but we’ll figure out something.”

Protection was her main priority. Discretion was her next. Just because some males were happy to rid themselves of unwanted daughters, with the false assumption of priming them to be profitable brides, didn’t mean other males might see a different opportunity. Vulnerable females for them to poach; others simply would show their discontent for a school dedicated for females in other violent ways.

Nesta had to be cautious and vigilant as she was ruthless. Her reputation as a witch gave her plenty of clearance but not far enough that something she treasured wouldn’t be untouched by malicious males.

“I believe in you,” Gwyn chirped happily, clapping a hand over her shoulder.  

Nesta knew her powers fed on death, or so it was implied. She had been drained in Windhaven from what she had accomplished thus far. It had been one daunting task after another, depleting her energy. From the report Cassian gave on his regretful history, this new ground they explored had ample supply for her damned magic. Bones, blood, and torment scoured the soil and left a terrible stain. One tragedy after another. She simply needed to reap it like a farmer did his crops.  

“It’s a giant graveyard,” Emerie voice with optimism, kicking at snow. “You have plenty to work with. Gwyn and I trust you.”

“Okay, well, let’s start framing,” Nesta fixed her attire in preparation. The leather kept her warm; the layer of fur make her swelter. Drawing lines in the snow and lining them with her custom ash would be a war effort in and of itself as she battled knee high snow.

This ash was different. It was dangerous and ancient. The kind that have been crafted from bones but no ordinary bones. It was a treacherous thing to dig up a grave and Nesta never felt so disrespectful in her life, but a hunch pushed her to take up the measure for the sake of securing the academy.

“Are you sure these belong to the Valkyries?” Gwyn asked.

“I scried for it,” Nesta breathed wearily. She had a whim – and then a vivid dream. She had all but compelled herself to seek it out, determined to solve the mystery history had lost. It was surreal, seeing the bodies of warriors left to rot, and then again to discover the remnants of their skeletons. Broken shields, swords staked into the ground, and spears snapped as debris sprawled all around. It was a dismal sight and a shameful one, too.

Nesta had winnowed there in present time, five hundred years after the carnage. It took a great deal of energy and she had all but collapsed upon arrival. Emerie sat in a moment of silence while Gwyn held her breath, horrified at what must have taken place. Still, while Emerie wholly believed that’s what happened to the infamous unit, Gwyn had to play the skeptic of the group for safe measure.

They spent the day gathering what they could see – bones, armor, swords, arrowheads – anything and everything the Valkyries took with them. Gwyn had even pointed out an equine’s skeleton – and the fragments of what looked to be its wings, twice the size and length as the ones Emerie sported. They were finding more and more of them, piling all into one.

Nesta knew it’d be too much to winnow. She was already spent as it was. With great remorse, Emerie prompted Nesta to light the bones aflame. Nesta hadn’t cremated anyone intentionally before. The silvery blue fire was slow to engulf but it eventually consumed what encompassed of the Valkyries. Nothing but a circle of ash remained. It was a somber sight and a terrible end to The Valkyries’ great legacy.

The trio hope to revive it. They were determined they would not end there. The Valkyrie would not come to an end.

“We’re doing a good thing and returning them to a proper resting place,” Emerie assured with a sternness. Her throat bobbed. “That was a miserable place, ill fit for a Valkyrie.”

This wasn’t much better, Nesta wanted to argue, but she didn’t want to layer one tragedy over another.  Cassian avenged his mother, slaughtered males without discretion in madness as he mourned a mother; The Valkyries were honoring their idols, laying them to rest, and paying respect to their memory by reviving a new generation to take up arms. That’s what she had to remind herself of.

Just because her magic seemed plentiful, Nesta’s body ached with protest with each muscle contortion. Gwyn and Emerie fared no better. They collapsed by a tree trunk, laboring for each breath.  The snow around the perimeter they drew with the deceased warriors cremated remains had melted down, scorched to the earth itself, and then digging deep into the frosted soil until it dethawed, too. The smell of sulfur resonated in the air, with a hint of decay.

Nesta scrunched her nose, taken aback by the putrid smell. It seemed only she was sensitive to the scent, perhaps another consequence of her magic as she had a particular liking to death more than others.

Gwyn gleamed with sweat, shiny all over, and red around the cheeks and nose. Emerie huffed and flexed her wings the best she could, flinching from the spots where the cold took its toll. The leathery texture was an illusion, as the brightly colored veins protruding from her outer extremities were visibly transparent when the sun struck it.

“Labor of love,” Gwyn hissed, splaying a hand over her stomach as she caught her breath.

“Blood, sweat, and tears,” Nesta swallowed as she tried to lubricate her throat. The cold had robbed her of a voice, and it hurt to talk when it was so parched. Her inner magic produced a fire and warmth than thwarted the damned numbness which plagued her friends’ fingers and toes.

“Mainly sweat,” Emerie growled – already accustomed to the climate. The cold didn’t strike her down as much as the constant hunching over and seemingly miles of walking in snow, so high and so compact it might as well been solid brick.

“I’m not going to be able to walk tomorrow,” Gwyn whined.

“Tomorrow going to suck,” Nesta groaned – but ended in a whimper. She had so much on her plate, and tomorrow would demand all her attention as Emerie and herself looked over new hires to staff the almost-readied businesses.

Nesta would have appreciated it’s efficient timeline if it wasn’t so difficult to organize. Emerie was a great help and splitting the effort down the middle had been a welcomed reprieve. Cassian would have assisted, too, but his hands were tied as well. He had armies to oversee, and recruits of his own to interview for various military posts. Azriel could have been an extra aid if Rhys hadn’t uprooted him to Hewn City as punishment for an undetermined time. Gwyn was still too deep undercover to get involved with the development plans, having only a day or two off and away from Lord Dion’s paranoid vigilance.  

“I can’t believe we already have so many admissions,” Emerie croaked. “I did not foresee that. My father would have never volunteered me.”

“You were also his only daughter,” Nesta pitched, scowling as her own bitter childhood haunted her. “Had he not died when he did, what’s to say he wouldn’t marry you off to the first prospective suitor to put more coins in his pocket? Most of these females are second or third daughters. One less mouth to feed or clothe. It’s either this or abandoned at a camp damned to do whatever the soldiers bid them to. The eldest is too valuable to sacrifice.”

“It could be advantageous they are so young,” Gwyn produced optimistic.  “Children are so willing to learn, and there wouldn’t be much to decondition…. Imagine how we could sharpen their minds!”

“That could be the school’s motto,” Emerie seconded. “We sharpen the mind like we sharpen our sword.”

“Who will teach?” Nesta interjected.

“I’ve been in contact with a few priestesses. Roslin, Dierdre, Ananke, Lorelei, Ilana… As much as they adore the library, they miss having children around, and the chance to be around them while taking up training again has enticed a few to leave the Library in search of teaching positions.” Gwyn flashed a smile. “Merrill may or may not know I’m poaching some of her favorite,” she snickered.

“I know a few widows who’d jump at a chance to escape the camp. As much as I appreciate the priestesses’ offer, it’d help a have a few familiar faces – and wings – for these little ones to look up to. Even the young ones are hesitant to trust foreigners,” Emerie gently approached, trying her best not to wound Gwyn. She turned to Nesta. “Even a few males might redact their daughters if they learn they’re being instructed by High Fae.”

“And what is she?” Gwyn barked back, gesturing to Nesta. “What am I?”

“A half-breed and a witch,” Emerie declared with absolution. Gwyn gawked. Nesta shrugged, having accepted the term. “I don’t mean it with offense. I’m simply stating what you two are perceived to be, from what I heard from around. Both of you rank below a High Fae. Though you’re not one of us, it’s believed we share a lot more in common than one of those pretentious bastards who snub their noses at us.”

“But we’re also female. We’re less of a threat than a male,” Gwyn argued.

“Females of lesser Fae are likened to bastards in treatment, give or take. You are just as much outsiders as we are to the rest of Prythian. However, anyone who isn’t Illyrian isn’t welcomed to our society either. It’s a bit a vicious circle,” Emerie elaborated despondently. “We keep to ourselves, while resisting change because the males in charge declared it so. It’s not just males – it’s females, too, who enable this mindset. We have to be cautious with what we introduce and how it will appear to others.”

“They’ll be resistant to our efforts anyhow. Intermingling might help our cause. Integration is going to be a huge hurdle, as it has been in past, but we cannot let it persist. Fresh minds means small steps towards progress for the next generation. Illyria has been isolated enough. There will be no room to breed more prejudice – on either side,” Nesta intervened sternly. “It’ll be slow and moderate, but we should consider both electives. Education and advancement is our priority. All else can be pushed aside.”

“There will be a lot of children to look after, year-round it seems like if father’s abandon them into the care of a half-breed, a witch, and an defiant female,” Gwyn mused with slightly bruised ego. “I don’t believe they will care to take them back. We need more than a handful of females to instruct. That’s going to require a lot of beds.”

“Nesta will coax up a big enough castle to house them,” Emerie nudged humorously. Nesta almost tipped over from physical exhaustion. Emerie often underestimated her strength and Nesta slender frame reminded her too often of her advantage.

“I don’t mean that,” Gwyn sighed. “I mean organizing the classes, and the boarding. Perhaps we should set up halls, or houses. Ways to establish an order. Like a headmistress – or three.”

“That’s how’d you like to divide it?” Emerie probed.

“We all have our expertise,” Gwyn insisted. “We should be able to preside over what we excel at and collaborate with the rest over what we don’t. We established we work well together. That won’t be an issue in the future. I believe it’d be easier to sort students, and then rotate them accordingly to ensure a rounded education, and graduate where they are most proficient.”

“I don’t have aby objection,” Nesta inserted.

“Neither do I,” Emerie approved. “Now the question is what do we each stand for? What subjects are our domain?”

“History,” Gwyn and Emerie pitched simultaneously. They glared at each over across Nesta.

“Let’s compromise,” Gwyn spoke first, not the least bit afraid of Emerie’s fierce eyes.

“History is too broad of a subject for a single individual to cover,” Nesta mediated.

“Agreed. I’ll oversee local history and you can encompass Prythian as a whole,” Emerie hummed, wavering slightly.

“That was easy to solve,” Gwyn sighed with mild relief.

“How about we have a pinch of each in our curriculums? I can teach history of mortals, Illyrians, and all of Prythian,” Nesta nudged in proper order. “Same with combat. Emerie is expert with the sword, Gwyn – you exceed with dangers and hand to hand combat, and I could manage with blocking techniques. Whether it be a sword or a shield, I care not for battle or blood like the two of you heathens,” she attempted to dissuade the tension.

“What about magic?” Gwyn pitched.

“Gwyn, you’re a healer. I think it’s rather obvious what you’d excel at,” Emerie propped a brow. “Nesta, you’re Cauldron made. If you prefer to take up the shield, then you might as well ordain over defensive magic. I have none in my body, but I can wield a made weapon, and I believe that is credential enough for me to master that of the offensive sort.”

“Electives? These females would enjoy some fun in their mundane lives,” Nesta chuckled.

“It’d be nice to have a Pegasus to learn how ride,” Gwyn grumbled sourly.

“Realistically?” Emerie quirked her head, equally humored.

“Fine – friendship bracelets,” Gwyn gleamed.

“Gwyn called dibs on all things arts and craft,” Nesta boasted a laugh.

“Damnit,” Emerie mocked anger, but a smile resided on her face. “Okay. Fuck. Okay, well, I’m a fairly good seamstress, and the skill is versatile. If they want to take up practical pursuits, I’d be happy to instruct the basics to ensure they are self-reliant.”

“For someone who vehemently hates traditional roles, I find it ironic you’d teach something of the sort,” Gwyn jested.

“Oh, shush. I made a good living off of it, and I believe others could, too, if they seek to take up another trade besides the kind that demand one’s bodily sacrifice,” Emerie shrugged.

“She makes a good point. Not all Valkyries should be expected to dedicate all their time in service. Most will likely assume an independent life, and only answer to the call of arms when war is impending. What are they do to during peacetime?” Nesta seconded.

“For the sake of eluding the males, we’ll disguise it as Household Management, but between ourselves, we know better. I’ll call it Economics and Trade. It is important to have knowledge of business and assert one’s independence,” Emerie triumphed. It roused a nod from Nesta.

“Give me the slim pickings, why not?” Nesta mused comically. “I do like dance. Music and Dance. That’s my choice.”

“Between you and I, who’s better as sums?” Emerie proposed between she and Nesta.

“I do manage your books, and before that, my fathers,” Nesta calculated.

“You sort that out between yourselves. I’ll fancy myself as a reader and intellect. Let the Librarian manage the reading course.” Gwyn announced.

“I am proficient at composition, too,” Nesta persuaded. “Mathematics is not my preferred subject, though I have experience. You do, too.”

“I’ll manage sums and calculations, I suppose,” Emerie agreed.

“While we’re agreeing on curriculum, we ought to consider our amenities,” Gwyn elicited the attention of both.  “If we’re dividing the school in an order of three parts, I would like the library in mine. A nurse’s ward, too. We are the house of healers.” She harrumphed.

“An arena in mine,” Emerie quickly grabbed her pick. “I am teaching offensive techniques after all.”

“You two are so quick to draw,” Nesta whined. “I don’t have time to think fast enough! Fine – wait – don’t interrupt me! Okay, I desire the study hall. Somewhere quiet with plenty of privacy.”

“Essentials: dibs on dining hall,” Emerie raised her hand.

“That’s unfair,” Gwyn squawked. “We’re getting ruthless here. Alright, a theater. Somewhere to practice music and put on plays! I’m nurturing creativity and I’ll settle for nothing less.”

“Per usual, I’m last to pick,” Nesta snorted. “I’d like a view of the courtyard. I’d like a green, tranquil space for them to enjoy. Gwyn already had three picks, so I need one more to make it even.”

“May I make a suggestion first?”

“Okay,” Nesta relented to Emerie.

“Since I’m teaching practical sums, I should get a laboratory, too. Somewhere to experiment with magic, herbs, solids, and liquids,” she enthusiastically indulged. “I want to be the house known for its inventive nature. My students will be bold, unafraid, and curious.”

“So will mine!” Gwyn cut in. “I want mine to excel in the same matter. They will seek out knowledge to better not just themselves but others, too!”

“Maybe we should simplify this,” Nesta intervened. “Gwyn, you’re centralizing your studies on intellect and humanities. You’re the House of Healers. Emerie, you’re best at practical, calculated pursuits. If I could interject and suggest you lead The House of Strategy, or maybe condense it to The House of Guardians…?”

“I like Guardians,” Emerie reclined in blissful thought.

“What about yourself, headmistress?” Gwyn reverted back to Nesta.

“I still have to pick my third choice and my house decree,” Nesta groaned. “Maybe, maybe I should indulge in something outside the classical classroom. I always looked forward to the possibility of travel, and exploration, but mother forbade it and my father never considered me to join his expeditions. I would like to grant my students the chance to study abroad, perhaps for the older ones, and use my experience as an emissary to expand outside Illyria, or even the Night Court. Perhaps I could ask the other High Lords if they’d be willing to extend me the courtesy of travel, with a few other travelers in tow.”

“The House of Explorers?” Emerie proposed.

“I’d like that very much,” Nesta nodded passionately.

[war--lords]

sorry i’ve been gone for so long i have a full-time job and other hobbies that i am deeply obsessed with... here have some fluff

Female pronouns for Reader

Fact one: In the past three days, Nobunaga can’t find you in the places you frequent around the castle, and at the end of the day, finds the tenshu empty. By dusk you are usually in his room, but these nights he finds you coming back after him. “Oh, just taking care of some stuff,” you would say.

Fact two: He misses you.

Perhaps it isn’t in his character to admit that so openly to you, what with his moniker being the “Devil King” and all, but he knows you know better—honesty has always been a key in your relationship, and it was the fact that he knew you were from 500 years in the future that drew him closer to you. Yes, he’ll tell you he misses you, but not before dealing out the proper punishment for failing to pay attention to him.

(Maybe he’s not being entirely honest after all, because he calls it punishment even when the both of you enjoy it. And as much as you’d squirm and reprimand him for teasing you so...)

Enough, he chides himself mentally. The lack of quality time with you has driven his mind to rely on fantasy, but that needs to change today. Today, he declares independence from the stack of paperwork on his desk and dedicates his working hours to looking for you—within the castle grounds or in town, if he must. He can already hear Hideyoshi scolding him at the back of his mind and scoffs.

As if that could stop him.

Nobunaga’s first stop is the hall where the seamstresses usually work.

“She left but moments ago, my lord,” says one of the elderly, working to get her thread in the eye of the needle. “To the kitchen, said she needed help to procure some food items.” 

“Speaking of, she did the same yesterday. And the day before, if I remember correctly,” another seamstress chimes in. “And it’s around this time too.”

“I wonder if she’s also helping out there. Our lady has always been so eager to assist!”

Thanking the ladies for the information, Nobunaga exits the hall to make his way to the kitchen, leaving the staff giggling and cooing at how sweet the two of them are together.

At an hour so close to lunch, the castle kitchen is teeming with life. Nobunaga’s face is hit with the aromatic smells of various dishes—it seems they’re about to be served mushroom and meat stew, a season-appropriate dish—as well as smoke and the sounds of commanding voices and hurried footsteps carrying the orders out. A cooking battlefield.

Blue enters his peripheral and he turns to look at a corner. Masamune is taste-testing something out of an iron pot simmering atop a fire, offering some of his comments to the chef standing next to him before sprinkling in some other ingredients into the pot.

“Lord Nobunaga,” Masamune says, grinning at the Oda patriarch’s approach. The chef standing next to him looks surprised at the very least, echoing the greeting with a deep bow. Masamune swiftly swipes a sample of the brewing broth of a wooden spoon and offers it to him with a “careful, it’s hot”. 

Nobunaga holds the spoon in his hand and sips, nodding his approval. “I was told I could find ___________ here.”

“The lass? Right, she was here.”

Nobunaga clicks his tongue at the use of past tense.

“Was she helping out with lunch preparations?”

Masamune shakes his head, adding what seems to be a pinch more salt into the pot. “Asked for some leftovers, actually—last night’s steamed fish. Put it in a neat little box and was gone as quickly as she arrived.”

“She asked for her food to be packed, as well.” The chef next to Masamune supplies.

Was she going somewhere? Nobunaga muses, deep in thought. His lover might be perplexing, but sharp as he is, he has some sort of clue as to what is happening. 

“I see. Did anyone see which way she was heading?”

Another young man chopping up some scallions in his work station put his knife down and pointed to the right of the kitchen entrance. “To the garden thereabouts, perhaps, my lord,” he answers, before he dutifully goes back to his job. 

“Thank you. In that case I shall have my food to go as well.”

“Right away, my lord!”

Masamune chuckles. “Didn’t know you guys like playing cat and mouse.”

Something clicks in Nobunaga’s mind. That had to be it.

“Yes, well, I didn’t know either,” comes his offhanded response, the beginnings of a smile on his lips. 

When he finally finds you, you are sitting under a maple tree in the freshly trimmed garden, the red of autumn forming a beautiful canopy above you. He sees a lacquered lunchbox in your hand, and in front of you, just at arm’s length, is another box...

...being devoured wholeheartedly by three kittens of varying coats.

“There you are,” he says as he approaches. You look startled for a split second, perhaps associating the gardens with a place that nobody ever frequents, before the expression melts into the very smile he’s smitten with.

“Nobunaga!” You look pleased with a tinge of confusion. “How rare of you to dine outside.”

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” he confesses as he sits down next to you, not minding the grass on his kimono and haori, “and upon finding out that you’ve decided to eat out, I decided to join you.”

“I’m sorry, did you come look for me in the kitchen?”

“And the seamstresses’ hall before that.”

You look extremely apologetic he almost feels bad. He leans forward. You get the message and peck him on the lips. 

“Sorry.”

“One more, and then you’re forgiven.”

“Mm, okay,” you murmur, smiling into the kiss, your lunchbox forgotten despite holding it in your hands. This one lasts longer, what with your lover’s hand at the back of your head, ordering you to stay, and when he swipes his tongue on your bottom lip you feel the beginnings of a moan bubbling at the top of your throat—oh, you’re in public—

He’s the first to pull away, a devious smirk on his face. “Your food will grow cold.”

Pouting, you begrudgingly start eating again.

“So this is where you’ve been the past few days?” He asks, unraveling the cloth that wraps his food container while staring at three fuzzy rumps an arm’s length away. The kittens, all of which are variants of white, orange, and black, look ravenous, not even caring that another person has entered the vicinity. He spots the remnants of steamed fish in the box.

“Yes,” you answer, all smiles as you look at the kittens, and then once more that expression morphs into a realization that you’ve been spending less time with him, which perfectly explains him seeking you out. “Oh, Nobu, I didn’t mean to.”

He begins eating his meal. “You could have told me.”

“Well, yes, but I felt like that would’ve finalized my attachment to them,” you say, finishing your meal (you started earlier, after all). “I’ve been watching them and waiting for their mother to perhaps come back, but it’s been three days...”

One of the kittens, the one with orange and black on the tips of its ears, comes hobbling at you with little legs, meowing in thanks. Your smile turns to a chuckle when it climbs into your lap, insistently pawing and leaning its head into your palm when you reach to pet it.

He watches as you pet it gently, the kitten seemingly wanting more scratches and strokes each time that you have to concede. A wry smile takes over his face as he continues with his meal. “Perhaps its mother left them here knowing they will be well cared for.”

You blink in surprise. “Nobunaga, are you saying we can—”

“No.”

“Why?” you whine.

“I’m smart enough not to invite any competition for your attention within my quarters.”

Understanding dawns upon you and you find your arms around his shoulders, kissing his neck repeatedly so as to not disturb his meal. The poor man... getting jealous over some kittens because you’ve been looking after them for the last few days. When you’ve administered the last kiss on his throat, hoping to appease him, you look up to see his eyes boring into yours, a planning smile on his face. You catch on, and smile back, hoping to look at least half as alluring as he.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“Good,” he replies curtly. “When that happens... I’ll make sure it’ll be impossible for you to think about anything else.”

The incessant meowing, cute as they are, dissolves the sexual tension between the two of you, as another kitten makes its way bravely on top of Nobunaga’s calf, its beady eyes making it look like it’s pleading. Good sir? Have you come to feed us, too?

You see a softness in Nobunaga’s eyes that indicates he’s finally understood what you felt. The man uses his chopsticks to fish out a piece of meat and hovers it right in front of the kitten’s face, allowing the tiny feline to snatch it out of the utensil’s grasp and straight into its mouth.

“The staff will be informed of these little ones and help take care of them,” he declares, “of course you are free to do so as well.” Just don’t neglect me again, you can hear that last unspoken bit through the way he gazes at you. You smile at him gratefully and sigh, feeling like the luckiest person in the world. When else do you get to see Nobunaga acting all soft and playing with kittens?

Leaning forward again, you kiss him on the cheek.

“Thank you.”

He brushes your lip with his thumb and you suppress a shiver down your spine—now is hardly the time to think of that. You lean your head on his shoulder.

“Shall we name them?”

(Haguro flies in the scene five minutes later, scaring the kittens initially, but it’s clear that much like his owner, he’s just jealous and wants some pets.)

[thirstyforthearcana]

Desperate [Julian x Decimus] 🍋

A/N: This is for the first day of the @midsummer-masquerade​ event which I’ve been super pumped about since it was announced, I combined shibari and marking. It is a bit late as it’s 12:19AM where I am but better late than never I suppose. I’ve never posted anything self made to this account yet so I suppose this is also me introducing myself to the rest of the Arcana fandom (Please don’t be too harsh on my writing this is my first published piece)

Pairings: Julian x Decimus (amab nonbinary OC), brief mentions of Decimus x Kaala (female Arcana OC) and of Asra x Julian

Word count: 1300~

Warnings: Marking (hickeys), bondage, dom/sub dynamic, teasing, spice

NSFW 18+. Minors DNI

Julian had been the one to approach Decimus, striding over boldly with his head held high and a confident smirk tugging at his lips. His advances had been brazen, flirtatious words and suggestive looks. That had happened just over twenty minutes ago and from there things had quickly escalated. 

As of this exact moment the two of them were in the brunette’s guest room with Julian pressed against the door as Decim’s lips moved against his in a heated kiss. One of their hands moved up into Julian’s auburn hair tugging at it in a manner which coaxed a mewl from the lithe man. His responsiveness pleased Decimus who parted from the kiss using their grip on the redhead’s curls to tip his head back so they could trail feather light kisses across Julian’s pale throat. The contact to his oh so vulnerable, rather sensitive throat sent a shiver through him as the hair on the back of his neck rose. Their lips felt so good on his skin.  

A small sound of mild surprise left Julian when he felt a teasing nip at his Adam's apple. He wove a hand into Decim’s lengthy hair, clutching it to ground himself as his eyes fluttered shut. Decimus began to suckle at the pale pink mark their teeth had left, lightly at first then harder when they took note of how much it seemed to turn Julian on. 

He’s so sensitive, Decim mused to themself. 

Each second felt like an eternity to Julian who squirmed at every dark hickey being added to the canvas of his flesh which made his cock throb with the aching need for proper stimulation. He rocked his hips forward, grinding himself on Decim’s strong thigh which the latter had pressed between his legs when pinning him to the door in an effort to keep him still. Typically that worked on Kaala but Julian was clearly a whole different breed than her bratty ass. He was an obedient sub, needy for both touch and praise and all too eager to please. 

Decimus allowed Julian to begin working himself over on their thigh as they moved away from the latest hickey they had left, deciding to instead pay his neglected chest some attention. They ran the tip of their tongue across a nipple causing another shiver to course through Jules’ body and his grip on their hair to tighten. When their hot mouth fully enveloped the pink bud he let out a low wanton moan. 

“Fuck, ah, that feels so good darling,” the former fugitive mewled out, the rocking of his hips stuttering slightly when they flicked their tongue across his nipple several times in rapid succesion. They were going to be the death of him. 

With a low hum Decim pulled away from Julian’s chest to get a good look at his flushed face before dipping their head back down to pay the same eager attention to his other nipple. The way they circled the perky bud with their tongue had Jules’ grinding against them with renewed fervor. He could feel his orgasm steadily drawing closer. 

Julian was just on the cusp of reaching his finish when Decimus pulled away causing the former to let out a whine of protest as he dragged his eyes halfway open, “Why… Why did you stop?” he panted out. 

“Because I want to take my time with you tonight,” Decim responded, raking those intense golden eyes of theirs over Julian’s disheveled form. They gave a thoughtful hum before nodding towards the bed, “Sit, and no toying with yourself, understood? You want to be a good boy for me don’t you?”

Jules gave a fervent nod as he obediently crossed the room to perch himself at the bottom of the bed, “Of course Decimus. I’ll be good, I promise,” he murmured shyly, a light blush colouring his cheeks a rosy pink. 

This earned the redhead a pleased sound from the former royal whose lips curled into a pleased smile as they crossed the room and knelt beside the bed to pull a box out from under it. 

Julian’s brow furrowed slightly as he observed Decim, “Uh darling, what exactly is that?” 

“Just a few things I thought might come in handy,” they stated simply as they sifted through the contents. “How do you feel about being bound? Is it something you’re comfortable with?” Decimus soon questioned, their eyes moving to meet Jules’ once more. 

Julian paused as he looked over the rope bundles of various thickness that Decim held up. His thoughts dared to roam to a distant memory of one of the times Asra had bound him during their sexcapades together. His hands were bound tightly behind his back in a simple armbinder and he was face down in the mattress drooling into the sheets as Asra fucked him from behind. He had enjoyed the feeling of security the rope bindings had provided, amongst the other sensations he had been feeling at the time. He blinked, the memory dissipating as he swallowed thickly, “I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”

“Have you been bound before?”

Julian only nodded in response, another flush rising to his face.

“Do you have a preferred rope thickness?” Decimus inquired casually while laying out a couple of the bundles on the bed beside Julian. 

Jules gave this some thought as he examined each bundle of red rope, selecting something of medium thickness which he held out to Decim. 

After checking and rechecking that being bound was something Julian was comfortable with, Decimus had him settle in the middle of the bed with his arms pressed together above his head. Decim knelt on the bed in front of Jules, leaning forward to capture his lips in a slow, sensual kiss which had butterflies taking flight in the stomach of the latter. He practically melted into Decim’s touch, savouring the feeling of their warm hands trailing across his exposed flesh, gently caressing it. 

Several kisses later Decimus pulled away reaching for the length of rope which he folded in half at the center before looping it around Julian’s chest to form a lark's head knot, the base for most chest harnesses. It was loose enough that the rope wouldn’t bite into his skin but still sturdy as the tails of the rope were brought up over Jules’ left shoulder, looped around the pre-tied section of rope then thrown over his right shoulder.

Fifteen minutes later Julian’s chest was accentuated with a pentagram chest harness and his arms were bound together in an intricate corset armbinder. The ends of the rope at his wrists had been secured firmly to the headboard limiting the squirming of his upper body. 

“What a good boy you were holding still and being so patient for me,” Decim praised, stroking the backs of their knuckles along the back of Julian’s cheek gently. “I think you deserve a reward for being so well behaved, don’t you baby?”

Julian gave an eager nod, “Please, I need you, I want to feel your touch,” he begged, the lack of attention to his throbbing cock was frankly beginning to drive him insane. 

Decimus seemed content to steal a final fleeting kiss from the redhead which was promptly broken so they could settle further down the bed, face at level with his pelvis. Rather than immediately wrapping their lips around the head of Julian’s cock which weeped precum steadily they pressed a kiss to the protruding bone of his hip. 

Jules whined pushing his hips upwards, impatient for stimulation as he uttered another more desperate sounding, “Please.”  

Decim hummed looking up at Julian from under their long lashes, the corners of their lips curling upwards into a grin, “I’m going to enjoy ruining you tonight.” 

[intoxfolklorex]

Frederick Parker

Full Name: Frederick Matthew Parker

Date of Birth: 22 November 1990

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Occupation: Baker

Family: Siblings: Alexei, Arthur, Ella, Saige, Ryan, Morgan, Daisy, Jamie

FC: Grey Damon

Death TW, Child Abuse TW, Neglect TW

You must have an active thread with one of my female muses to do a M/F ship with this muse.

Frederick Parker has always believed in fate. To some fate is a myth or something to laugh at, but he truly believes that it was always his fate to end up in his current family.

He doesn’t remember much about his biological mother other than the warmth that she managed to bring into a room. How much she loved Freddie and wanted him to know the beauty of the world. She died when he was three years old, giving birth to his younger brother.

From that day on everything changed in his family. Freddie’s father started to drink more heavily and make it clear that he’d rather have his wife than his sons. A memory that he has never forgotten. Once Freddie went to school it got harder and harder to hide just how bad his father was.

He will forever be thankful for the teacher that spoke up and just before his seventh birthday, Freddie and his little brother were taken by social services. They were placed into a home a few towns over- one that had a son close to Freddie’s age and a daughter the same age as his brother.

It was a completely new environment. Where he had been taught that children were to be seen and not heard, these children were loud and loved being around their parents. Freddie was incredibly protective of his brother but when he saw the younger boy come out of his shell, so did Freddie.

It took a couple of years before he could say he was completely comfortable with his foster parents but they knew how to be patient with him and that was the best thing for him. The day he really knew that this was his family was three years after his first night in that home, when another little boy the same age as Freddie was brought in and he felt proud to say “yeah, those are my dads.”

From then on, Freddie opened up to his family and really gave it his all. He might not have been book smart but he found a love of cooking with one of his dads. A love that turned into baking. 

Freddie knew that he wanted to be happy in life and what better way to do that then to do what he loves? So now Freddie owns his own little bakery in what he considers his hometown and he’s happy.

Freddie is only interested in muses aged 25 and older.

Like for a starter from this muse.

Check the link in the source for the rest of my muse bio starter calls.

[strongxsurvivors]

MLM SHIPS, FETIZATION, AND MISOGYNY IN THE RPC.

This is a small, or not-so-small, rant about a problem ( in my opinion ) I see more and more often in both the rp community and the art community. As a member of both, I just can’t escape this issue and need to put out some food for thought for everyone to read.

Not all of you are going to agree with me. Maybe, some will want to add in their two cents. Maybe, it’ll go over someone’s head completely. I simply appreciate you putting the time into reading this and giving it, like, two seconds of thought. It may not be an issue for you or be completely unrelated to you, but this is an issue I’m sure others will be able to relate to.

I will preface this by saying that I am a twenty-five year old transman. I am bisexual. I have a degree in psychology and excelled in gender and sexuality psychology. THIS DOES NOT, BY ANY MEANS, MEAN I AM THE END ALL BE ALL OF INFO IN THESE SUBJECTS. My experience is my own and I will not gatekeep or instruct people how to think in concerns of these subjects. I am only saying these things simply to assure you that I am valid in my perspective because I am in these communities. Please, don’t think that I want to invalidate anyone or say that I am better than you because I am these things.

Alright, let’s get the ball rolling because I have a lot of feelings and thoughts on a lot of points.

The number one thing that finally set me off to make this post is the absolute WORSHIP of mlm ( male loving male ) ships in the rpc ( and art comm., but this ain’t about them rn ). I have seen, countless times, entire blogs dedicated to shipping male characters to male characters.

Now, initially, this isn’t a problem. Having a male homosexual ship or homosexual male characters is absolutely fine. Peep my blog, I obviously have some. But, it’s the act of taking a character that was originally female, cisbend them to be male, and shipping them with another male character that's the problem. What was wrong with the female character? You kept her personality but made her male? Why? Is it necessary? It’s the same character. If you are uncomfortable writing female-related smut, fade to black. Smut is not necessary if you are truly focused on the essence of this character.

By making this character male, you are essentially saying that the only problem was that she was female. That’s it. That is misogyny. If you are focusing on her as a character, her body shouldn’t matter. As if females equate to their body when sex and gender are two separate things. But, you are bringing females down by getting rid of this one thing. You are telling them they are not good enough. That, maybe, you would like them better if they were the same but male. Am I being extreme about this? Yes. But, I’m trying to drive home my point here.

Another point to make about fetishizing mlm ships is that, even if you state your character is bisexual, pansexual, etc., that does not give you a pass. If your whole blog has characters who want only male partners even if some are stated to be something other than homosexual, you’re fetishizing them. If you put no effort in exploring relationships with females — platonic, romantic, or otherwise — you may as well call them homosexual and call it a day. I’m not here to dictate how you should play your character, but it’s easy to see where your loyalties lie when there is no evidence of female characters on your blog that you’ve interacted with. Actions speak louder than words. Rpc may be made up of words, but make your words take action. Plenty of people complain about their females being ignored. Go help them. Make your characters be friends, enemies, a crime-fighting duo idk. Females exist, don’t act like they don’t.

Oh, and changing a canon mlm ship to a wlw ship by cisbending them doesn’t change things. You’re still saying that those male characters were better than the pre-existing female characters. I would recommend you focus on the actual females of whatever medium you’ve taken these characters from, or create ocs that are genuinely wlw. This is mostly a thing I see in the art community, but I have seen it in the rpc.

We’re going to move on now to some transphobic and trans fetishization, which is fewer and far between. I say a few because I barely see trans characters out there in the community. But, when I do, OH BOY.

Simply stating a character is trans and doing nothing to upkeep what you said does not make your character trans. I’m sorry. Taking a pre-existing character and changing their gender and calling them trans is a sticky situation. I will probably get hate for this, but what are you going to do? It’s Tumblr. I would just prefer to see more original trans characters out there, as if actual thought and development went into their creation. 

What I mean by a sticky situation is this, and it goes back to a point I made earlier about cisbending characters to fit mlm ships: if you’re only making a character a transman to make him gay, that's fetishizing both mlm ships and trans people. I’m not saying a transperson can’t be gay and I’m not here to limit diverse characters — this is why I say this is a sticky situation. But, what I am saying is that if you only have muses that are involved in mlm ships and then you add a transmale character to also have an mlm ship based on faceclaims, it’s kinda sus.

Another thing I want to point out is if you are playing a trans character, refer to them by their chosen name and pronouns. You would think this is a no brainer, but you would be surprised. Even if your trans character is closeted, it is your job as the writer to write the correct name and pronouns. Other character interacting with your trans character could use their dead name and wrong pronouns — it makes sense, they don’t know your character is trans if they are closeted and non-passing. But, as you write your character, you and the reader are aware of your character’s true self. Neglecting to reflect your character’s true self through their chosen and name and pronouns is transphobic and harmful. Seeing things like this sends me into a whirlwind of dysphoria.

Changing a pre-existing character to nonbinary rather than cisbending them would be a recommendation from me and some others ( nonbinary individuals ) I’ve talked to. First off, there are very few nonbinary characters in general — media or otherwise. So, taking a pre-existing character and making them nonbinary is a nice thing to see. And, since the character is nonbinary, if they’re in a relationship with a male - the fetishization is redundant.

Now, who do I see making these wacky characters? Mostly cis females and trans men. I think it mostly stems from internalized misogyny as, when growing up, we’ve lived in societies where we are taught men are better than women. It can get to the point where cis females will glorify men so much that they have to have mlm ships. The same can be said for trans men. I’m not saying — as is often used against trans men — that this internalized misogyny / glorification of men has caused them to be trans. Obviously not. But, the internalized misogyny is still there enough to where they may either fear interacting with female characters. It might make them uncomfortable, dysphoric, or they just may think men are better. Women do not deserve to be the catalyst for someone’s discomfort. They are people. They are everywhere. They deserve to be loved. If they make you uncomfortable, if you think you are better than them, if you think men are better, I want you to sit down with yourself and think about this.

When I first realized that I was trans, I had some serious internalized misogyny going on. I would be uncomfortable writing female characters. I would be uncomfortable interacting with them. There was this discomfort that started to manifest in my behaviors and thoughts. Luckily, I had the best person in my life who told me that I was acting misogynistic and I needed to change. Pushing away females was me trying to come to terms with my transness. You don’t need to expel females away from you to imbed in yourself that you are trans. You don’t need to raise yourself above them as men have done for centuries. Do not become part of the problem. Accept the feminine parts of yourself, accept females, and I promise that the fear or resentment you may have with females and female characters will fade away.

Now, with all that being said, my last few words:

Being trans does not give you a pass to do the things I’ve mentioned. Being cis does not give you a pass. Being straight, gay, bi, etc does not give you a pass. If you are a gay man, I understand why you would only have male mlm ships. That doesn’t mean you can’t platonically interact with female characters. We all have made dumb mistakes and judgments in the past. I know for sure I’ve written some pretty cringe stuff in the past. It happens. The best we can do? Learn and take action on what we claim to have learned. Again, actions speak louder than words. Don’t piggy-back on posts that call out people for behavior like this when you participate in some of these behaviors yourself. Just because one person got called out and the spotlight is on them doesn’t mean you’re better than them or that you’ve been given a pass. If you read something like this, reflect on yourself and wonder — objectively — do you do some of these things? You may without realizing it or meaning to. In the end, I’m just a small blog that’s been around for seven years. I think we can get better as a community, but only if we help each other out. This is not a call out post. Call out and cancel culture is gross and counterproductive. I ain’t here for it. Call me out if you want, but what’ll that do? Nothing accept invalidate my opinion.

If you made it this far, I’m sorry. I took up a lot of your time probably. But, I want to thank you so much for reading this. As I said, you may agree, disagree, and not really get what I’m saying. I don’t know what I’m saying half the time either. But, I appreciate you regardless. Please, stay safe and healthy. I hope you have a wonderful year ahead of you.

[softowlhours]

paperclip chains

akaashi keiji (officeAU!)

a collection of scenarios following you and akaashi as you try and finesse the art of navigating life as working adults.

genre: a bit sad at times, but hopefully fluffier in the future.

a/n: my first piece of writing and this is pure self indulgent because work is hard and nothing makes sense sometimes. hope you all enjoy and find some comfort in it. 

word count: 3500~

pt. one 🦋 blank like a sheet of paper. 🦋

[friday. 3:00 p.m.]

someone had cracked open the window. the air inside the office had been much too oppressive, stale with the smell of the murky, insipid coffee you could get from the cafeteria. for free. staff privileges, they call it. late afternoon sun pours in through the large square windows. it ignites the office, dying it in the shades of an inferno. however, the warmth of it does not reach akaashi’s heart. the way the rays set everything aglow was in contrast to the chill crisp autumn air. akaashi could hear the leaves rustle, clinging to the branches waiting for that particular gust of wind, strong enough to blow them off. the leaves would then twirl and twirl until they’d softly land on the damp earth becoming one with it again. he wishes he were a leaf.

He tries to focus on nature’s gentle melody, but the hubbub of the office is overbearing. the incessant clicking of alphabets on the keyboards, the murmur of pages being turned, someone sneezes loudly and it is immediately followed by lazy ‘bless you’s’. his ears are attuned to the low electric groan of the printer, and he hopes someone would get up and unclog the jam of papers before the white noise drives him insane. he ends up doing it himself, almost losing a finger in the process as he tries to pull out a badly stuck paper from the printers’ rollers. today had been one of those days where nothing had gone right, a domino of disasters triggered the moment he’d opened his eyes. these days had been coming by way too often lately for his taste. he felt tired.

none of these turmoils showed on his exterior though, he wore a calm, unbothered mask. despite his depressing inner monologue, he diligently read through the manuscript highlighting bits he’d like to go over with the author at their next meeting.

it wasn’t like akaashi hated his job, infact, this was his dream job. he loved what he did but sometimes his love for his work was eclipsed by the politics the workplace was entrenched in. the naivety from when he had first joined almost a year ago had worn off quickly. it took him a mere week in the workforce to understand that a job demanded more than the list of skills and tasks specified in the job description. in any office, beneath the veneer of civility, there always remains an undercurrent of competition, jealousy, idle minds looking for entertainment at the expense of each other. there were people who did not love their job, the free loaders who somehow never did their share but managed to take home their bag of coins. they would slack and slack some more until the burden of their neglect would be shifted upon the shoulders of the new comers. too timid to resist. he pulls out his leather bound planner, a gift from his friend to celebrate him landing the role of an assistant editor all those months ago. it is almost filled from start to finish with his scribbles and the leather is soft with constant handling. his eyes scan past all the work he had wrapped up for the day, until one of his seniors had dumped an endless stack of files containing short stories that had been sent in for the monthly writing contests. they’re not short anymore when you have a hundred of them to read at once. apparently, the senior had a date he’d forgotten about and had to leave early. akaashi couldn’t report this to the boss, he knew how offices worked. its venomous hierarchies slithered like snakes ready to diss whoever defied them. rookies must act like rookies. akaashi quickly jots down in his planner a list of things he must get done over the weekend and the bulleted list slowly fills up two entire pages.

when he wasn’t picking up after someone’s mess akaashi did enjoy what he did. he enjoyed being on top of his work, found an euphoric satisfaction in duties well done. while his colleagues took it easy during the day and whined as they worked overtime in the evenings to meet deadlines, akaashi was most probably done for the day by then and already at home; fresh out of the shower and lighting his favourite candles that made his bedroom smell like cinnamon. he’d curl up under his soft comforter letting the tension of a busy day dissipate from his body. he kept his favorite books on the nightstand and would read them as he waited for sleep to come.  

“akaashi-chan,” he hears the soothing voice of his supervisor, an old well natured man in his sixties who had worked here for almost thirty years. he walks upto akaashi’s desk, his eyes crinkling with a gentle smile as he takes in the mess that was his desk.  “its difficult being a rookie, huh?” hatori-san says. “i would’ve just let you gone home, but the design and printing departments are an anxious bunch. they’re breathing down our necks for the final draft of the magazine two weeks before the release date.”

“please don’t apologise, hatori-san. It’s always like this towards the end of the month.” you aren’t the one who should be apologising.

“hmm...” the elderly muses, “maybe you should dilly dally like your colleagues, afterall, who is to blame you? the youth are meant to be reckless. ”

“but hatori-san if i did that not even a quarter of our magazine will be ready by the end of this month!” akaashi’s voice is filled with amusement, and mild terror.

hatori-san chuckles. “yes, yes i’m aware. i’ll rely on you then akaashi-chan. i do have a bit of good news for you though.” a bonus-

“we’re getting another assistant editor on monday, hopefully your workload can be halved from then on and a be little more manageable. i’m worried you’re starting to look older than me akaashi-chan.” he jokes. “i’ll leave her in your care.”

❀ ✿  ✿ ❀

[friday. 8:20 p.m.]

he stays in the office until late that night, finishing as much of his work he can before the words on the screen begin to blur and he can feel his brain churn in his head. he packs the documents he needed to read over the weekend, putting them neatly in his black briefcase. the temperatures have dropped quite low and with his tan coat on and a scarf wrapped around his neck, he steps out into the world. outside, tokyo is buzzing with life, the lights twinkle and a bubbly atmosphere engulfs even this usually grim and dull part of the city; where most companies found their home. salary men and women chatter excitedly as they pour into the office district from the high rise buildings of concrete and glass. groups of people stand on the sidewalk chatting amicably, smoke rises from cigarettes, plans to go hangout at karaokes, bars and restaurants float in the air.

it wasn’t that akaashi did not have friends, or ever had trouble making any. he was easy going, attentive and though not the loudest in the room, he was enigmatic. people were drawn to him. especially the weird and loud ones. not that he minded. not that he ever judged. which is what made people open up their hearts to him so easily. they knew he’d take them for who they were. but, like earlier today he couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease that clawed at him. he had his dream job but the hours he spent on his desk day after day, the endless exchange of apathetic emails, the unlimited cups of coffee, had all amalgamated into a kind of hollowness. he felt empty instead of fulfilled. he idly wonders if bokuto-san ever felt this way, or knowing him, did he charge straight ahead without any inhibitions? if you asked bokuto whether he could see himself playing volleyball for the next twenty or fifty years, bokuto would say ‘yes, ofcourse!!!’ in a heartbeat. and akaashi knew bokuto would mean it.

he wonders how hatori-san had spent his entire life in that office. could i do the same?

akaashi considers hanging out with some of his friends from university, maybe take hatori-san’s advice and just let go and forget everything for a while. he could be your typical 20 something, going to the bars with his 20 something friends where they’d shit talk their rude colleagues. He could console that one friend who wouldn’t stop crying over his ex-girlfriend who left him 3 years ago, every time he’s drunk. he could go home with that girl at the opposite end of the bar who wouldn’t stop looking his way, and who in his drunken haze, he thinks to be pretty. but eventually akaashi decides he is too tired to do any of that.

much later, when he settles into bed, he mindlessly picks up a book from his nightstand. he starts reading from where he had left off the night before but his eyes don’t really register a single word. for all he knew, he could’ve been staring at a blank sheet of paper. after a few more minutes of seeing nothing, he puts the book away and buries himself deep underneath the covers.

he feels the tears fall.

❀ ✿  ✿ ❀

[monday, 9:45 a.m.]

its odd. akaashi feels well rested. very very well rested.

his eyes fly open, and the first thing he sees is the blue sky peeking from the gap between his curtains. he’s afraid to look at the time.

9:45 A.M. well, shit.

akaashi feels winded by the time he makes it to the floor where his office was.from the door he sees hatori-san standing next to akaashi’s chair, his back towards him. akaashi’s heart is in his throat, an apology that sounds fake dances on his tongue. he then hears hatori-san chuckle. a soft female voice says something he cannot catch. ah, the new assistant editor.

“good morning” he calls hoarsely, as he approaches them.

“Ah, hello akaashi-san,” his supervisor beams, “meet y/n. hopefully, your new partner in crime.”

“i was told i’m supposed to help slow down your aging process.” her voice is soft, and despite the shyness there is a mischievous lilt to her tone.  “i’ll do my best. please do guide me.”

hatori-san excuses himself. she’s practically buzzing with excitement, akaashi notices. before he can say anything, she pulls out a brand-new notepad from her bag, pen clicking open. she looks ready to take on the world.

he has to bite back a smile. she’s cute, cheeks flush and lips in a pout as she  jots down something on it. he genuinely wonders what it is she writes, considering he hasn’t even spoken yet. her hair is neatly tied away from her face but a few stray tendrils fall and delicately frame her face.

he wonders if this is how he had looked on his first day at work. face pink and eyes bright. probably not as cute though, oh no, definitely not cute. he internally cringes at the memory of his awkwardness.

but you miss it. that excitement.

“it’s fine.” he says, “please just sit down and relax, i’ll guide you as we go through our daily routine.” he gives her a small smile.

they spend the morning, going through the basics of the trade, she's a fast learner, he notes. and later during the lunch hour he divulges to her the little ‘how to survive in this office 101s’. he tells her how how she mustn’t drink the free coffee they hand out at the cafeteria (even though he’s come to accept it himself, for he welcomes caffeine in any state and form). he suspects they reuse the coffee grounds more times than considered acceptable. how if you ever jammed the printer, try and leave before anyone realises it was you if you don’t want to be the recipient of death glares from colleagues all day long. He tells her which restrooms are the best and which elevators reach their destinations the fastest. the grimmer and more ruthless bits of working here can wait, he thinks.

passion was something he lost some time ago and hasn’t been able to find ever since.

“make sure to take it easy.” he mumbles to her as they are putting away their trays, “if work gets too much, you can always place the manuscripts and drafts  on my desk when i’m not looking.”

she looks at him incredulously. laughter bubbles from her lips as she tells him with mock indignance that she’s better than that. she asks the cafeteria lady for two cups of the infamous coffee, offering him one.

“lets toast!” y/n proposes .

“to what?”

“to all the times we’ll be the the last two brain cells holding up this company. together.” she jokes, touching her paper cup to his. 

he likes the sound of ‘together’.

❀ ✿ ✿ ❀

[eucroft]

⟨ DANIELLE ROSE RUSSELL. CIS FEMALE. SHE/HER. ⟩ though the mist might prevent some from seeing it, ADELAIDE CROFT is actually a descendent of H Y P N O S. it’s still a question of whether or not the TWENTY-TWO year old CREATIVE WRITING MAJOR from SALEM, USA has taken after their godly parent completely, but the demigod is still known to be quite VENTURESOME & VAIN.

*jennifer coolidge vc* hi a google doc + pinned post are tbd but until then here’s perhaps an equally extensive intro, she’s a menace ty  

name: adelaide jane croft  nickname: ads, addie (if she likes you), aj (if you want to die) age: 22  dob: august 1, 1998 zodiac: leo sun, ?????? everything else mbti: entj, the commander powers: hypnokinesis, shapeshifting, seeing gods in dream, memory retrieval (minor) positive traits: venturesome, creative, hardworking, independent, ambitious negative traits: vain, cunning, bossy, stubborn, overcritical works: front desk associate at the library  clubs and sports: member of book club, chess club, herpetology club, women in leadership club, creative writing club, captain of the debate team, president of feminist alliance, and captain of the cheerleading squad character inspo: blair waldorf (gossip girl), jackie burkhart (that 70′s show), catherine the great (the great), cheryl blossom (riverdale), audrey horne (twin peaks), amy march (little women), cordelia chase (buffy the vampire slayer), fran fine (the nanny), daphne blake (scooby doo)

MENTIONS: alcoholism, coma, neglect

born in salem, massachusetts, adelaide croft is the daughter of sherry croft and hypnos, a product of an affair her mother has on her husband, senator richard croft-- sherry is a bored housewife trapped in a seemingly picturesque but loveless marriage when she meets hypnos, one thing leads to another, nine months later, adelaide is born 

richard knows from the get-go adelaide is not his child, it doesn’t take a mathematician to figure out and despite the obvious strain this infidelity puts on the croft marriage, they remain together, richard claiming to the public that adelaide is his daughter while the disdain for what her mother did bubbled into resentment towards the young girl-- growing up she believed he was her real father

the crofts have one other child, an eldest daughter, prudence, and she is the pride and joy of the croft family, things came effortlessly to prudence, who received praise and attention from her parents for the slightest thing-- from a young age, she was actively pit against her older sister, who was as cruel as their father was at times, their relationship founded from rivalry

adelaide struggled for approval from her parents, who often brushed her off or ignored her. while her father was too focused on work, her mother too focused on drinking, and both too focused on prudence, it didn’t help that she developed strange habits from a young age, like claiming to speak to strange people in her dreams or how the world grew drowsy around her

found out she was a demigod at eleven, hypnos came to her in a dream, she laughed in his face, but very quickly realized this was real shit, when he offered the chance to go to a camp where there were other people like that she jumped at the chance-- attended camp halfblood during the summers of 2009-2016

trained pretty extensively during that time, was a casual quester, chosen usually because of her enthusiasm and hypnokinesis abilities, they did not all end well, she lost some people along the way, got some stuck in some sticky situations, will eventually go into more depth with these 

when she wasn’t at camp, she was climbing the social ranks back in massachusetts, winning academic awards, prom queen, staying on top of sports, practically anything in an attempt to make her parents acknowledge her, then when she realized they never would, specifically to spite them, simply trying to survive the rest of her high school career

started writing at a young age, journaling originally, but eventually, it grew into short stories, then novellas, etc.

always knew she was going to eonia, however, the process was sped up a little after an incident involving hypnokinesis, prudence, and a five day coma, adelaide denounced the crofts essentially, and using her memory retrieval power successfully for the first and only time, wiped herself from their memories (how long that will last, she is unsure), she went to live with a friend for a bit until she was accepted into eonia 

studies creative writing with the intent to write horror fiction based off the nightmares and dreams she has witnessed and influenced, currently in her fourth year here with intent to go to grad school afterwards

TL;DR: the younger daughter of sherry croft and hypnos, adopted by senator richard croft, grew up in a loveless, neglectful household that was seemingly perfect in public eye, had a sadistic older sister name prudence who was always in the spotlight, big queen bee vibes but went to chb and quested a bit, eventually came to eonia to study creative writing. 

some headcanons

actually an insomniac, that kind of fuck things up for her, but she finds ways to fall asleep eventually

coffee fiend 

chaotic bisexual

weapon of choice is a longsword she got from a quest, affectionately nicknamed tallulah, however she’s proficient in throwing knives and crossbows

has an albino ball python named boris after boris karloff 

LOVES halloween and all things horror, surprisingly morbid when you actually get to know her

favorite author is shirley jackson!

will astral project to you to bug you if she’s bored

the gods she has seen the most in her dreams beyond hypnos is hecate, apollo, and athena!!! she details all of the meetings just in case there’s important info

very nosy, will snoop for anything and everything

stressed 25/8 

i will update my wc doc asap i don’t have the capacity to do that currently but some wcs include rivals, exes, chb people, friends, enemies, hookups, someone to get her to relax, quest partners, uhhhhh someone she tutors perhaps, muses, hypnokinesis victims, someone she bit while she was a cat!, uhhhh

[viciousgracearc]

Haru?

ASK ME ABOUT MY MUSES.    /     ACCEPTING.

           Haru Matsumoto is an original muse that I created as part of The Faceless Universe, which is the original body of lore that I co-wrote with Bubbles / @dearestdeaths. 

          The gist of the lore is that a few thousand years ago, this world was invaded by primordial gods who originated from another dimension. After devouring the life-force of that dimension, it has begun to descend to rot and decay, and the gods needed a new food source, which is why they came here. However, where nature in the previous dimension is inert, nature in this dimension is sentient. And the power of the gods + the power of nature resulted in a mutation of sorts, rendering some of the world’s inhabitants to become supernatural.

           Haru is one of the first demons ever created. She is a futakuchi-onna or a two-mouthed woman. In Japanese folklore, a futakuchi-onna is a female yokai with two mouths, one located on her face, and the other located at the back of her head, beneath her hair. The origins of this yokai is linked to how little a woman eats, or how little she’s expected to eat. 

           The story goes that a miser wanted a wife who ate little but worked hard, so when he met a woman who ate practically nothing, he went to marry her. To his surprise, despite having a wife who ate little, the store of his grains is rapidly decreasing. One day, he pretended to go to work but actually stayed home to spy on his wife, and that’s when he saw, to his horror, that she had a mouth at the back of her head. Her skull split open and her unbound hair reached out like tentacles to grab the rice and shove it into the hungry mouth (source). 

           This is the most popular version of the futakuchi-onna story. The myth itself is rooted in sexism ;  how a woman is expected to act prim and proper, to be less hungry, less greedy than her male counterpart, but to work just as hard if not harder than him. She is expected to maintain her alluring figure at the expense of her health, to sacrifice fulfillment for beauty. 

           In the myths, the futakuchi-onna’s second mouth “often mumbles spiteful and threatening things to the woman and demands food”. If it is not fed, it screeches loudly and causes the woman physical pain. Contrary to the popular myth, Haru is not a miser’s wife. Instead, she is a chieftain’s only daughter among a gaggle of sons. Resources are hard to come by in Haru’s village, and because there’s always a threat of conflict among other clans, Haru’s father prioritized his sons -- able bodied fighting men -- when it came to food, leaving Haru with very little, sometimes no share at all. 

           Haru’s mutation, if you will, is a manifestation of her resentment and her hunger. When her transformation from a human to demon became complete, she ravenously ate all of her village’s winter store before disappearing into the night, dooming her family and the rest of her clan to starvation. Perhaps due to the neglect she suffered for most of her life, Haru learned to look after herself first and foremost. Her new powerful body is a gift, and her mouths are now her weapons. As a demon, she was not known to make any alliances with fellow supernaturals, choosing instead to operate on her own. 

           During the war with the gods ( as detailed in our original lore ), Haru was a slippery figure who refused to pick a side until the very last moment, when it was apparent that the supernaturals found a way to trick their godly parents into losing the fight. For this reason, surviving original demons and vampires do not trust her to this day. This works well enough in her favor, since Haru is a solitary being with little to no regard for anyone else outside of herself anyway. 

          At present, Haru is living a lavish life with wealth that she’s amassed through the ages. Since demons are capable of reproduction, she has definitely spawned others who are like her, and perhaps who inspired some of the other more well known futakuchi-onna myths. However, Haru lives alone, aside from the occasional lover, and has maintained very little contact with the rest of her supernatural brethren. 

          Despite that, Haru seems to have established a connection with some very rich and very shady people, and would often “protect” said individuals from June’s crew by sabotaging the Faceless’ operations. This has earned her June’s ire, but even as a powerful hybrid, there is very little he can do against a powerful, ancient, and original demon like Haru.

[isamuses]

( * muse intros ! )

hey there, my name is isa and i haven’t written on tumblr in ages so please be patient with me and let me know of anything i'm lacking. below the cut, i have listed a few bullet points and facts about each muse that will give you a glimpse of what they’re like. if you’re interested in plotting then please don’t be shy, i am super excited to start writing with everyone. 

cherry cho

born and raised on a small farm in west crystal, cherry always dreamed of bigger and better things than empty fields and endless hay bales; her only escape being the dance classes she took after school. this hobby soon became her biggest passion, after school practices turning into full days; the young athlete only stopping to eat or finish their overdue homework. the participation awards taped to her wall and trophies lining the shelves of their sanrio collection being the only thing she has to show for herself, this farmer’s daughter is ready for bigger and better things; cherry is ready to see their name in shining lights. 

birth name: cherry cho

birth place: west crystal

gender identity: demi girl

pronouns: she/her & they/them

sexuality: pansexual

relationship status: single

a/b/o: omega

personal scent: sugar cookie

marital status: unmated

occupation: exotic dancer

traits: optimistic, gullible, inviting, perfectionist, immature & eccentric.

kyu ‘q’ song

east crystal was kyu’s birthplace, immediately welcomed home to the family estate before being whisked away by his father’s marine service; allowing him the opportunity to travel and explore at an early age. his father got a shoulder injury that forced him to resign from his position, the family settling back into the grove to give the generational home another decade of memories; many spent with his grandfather. due to their closeness, his father’s name was replaced by his own son’s on his grandfather’s will; the kind notion buried by his other worries and duties in life. his entire world was rocked when his grandfather passed, the entirety of his sporting good empire thrown on top of all his to-do pile; making him neglect his grieving process and the home-preschooling of his son.

birth name: kyu song

nickname: q

birth place: east crystal

gender identity: cis male pronouns: he/him/his

sexuality: bisexual

relationship status: single

a/b/o: alpha

personal scent: mahogany & cinnamon

marital status: unmated

occupation: owner of the sports center & homeschool teacher.

traits: intelligent, detached, protective, straight-forward & inquisitive.

lydia ikeda

not much is known about lydia's past, all that people can gather is that she wasn't accepted or treated how she deserves; that's why she ran away from home to settle down here in the grove. she arrived here with a sociology degree and her collection of barbies, not much else, just a few outfits and spare cash. it’s been five years since she first arrived and if you didn’t already know she was a stranger, you’d be convinced that the people here have known her a lifetime. it’s only been a few months since taking the position as a school nurse but she doesn’t regret it one bit, lydia believes that she hit the jackpot; all she’s ever wanted was to be accepted and she is in the grove.

birth name: [redacted]

legal name: lydia ikeda

birth place: corpus christi, tx.

current location: downtown

gender identity: trans female pronouns: she/her/hers

sexuality: pansexual

relationship status: single

a/b/o: beta

personal scent: brown sugar & cherry blossom

marital status: unmated

occupation: school nurse @ elementary

traits: charming, anxious, nurturing, insecure, cheery & tender-hearted.