#a slender volume of poetry

[lanasblood]

𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐁𝐎𝐘 | Prologue

pairing: neteyam x f!reader

summary: after fate brought you to awa’atlu and you felt hope for the first time in so long, the sea became the lonely witness of a bittersweet love, making you quickly realize how life withers as fast as it blossoms. [takes place five years after the events of atwow, neteyam is alive]

warning: this story will make you cry. read at your own risk. 

read first chapter →

voice-over by @neteyamfromwish (scroll down for details) 🔊 volume up + use headphones for best experience 🎧✨

note: I am excited to announce my upcoming neteyam mini-series. special thanks to @eclipseatsea�� who gave me the courage and motivation to publish this poem as an intro for the story. she’s such an inspiring person, make sure to check out her beautiful writing if you haven’t already 💕

and again, thank you @neteyamfromwish for being so kind as to complete my request. I don’t know about you guys but I’m in love with this audio, it fits the story and the mood perfectly. for more info, check his website. I highly recommend giving it a try!! the accuracy to neteyam’s voice is chef’s kiss, and I cannot wait to share more with you ✨

let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 💗

୨⎯ series masterlist ⎯୧

(in case the video doesn't work, i'll leave you the poem here):

for even in the darkest of times, the moons and stars, they always gave you signs. 

with each passing night, you learned more, of the art of loving and losing, and what else was in store. 

back then, the gentle beat of his heart by your side,  comforted you like a river, making calm and serenity collide. 

that night's bright light did glow, with a slender crescent in tow, along with stars above the green trees’ crown,  the deserted sand illuminating on its own. 

the shadows of his lashes long, cast upon his blue cheeks, so strong, the constellation of freckles, like little diamonds,  his beauty almost ethereal to be described by words. 

though you had known him for years, you never looked at him with such conscious fears,  his exhaustion was evident to see, the cuts on his shoulder, the wounds on his knee,  his chest held an elongated scar, that reminded you of the one on his hand so far,  you tried to avert your eyes, but failed, and let yourself sink back, blanket well-veiled. 

a tattered poetry book, a relic of his father’s past,  that you gently reached for, its words meant to last,  the old paper, faded and so rough, the letters, black ink, good enough. 

all I loved, I loved alone, the last words written, all unknown, you knew not much about poetry or rhyme,  but the words cast a spell that stole your time. 

staring out at the endless sea, counting sheep,  with tears in your eyes, you finally found some sleep. 

stars die softly, he had once said with a sigh,  wishing people could do the same, quietly passing by. 

but you wished no one would die and no death would ever come near,  not on nights like this, neither now nor here. 

© 𝖫𝖠𝖭𝖠𝖲𝖡𝖫𝖮𝖮𝖣 2023 — please do not copy, modify, steal, or translate any of my works on any platform.

[acourtofthought]

Is Lucien's feelings for Elain more of a strong feeling of admiration or deep affection? From the small snippets of Lucien's POV and instances of longing, I don't know how deep his feelings for his mate are. I've been reading a boatload of meta about Lucien and the majority of them state that his feelings for Elain are a combination of guilt from Jesminda and a desire to be with Elain. How deep is this desire? (while Isolating it from the feelings brought about by the bond.)

I believe Lucien's feelings for Elain are something that would be difficult for us to put a label on.

I do think that he initially struggled with his guilt over Jesminda, he'd spent centuries believing she was his mate then the first time he officially met Elain he thought her the most beautiful female he'd ever seen. That would mess with anyone's head especially when he knew Elain was in love with someone else at that point. Jesminda had been loyal to him, had lost her life for him yet here he is drawn to someone who wants someone else.

But it's been nearly two years and I do think he's started to come to terms with it. I imagine Sarah will touch upon it in his book just as she had Cassian reflect on his past feelings for Mor in both his bonus and the start of SF but I don't think it's a major factor in his situation with Elain right now, especially after they all nearly died in the war.

As far as what he is feeling for Elain at this point? I'm going to use a few lines from the series I'm currently reading because I've never before seen an author who so eloquently describes a bond snapping into place for two strangers. This author does an excellent job of explaining the bond versus love and how the two characters eventually grow to have both with one another.

This is what is said of the bond snapping between them and I imagine what Lucien and Elain experienced in the Hybern scene:

"Your soul calls out. Mine answers, beloved."

At last she remembered why the Fey words seemed so familiar. She'd read them before in a slim volume of translated Fey poetry. It was the greeting a Fey man spoke to a woman when recognizing and claiming her as his true mate.

And then, in what is probably similar for Lucien when he first saw Elain in the HOW:

Sariel had joined her life with his, even knowing their souls would never follow where their hearts had led. Then she had died, and he had survived her death. Ah, gods, how he had railed against that. If Sariel had been his truemate, the mate of his soul rather than simply the mate of his heart, nothing could have chained him to life after her death.

Somehow, for some reason beyond his understanding, the gods had granted this slender Celierian girl - scarcely more than a child - the power to save the tairen and the Fey. Somehow, though he did not want it, they had granted her the power to save him.

Though the MMC uses the phrase "your soul calls out, mine answers" his thoughts make it clear he never expected to find a truemate and didn't want anyone after Sariel's death. He feels guilt in exactly the same way Lucien did with Jesminda and says he doesn't want the responsibility of the FMCs safety and happiness. Yet despite all that, despite openly admitting he doesn't want the bond he understands what the bond is and what it means and why his path forward will always be the bond.

But the FMC still has to accept the bond regardless of it instantly snapping. There are multiple threads that need to be forged between them before she fully does. At points she's disappointed because she knows how much he loved his lost lover and feels that what he feels for her cannot compare as he only just met her but his response is:

"We are talking at cross-purposes. You speak of love, while I speak of something far greater. You are my she'tani, the other half of my soul. It is a bonding so deep I could never hope to deny it, even if that was my desire. Feelings of the heart are nothing compared to that."

And this is where I think we in the fandom tend to get tripped up when talking about Lucien's feelings for Elain. Some try to box it in to what we know of love but that's the point of fated mates stories, love is not the ultimate. A mating bond is something we can't understand, that most characters can't understand until it happens to them.

In our lives we meet someone, we get to know them, we start to fall for them and then we fall in actual love. Sometimes it's long lasting and wonderful, sometimes we find that after a few years the person feels like a stranger once again but in each case they are still completely separate from us, an individual with their own goals and desires and we can only hope that the things we want from life remain the same. We only know what they are thinking when they tell us, we don't know if one day they'll decide our love is boring and they want to find someone new.

What Lucien had with Jesminda he could have with someone else. Claiming otherwise would be telling every widow that they can't find love again after their partners death.

What Elain had with Graysen she could have with someone else. She thought she had it all because she had love but she was shown the harsh reality of love in the real world, that sometimes love isn't enough and it's not lasting. That is a lesson many of us have learned.

Mating bonds though? They don't exist in the real world so when you have a character claiming "your soul calls out to mine and mine answers", it's clearly greater than love because it's not something you can find with multiple people. In fated mates stories you're lucky to find it with even one. Lucien and Elain have a link to one another that is special regardless of love, regardless of whether she accepts their bond and Lucien clearly respects that, he's treating it like the gift it is by declaring he's a mated male and has no interest in female companionship, when he did everything to ensure Elain's health and happiness. Lucien isn't focused on love when it comes to Elain, he's focused on their souls being intertwined and making sure that she has what she needs even if it doesn't include him. That is the greatest, most selfless act of all. Love is a bit surface level when you think of it because love can be fleeting whereas a soul bond is not. When you fall out of love you often stop putting the other person first. Lucien and Elain aren't in love yet but he's already putting her first, can you imagine what he'd do for her if love were to follow?

And that's where the final quote comes in, a quote that occurs in book two after the characters had been married, "My heart has followed where my soul has led." Ke vo san, I love you."

The bond came first for the MMC and FMC and with it denial and guilt because as the characters mention multiple times "no great gift comes without a price." A well written mating bond is not meant to be a freebie, something you get that you don't still have to work for. You still need to acknowledge the gift of the bond, still treat it with respect, still work towards having earned the persons time and attention. Lucien doesn't deserve Elain's attention because they share a bond, he will have earned her attention because of the respect he continually shows her. And that is how love will follow close behind. At the moment Lucien may not be in love with Elain in the way we define romantic love but he is feeling something he could never feel for another and that fact makes what he is feeling something precious.

[daisychainsandbowties]

it's become commonplace for them, beatrice sitting astride ava's lap, arms draped over ava's shoulders, a book clutched loosely in her hands as she reads aloud. it's poetry, usually, slim volumes by oliver and vuong and siken and gibson and smith, the words slipping from her mouth with the pitter patter of summer rain, warm and all-encompassing.

ava always busies herself with her hands sliding beneath beatrice's shirt and her mouth on beatrice's neck, each touch shaped into oblation by the fervour of her devotion. there's restraint there, in the surety of hands that remain above the white-capped crests of beatrice's hip bones, below the blooming swell of her ribcage. it's an unspoken understanding, a silent promise. at our own pace. always, always at our own pace, now that we are free.

beatrice initiates the shift, having, in one of those moments she'd felt brave enough to venture into the queer bookshop across the city, stumbled across a particularly apposite poem. she recites it into ava's ear, chest clenched with that all-too-familiar melange of laughter and tears, emotion now too frequently spiralling beyond her ability to control it. whatever happens with us your body will haunt mine and your touch on me, firm, protective, searching me out and your strong tongue and slender fingers reaching where I had been waiting years for you.

and ava acts the words out, fumbles beatrice's belt open, slides her hand between her legs. her other hand climbs the uneven ladder of beatrice's ribs, presses delicately against the scar tissue that marks where beatrice's breath had been gifted back into her body, and ava captures beatrice's exhalation in the hollow of her mouth as she slides a finger into her cunt

Language, to Beatrice, has always felt like a poorly-healed bone; a series of fracture points waiting for the right pressure to come apart again. She feels like an imposter inside it, trying to untangle her hands, her mouth, her hips from their signifiers - words like daughter, like duty. Words in restless orbit trying to stick to her skin.

She can’t think of what she’s thinking of when Ava’s finger glides through her wetness. Maybe she’s wondering at words, maybe she’s speechless in the face of these soft, mouth-made things and their ability to consume her. Why does it frighten her so much, to think of that motion? Fingers gathering the slick evidence of her desire, using it, and she’s already imagining what will happen to it after, where it might go.

She wants to flinch from the thought, but she can’t, because Ava’s hand is shifting down between her legs and god, she’s in every direction.

Ava’s fingers drumming on the tabletop, damp from her mouth, licking strawberry jam off her fingertips in the morning. Tangled in Bea’s, or drawing them over into her lap just to play, folding and unfolding each joint, tracing traceries of scars and asking after each one, like she wants to know where they live so she can visit.

She takes Bea’s startled exhalation into her mouth as she starts to fuck her, one finger sliding into her cunt, and it is astonishingly easy.

It’s as if Ava’s finger belongs there, moving slow, steady, ghosting around her entrance and then inside. There are moments that make language inadequate,Beatrice thinks but all the same she reaches, dangerously, for the half-remembered image of a page from the book in her hands. One line in a poem that goes ‘Spilled orange juice all over the table this morning. Sudden sunlight I couldn’t wipe away. My hands were daylight all through the night.’

There’s a palm pressed into her ribs, around scar tissue, and where’s the word for that gone? Pneumothorax, and the flutter of Ava’s hands after unearthing her chest, how they shook flecks of blood back down onto her. It didn’t happen like that, but Beatrice dreams of it anyway – of what I almost did to you.

She pulls away from Ava’s mouth as Ava pushes into her, further, and the poem was right; it’s as though she’s been waiting her whole life for this, hips rolling down onto Ava’s hand of their own accord.

Beatrice didn’t think her body could, would move without her permission, but it does.

There’s a gap between them - space given form by the bracket of their bodies - and Ava’s looking down inside it, watching the movement of her own hand as she fucks into Bea. The uncoordinated twitch of her hips in response. 

‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ Beatrice breathes, feels Ava pause, buried to the knuckle inside her. She looks up, away from her hand in Bea’s pants, the belt hanging open like a door. She pushes up – slow, easy – shifting only slightly in Bea’s cunt but enough to make her cry out a little. Not a shout but a short, plaintive noise.

Ava leans up, gentle, to kiss her, and Beatrice realises she’s still holding onto the book only in the moment that she lets it falls back onto the pillow. Her hands find Ava’s jaw, and she doesn’t know what she’s doing, at all, but she rolls her hips forward and she finds this mouth she’s been seeking and waiting for and wanting, so badly she almost died from it.

Thumb up under her shirt – Ava’s thumb – rubbing that crescent of scar tissue. Fervent, and this is a language, too. It’s Ava’s hand reaching up further, until her elbow hooks at the hem of Bea’s shirt, pulling it up and away from the flexing of her stomach muscles. She’s fucking herself on Ava’s finger now, feeling Ava huff – not in frustration but out of need – as she finds the back of Bea’s neck. Her fingers now splashed over her shoulder to hide the comet tails of freckles.

‘Bea,’ she sighs, breaking the kiss just long enough to speak. Breathless sound, tipping high at every jolt of Bea’s hips, her slick spread onto the heel of Ava’s palm where she’s grinding down against it. She smiles, and this is what they have in common – honesty.

‘I don’t know what I’m doing either.’

Recitation. This has been her lifeline, her life, the feeling of her faith in the braidedness of syllable into sound into meaning into motion. She used to pray under her breath, by rote, before, when cleaning knives in the leaky light of the armoury. How blood gets in everything, how it goes everywhere, and the prayers slipping out of her into silence. But now she’s home, and there’s no evil in the world. Just light, taking different shapes.

Soon it all slips into fragments, words hurrying through her on the way to somewhere. Ava, whispering to her as she slides a second finger into her cunt, her free hand pushing Bea’s shirt up more and more, until she’s helping her to duck out of it, casting it onto the bed behind her. Not the floor, because she knows who the shirt belongs to.

Ava kissing her on her collarbone, fingers slipping out to their tips and plunging back into her, taking up a steady rhythm. Her mouth in the softness under Bea’s jaw as their movement finds tandem, and all the world can be simplified like an equation. Into Ava’s mouth, kisses scattered along her jaw until they find the corner of her mouth. Ava’s fingers, fucking into her.

Now, in the glow of the bedside lamp, she holds Ava by the absence of the scars she said once lay across her back. In Switzerland, she remembers Ava sitting on their tiny couch, doing the sudoku in the local newspaper. So much slipped out of her then, unguarded, almost unbidden.

‘They were probably totally fucked up – the scars, I mean.’

I never got to see them, but there were places where people paused, holding me at an angle to reach my back with a washcloth. There was this… catch in their words, like a question.’ 

‘You’re not a question, to me.’ Beatrice said this sleepily, trying to pretend that she found it natural, the way Ava pulled her stockinged feet up onto her lap when she collapsed onto the couch next to her.

She never elaborated on it then, wondered if Ava knew that underneath her response there was another, too honest for daylight, too scalding for her tongue.

So she takes Ava’s nipple into her mouth, humming the discarded edges of sentences into that softness, feeling it change with the pressure of her tongue before breaking away. Ava, smoothing the tears from her eyes as her other hand tries to match the frantic pace of Bea’s hips, as she clenches around her, as another cry – louder, and as honest as anything she’s ever said -  falls from her mouth.

Her voice unravelling. Language, her anchor, falling into needy whimpers as she lowers her head, surrendering to the heat pressed against her, wrapped around her, inside her. Thinking of a poem she read while standing in a bookstore, surrounded by motes of dust, by sunlight. Ava’s voice wafting through the shelves and the words rummaging around behind her lungs for a place to live.

‘if love is a hole wide enough to be God’s mouth, let me plunge into that holy dark and forget the colour of light.

love, stay in me until our bodies forget what divides us, until your hands are my hands and your blood is my blood and your name is my name.’

[anogaraegion]

THE HORSELORD'S DAUGHTER

ERA: dance of the dragons, hotd. STATUS: open for roleplay. AESTHETIC: her father's daughter. PLAYLIST: the bane of her mother. FACECLAIM: TBA

LADY MELLARA BRACKEN, age one and twenty, the eldest daughter of Ser Amos Bracken and his lady wife Alys Bracken neè Mallister. Lady Mellara can hardly be called a Lady by many accounts, fond of riding and hunting as if she had been born of a son. However, even amongst her siblings she rides foremost and delights in triumphing over her brothers in mock tilts. Rather than poetry and song, Mellara is more confident with bawdy tavern lyrics and cursing. At her birth she was declared “Lord Bracken's daughter”, coming into the world with a healthy set of lungs and covered in her mother's blood. Her younger sisters have inherited their mother's more temperate personality while Mellara has not. With a joke on her lips, Mellara has declared at court that they are her “mother's creatures”. Because of this, Lord Bracken has favored Mellara out of all his female children. Rumors surround Mellara and her chastity, especially by lesser septons at Stone Hedge. In many taverns it has been declared that Mellara lost her virginity to the horse's saddle or the stallion himself. She is more often found riding than walking and interacting with the men of her household than her younger sisters. Oddly, Lord Bracken has yet to marry Mellara to a worthy suitor despite some of her younger sisters already carrying heirs for other Riverlands houses. Some say that Mellara runs down suitors with her horse or humiliates them so thoroughly they cannot return to Bracken lands. Mellara is described as of medium height but built after years of riding and training horses. She has a willowy strength easily hidden behind a gown. Mellara has slender hazel eyes and long but tumbling brown hair, more often than not pulled away from her face. She is tan and well-freckled from the summer sun. However, Mellara is impossibly headstrong and defiant in the face of all. Mellara is also loud and passionate, often making her thoughts known to many around her with her volume. While Mellara is brash, she is devoted to House Bracken and more importantly her father, training her younger siblings herself how to ride. She learned her father's enmity with House Blackwood and made it her own with various incidents over the years. Mellara rarely hesitates, even when it is to her own detriment, holding a roguish charm when creating both friendships and enemies.

[astrronomemes]

RICHARD SIKEN : CRUSH STARTERS (PART I)

a collection of quotes, phrases, and sayings from Crush, a volume of poetry and prose by Richard Siken.

“We rolled up the carpet so we could dance.”

“Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon.”

“Love, too, will ruin us.”

“We’ll never get used to it.”

“There are so many things I’m not allowed to tell you.”

“There’s sex, of course, and ballroom dancing.”

“I like him, and I want to be like him.”

“Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure.”

“There are many names in history, but none of them are ours.”

“Damn if there isn’t anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun.”

“Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.”

“Tell me you love this. Tell me you’re not miserable.”

“I want to tell you this story without having to confess anything.”

“I want to tell you this story without having to be in it.”

“Tell me we’re dead, and I’ll love you even more.”

“You will be alone always, and then you will die.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party.”

“I’m sorry I came to your party and seduced you.”

“You want a better story. Who wouldn’t?”

“Okay, so I’m the dragon. Big deal. You still get to be the hero.”

“I ruined everything by saying it out loud.”

“Everyone was happy all the time and we were all forgiven, even though we didn’t deserve it.”

“You said I could have anything I wanted, but I just couldn’t say it out loud.”

“Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s terrifying. No one will ever want to sleep with you.”

“I saved a plate for you. Quit milling around the yard and come inside.”

“A man takes his sadness down to the river, and throws it in the river, but then he’s still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away, but then he’s still left with his hands.”

“He is trying to kill you.”

“You deserve it. You do. You know this.”

“A boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless he keeps his mouth shut.”

“The boy is no good. The boy is just no good.”

“Things happen all the time, things happen every minute, that have nothing to do with us.”

“No one can ever figure out what you want, and you won’t tell them.”

“You take the things you love and tear them apart.”

[bexmuses]

For Clay:

It wasn't that he wasn't slightly a big name in The United States, but Melvin was slowly getting there in recent months. Yet he wasn't certain what had exactly changed in the way of things; someone must have uttered his name somewhere. Or folks in his twin's shop had taken care of things for him.

So it was how both of them had ended up in Texas of all places, doing a soft press release to simply get his feet wet.

Besides, apparently everything in Texas was bigger, even the audience that he was trying to aim for. Yet he was a tad surprised at first by the kinds of people that came over in sheer curiosity; not that he was one to judge. Yet as the day went on the curly haired male was getting used to seeing men in cowboy hats come up to him, so it came as no surprise at the blonde man that stood before him at the table he had set up.

"Hullo there! Do you happen to like poetry by any chance?"

This wasn't Clay's first rodeo (pun intended). While he could be loud and boisterous and wrastle with the best of 'em, he could also be quiet, soft spoken, and quite thoughtful as well. One tended to, when they spent night upon night alone on the range with nothing to look at but 1500 head of cattle and billions of stars. It did something to the soul, made you feel insignificant, and yet so fortunate that you had the chance to witness that kind of natural splendor and appreciate it.

Why, it made a feller downright poetic in the heart!

Clay had a small stash of poetry -- some that he'd bought, some that he'd written -- and today was the kind of day to find out if some other author had managed to capture his thoughts into words. And so, he found himself in front of the curly-haired blond man, much smaller all around than he, with signs advertising that he was here to sign copies of his newest book.

"You Melvin Krump?" he asked, already knowing the answer as he picked up the slender volume and looked at the back cover. The photo there matched the face of the man sitting before him. "Pleased to meetcha. I'm Clay. Clay Bailey." With a grin, he flipped open the book, blue eyes skimming the first few lines of the poem he'd landed on.

[lovebooksgroup]

Embark on a Journey of Emotions: The #VirtualBookTour for 'Diary of an Artist in Love' by The Muse Frequency! Follow us from November 6th to 17th for a Poetry Extravaganza organised by @lovebookstours.

Embark on a Journey of Emotions: The #VirtualBookTour for 'Diary of an Artist in Love' by The Muse Frequency! Follow us from November 6th to 17th for a Poetry Extravaganza organised by @lovebookstours

COMING SOON Diary of an Artist in Love by The Muse Frequency  Book Tour – 6th – 17th November  Genre: Poetry  Pages: 128 Blurb A slender, beautifully illustrated volume of 30 poems, enumerating love in all its configurations and crucibles: through enchantment, presence, magnetism, illusion, nature, restlessness, wonder, and memories that rise from our past, and follow us into our future.…

[therealimintobooks]

Diary of an Artist in Love by The Muse Frequency @xpressotours #giveaway

Diary of an Artist in Love The Muse Frequency Publication date: August 15th 2023 Genres: Adult, Poetry A slender, beautifully illustrated volume of 30 poems, enumerating love in all its configurations and crucibles: through enchantment, presence, magnetism, illusion, nature, restlessness, wonder, and memories that rise from our past, and follow us into our future. Readers will be immersed in a…

[alwaysxtwinkling]

There's a slender volume of French poetry left on Yuuga's desk and a gold-edged, soft teal bookmark marking the start of L'Eternité, along with a small satchel of high quality tea-bags that is left un-noted. (a valen-tine's surprise! from Hironori~....)

Yuuga can't help but stare in surprise at the gifts sitting so preciously on his desk. It takes him a moment, but then he's gently picking up the small satchel first. He opens it up, curious, and the lovely scent of tea, high quality and delicious, fills his nose and lungs and warms his chest with delight.

When he then opens up the book of poetry ( French, it's written in French! ) and lays eyes on the pretty bookmark, his heart swells further. It's the page it's marking, though, the lines meeting his eyes and the title of the poem, L'Eternité, that has him melting and a soft pink blush spreading across his face along with a wide, warm smile.

While there's no note on who these sweet gifts are from, Yuuga does have a suspicion on who it might be and he's determined to return the gesture on White Day. Hironori deserves that and so, so, so much more.

[starcunning]

1. Voracious

My heart, being hungry

For @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast‘s FFXIVWrite 2019. [Title] [AO3 mirror]

It seemed suspicious.

It also didn’t seem like her business, exactly, but X’shasi had never met a problem she wasn’t interested in solving, so somehow she found herself acting the Yellowjackets’ cats-paw. There was a part of her that imagined she was far too public a figure for that to work—at least anywhere in Eorzea—but if the man had been abroad in the New World, as he’d claimed, then he’d have little reason to have heard of her. So if he recognized her, he was a huckster.

There was little sign of that. She’d gotten good at reading people, even without her preternatural sense about the whole thing. If he’d noticed her at all there had been no glint of recognition, no hesitation, no lingering gaze.

He was consumed instead by his passion for spellcraft—the legendary blue magic. Something tickled in the back of Shasi’s brain; something familiar. She’d heard of blue magic before, hadn’t she? But nothing about this explanation rang true to whatever it was that was bothering her.

Then again, perhaps it wasn’t the magic at all. The alleged mage—and suspected fraudster—was a midlander man and of little interest. His assistant, however … there was someone interesting. He had the same silver-blonde hair and pale blue eyes as her sometime-mentor X’rhun—and half her tribesmen besides.

It was for him that she stayed after the demonstration after its interruption by a pair of Mamool Ja. Their timing was too perfect, their attacks too coordinated. It felt staged, like most of this interaction. The only thing that felt real was the other miqo’te and the possibility of some connection to him.

“I do have to congratulate you on your choreography,” Shasi said. The mage—for he was certainly that; it was only what kind that she questioned—smiled nervously. “I really don’t know what you mean,” he said. His gloved hand tightened on the head of his cane, and Shasi found her gaze drawn to it. The finial was like a wolf’s head, carved of bone. That would be the ideal sort of tool for a thaumaturge, she knew; she’d seen enough of them about their work back in Ul’dah, of course. Her gaze snapped upward again. “Soul crystals are supposed to be priceless,” she said. “I’ve seen few enough in my life. Yet here you are, handing them out for a fistful of gil? Are they glass or simply hard candy?” “Neither,” replied a new voice. X’shasi turned her head toward its source and found the miqo’te man from earlier, dusting down his crimson bliaud. “Why don’t you get everything together, Martyn,” he suggested; “and let me talk to her.” “Ah,” she said, “the accomplice. You seem an odd sort for a ‘blue mage.’” He laughed. “How is that?” “You’re not even wearing blue,” she pointed out, gesturing to his rust-red garb. It made him resemble X’rhun all the more. “Really,” he said. Laughter sparkled in his tone. “Because I had heard you were a red mage, and you hardly look the part.” “You know me?” “You’re X’shasi,” he said. “Shakkal’s child.” Not the Warrior of Light; not the Champion of Eorzea. Her mother’s daughter. She closed her eyes a moment. “So you are Lynx tribe,” she said. “You must be from the Gyr Abanian sect too?” Whatever amusement had danced upon his face a few moments before faded. “Once,” he said.

“Someone tipped him off,” Shasi said. “And he hired you.” It seemed easier to believe than the thought of an unexpected relative. The miqo’te closed his eyes. “No,” he said. “I’m X’moru, and I’m a blue mage. I’m here of my own volition, because I believe in the work.” Shasi tilted her head. “Does it really happen how he says?” she wondered. “You can observe an enemy’s aetherial manipulations and replicate them?” X’moru nodded. “It’s not hard, once you know what to look for.” “I thought,” she said, some half-remembered story coming back to her, “blue mages were supposed to eat their foes.” The laughter that came in response cracked like a gunshot. There was no amusement in it, only a tired sort of exasperation. “What, like you were ready to eat the soul crystal?” He shook his head. “That’s a damaging myth meant to sow fear about the people of the New World that practiced this magic. Who told you that? Khilo? It sounds like him.” Shasi tried to stifle her annoyance. She flicked an ear anyway. “It seems like you know my parents better than I do,” she said. “Were you a Crimson Duelist too?” “Shakkal was my friend and Rhun is my brother, but no.” She wanted to know him, then—he who had known her mother; he who was kin to her mentor. If he was that. She wanted him to be. “He never mentioned you.” X’moru just stared into her face a long moment. The intensity of his bright blue eyes was unnerving. “I think there’s a lot he maybe hasn’t mentioned to you,” he said eventually. Then, breaking into a genial smile once more, he said, “So do you want a proper demonstration, or what?” Less curious about blue magic, and more about this unexpected tribesman, Shasi found herself nodding anyway.

[kitsunecharm]

diluc, albedo and kazuha with a praise kink—

diluc doesn’t even realize he has one until you’re straddling his hips and brushing crimson curls out of his face, pulling away from his lips to tilt his chin up and purr that “you’re such a pretty boy, aren’t you?”

and he doesn’t expect to have such a reaction to that, shuddering under your gaze and turning bright red, embarrassed both that you’re calling him pretty and at the swoop of his stomach, the way his whole body seems to burn.

he shivers again when you trail your fingers along his chest and push him down into the sheets, murmuring that he looks so pretty like this, all spread out and ready for you, flushed a pretty pink all over—and who are you to deny him anything when he looks this good?

albedo knows he has one, but doesn’t quite understand why he likes receiving praise so much until he’s hovering over you, sinking down onto you. your hands grip his hips, leaving little crescent marks in his skin, shuddering a little—you want to shove him down onto you so bad, he feels so good.

he moans when you hiss it out, no louder than his normal speaking volume, but with far more behind it. he throws his head back to reveal the star on his throat, and tightens around you when your fingers graze over the mark.

“again,” he murmurs, and he’s not sure what he’s exactly asking for, but his tummy flutters when you chuckle and start to rock into him, slow at first, praising him for how good he’s being, how good he feels around you, so hot and tight—just your praise alone nearly sends him over the edge right there.

kazuha writes poetry about you as you curl up together afterwards, still a little sweaty and still panting. he looks so fucked out, hair a mess from running your hands through it, eyes hazy and satisfied, dark bruises forming along his pale, slender shoulders and trailing down his chest and belly, marking the milky skin of his thighs.

he sings your praises as haikus, flowery words that you could never hope to replicate—all you can offer feels crude, calling him hot, cute, whatever you can manage as you stretch out against him, settle your head against his bare chest.

he flushes, just a little, red eyes flicking between you and something on the other side of him. he squirms when you continue, lips parting a little. when you tell him he’d look so hot going down on you again right now, he hardly thinks before he’s leaning over you again.

[laurasimonsdaughter]

I still have kitsune on the brain, so here is a little folkloric research for your entertainment:

Most kitsune stories I know are either tragic or trickster romances. Either the kitsune dies or disappears forever when she is discovered, or she set out to deceive her partner for the hell of it. So when I saw a kitsune story with a happy end referred to as “the oldest recorded kitsune tale”, I was very upset that I had never heard of it before:

Ono, an inhabitant of Mino (says an ancient Japanese legend of A.D. 545), spent the seasons longing for his ideal of female beauty. He met her one evening on a vast moor and married her. Simultaneously with the birth of their son, Ono’s dog was delivered of a pup which as it grew up became more and more hostile to the lady of the moors. She begged her husband to kill it, but he refused. At last one day the dog attacked her so furiously that she lost courage, resumed vulpine shape, leaped over a fence and fled.

"You may be a fox," Ono called after her, "but you are the mother of my son and I will always love you. Come back when you please; you will always be welcome."

So every evening she stole back and slept in his arms.

Thus says Wikipedia. The source given for this story is Frank Hamel’s “Human Animals”, cited as being from 2003 (p. 89), but this book was originally published in 1915. His source for this story (which he actually bothers to cite!) is Captain F. Brinkley’s Japan: Its History, Arts, and Literature, from 1902 (Volume 5, p. 197). I couldn’t get access to a copy of his work, perhaps he also included his source, but there is another, more direct source for this story, even though the English translation is more recent:

In 1997 Kyoko Motomochi Nakamura published “Miraculous Stories from the Japanese Buddhist Tradition: The Nihon Ryōiki of the Monk Kyōkai”, an annotated translation of “the first collection of Buddhist legends in Japan”, at the time meant to be used by Buddhist priests to teach the people. This Nihon Ryōiki contains a kitsune story, which the Japanese Wikipedia page on kitsune refers to as possibly the oldest written source. Nakamura’s translation of Kyōkai’s tale is longer than Hamel’s version, changes the era it took place in, clears up some name confusion, and adds some very particular details. For instance the origin of the name “kitsune” (Nakamura, 1997, Volume 1, tale 2, p. 104-105):

On Taking a Fox as a Wife and Bringing Forth a Child

In the reign of Emperor Kinmei (that is, Amekuni-oshihiraki-hironiwa no mikoto, the emperor who resided at the Palace of Kanazshi in Shikishima), a man from Ōno district of Mino province set out on horseback in search of a good wife. In a field he came across a pretty and responsive girl. He winked at her and asked, “Where are you going, Miss?” “I am looking for a good husband,” she answered. So he asked, “Will you be my wife?” and, when she agreed, he took her to his house and married her.

Before long she became pregnant and gave birth to a boy. At the same time their dog also gave birth to a puppy, it being the fifteenth of the twelfth month. This puppy constantly barked at the mistress and seemed fierce and ready to bite. She became so frightened that she asked her husband to beat the dog to death. But he felt sorry for the dog and could not bear to kill it.

In the second or third month, when the annual quota of rice was hulled, she went to the place where the female servants were pounding rice in a mortar to give them some refreshments. The dog, seeing her, ran after her barking and almost bit her. Startled and terrified, she suddenly changed into a wild fox and jumped on top of the hedge.

Having seen this, the man said, “Since a child was born between us, I cannot forget you. Please come always and sleep with me.” She acted in accordance with her husband’s words and came and slept with him. For this reason she was named “Kitsune” meaning “come and sleep.”

Slender and beautiful in her red skirt (it is called pink), she would rustle away from her husband, whereupon he sang of his love for his wife:

Love fills me completely After a moment of reunion. Alas! She is gone.

The man named his child Kitsune, which became the child’s surname—Kitsune no atae. The child, famous for his enormous strength, could run as fast as a bird flies. He is the ancestor of the Kitsune-no-atae family in Mino province.

Nakamura’s notes state that while kitsune means fox, according to folk etymology kitsu-ne means “come and sleep” while “ki-tsune” means “come always”. “Atae” is stated to be “a hereditary title conferred on the family of a local governor who was of the local gentry class.” The song the husband sings for his fox-wife is originally a piece of traditional thirty-one syllable poetry.

Short as it is, I can easily see how this story would have become a prototype for the romantic kitsune. I have seen people interpret this story as the kitsune coming back to sleep with her husband only one last time, thereafter disappearing forever. But it seems to me that you could also interpret it as her coming back every night and disappearing every morning. Still tragic, still intensely yearning, but not quite as sad.

Of course I prefer the happier interpretation. It offers an interesting comparison to West-European fairy tales where a lover takes the shape of a beast or animal by day, but transforms into a beautiful youth by night. Except in those cases it is usually a curse and the human form is seen as the “true form”. The kitsune, however, is always a fox at heart. Which always makes it odd to me to see them referred to as were-foxes. Japanese folklore is very clear that even while they look like humans, they never truly stop being foxes. Which is why they never stay with humans in the end, even if they love them. So I hope that this kitsune, especially if she really was the first one, at least got to spend half her time with her human family.

[djarinsidebitch]

Hello dear may I please have a Loki NSFW alphabet PLS 🥺👉🏼👈🏼

A/n: Of course doll! again I've never really written for him so I apologize if anything isn't 100% the character but I hope this is good and thank you, darling, for requesting!!

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

He is a literal God at after care, you know he can go from literally railing you into oblivion to caressing your face softly, whispering praises and cleaning you up. 

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) He loves your hips- being able to hold onto them in both a sensual and non sensual way, when walking around he likes to have a arm around your waist but in the bedroom he loved gripping onto them hard enough to leave marks marking yourself as his and only his

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person) depends on his mood some days he will cun inside but agains he is possessive so he loves claiming you as his so he wants to paint your body.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) if for some reason you are gone he uses his magic to create a projection of you to jerk oof too- but he has only done it like once. 

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?) Although he is the epitome of sex he really isnt SUPER experienced, he has done it before of course but they women of asgard where’t throwing themselves at him, but dont worry he got ALOT of experience with you ;)

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual) all of them- but most of the time he likes any that lets him watch your face.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc) he is more serious but he is also the god of mischief so there will be a little joking or comments.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.) he is SUPER groomed, he takes prise in his self care and that is included in it. 

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…) OH BOY This man K I N G of intimacy he will go full send on everything, candles- check, foreplay- check, bought you comfortable lingerie-check, everything you want- he will give you.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon) why jack off when he has the most gorgeous person in all the nine realms in his bed every night.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks) B O N D A G E- but also knife kink- like daymn even maybe an ice kink or overstimulation 

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do) probably the bedroom but with him there is also the kitchen- the bathroom- the library- the wall- the door- really anywhere.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going) You quote poetry or maybe some philosophical book he is so entranced by how beautiful the words sound coming from your lips and that just gets him going, wearing anything close to ‘scandalous’ it will quickly be on the floor or pushed up around your waist. 

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) hurt you, or force you do do something that you don't want to, he may be cruel to others but he would NEVER do anything that would make you uncomfortable or unwanted pain. He respects all of your boundaries and will do what brings you pleasure not pain.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc) most of the time- he loves receiving just telling you to “Kneel” and watching you instantly dropping to your knees infront of him looking up at him your eyes showing nothing but submission. But dont think he wont give any back- this man isnt said to have a silver tongue for no reason he is SKILLED and has you all mapped out he knows how to have you quivering in no time. 

P = Pace (Are they fats and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.) Depends on his mood but most of the time it will start off very sensual slowly pulling you apart piece by piece but as the night continues he picks up speed wanting to reach his own end 

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.) ALL. THE. DAMN. TIME. It is a regular thing to fit a quickie in the day he just likes the rush. 

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.) Its loki- so much on the phone with an important call- he decided he wanted to go down on you- out for dinner with friends- he is playing with you under the table- again he is the god of mischief it is in his nature  

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…) Too long- so so long aside from being a trained warrior and god- he is determined and will keep going until you are overstimulated and about to pass out.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?) he will definitely have a few vibes here and there but he likes doing it himself.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) he is such a tease it isnt even funny- its just so much in the morning he would get you all the way to the brink and then stop- and leave for the day, its just rude how much he teases

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make) he isnt “LOUD” but he isnt silent, most of the time he is groaning praises in your ear his voice deep and gravelly telling you how good you feel how perfect you feel around him.  

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice) he fucks you with the horns on- on the throne of asgard. You can’t tell me anything else. That is all

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words) He is longer than he is thick a good 7-8 in slender and perfect in every way

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?) pretty fucking high- like it doesnt take much for him to want some action so sex is a regular thing in the relationship.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) he will wait for you to fall asleep wanting to watch as you drift off and just take in your beauty once more before joining you in rest. 

Taglist: @parzival3 @oliviafaith

[usuallyapirate]

A short Introduction to the most common Player-Races in Dungeons and Dragons as given by the DnD 5e Players Handbook:

Dwarf

“Yer late,elf!” came the rough edge of a familiar voice. Bruenor Battlehammer walked up the back of his dead foe, disregarding the fact that the heavy monster lay on top of his elven friend. In spite of the added discomfort, the dwarf’s long, pointed, often-broken nose and gray-streaked though still-fiery red beard came as a welcome sight to Drizzt. “Knew I’d find ye in trouble if I came out an' looked for ye!" 

– R.A. Salvatore, The Crysta lShard

Kingdoms rich in ancient grandeur, halls carved into the roots of mountains, the echoing of picks and hammers in deep mines and blazing forges, a commitment to clan and tradition, and a burning hatred of goblins and orcs—these common threads unite all dwarves.

Elf

“I HAVE NEVER IMAGINED SUCH BEAUTY EXISTED,” Goldmoon said softly. The day’s march had been difficult, but the reward at the end was beyond their dreams. The companions stood on a high cliff over the fabled city of Qualinost. Four slender spires rose from the city’s corners like glistening spindles, their brilliant white stone marbled with shining silver. Graceful arches, swooping from spire to spire, soared through the air. Crafted by ancient dwarven metalsmiths, they were strong enough to hold the weight of an army, yet they appeared so delicate that a bird lighting on them might overthrow the balance. These glistening arches were the city’s only boundaries; there was no wall around Qualinost. The elven city opened its arms lovingly to the wilderness.

 – Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman, Dragons of Autumn Twilight

Elves are a magical people of otherworldly grace, living in the world but not entirely part of it. They live in places of ethereal beauty, in the midst of ancient forests or in silvery spires glittering with faerie light, where soft music drifts through the air and gentle fragrances waft on the breeze. Elves love nature and magic, art and artistry, music and poetry, and the good things of the world.

Halfling

Regis the halfling, the only one of his kind for hundreds of miles in any direction, locked his fingers behind his head and leaned back against the mossy blanket of the tree trunk. Regis was short, even by the standards of his diminutive race, with the fluff of his curly brown locks barely cresting the three-foot mark, but his belly was amply thickened by his love of a good meal, or several, as the opportunities presented themselves. The crooked stick that served as his fishing pole rose up above him, clenched between two of his toes, and hung out over the quiet lake, mirrored perfectly in the glassy surface of Maer Dualdon. 

– R.A. Salvatore, The Crystal Shard

The comforts of home are the goal of most halflings‘ lives: a place to settle in peace and quiet, far from marauding monsters and clashing armies; a blazing fire and a generous meal; fine drink and fine conversation. Though some halflings live out their days in remote agricultural communities, others form nomadic bands that travel constantly, lured by the open road and the wide horizon to discover the wonders of new lands and peoples. But even these wanderers love peace, food, hearth, and home, though home might be a wagon jostling along a dirt road or a raft floating downriver.

Human

These were the stories of a restless people who long ago took to the seas and rivers in longboats, first to pillage and terrorize, then to settle. Yet there was an energy, a love of adventure, that sang from every page. Long into the night Uriel read, lighting candle after precious candle. She'd never given much thought to humans, but these stories fascinated her. In these yellowed pages were tales of bold heroes, strange and fierce animals, mighty primitive gods, and a magic that was part and fabric of that distant land. 

– Elaine Cunningham, Daughter of the Drow

In the reckonings of most worlds, humans are the youngest of the common races, late to arrive on the world scene and short-lived in comparison to dwarves, elves, and dragons. Perhaps it is because of their shorter lives that they strive to achieve as much as they can in the years they are given. Or maybe they feel they have something to prove to the elder races, and that’s why they build their mighty empires on the foundation of conquest and trade. Whatever drives them, humans are the innovators, the achievers, and the pioneers of the worlds.

Dragonborn

Her father stood on the first of the three stairs that led down from the portal, unmoving. The scales of his face had grown paler around the edges, but Clanless Mehen still looked as if he could wrestle down a dire bear himself. His familiar well-worn armor was gone, replaced by violet-tinted scale armor with bright silvery tracings. There was a blazon on his arm as well, the mark of some foreign house. The sword at his back was the same, though, the one he had carried since even before he had found the twins left in swaddling at the gates of Arush Vayem. Father’s face was as kill she'd been fortunate to learn. A human who couldn’t spot the shift of her eyes or Havilar’s would certainly see only the indifference of a dragon in Clanless Mehen’s face. But the shift of scales, the arch of a ridge, the set of his eyes, the gape of his teeth – her father's face spoke volumes. But every scale of it, this time, seemed completely still— the indifference of a dragon, even to Farideh.

– Erin M. Evans, The Adversary

Born of dragons, as their name proclaims, the dragonborn walk proudly through a world that greets them with fearful incomprehension. Shaped by draconic gods or the dragons themselves, dragonborn originally hatched from dragon eggs as a unique race, combining the best attributes of dragons and humanoids. Some dragonborn are faithful servants to true dragons, others form the ranks of soldiers in great wars, and still others find themselves adrift, with no clear calling in life.

Gnome

Skinny and flaxen-haired, his skin walnut brown and his eyes a startling turquoise, Burgell stood half as tall as Aeron climb up on a stool to look out the peephole. Like most habitations in Oeble, that particula tenement had been built for humans, and smaller residents coped with the resulting awkwardness as best they could. But at least the relative largeness of the apartment gave Burgell room to pack in all his gnome-sized gear. The front room was his workshop, and it contained a bewildering miscellany of tools: hammers, chisels, saws, lockpicks, tinted lenses, jeweler's loupes, and jars of powdered and shredded ingredients for casting spells. A fat gray cat, the mage’s familiar, lay curled atop a grimoire. It opened its eyes, gave Aeron a disdainful yellow stare, then appeared to go back to sleep. 

– Richard Lee Byers, The Black Bouquet

A constant hum of busy activity pervades the warrens and neighborhoods where gnomes form their close-knit communities. Louder sounds punctuate the hum: a crunch of grinding gears here, a minor explosion there, a yelp of surprise or triumph, and especially bursts of laughter. Gnomes take delight in life, enjoying every moment of invention, exploration, investigation, creation, and play.

Half-Elf

Flint squinted into the setting sun. He thought he saw the figure of a man striding up the path. Standing, Flint drew back into the shadow of a tall pine to see better. The man's walk was marked by an easy grace – an elvish grace, Flint would have said; yet the man’s body had the thickness and tight muscles of a human, while the facial hair was definitely humankind’s. All the dwarf could see of the man’s face beneath a green hood was tan skin and a brownish-red beard. A longbow was slung over one shoulder and a sword hung at his left side. He was dressed in soft leather, carefully tooled in the intricate designs the elves loved. But no elf in the world of Krynn could grow a beard ... no elf, but...

“Tanis?” said Flint hesitantly as the man neared.

“The same.” The newcomer’s bearded face split in a wide grin. He held open his arms and, before the dwarf could stop him, engulfed Flint in a hug that lifted him off the ground. The dwarf clasped his old friend close for a brief instant, then, remembering his dignity, squirmed and freed himself from the half-elf’s embrace. 

– Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman, Dragons of Autumn Twilight

Walking in two worlds but truly belonging to neither, half-elves combine what some say are the best qualities of their elf and human parents: human curiosity, inventiveness, and ambition tempered by the refined senses, love of nature, and artistic tastes of the elves. Some half-elves live among humans, set apart by their emotional and physical differences, watching friends and loved ones age while time barely touches them. Others live with the elves, growing restless as they reach adulthood in the timeless elven realms, while their peers continue to live as children. Many half-elves, unable to fit into either society, choose lives of solitary wandering or join with other misfits and outcasts in the adventuring life.

Half-Orc

The warchief Mhurren roused himself from his sleeping-furs and his women and pulled a short hauberk of heavy steel rings over his thick, well-muscled torso. He usually rose before most of his warriors, since he had a strong streak of human blood in him, and he found the daylight less bothersome than most of his tribe did. Among the Bloody Skulls, a warrior was judged by his strength, his fierceness, and his wits. Human ancestry was no blemish against a warrior – provided he was every bit as strong, enduring, and blood thirsty as his full-blooded kin. Half-orcs who were weaker than their orc comrades didn't last long among the Bloody Skulls or any other orc tribe for that matter. But it was often true that a bit of human blood gave a warrior just the right mix of cunning, ambition, and self-discipline to go far indeed, as Mhurren had. He was master of a tribe that could muster two thousand spears, and the strongest chief in Thar. 

– Richard Baker, Swordmage

Whether united under the leadership of a mighty warlock or having fought to a standstill after years of conflict, orc and human tribes sometimes form alliances, joining forces into a larger horde to the terror of civilized lands nearby. When these alliances are sealed by marriages, half-orcs are born. Some half-orcs rise to become proud chiefs of orc tribes, their human blood giving them an edge over their full-blooded orc rivals. Some venture into the world to prove their worth among humans and other more civilized races. Many of these become adventurers, achieving greatness for their mighty deeds and notoriety for their barbaric customs and savage fury.

Tiefling

“But you do see the way people look at you, devil’s child." Those black eyes, cold as a winter storm, were staring right into her heart and the sudden seriousness in his voice jolted her.

“What is it they say?" he asked. “One’s a curiosity, two’s a conspiracy—”

“Three's a curse,” she finished. “You think I haven’t heard that rubbish before?”

“I know you have.” When she glared at him, he added, “It’s not as if I’m plumbing the depths of your mind, dear girl. That is the burden of every tiefling. Some break under it, some make it the millstone around their neck, some revel in it.” He tilted his head again, scrutinizing her, with that wicked glint in hiseyes. “You fight it, don’t you? Like a little wildcat, I wager. Every little jab and comment just sharpens your claws.” 

– Erin M. Evans, Brimstone Angels

To be greeted with stares and whispers, to suffer violence and insult on the street, to see mistrust and fear in every eye: this is the lot of the tiefling. And to twist the knife, tieflings know that this is because a pact struck generations ago infused the essence of Asmodeus – overlord of the Nine Hells – into their bloodline. Their appearance and their nature are not their fault but the result of an ancient sin, for which they and their children and their children’s children will always be held accountable.

[drcgndrecmer]

& @kinslcyer​  //  cont

        It has been nothing but peaceful. Her back resting against a mountain of pillows as the blonde held a thin volume of poetry in her left hand - up and slightly away from Aemond to make sure she would not interrupt the man’s rest. The minutes passed by, more and more, each new begining and ending and yet the Prince made no move to get up or roll away from how he laid on top of her. Not that she minded in the slightest. Her body was comfortable on the bed and pillows and it was only fair that Aemond found similiar luxuries while resting - even if it meant using her ample chest as pillows for his head.

“Oh? What more could you-” Her question was cut off easily and quickly when her brother’s hand grabbed her right and brought it to his head - a clear order ringing in the air for what she was supposed to do. With a small chuckle, one that jostled his head a bit, the woman began to caress his head. Slender fingers tangling in silky smooth locks of pale silver, wrapping a strand around her digit gently only to tug upon it a few times before she let it drop and soothed the scalp with a slow massage a moment later. Short but sharp fingernails adding a little spike of pain to the tender touches as she scratched Aemond’s scalp once every few gentle movements, humming a quiet tune of her favorite lullaby without even realising she had started to do so.

[cha-melodius]

Once in a Lifetime

A Lokius Bookshop AU

When Mobius descends the tiny back staircase to open M. M. Mobius & Co. Rare Books at a completely random hour on Tuesday afternoon, he finds someone already inside his shop, curled up in a chair and drinking a pot of his tea. The man is dressed in an all-black suit with a black shirt and tie, like a fancier version of one of those goth kids that sometimes show up in his shop looking for books on the occult or other such things that Mobius refuses to sell them. The visitor’s long legs are tucked up underneath him, and slender, elegant hands carefully cradle one of Mobius’s rarer tomes, a volume of Old Norse poetry.

A few weeks ago, this would have been cause for concern, to put it mildly. But then again, a few weeks ago, his bookshop hadn’t yet acquired its very own god of mischief.

(Or, the unlikely friendship between an ordinary human bookshop owner and a Norse trickster god, and how it grows to become something that neither of them ever thought they'd have.)

Read it on AO3 here

(Original photo of Aziraphale and Crowley in the bookshop can be found here.)