#anyway all hail the humble pepper

[fencesandfrogs]

Absolute wild how much better my mood has been since I figured out how to make my body stop hurting

[danteinthedevildom]

So, talkin abt multilingual Mams, 

I was gonna make this post anyway but then I saw @cheerypining​​ put this in the tags of my post re: Mams’ English in his character song:

I would like to hollar out a hell yes! 

The thing with Mams is that he isn’t stupid. He’s smart as fuck, he’s just motivated by self interest and fixation. It’s easier for him to learn things that are of interest to him, or that expand his interests. He’s got that sweet, sweet ADD brain.

So, if language helps him spread out his influence, make money, expand his contacts? It’s gonna be that lil bit easier for him to figure out. It might even be a fixation of his. Learn a language; open opportunities in the place that language hails from. Gain an interest in how language works. Learn other languages bc it’s fun. 

Consider, then, if you will, for some of that tastey lore-building, 

Mams starting out learning the languages of the most influencial/opulent human powers. It’s beneficial for him to figure out how to speak their language if he really wants to get at their pockets, and you can’t really smooth talk someone if you barely understand the way their haggling works. How is anyone going to trust you if their idioms go over your head, or if you miss some slang that marks you very starkly as an outsider? It’s a lot easier if they think you’re like them; if you know the little things that’ll get them lowering their guard around you. 

He’s great with dialects, too. With differences between the upper and lower classes. It only takes one slip-up using court language around the common folk, or using the dialet of the north in the south, for him to recognise how important those divisions are. He works with trust, and the eventual corruption of that trust, and it becomes pretty clear to him pretty quick that trust can only be attained the more like his target he sounds. 

Dead languages still live on in Mammon’s brain. He’s fluent in them, and even though he hasn’t really had to use them in some time, for some reason they’ve just never faded away. You can pretty much use him as a way to track how languages changed over time, how regional variants were influenced by other languages or cultures, when various languages died out and what replaced them. 

It’s not something that he really thinks about. It was beneficial for him, so he learnt it. Beyond that, it was fun, and he enjoyed it. He doesn’t really give himself credit for just how much linguistic history he has stored inside his head, and he really doesn’t put much credit into how goddamn useful it is - or would be - for modern historians. That’s not what he’s interested in. He’s content to leave Satan to the books, to the past; he’s got more of a propensity for the practicality, anyway. 

Listening to him talk is actually pretty astounding. The ease with which he slips into each language, the depth of his understanding for even the slight nuances between regions, makes him seem like a native speaker. The speed, too, is absolutely stunning; you’ve never seen a more baffling sight than Mammon, speaking mild-mannered in Russian to a witch, switching mid-sentence into heavily-flirtatious French to order from the waitress that came to their table. It’s like he doesn’t even stumble between the two, both as natural to him as breathing. 

He has his preferences, of course. When he’s not using the language for his own goals - doesn’t need to, for instance, be careful about his word choice to ensure a bond of trust is made - he quickly slips into a dialect that is most comfortable for him. He might use ‘watashi’ or ‘ore’ when he’s on the job, might tack on the ‘gozaimasu’ to his greetings to make them polite, but when he’s just generally speaking Japanese? That’s when he starts using ‘ore-sama’, when he drops all the humble or stilted phrases; uses ‘ja ne’ instead of ‘sayounara'. That’s when, in English, he stops making sure to enunciate fully; starts shortening ‘you’ to ‘ya’, cuts off the ‘g’ from ‘ing’ words, starts peppering in ‘crap’ instead of ‘stuff’, lets his words slur together to make ‘whaddaya’ out of ‘what are you’. 

He’s naturally an informal guy! It’s just the way he prefers to talk. He hates the pompous lingo, even if it’s usually the most beneficial to learn for what he does. If the language he’s speaking has a way to show belligerent informality, he will absolutely use it whenever he can. It’s a choice, make no mistake; he can arguably speak better in most languages than the stupid high academics. He just doesn’t enjoy that crap when it’s not immediately useful to him. 

(Yes, that does mean he can comprehend even the most pompously written academic papers. No, that doesn’t mean he wants to read them. He would much sooner stab a fork into his giblets than sit down for any period of time and read that wordy bullshit. Same goes for a lot of Satan’s literature; it’s just not enjoyable for him to read, even if he can perfectly understand it.)

Sometimes a word works better in one language than another. It can get extremely frustrating for him, if he has a very specific point to get across; unless someone knows both languages, they’re never going to fully understand. And why use five words in the inefficient language when one in the efficient language would have been even better for his intent? ‘Fernweh’ works much better than ‘imagine being homesick for a place you’ve never been’, after all.  

Mams has a tendency to drop in words he likes from other languages, which makes some of his speech sound a little confusing. He doesn’t think it makes him sound smarter, and he’s not doing it to show off; just, sometimes, he thinks ‘hey’ sounds better than ‘ohayou’, or that ‘ciao’ is cooler and more aloof than ‘au revoir’. Plus, it’s kinda funny when you’re talking to someone Lucifer and you insult them in a language they don’t understand. 

(I mean, in English, we literally say stuff like “it has a little je ne sais quoi,” [it has a little something that I can’t adequately express] so we merge languages into our own in order to better express ourselves. Mams does the same. He just does it with words and phrases that aren’t always naturally used together within that language.)

Do you understand the amount of skill that comes with being able to do this without even stopping to think? He somehow manages to do it in a way that makes each sentence still perfectly fluent and understandable in translation. It’s a little incredible, actually, considering he doesn’t put any stock into this ability. It’s just natural for him. Why’s he gotta think on it more than that? 

(This does mean, the few times someone points it out, that he gets incredibly flustered. Especially if they say it in awe, or in praise. It really is just second nature to him, not even something he’s putting on for show or something that he’s trying to be good at, so being given so much positive attention for it is... well. It’s surprising, and a little nice, actually. But also genuinely embarrasing. It’s perhaps the only time he’ll struggle to find words in any language.)

In conclusion:

Hell yeah I love reinforcin the idea that Mams ain’t stupid and that there’s a lot of goddamn skill that comes with learnin languages and learnin them to such a degree you can accurately pepper their words into your speech without stoppin to think. 

[sidrisa-blog]

Power and Magic

Read it here on AO3

Pairings: Loki x Reader and the lightest Sif X Thor

Chapter: 20/104 Power and Magic pt 2

Warnings: the usual: sex, death, and violence with light smatterings of misogynoir

Summary: The princes come with their exalted Father arriving amidst a hail of pomp and pageantry all parties would rather forgo. This is war, where men die, their blood purchasing land and peace until it's time for more men and more blood. But your mother adheres to the old rules of hearth and hospitality. The Lords of Asgard must be given their due despite the grim business precipitating their arrival. It is too bad they don't deserve it. There is nothing to recommend him, Loki, Prince of Asgard. He is rude and cold and childish. You try to find some merit in him. You find none. Exactly none. But maybe, after trial and tribulation,

You will.

You fold up onto your elbows. A quick glance outside informs you that the snow still falls and Cephalus is turned discreetly away, dozing on forelegs.

Smart horse. You named him well.

You reach for Loki and pull him down with you back onto his cloak.

“More,” you demand as you kiss him, hard, bold tongue pressing against his, imperious.

Your Prince laughs, flattered by your arrogance. No matter. He already has plans to humble you.

“Then undress me Princess. And hurry.”

You have no idea how you’re supposed to do that with his fingers still roaming, distracting you. And when he’s dressed in intricate armor with more straps and ties and belts than actual armor. Lust dulls your dexterity, you fumble with the knots and he makes no attempt to help you, amused by your frustration.

“Where I come from, armor is armor. Two pieces, sewn together. Not all this nonsense.” You grumble fumbling with a knot.

He lifts your head, brings his lips to yours. “Hurry. Up.” He purrs, making sure your frustration with him doubles. Bastard.

But you spy his downfall, attached to his belt..

Your father’s dagger.

You unsheath the blade and slice open one side of strings that hold his leather tunic closed.

“You dare!” He shouts, voice caught between ‘How dare you!’ and ‘How dare you stop!’

Outraged and powerfully aroused, he abandons his pretense of teasing you with the task of undressing him and does it himself.

Every swathe of skin he reveals, you sample. First his chest, and you, quick study as you are, take one of his rosy budded nipples between your teeth. When he hisses you release him, stammering apologies that he dismisses with a shake of his head.

“Do not stop.”

Pride and power mix in your heated blood, a dangerous cocktail that intoxicates. Your head swims in the sighs you make him make with your mouth and teeth on his flesh.

You learn fast the best ways to make him sigh. He favors his earlobes bitten, his neck, his chest. You pepper him with teeth marks until he is well seasoned across his body in round red little welts.

Your hands perform the same work, nails scratching down the length of his back and over his still clothed thighs. You hook your thigh over his hips and squeeze, bringing the two of you nigh flush. Loki’s groan thunders in both your chests, and he pushes his hips forward to match your movements. You clash but you don't meet, unable to fully join for the breeches he's still wearing, but you can feel him, his hard length bumping against your inner thigh as you slowly rock against him.

“I want you.” You tell him, gasping. He's put a thigh between yours, set you grinding against him, reaching for the deeper buried pleasure to bring to the surface of your skin.

He pretends not to hear, pretends to be lost in the crook of your neck, smothered by the sweet softness of your hair and skin. He keeps moving that thigh, one hand ironbound on your hip guiding you slowly back and forth, preparing you for what's to come next.

“Loki! Please!” you shudder, close again to bliss and that's all he wanted, just another strangled cry of his name to satisfy his vanity.

“Well when you ask so sweetly.” He pushes gently on your shoulders.

“Lay.”

From your back you observe his fingers unbutton and untie his breeches. His hands hook into his waistband and pushes down over slim hips and sinewy thighs until they come free.

You stare, your familiarity with male anatomy is mostly confined to biology and horses. You know what to expect and though virginal you were never prudish, you enjoyed hearing the tales of your soldiers’ conquests off the battlefield. But it's hard to reconcile that all of him, all the magic of him, from sharp cut of his cheekbones, to the flat expanse of muscled chest, to the icy smile that feels warm when you kiss it--is for you.

“Impressed?” he croons.

He's seen your eyes rake over him, had they nails he'd be torn to ribbons. And of course he's noticed your eyes linger in his southerly regions and the bob of your throat as you swallow an awed sigh. He preens, if ever his former lovers had a complaint of him, it was never about quantity.

“Am I supposed to be?” Your question was honest having no real basis for comparison but his pride shrivels anyway.

“You will be.” He growls. “That I promise.”

He rests atop you, propped on elbows, the two of you content for the moment just like this. Your arms are strong wrapped around him, that no one’s held you like this before. You do come from a country of fools.

“Princess.”

But this cold and filthy cave is not where you were meant to be. You should be in his chambers, in his bed, his arms

His.

He lowers himself and you open for him, arms and heart.

“I won't hurt you.”

Its instinctive to reassure. He's never forced a lover and he never will, but rumor and his reputation for broken hearts obscure fact, painting a gruesome picture he'd rather leave ignored. Addressed only when some nervous lover winds up in his bed looking for a taste of the darker prince.

But you say. ‘I know,’ as he descends. ‘I know.’

He never had to disprove to you he wasn't a monster. You knew.

He slides against you, coating himself in your slick. Your nails sink into his shoulders, you tense, ready for this, for him, anticipating the bite of pain that you expect when he fits inside.

“Ready?”

You cant speak, only nod.

You feel him, you feel him push, you feel yourself part and stretch, you wait for the pain as he moves, filling you.

It never comes. You feel an odd stuffed sensation, but no pain. His hips meet yours, seated fully, deeply too you note, but there's no pain or discomfort.

Just magic.

“Good girl. Sweet girl.”

You fit him beautifully. Your face, so wonderfully expressive, tells him everything, conveys every spark of pleasure that shoots through you. He remains still, waiting, it's you who moves. Who lifts her hips and pushes him deeper, it's you who gasps and groans.

It's you who goes too fast with the snap and roll of your hips. He grinds a curse between his teeth, centers your hips in his hands to control the pace. If you do that again…

You do, and he can't catch the moan that tears from him.

“Steady Princess.”

But you don't want steady. You feel amazing and you chase that feeling down the length of his cock, slamming into him again.

Loki curses, frissons of lust coursing the length of his body, making him twitch inside of you. He's not cold but you tease gooseflesh out of him with the way you move.

He means to be gentle, gentle is the only way he'll last with you fluttering and squeezing him like you are. But the sound of his name screamed and sighed will likely finish him long before the sharp snap of your hips will.

“Princess.” He chokes on your name. And you answer him with his.

Your eyes are somewhere in the stars, bursts of light blooming across your vision at the end of every thrust. Your heart jumps and stutters, it knocks free of your ribs, flies out and away. Pressure builds and breaks, builds and breaks again, you come for him every time your bodies touch. Little foreshocks that herald a looming earthquake.

Your pleasure wraps tight around him like ropes of silk. He loses his battle with gentleness and rhythm, thrusting hard enough to rattle his teeth and knock loose sense from his brain.

“Yes, Loki yes!”

You are powerful under him. He is magic atop you. You both crest and crash together, mixing to make something new and greater than the sum of its parts.

Binding silk pulls impossibly tight before loosening taking all of him with it, making him gloriously blind and deaf but certainly not dumb. You make him come, your name an unintelligible shout of ecstasy on his lips.

You shudder underneath him, a low wail sounding your shattering. Your entire body curls into a perfect arch wringing the very last drops of pleasure from you. Together you fall back into sense. Your back touches the real world first and it feels like a woolen cloak on rocky ground, in chilly cave, sheltered from the snow outside.

To him, the real world just feels like you.

I am susceptible to sudden fits of sappy romance and for this I MAKE NO APOLOGY WHAT SO EVER