#like niche prayers too

[writeitinsharpie]

greg house regularly attends college classes on feminist theory, critical race theory, and queer theory in order to hatecrime better

[akkivee]

it caught my eye that kuukou has two sets of prayer beads in this card and learned that in buddhism you have two different kinds of prayer beads: formal and informal!!!!

formal beads are crafted for specifically one sect, so prayer beads from shingon buddhism would differ from zen buddhism, for example!!! informal beads are typically for personal use and don’t follow the more strict construct rules that differentiates formal beads. since they’re for personal use, why a person may have a personal set of beads varies from person to person, but they’re usually used either for meditation or for protection

we’ve seen kuukou meditate, and he doesn’t use beads so i wonder if his beads are more of a protection charm for him more than anything 🤔

[ancientgoddessofegypt]

astro thoughts <3 short n sweet: all about the 3rd house

3rd house suns have this formidable presence and unlike any other planet in this house, they have the ability to absorb information and bring attention to that information at any given time. their talents go unnoticed for a short period, usually someone like a teacher, sibling, or colleague usually points out this gift and then they will become more free & open to the public with this talent. they have a niche for attention seeking, i mean this in the nicest way possible. they just have an aura to them that attracts attention from others due to their words, speech, intellect and talents.

3rd house mars have a controlled temper no often then not. They use their agility to build their mental strength in whatever hobbies they like to indulge in.

3rd house mercury has a tendency to have a know it all attitude. They also have a child-like nature to their auras as they are playful beings and can be quite popular in their environment.

3rd house moons are often liked due to their carry nature to be one with their community. Could be interested in volunteering in youth centers, farms or anything that helps benefit the people around them.

3rd house venus have to experience life in their own tune. They have a beautiful story to fulfill and they should document it in whatever way they choose. The memories is what counts, after all.

3rd house pluto can be very different from the other planets in this house. theres a darkness that oozes out of their words and the mystery awaits for those to unlock the codes in the prayers they've given us through their artwork that is their song.

3rd house saturns have a tendency to be the 'older sibling' to people they meet because they have an old soul to their auras. They show up with a naturally authoritive tone and cant help themselves sometimes.

3rd house jupiters HAVE IT ALLLLLL . There very soft spoken and have a niche for communication in multiple outlets. They can use their gifts to sore to new heights with the community and learn how to utilize the community to their advantage. This type of skill is good for entrepreneurs. 3rd house jups have a tendency to know more than what they let on but they won't tell you too much about themselves and what they know so easily.

3rd house uranus individuals have unique taste and love to go out of their way to find new information that is out of the box. There ideas are usually out of this world and they have a different perspective on their environment and the people around them.

3rd house neptunes are very sweet, compassionate individuals who can sense the energy of others very swiftly. They have an urge to travel short distances because they need this time to themselves to grow and formulate an opinion over there own needs & circumstances.

[mutualcombat]

bg3 kinktober day 18 - body worship

from this prompt list!

word count: 1.3k

rating: explicit

pairing: (spawn) astarion/fem!tav (oc - adriannu)

additional tags: postgame. body worship, but with a vampire spin on it (BLOOD WORSHIP?) aggressive scent kink. astarion being a creature and thinking nasty, creature thoughts. cumplay, sort of (i told you guys).

anyway, im sorry

Astarion curls around his wife like a cool shadow, sealing his chest against her back. His arms smooth over hers, bicep to bicep, forearm to forearm, hips and thighs caging her body firmly. He finds her hands, but as he moves to hold them, she’s turning hers over to lace their fingers, locking their palms. 

It’s as disconcerting to be away from each other just as it is to be in such close proximity without the chance to speak, to brush an elbow even. They’d more or less spent the evening like celestial bodies, spinning on their axes yet never touching.  

Now that they’re alone again, the pair fall into silence as Astarion’s desire leads. He sweeps his thighs up under her knees, brazenly stretching her legs wide.

After giving her hands a reassuring squeeze, his retreat to stroke the swell of her hips and thighs, to palm her knees before dragging them back up her body to rub and squeeze at her breasts. With his focus entirely on the task at hand, he doesn’t leave any part of her untouched.

They both adore this; the closeness, the drawn-out touching. She’s often sore after a day like this, and though she finds his touch a welcome comfort, she's brave to offer her skin knowing just how shamefully greedy he is tonight.

And tonight, he shows her just how much he needs in the pinches and pulls, the rubbing and kneading of his fingers. Though for her sake, he tries to keep the claws under control.

Adriannu's head falls back against his shoulder. Can’t help the soft little breaths and the way her toes flex and curl. He’s sure she can feel his eager little ruts against her, his cock rubbing firmly between her backside and his belly.

He returns to her breasts, working her nipples with the pads of thumbs, until she finally surrenders a mewl and a quiet, breathy utterance of his name that breaks the silence like wonderful magic.  

With that, he zeroes in and firmly overstays his welcome, groping her breasts as she begins to twist and her thighs shake in protest. A shiver and a gasp, she throws her head back against his shoulder again in muted prayer, beseeching the powers that be to sate her need, and bring an end to this carnal torture at the hands of her vampire lover. Her unlikely husband.

A hazy, libidinous thought crosses Astarion’s mind as he notes her slick, so generously spread over the bedlinens, that it wouldn’t be so bad if he never washed them again.

Ah, she wouldn’t like that though, would she?

Then he ought to have her like this as often as possible, he surmises.

But how wonderful would it be to have a niche to return to when work took his love away? A little nest that smelled of her even at their most intimate, when the tired notes of her manufactured soap faded and only the heady, natural scent of her remained. Just for him to writhe in it—to touch himself, knowing even when she’s away, he’s the one she chose. 

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, nosing away the lock of hair from her shoulder to drag his lips over the scars at her throat. He feels his body prime itself to bite. Fangs aching and suddenly feeling much too big for his palate, lips swollen, and tongue drowning in saliva.  

He swallows twice, sucks his tongue, then grinds the dried flat of it up the slope of Adriannu’s neck. Her breathing comes deeply as high color ignites her throat, and he presses his open lips and the flats of his teeth to her jugular.

Astarion goes stock still.  

He stays that way for some time, unbreathing. Concentrating. Immersing.

"Everything alright back there?" Adriannu gives his hands a grounding squeeze. He can feel the little smile against his hair when he squeezes back. 

"Listening," he murmurs.  

She makes an intrigued noise with her tongue. “To what?” 

His words bubble against her throat, like molten lava at the bottom of some volcanic chasm. "Your blood." 

Behind his eyelids he can very nearly see it all. Can follow the way her blood traverses her veins like roots through moist soil, filling even the most delicate of capillaries under the surface of her skin.

This close, and so familiar, he can scent it through muscle and bone. He can see the color, imagine the viscosity on his tongue, how hot it would be splashing down the back of his throat as it opens his mind to her memories, her feelings and secrets. Her old pains and new fears. Her love.

It all belongs to her, but she shares it willingly. And with him, of all people.

Of all the creatures...

A shiver starts in-between his shoulder blades and rakes through him, up to the crown of his head and the tips of his twitching ears, washing down to his feet. He gasps. 

He feels the already taut muscle behind his navel pull achingly tight and gives in to compulsion, pumping his hips to chase after the feeling lest it get away from him. By the noise of shock Adriannu makes he wonders if she's upset, but she leans into him instead, as if to egg him on. His hands unlatch from hers to hold her firnly at the waist while he grinds into her hard from behind.

He digs his sweat-soaked brow into her shoulder as his orgasm quickly overtakes him, whimpering and whining as he watches himself release. Cockhead swollen and red as he labors to rid himself of every last spurt, all in tribute to that flushed skin of hers, and the delicious blood that nurtures it all from underneath.  

When he’s spent Adriannu shifts, testing their connection. He's sure she can feel his hand snaking between them to pinch and rub his shaft through the little aftershocks still sparking through him. His seed pearling up the curve of her spine has her giggling in a way that makes his skin burn and his dead heart flop over like a fish out of water.   

With a coy smile, she tilts her head into his cheek, eyes fluttering shut. 

“That sounded nice,” she whispers. “Was it good for you?”  

Astarion inhales as he finds he hasn’t any air left in his lungs. When he gently bites into her shoulder, grinning lecherously up at her, Adriannu dislodges his mouth with a sharp nudge of her shoulder, only to turn around and press their lips together in a long, passionate kiss.

When they break away, the sound is audible, and his breath tracking across her wet lips makes her shiver.

"You wretched little mountain witch--making me come untouched like that." 

"Untouched? Please.” Her scoff is entirely undignified, and so terribly charming. “Grinding into me as though my ass were a whetstone..." 

"And what a large, smooth stone you were.” He sighs contentedly, in a way he knows she’ll find infuriating. “Perfect for sharpening my blade.”  

Adriannu groans, whirling on him with hands raised. “Rion, you bloody tosser--”  

Before she can properly shove him away, Astarion snatches her wrists and brings them to his lips to nip at her in jest. “Toss her? My love, I’m barely done with her.”  

They break into a playful scuffle then, laughing and kissing furiously as he wrestles her onto her back.

[silverskye13]

Are saints allowed to serve their paladins, or is it mostly a one-way street? Are saints allowed to exist and act when unasked for?

Hmm. This turned a little rambling I apologise. Also I end up saying the word "domain" a lot, so in lieu of finding a good place to explain what I mean by domain, I'll just say it before the cut.

A Saint's "domain" is the thing about the universe they've learned to manipulate, using the faith of the people that believe in them. For large gods who maybe always started as concepts [Order of Remembrance for example], the domain is a broad concept like memory. If memory is involved, it will pull apart the universe to affect it. However, if it wanted to do some kind of miracle [calling a paladin to capture someone maybe, or healing a terrible wound], if doing so would have no effect on its domain, it could not affect change. Smaller saints might have more niche concepts attached to them. [Ie, I have a headcanon VintageBeef's hels is a Saint of Slaughter/Butchery, and is best followed by people who do hoglin hunts in hels. His following is small, and he channels his power for only This Specific Thing, and can affect nothing else.]

I think it depends a bit on the deity in question, and how much deification they get, whether their power is a physical two-way link. Something they use with the same proficiency they put into others.

Small Saints who have basically no followers, and have little to no idea what they stand for, or why, are basically Just Guys. They are Guys powered by someone else's faith, who have interesting powers that manifest on occasion, and they have a habit of collecting very dedicated friend groups. But they are still, at the end of the day, Just Guys. They can act when unasked for, they can help their priests and paladins literally, physically, or do the miracle they want to do themselves, because at that point, everything about them is small and personal, and human. If your neighborhood pastor could work a miracle under a set of memorized rules, and sometimes shook your hand and let you do it too, they would be a Small Saint.

[That's not to say a Small Saint isn't still powerful. They are people who can mess with the weave of the world. Anyone not prepared for that is going to get the shock of their life. Anyone who isn't a Saint who is channeling that, is going to suffer consequences. It's just that, a Small Saint could maybe channel through one person at a time, and they might not even know how they did it. *Coughing noises, glances at plot*]

Medium? Saints? Saints that have a following, that have too many people to have an individual relationship with, get a little more unfathomable and constrained. At some point, messing with the universe has repercussions for everyone. If the Hermits had a whole city of followers, they would default to this. The world looks different to them. They can see the edges, where infinity and coding lies. In hels, a Saint who reaches that point stops seeing people as people, and they themselves stop looking and feeling like people. They can affect several people at once. They can justify things like punishment, and creating a moral code for people to follow. Being able to balance between the universe and hels is more important. They could still intervene on someone's behalf, but it's no longer a personal decision, and now something measured in loyalty, faith, prayer. You are one person, and your Saint is changing the world for a dozen of you, but power has limits.

[I imagine Evil X is somewhere around here. He has creative mode. He knows he can break the world to his will. But he also still has a physical body, and can just walk across the room and move something. He's still a person, he's just a person who's taken on the Uncanny, and knows there are no true repercussions to his actions. He's not a kind Saint, if he can rightly be called one. I imagine he was very destructive when he discovered his power, and had to mellow out over time. His domain has to do with chaos, and breaking things for the sake of breaking them. He had to learn it's a power he can use, not a power he has to use.]

Big Saints [and gods], get eldritch. They don't really exist as people anymore. Maybe they went on pilgrimage one day and never returned, but an echo of them has manifested as something people can tap into now. Maybe they stayed a person as long as possible, but at some point so much faith elevated them into something Different, a change a simpler more human them would have feared, but they no longer remember that simpler person anymore. Instead they are the impulses and principles they ruled themselves and others by, and their only memories have narrowed into parables and legends that only show hints of the person they used to be. They can give their power to a select few people willingly, but they no longer go out of their way to intercede in their daily life. They have gifted a piece of themselves to someone, because that person can be trusted to use it well, but they won't mourn that person if they leave. One person is small in the eye of the universal.

To me, Helsknight's Saint of Blood and Steel is a large, old Saint, with a congregation that deals best with the impersonal. They are people looking to be swords in the hands of the divine, so their Saint treats them as such. If the Saint had no congregation, as a deity always looking for a sword, they would act on their own until they found someone willing, but they would always be looking for a sword.

I also feel like some of how personal and two-way the connection is, is dependent on the nature of the domain.

Tanguish, if he ever becomes a true Saint with a following, doesn't know what his domain is. All he knows is, Helsknight promised to protect him, and so when he needed help, he Called, and Helsknight Answered. It was terrifying. He pulled a thread of the universe and used it to change what should have happened. If Helsknight were suffering, as someone who is human, who can't even see the threads they're pulling, Tanguish would do everything he could to help, and if he stumbled into his domain along the way, he would use it for that purpose. The power he has, whatever it is, can be genuinely harmful when used, because helsmets were not made to feel the full force of the universe -- something that already seeks to devour them on principle. He is someone who just found out that sometimes, seemingly randomly, he touches a person and they're struck by lightning. Whether they willingly touched him, and whether he would willingly take the lightning strike in their place, isn't exactly the current issue.

The God of Memory, whatever gives the Blue Lady her paladin powers, probably feels small and personal despite coming from a large idea and probably never being human. Its domain is Remembrance, and that implies something that tries to be personal despite how Eldritch it is. When its power is channeled, it always harms the channeler grandly and dramatically [the Blue Lady saying a small prophesy and being blinded by ink is a very light repercussion. It doesn't know what humanity is. It doesn't know what a body is. Or eating or drinking, or that someone who needs crutches to walk can't just drop them and not hurt muscle and bone. It just knows its will is needed so it acts. It is learning. It doesn't want to lose its followers, because it wants to form long, lasting memories of them. But it will break a lot of people before it learns limits.]

Meanwhile, the Saint of Blood and Steel definitely started as a person. They have an origin point [the plot will get there someday], they even have a Known Ascension. But they are a Saint to things like Vengeance and Justice, distant concepts that are best when they're not personal, a swinging sword that Exacts A Price. Channeling them will damage because the nature of the power is damaging, but they temper that by only calling people for a cause worthy of dying for. If there is a chance jumping off a cliff will break your legs, they will first guarantee there's a reason to get to the bottom. The Saint of Blood and Steel knows who they are, and knows that every knight or paladin or priest to pass through their halls is, almost certainly, doomed. They might have tried to save a few, long ago when they were something closer to human, but now they know a universal truth: whether they succeed or fail in saving anyone, whoever served them will have done it willingly, and there will always be someone along to replace them. When a sword is broken, you do not mourn the sword. You pick up another. Though you may grow melancholy for something cared for, now lost.

No matter how large, or loved, or powerful a Saint is, the Universe will always be more so. It has to be. If every helsmet had to become a Saint to hold a fraction of the potential a Hermit has, and every Hermit has faith in the universe, in the fact that it exists, that it speaks to them when they fight the monsters in the world, that it loves them, the Universe will always be bigger than even the largest hels-born Saint could fathom.

[artficlly]

a dish served cold (mini series - part one)

Wild West Marvel AU

outlaw!bucky x reader after the murder of your pa, you go on a journey to find justice. fate brings you to crimson junction for a reason, and that reason is bucky barnes. 

Warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, violence, mentions of death, blood, mention of guns, alcohol, swearing, creepy men, period typical attitudes, outlaw bucky, protective bucky, bucky has issues, mention of robbery & crimes, mention of police (law), mention of flooding & drought, vague mention of animal death, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 3k

A/N: hiya! it's been awhile. i started a first draft of this story literally like a year ago? it's gone through so many changes to the plot (it was originally called queen of the gunslingers). this has been so refreshing and wonderful to write, i wasn't even sure if i was ever going to post it because western marvel au is so niche but i know a few people enjoyed me & the devil so!! this mini series is pre written so i'll be trying to post updates weekly as i edit. the series is sitting around 25k-30k words and will be 7 chapters long. if you'd like a tag list let me know. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist | series masterlist

Rain was supposed to be a welcome sight. 

The inhabitants of Crimson Junction had been thankful for the blessing, a relief from the drought that had plagued them. The surrounding areas had been unceremoniously crowned The Dustbowl after seven years of no rain. Fierce winds had blown in, kicking up the dirt, sand, and dust, blanketing the surrounding areas. Crops failed to grow, animals suffocated, and homes were buried. Most left the area, choosing to abandon their land in search of fruitful and safe territories.

The canyons bled crimson the day the rains came; water mixed with the red soil and rock. The people of Crimson Junction celebrated, their prayers were finally answered. It was only as the valleys began to flood and the once barren riverbeds overflowed that the inhabitants considered the bleeding waters an omen. 

Those who lived out in the west were familiar with danger. Out in the open, death lurked everywhere. It watched from the desert, a darkness always lingering a few feet away. Death took on many forms—a bullet, a wound, a sickness—but when the rain came disguised as a blessing, no one was prepared for its wrath. 

Floods wiped away entire homesteads. Homes and countless heads of cattle were lost to the raging waters, swept downstream, and smashed between debris. Survivors, soaked and shivering in their nightgowns and nightshirts, gathered in the small crossroads town of Crimson Junction. Fortunately, the town had been spared, but it had become an island, isolated in a lake of thick, deep, red mud. Travellers and misplaced locals sought shelter, and the town came to life overnight. The canyons were unstable and too dangerous to travel due to the landslides and debris blockages, and with mud up to your elbows, it would be impossible to walk through, let alone lead a packhorse. So, you were all stranded, patiently waiting until the roads were cleared. 

It appeared fate had led you to Crimson Junction for a reason. 

The hotel attendant sighed as you descended the stairs of the rickety building, the older man muttering about the mud tracked in through the entrance. Even Crimson Junction had not been spared the sludge. The thick, red substance appeared to be a problem in every establishment in the area, gradually caked onto not only your clothes and shoes but also the flooring. 

You gave the attendant a shy nod of your head as you exited into the night. The chill of the night air bit at your bare skin, and you were suddenly grateful for the layers of skirts that pooled around your legs. The road so far had been hot and sticky, with layers of dust that clung to your skin. When it was not still and scorching, the winds would whip violently. Sand and rocks had pelted you, leaving your skin stinging and your hair tangled. The floods had allowed the temperature to finally drop below the pits of hell. 

You hesitantly depart the porch of the motel, the heels of your riding boots clicking as you lower yourself onto the street. Wooden planks squelched under your weight as they sank deeper into the sludge. The town had tried to combat the muck by laying out boards to traverse, but despite their good intentions, the wooden boards seemed to sink deeper and deeper with each passing day. The streets echoed something more akin to a pigsty than a walkable path. 

With the chill in the air, you hugged your arms around your bodice, still making sure to hike up your skirts to prevent them from dragging through the mud. Ever since finding yourself stuck after the rains, you had resigned yourself to your hotel room. You slept and read to pass the time, and your horse was boarded at the stables for a hefty price. But after days of waiting and your funds running low, you found yourself feeling rather antsy, your impatience growing the longer you waited. With impatience came risk and rash decisions, so, against your better judgement, you opted for a strong drink at the saloon to quieten your mind. 

The saloon was alive with music and chatter, with other stranded travellers slurring their words or in a state of undress despite the sun only having recently set. You expected many of them to have wondered into the establishment not long after awakening from whatever alley they had drunkenly stumbled into the night before. It certainly smelled like it, with clothing plastered in mud to match. The chaos allowed you to slip in quietly, finding an empty spot along the bar. You frowned at the coating of muck congealed onto the floor, a mixture of questionable liquids you did not want to identify. With a wave of your hand and coins slid over the sticky bar, you were content staring into space as laughter and singing broke out around you. 

Your peace was short-lived. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see a looming shape as a body slid in beside you. Your eyes stayed locked on your drink, only noticing the scent of whiskey and sweat clinging to the man. 

“Where have you been hidin’, Miss? I ain’t never seen a woman as pretty as you in these parts.”

You expected a lady such as yourself to be few and far between in these lands. Most of the folks who roamed this far into the desert were hardy, stocky, and rough around the edges. You did not fault them for it, but rather a sense of admiration for the determination it had taken to live through the seven years of drought. You were, arguably, a bit delicate in appearance. Though, it was a purposeful presentation. Pristine and shining among the filth. Your hands were smooth; there were no calluses or scars. Hair neatly pinned back, and a clean and tidy handkerchief knotted around your neck. Your skin was untainted by the sun, and your lips were unpeeled. Your dress, though not the height of city fashion, was impractical for such a lifestyle as farming or droving. The layers of fabric were orderly, with intermittent embroidery and lace. You had lived a comfortable life, and it was clear you were raised to be a wife and homemaker. Your Pa had worked hard to afford you such a future.

“Not from these parts.” You spoke into your glass as you raised it to your lips with an eye-roll. A gentle girl you might have been to your Pa, but he was not present. And you were not feeling particularly in favour of being pleasant. 

“Traveller, like myself. Guessin’ you stuck ‘cause of the floods too?” The man mused, leaning his forearms against the sticky bar. He shifted his body forward, craning his neck as if desperate to catch a proper glimpse at your face. 

“Somethin’ like that.” You respond dryly, unmoving. 

“Say, you interested in havin’ a good night, sweetheart? I got a room in the hotel over yonder if you wanna join me.” 

Grinding your teeth in annoyance, you jerk your head around to face the man.

“What do you take me for?” You snap at him. You take note of his greying hair and the locks thinning along his hairline. His beard, with uneven, yellowing teeth revealed by cracked lips, turned into a sneer. 

“I didn’t mean no insult, darlin’.” He starts, “I ain’t insinuating you’re an easy mark, sweetheart. Just knew I couldn’t let a catch like you go walkin’ out of here without at least tryin’.”

“Charmin’,” you huff. “Did you not consider that I would never want to lay with a dimwitted pest such as yourself?” As you speak, you can see his once-toothy grin harden into gritted teeth and a look of drunken rage wash over his features. 

"Well, ain’t you a quick one, huh?” He spits out, his body looming closer. Only moments before the two of you had been invisible, another set of bodies in the crowded saloon. As his voice began to rise, you could feel heads turning and eyes locking onto the both of you as the scene unfolded. “A fuckin’ tease, ain’t ya? Hangin’ around this bar all by yourself, askin’ for it. You tellin’ me a lady like yourself travelling alone ain’t some whore lookin’ for some attention?”

You roll your eyes once more, shooting back the last of your drink. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser to remain in your hotel room. Back turned, you begin to walk away from the seething man. In your brief moment of naivety and vunrablitiness, he wraps his mud-clad hands around your forearm, yanking you backwards towards the bar. 

“Now where ya think you’re goin’ now, miss? I weren’t done talkin’ to you.” He hissed into your ear, the stench of his warm whiskey breath fanning across your face. You began to lower your hands, reaching for your riding boot. Your fingers gathered your skirts, entangling themselves in the fabrics as you hoisted up the layers. Your hands drew closer to your knees, your back pressing into the hardwood bar, twisting your torso away from the man. 

A gruff voice quickly interrupted, drawing your attention away. 

“You know this man, ma'am?” The low voice asks. You glance over at it’s owner, a dark-haired man, and look him over with one sweep. 

The man was familiar to you, though he wouldn’t know you. Out of all of the towns you had visited in the past few weeks, there was scarcely any that failed to have his likeness plastered upon a bounty board. James Buchanan Barnes. Or Bucky, as he was more commonly known. The papers and gossip of fellow travellers spun a tale, one of a group of heartless butchers and thieves. He was wanted for a train robbery gone wrong in the south. A decent price upon his head, as well as that of his gang. From what you had read, the group had split in an attempt to lose the law. One had gone north, another deeper south, while Barnes had gone west. 

The posse of outlaws had been lucky, as the law had hurridly dismissed the chase; a different high-profile robbery had drawn their attention away. One they had prioritised more than the livelihoods of the lowerclass who had been on the train that day. Bounty hunters still pursued, but mostly the world moved on. Some Duke from Europe had been robbed while exploring the west too trustingly, and the story had become an overnight sensation. So Barnes and his companions had become a distant whisper, a sun-bleached and fraying poster behind a bar. 

But you had not forgotten Bucky Barnes. 

“No.” You finally choke out in reply, your hand raising back to thigh-height as you stand tall. When faced with a killer, you had anticpated a feeling of disgust, but instead a burning curiosity roared through your veins. 

Barnes lets out a slow breath, his eyes darting over the unwelcome man. Barnes was easily twice his size, with pure muscle and a wicked look in his eye. There was a charm to him, you supposed, in a rugged, dark-handsome stranger, saviour of damsels in distress type of way. Messy dark hair peaked out from beneath his hat; some pieces curled around the nape of his neck. Behind his dark lashes were icy blue eyes, with the crinkle of a smirk at the corners. Like many others, there was a hint of red earth dusted across his face, neck, and hands. The clothes covering his broad, muscled body looked well-worn, and his boots were caked in mud. You noted the two revolvers slung around his hips and a bandolier stocked with ammunition across his chest.

“Do you want to know this man?” He asks again.

You lift your chin. “No.”

“Good.”

Before you can react, Barnes has leapt forward, landing a solid upper-cut on the drunk man with a grunt. The room erupted into cheers and whistles as the two clashed, glasses smashing and furniture overturned in their wake. You stood frozen, fingers in a white fist around your skirts. There was the sickening sound of bones crunching beneath flesh, and blood sprayed in droplets across sodden floors. As quickly as it started, it was over. One of the bartenders promptly escorted the unruly man out as he seethed and yelled obscenities. The saloon crowd roared back, a pulse of excitement and adreline rushing through the saloon. Barnes put his hands up in surrender as the barkeep eyed him cautiously, but the barkeep inevitably backed off, returning to safety behind the bar. Barnes sweeps a hand through his messy locks, his eyes darting around in search of his hat, which had been knocked to the floor. 

Against your better judgement, you bend down, retrieving the hat. You brush some of the red dust and broken glass from the brim before handing it back to the outlaw. He places it solidly back on his head.

“I appreciate your concern, but you didn’t need to do that, Mr.” You tell him, and he shrugs. 

“If you say so.” Barnes goes to turn away, then thinks better of it. Sucking his teeth, he tilts his head, looking you up and down once again. His eyes linger on your hair, then your dress, before finally settling on your clenched fists. “You travellin’ alone, Miss?”

“I don’t see why that's any of your business, Mr…?” You trail off, fingers flexing as you force yourself to loosen the grip on your skirts.

“Mr. Clark. Benjamin Clark.”

A false name. Clever. 

“Right.” 

He chuckles with a shake of his head, tapping the bar for a drink to be sent his way. Exhaustion seems to embody his very being; fatigue hangs from his bones like his own flesh and muscle. He doesn’t seem to notice your analysing stare; his focus is instead drawn to wiping off the splatter of blood that had been spat in his face at some point during the commotion. 

“Look, Miss…?” He begins with a sigh, finally looking you in the eye. 

“Nellie Chase.” You lie through your teeth, watching him through your eyelashes. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips as he looks down at you. 

“Look, Miss Chase. I don’t know yer circumstances, but it ain’t safe for a lady such as yerself to be travellin’ alone, especially in these parts. I imagine you was just passin’ through like the rest of us, then got stuck ‘cause of all that rain. But, with men and women of all sorts all trapped up together like this… well, it’s bound to cause trouble. You’d be better to stay locked up in your rooms, Miss; it would be safer than roughin’ it out with this lot.” 

You hold back a scoff and instead opt to lift your chin. A smirk pulls at the corners of your mouth as you take a step closer to the outlaw, eyebrows raised and head cocked to one side. “Well, thank you for your wisdom, Mr. Clark, but I am perfectly capable of handlin’ myself.”

A glass of whiskey was now in his hand, and you coolly slid over a coin to pay for it before he could. He blinks at you in surprise, and you flash him a grin in response. With narrowed eyes, he swallows back half of the amber liquid. 

“I imagine so.” He lets out gruffly. “Where are ya’ headed?”

“Saguaro Basin.” 

“Saguaro Basin? Wha’chu doin’ headed that way? Last I heard, there was some bad business in those parts. Cholera and all that.”

“I’m goin’ to be married.” You make a point of flashing the ring on your finger, which is met with a half-interested grunt. He didn’t seem to question how garish it was or how the metal did not match the earrings dangling from either side of your head. Though you imagined, you could not expect a man to notice such details as a woman might. 

“Yer gettin’ married and yer husband-to-be ain’t even got the time to come get’chu himself?”

“Well, I imagine he is quite busy workin’, and it is such a long distance to get there and back. So he paid for me to take the coach, as it is supposed to be safer—” You cut yourself off with a frown as you notice his eyebrows raise. You clear your throat as you decide to shift the topic. “So, where are you headed then, Mr. Clark?”

“Same as you. West. Bit further, though maybe more Marielle ways.”

“Marielle… that’s…?” You trail off. You knew exactly where Marielle was, nestled deep into the western deserts and canyons. Once, it was the home of outlaws, whores, and rustlers. These days, it had been transformed into some sort of respectable town with the help of the law and the church. In fact, it seemed the now bustling town had grown in size from it’s humble beginnings and was becoming a hotspot of trade and business in the deep west. You’d heard mention of the fearsome prison that had been erected not two years ago, where prisoners were subject to hard labour while awaiting their sentencing. 

“Long past Saguaro Basin, that’s for sure.”

“Right.”

You were met with silence, but continue to pry. Would he spin a grand, elaborate tale just as you had done yourself? Or would he tell the truth—a raw, bitter confession of guilt to just another pretty, misplaced lady stuck in Crimson Junction? This was all rather exciting. 

“What brings you there? Business, pleasure… family?” 

“Business.”  

“What kind?” You dare to push further. 

“Not the type’a business a lady such as yerself would be interested in.” 

“How so?” You seem to be out of luck; as the outlaws patience had grown thin. You could practically hear the tension snap as he let out a low ‘hmph’, reluctant to answer the question. Your fingers dance across the sticky bar as you ponder if you should push your questions further, but Barnes had other plans. Taking a long swig from his glass, he finishes the last of his whiskey and gets to his feet. 

“Well, Miss Chase, I thank you for the drink but I must be goin’ now. And you should get back to yer rooms and keep outta’ trouble now.”

The outlaw did not stay long enough to hear your farewell, preferring to slink wordlessly out of the building. With a smile, you lean against the bar, motioning for the barkeep to get you another drink. 

Fate had led you to Crimson Junction for a reason, and how gratifying it was to know why.

PART TWO

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

Oh look more headcanons

Who'd have guessed

Not me for sure

Okay sorry I'll shut up.

I'm highly music-driven and have been for many many years of my life.

And I'm presently unreasonably obsessed with The Fratellis after suddenly remembering they exist after like fifteen years of not hearing a single one of their songs. Don't ask me, it just happened a couple months ago and I decided not to question it.

So this is really stupidly niche of me, but these are their songs/lyrics that I associate with the Best Boys™, in a Character X Reader sense. The songs that are typically playing halfway on repeat when I'm writing any of them lately.

The song-links go to Spotify. It's not necessary to listen to them, the lyrics here are the main catalyst, but if you want to listen I'm not going to complain.

no but please I hope you like the music that I like I have no one to talk to about it and as a half-assed musician it's literally killing me and

Anywho.

Zoro

Living in the Dark

I was nothing less than torn, crying out to be reborn

Come back, baby, you could make me happy,

Maybe you could prove me wrong

You're the only one who could ever save me,

Maybe you could prove me wrong

I've been living in the dark down here too long

The song itself is far more upbeat than I'd generally associate with Zoro, but the lyrics speak to me on his behalf. The upbeat tempo is the equivalent of what you do to his heart when you're near him; it's strange and unfamiliar, but it's nice. He's iffy about being close with anyone, and he won't admit it out loud but he wants to be.

He's been alone for years, for damned near all of his life, and you're like the light at the end of that tunnel. He might try to push you away or be aloof and impersonal at first because the thought of being vulnerable frightens him a little, but he wants to be proven wrong. He wants to let you in, and he's willing to try.

Sanji

Sugartown

I get the strangest sense we were lovers past-tense

Like a dog in heat I just can't be indiscreet

And when I see you there, I whisper my prayer, so sweet

I'm getting shakey on my feet, I'm incomplete

And if you just can't do me right

Then, honey, please, do me wrong

I'll be your one man band, I'll be at your command

Just say the word and I'll be your Renaissance man

This entire damned song is the anthem of Sanji. It's like a 1950's bop, the type of song that you can't help but smile at. It's sweet and cute and pining, just like our favorite chef. He's just utterly obsessed and hoplessly devoted to you and every single thing you do. He can't keep his eyes or his mind off of you at any given time.

Just the sight of you entering the room takes his breath away, puts stars in his eyes. He would do or give absolutely anything to have you and to keep you forever, and he's going to make sure you know it.

Shanks

Babydoll

Babydoll, do you believe they'll catch you when you fall?

And when morning comes, the sun is gonna shine

Don't forget, your minor keys your half-lit cigarette

'Cause when morning comes, I know that you'll be mine

So let me in

I'm ready to beg and to sing for my sins

Not leave it to chance and sweet coincidence

I don't know. The soft yet slightly playful tone of the song in general just screams Shanks to me for no reason I can completely put in words. This particular portion of the lyrics is what I associate most with him.

He knows he wants you, and he wants to make sure you know it. Not to beat around the bush about it, but not pressure you either. Just make sure you know how much he cares about you and be as gentle and sweet as possible to prove it...and he knows it's going to work, and that you're already his whether you know it or not. But jfc also imagine that goddamned voice of his calling you babydoll please excuse me I need to go touch grass now

Mihawk

Medusa In Chains

I'm not your miracle man, I'm not your spirit guide

Before this whole thing began I had some sense of pride

Just one more night with your lips, your company is hard to eclipse

Weak-kneed, yes indeed, guardanteed, make my heart bleed

Give me a reason to breathe, don't let my sun go down

I'll make you stand and recieve, I'll be your sacred ground

Be my Medusa in chains, petrified

Only your beauty remains

The entire song. The ENTIRE SONG screams Mihawk to me. Slow-burn and seductive from start to finish. I get the same exact chills from this song that I get when he delivers that "Magnificent" line.

Lyrically relevant too. Falling for you in spite of his pride (and he has a LOT of pride to get past). You're like nothing he has ever experienced and he's utterly and hopelessly addicted to you. As much as he wants to fight it, he can't. In the same breath that he's trying to push you away and retain some grip on himself he's also pulling you back for more. He hardly even knows who he is anymore when you're near.

[autumnshighlady]

All I Gave You Is Gone (ACOTAR x The Silmarillion AU) - Chapter 1

RHYSAND'S SISTER X MAEDHROS

summary: The story begins with High Lord Rhysand’s sister, Ravenna, moments before her death. Before the sword is swung across her neck, she pleads to the Mother to rescue her, to intervene and get her out. Ravenna’s prayers are answered, and she wakes up in a strange land across the stars, far away from her home – Arda.

warnings: graphic violence

word count: 3.6k

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

a/n: this AU is so niche that most people probably don't know what the Silmarillion is - fear not! I will be writing it in a way that you won't need to know anything about lotr or the silm to understand it, as everything will be explained. I'm super excited for this series and I hope you guys grow to enjoy it. Any support is appreciated! Huge shoutout to the Anon that inspired this!

Screams rang through the shrieking wind, rattling Ravenna’s eardrums as a coppery tang filled her mouth. It was almost impossible to see anything amidst the smoke and rain, not that she wanted to be cursed with witnessing the horrifying scene. No, part of Ravenna was glad for the masking of the carnage.

The scent of blood choked her senses, closing up her throat and making her eyes burn. Her head throbbed from the impact of its collision on the nearby rock, stomach stinging in pain from the arrow laced with faebane that was lodged in her flesh. Through blurry vision, Ravenna lifted her head, groaning as every ounce of her body protested. Up above, the few fully trained Illyrian soldiers that were stationed at the war camp were falling from the sky, their lifeless bodies brutalised upon meeting the rocky ground. Hybern soldiers swarmed them like ants, their laughter echoing above the sounds of slaughter.

Tears pricked at Ravenna’s eyes as she inhaled deeply, immobilised by her wounds and the faebane arrow in her stomach that stifled her magic. She hadn’t even wanted to come here today to the Illyrian war camp with her mother, Nienna. They had fought over it – Ravenna had even offered to go to the Hewn City with her brother, Rhysand, then accompany her mother to Illyria. She hated it there. Everything from the leering males and the icy chill, to the sight of downtrodden females with their heads low and their wings clipped. Despite being half-Illyrian, Ravenna never felt any desire to spend time there.

Her black hair stuck to her face, clinging to her skin as the rain poured down. She lifted her wings, trying to flap them enough to get her body off the ground, but it was no use. They were dead weight on her back, too exhausted from the effects of the faebane to help her. Panic began to settle in as Ravenna realised she could not make her wings disappear with the poison in her veins. Her wings were a target now, a weak spot. Unable to defend herself, she was now a sitting duck.

As she laid there half-conscious, the screams eventually stopped, her blood turning to ice at the eerie silence from Illyrians in the war camp. Ravenna let out a sob. As Hybern soldier’s footsteps echoed on the hard ground, growing closer to where she was laying beside the rocks, she knew she was going to die.

“Hey! There’s one over here!” A gruff male voice called, followed by the sound of cheering. 

No. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real.

Pathetically, Ravenna tried to drag herself away, fingernails breaking and scraping against the hard rock, efforts in vain. Panic rose in her chest as the sound of the soldier’s leering grew closer, closing in on her like a pack of wolves.

Thanks to the arrow, she had no magic to defend herself. Her asshole father, Ronan, the High Lord of the Night Court, had never even let her train to defend herself. She knew a couple moves from her sparring with Cassian and Azriel, but they were useless in this situation. Ravenna could hear Azriel’s voice in her head, pleading for her to get up and take a stand. But she couldn’t. Every muscle in her body was lifeless, her head spinning and aching with pain.

“Pretty little princess, all on her own...” One of the soldiers sneered, twirling his sword in his hands as he came to stand above her. She could practically smell his rotten breath amidst the blood covering his body that was not his own. 

Ravenna tried to lift her head, but a dirty boot quickly connected with it with such force her neck snapped backwards, body jolting painfully. Fresh blood began to pour from the gaping wound on her forehead, and she cursed under her breath. Snide laughter sounded from above her, echoing in all directions as the world spun. “Nobody can help you now, princess.” One of the other soldiers said. “Not your half-breed brother, not your spy boyfriend. Certainly not your mommy.”

Ignoring the screaming pain, Ravenna opened her violet eyes and looked upwards at the soldier. Her gaze met his blood-stained face, then travelled down to his hands, eyes settling on what was grasped within them.

In his left hand was a familiar set of wings, tarnished with mud and dirt. Blood pooled onto the ground beneath them like a river. Bile rose in Ravenna’s throat as her gaze landed on his right hand.

And she screamed, raw and painfully.

In the soldier’s right hand was a severed head with long, dark locks identical to her own. Purple eyes were wide, face twisted in a frozen picture of agony, a female mid-scream. Bruises and scrapes were littered across the face, but it was unmistakable nonetheless.

It was Nienna. Her mother. The beautiful seamstress who had held Ravenna in her arms for countless nights, who taught her everything she knew. The female who kept her chin high, even as males sneered at her for her lowborn status. Dead. Dead before Ravenna’s very eyes.

Screams continued to rip through Ravenna, cursing the Hybern soldiers with promises of slow and agonising death. She didn’t care that she, too, was about to meet the same fate as her mother. As soldiers grabbed her arms and hauled her upright to her knees, she thrashed and fought like a wildcat. More hands grabbed her, steadying her slightly as she spat at them, tears streaming down her face. 

“Hold her steady!” One of the soldiers snapped before bending down to sneer in her face. “It’s your turn, half-breed bitch. But first we gotta take care of those wings. Can’t have you flying away now, can we?”

“If you cut off my wings, I will flay you.” She spat in his face, screeching as one of the soldiers reached down and ripped the arrow out of her stomach, shredding the flesh as blood began pouring out of her faster.

The soldier snickered, his dark eyes brimming with hate as his twisted face stood mere inches from her own. “We won’t do that quite yet, that takes away half the fun. Your bitch mother bled to death when we ripped her wings from her body, so we didn’t get to enjoy her. We won’t make that same mistake with you.”

Ravenna howled furiously, sinking her canines into the nearby arm of a soldier as hard as she could. A whip cracked across her back in response, cleaving flesh from bone in one stroke as it shredded the material of her black dress. She bit down harder on the arm as pain blinded her, the blood of the soldier making her gag and eventually release him. At least her scream had been muffled.

Before she could curse them out again, she felt it. The presence of a cold, small blade against her wing. Right in the very spot she had seen scars on every female in the Illyrian camps.

No. No no no no.

She hadn’t even realised she was screaming the words out loud, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks as she begged and pleaded pathetically. Flying was her favourite thing to do. She would spend hours soaring through the skies, feeling the wind on her wings as she shot through the air like a shooting star. Sometimes she had flown hand in hand with Azriel above Velaris before their relationship had soured in the last few months, admiring the dazzling view of the city below. Flying was her peace.

Ravenna had accepted that she would die at the hands of the soldiers. But to die with her wings clipped would break something inside of her.

“Rhys!” She began screaming out her brother’s name mindlessly, despite the fact he was miles away and likely clueless as to what was going on in the war camp. “Rhys! Rhys!” She screamed over and over, praying that somehow he would show up out of nowhere and save her. 

Her pleading only spurred the soldiers on more, and then that blade made an incision in the wing’s tendon near her back, the one that her wings relied on to carry her body. She barely even felt the physical pain from the slice as she screamed furiously, not just for herself, but for every female who had gone through this.

For decades, she had argued with her father over the practice of wing clipping. Gone head to head with the High Lord over it. Rhys would often have to step in, talking his father down from clipping his daughter’s own wings as punishment for slaughtering every male she could find who kept the practice going. Ravenna never cared how angry Ronan got with her over it, for she had no shame in taking it upon herself to try and end wing clipping. No matter how much he threatened her, yelled at her, she didn’t care. For she knew that she was untouchable – the people of Velaris loved her too much for the High Lord to get away with locking up or punishing his own daughter.

And now here she was, bleeding from that one tendon in her wings, rendered unable to fly for the rest of her life.

The soldiers whopped and cheered, spurred on by her tears as Ravenna cried angrily. Her body felt numb – a blessing as the Hybern soldiers began to brutalise her body with their fists, whips, and blades. Her skin was sliced and bruised and spat on, but she barely felt it. All she could feel was the hole inside her chest at the sight of her mother’s wings and head, now discarded on the cold, wet ground like trash. 

Rain mixed with blood, blood mixed with tears, mud and grime becoming her second skin as Ravenna was pummelled into the ground. A barbed whip lashed at her skin, the soldiers having ripped open parts of her dress to expose her soft flesh like meat about to be butchered. The whirling black Illyrian tattoos that marked her body were now hidden behind red blood. They had begun at her left thigh and coming up across her hips and ribs, swirling up to the right side of her body across her back and collarbones then travelling down her arm. Now, they were marred, a ruined art piece at the hands of Hybern.

Please. Ravenna begged the Mother silently, teary gaze lifting up to the darkening sky where a few stars peeked out behind the rain clouds. Please help me. Get me away from here. Please, I will do anything. Just get me out of here.

She could have sword one of the stars brightened in response. Throughout lash after lash, she kept praying silently. Grimy hands groped at her flesh, digging into the fresh wounds and twisting her like a ragdoll. She closed her eyes, feeling the cold blade of a sword line up against the back of her neck, ready to swing down on it and cleave her head from her shoulders.

And then everything went bright, instead of the darkness that Ravenna had expected. White hot fire overtook her body, and then it all faded away.

****************

The first thing Ravenna felt was the wind on her skin. It was gentler than the harsh wind of Illyria, but still strong. It soothed her body, which felt lifeless. The rocks she was laying on felt different than before, and she realised it was dirt beneath her, not stone. Her throat was dry, mouth caked with blood as she inhaled a deep breath. The air was fresh, not stifled with the scent of the war camp’s death. It filled her lungs blissfully, and it took all her strength to crack open her eyes.

She was met by sunlight, blinding her momentarily before her eyes finally adjusted. From her position on the ground, she could make out soft, windswept grass on either side of a dirt road. She was in a valley, a mountain pass judging by the steep hills nearby and the narrow windingness of the path ahead. 

Ravenna’s mind was still swirling as she fought to figure out where she was. The landscape was unlike anything she had seen before in the Night Court. There was something different here, something that unsettled her bones. It did not feel like Prythian, somehow.

Before she could go through what she knew of the landscape of the various other courts, voices sounded in the distance, along with hoofsteps. Ravenna stiffened, pushing herself up into a sitting position as the sound grew closer. But it did not sound like the rough, sneering voices of Hyberm. No, these voices were different. They were strong, but songlike, lilting up and down in tones unfamiliar to Ravenna. From the winding path emerged a small group of males on horseback. They donned silver armour, long hair flowing in the wind and revealing pointed ears. Ravenna’s brow furrowed. She had not seen fae like this before, but something in her gut told her they were different. Sure, they donned the same ethereal grace to them matched with pointed ears, but there was an unsettling difference between them and the fae males Ravenna had previously encountered. They did not have a predatory feel to them like most fae males, but seemed colder. Calculating.

And nonetheless, terrifying. 

A male with long blonde hair shouted something and charged his horse forward, icy blue eyes fixated on Ravenna as his group followed. She could barely move her aching body, merely slumping in defeat as the horses surrounded her in a perfect circle, a various assortment of blades and arrows pointed at her. On instinct, Ravenna lifted her wings to shoot herself up into the sky away from the males, but with the incision made she could barely lift them off the ground.

Once again, she was defenceless.

A male with black hair and cold, grey eyes barked something at her in that unfamiliar language. Squinting against the bright sun, Ravenna looked up to meet his stare. He and the blonde male were the only ones without helms and armour – the leaders, she presumed. An eight-pointed star marked the centre of their embroidered white tunics, and red capes flowed behind them in the wind.

When she didn’t answer, the black-haired male repeated his question, angrier this time.

“I’m sorry…” She muttered, barely getting the words out due to her dry throat. “I don’t understand…”

This time, it was the blonde male who spoke up. “You speak the common tongue?” He asked, his voice less harsh but still with a lethal edge to it. She nodded.

“Who are you and why are you in the pass of Aglon?” He continued, pressing his blade against her throat. She swallowed – never before had she seen such a beautiful blade, marked with swirling inscriptions and metalwork that would impress the most prestigious blacksmith in the Night Court.

Evenly, she met his blue eyes, which scanned her up and down. Distaste and surprise came across his beautiful features as he seemingly focused on the blood covering her body rather than her wings. Finally, Ravenna realised her dress had all but been torn to shreds, revealing her wounded skin in places she would have preferred to cover up. She curled herself into a ball, hands desperately trying to cover the parts of herself that had been revealed by the rips in her dress. 

But the males did not leer like she had anticipated. Even the dark-haired one who had snapped at her in that foreign language did not seem affected by her skin on display. He was more focused on her wings, which were covered in Illyria’s mud and dirt. Ravenna still trembled with fear in their presence, but at least they seemed better than Hybern thus far.

“The pass of… what?” She asked, even more confused. She had never heard of such a place before. Certainly not in Prythian. Where the hell was she and what happened?

“She’s a spy of the Dark Lord, brother.” The dark-haired male said, a hateful look in his eyes as he drew his bow. “Let us kill her and be done with it.”

“Put that away, Curufin.” The blonde one scolded with authority. “We are in Maitimo’s lands. He will decide what to do with her. Spy or not, she comes with us. He will have our heads if we kill her without his permission.”

Curufin rolled his grey eyes and retracted his bow. “As you wish, Tyelkormo.”

Ravenna’s mind reeled and the sound of the names being given, especially the last one. They were unlike anything she had heard before, leaving her even more confused. Was she dead? Was this some sort of strange afterlife? She shivered – by the way the wind bit at her cold skin, she knew she was very much alive. 

The blond one whose name Ravenna’s brain hadn’t wrapped around took note of her shiver, huffing loudly before muttering something in another tongue to one of his guards. He swung a leg off of his grey horse and slid down onto the ground, walking over to where Ravenna sat in the dirt. Part of her instincts told her to run, to back away from this ethereal, too-perfect looking male. But another part of her was lured in by his beauty, as if some strange spell surrounded him. 

She baulked as he came to stand over her, blue eyes mercilessly staring her down as if she were nothing more than a speck of dirt. The male was enormous, almost a foot taller than Cassian was. Long, silver-blonde hair flowed over his shoulders, two small braids behind each ear trailing down beside his neck. Jewellery adorned his pointed ears, which were similar in shape to her own. Based on his elaborate-looking attire this male was of a decent status wherever they were. 

The blonde male unclasped his cloak, tossing the fabric towards Ravenna. She caught it, the material soft as clouds in her hands as she wrapped it around herself, grateful for the warmth. 

But there was no warmth in the male’s eyes as he barked at her, “Get up.”

Keeping the cloak wrapped around her blood-soaked body, Ravenna pushed herself up. But her legs buckled, sending her tumbling painfully back to the ground. She hissed in pain, pressing her hand into her stomach where the wound from the arrow was. Her fae healing had kicked in enough that it began to slowly heal, but not nearly fast enough.

“Are you incapable of following orders and standing up?” He hissed angrily.

Despite her pain and exhaustion, fire lit in Ravenna’s veins at his attitude. “I’m not exactly in a position to do so without struggle.” She snapped, unfolding the cloak just enough to reveal the large, unmistakable arrow wound in her stomach. 

His blue eyes followed, assessing the wound with impatience. “You’ll live.”

“Unfortunate for you.” She shot back, temper heightened by the ache in her wings.

The male scoffed. “Do you even know who I am?”

“No.”

“I am Lord Celegorm, Prince of the Noldor and third son of Fëanor.” He stuck his chin arrogantly in the air. 

Ravenna took a deep breath to steady herself, slouching and rolling her eyes. “I must have hit my head pretty hard. I have no fucking clue what any of that means.”

Surprise crossed Celegorm’s face, and he exchanged an uneasy look with his brother. Curufin shrugged, muttering something in that strange tongue before turning his grey eyes back towards Ravenna. “And who exactly are you, may I ask?” He said dryly.

“Ravenna,” She said. “Princess of the Night Court. Daughter of Ronan, the High Lord.” She introduced herself in a similar manner to Celegorm, snorting at the confusion that continued to grow on his face.

“What are you talking about?” He snapped. “There is no such a court here, or a Lord Ronan.”

Ravenna shrugged. “Now you know how I feel, I guess. Believe me, I don’t know where the hell I am or how I got here. I am just as confused as you. I mean you no harm, I swear by the Mother.”

“That will be for Maitimo to judge.” Was all Celegorm said before reaching down for Ravenna’s trembling, weak body. She did not have time to protest or process what was happening as he reached underneath her wings and legs, lifting her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing. The world swayed as she was picked up. Thankfully, he did so in such a manner she remained covered with the cloak.

Still, she did not like being manhandled. “Put me down!” Ravenna hissed furiously, writhing as best she could in his grip. But it was no use – between her weakness, lack of powers, and Celegorm’s sheer size and strength, it was pointless.

Celegorm lifted her onto his horse and set her on the front end of the saddle before climbing up behind her. She winced in pain as his large frame brushed against the incision on her wings. “Watch the wings.” She snapped.

“We are taking you to our eldest brother.” Celegorm said, ignoring her protest but leaning back ever so slightly and relieving the contact on her wings. “He can decide what to do with you. It is half a day’s journey from here, so I suggest you rest while you still can.”

All Ravenna could do was sigh and hold onto the horse’s mane as the prince sent the group forward up the winding mountain pass. She had come no closer to figuring out where she was, or who these strange fae-looking people were.

And she had half a day to do her best to figure it out.

taglist (comment if you want to be added): @decadentpostnacho @

[parasocialqueen]

I have spent the majority of the hours in my day today reading Nora’s ec for aftg.

I feel like a shell of a person whose only purpose in life is to love aftg. Is that too niche and insane to say? Probably.

I’m only halfway through the ec. I need all the prayers x

[11x13kyle]

have any stupid style headcanons?

oh SO many dude you have no idea

stan will wear the stupidest outfits of all time, go around with his hair unkempt and greasy, have the worst eyebags you’ve ever seen, and kyle will look at him like god…….isn’t he just so dreamy???

they alternate between who cooks and who cleans but by god is stan ALWAYS doing repairs. it’s not just because kyle is lazy (that’s part of it) or that he doesn’t want to get dirty and sweaty (that too) but it’s also that kyle simply has no idea what he’s doing. one time he feels emasculated by the fact that he just sits there while stan does the repairs so he tries to help but he does it so poorly that stan gets pissed and tells him to just let him do it himself, which makes kyle all huffy

stan is in kyle’s phone as “Stan Marsh” and people think he’s a total freak for it. he justifies it by explaining that everyone in his phone is first name last name, even his parents, but that just makes it even more offputting

on that topic, they don’t really do pet names besides the occasionally baby or honey once in a while when they feel really affectionate or the other is in a kind of pathetic state. they mostly call each other by their names or like dude or man. sometimes kyle uses “stanley” as a kind of pet name but he also calls him stanley when he’s really really mad so it’s a bit hard to tell sometimes!

stan gets more jealous than kyle because for all of kyle’s insecurities, he knows stan isn’t going to leave him for some rando. stan also knows this at his core but it doesn’t stop him from getting unbelievably mad when another guy has the audacity to flirt with kyle. he doesn’t even try to hide it either. this isn’t an issue for kyle it makes him twirl his hair and kick his feet almost every time (the only reason for the almost is the times where it’s inconvenient so then it’s just irritating)

stan tries to be a good shiksa boyfriend and participate during jewish holidays, which kyle finds sweet, but he gets SO embarrassed when stan is reading a prayer in front of his parents because his pronunciation is just the worst and it’s basically incomprehensible. he doesn’t blame him, it’s just so so painful and kyle stands there like 😀 the whole time

when they were like 11-15 years old one of their most important intricate rituals was competing over height. kyle was taller than stan for most of those years but there were two occasions where stan outgrew him, and on the second occasion it was permanent because kyle definitely stopped growing by like 14. it was also intensified by the fact that stan was bigger and stronger than kyle, who isn’t exactly weak or anything it’s just. comparatively. the first time kyle notices this he has to fight so hard to pretend like it isn’t making him swoon because having a crush on his best friend is so humiliating.

stan is a vegetarian when he’s an adult but he goes through a two year vegan phase in his early 20s and whenever kyle eats meat he gives him these sad puppy dog eyes about it, which doesn’t actually change kyle’s dietary habits and really just serves to annoy him

stan enjoys working out as a kind of catharsis, mostly like lifting weights and hiking (which has the added benefit of being in nature and giving him the chance to see cool animals) and kyle hates doing this stuff so bad but sometimes he’ll tag along because stan likes it so much that he wants to support him. every time he joins stan on a hike he feels like he’s about to die and it makes him feel like a huge loser because like how is he struggling more with this than his boyfriend who is literally asthmatic. it’s not that kyle hates anything athletic it’s just that what he considers a tolerable form of working out is COMPLETELY different to what stan likes

kyle makes a point to be extremely aware of what’s going on in the world, be it politics, pop culture, or niche internet drama. stan doesn’t give a shit even a little bit. a lot of the time when kyle complains about something some extremely famous person did stan will go “is that a coworker of yours?” and kyle is like ?????no. when kyle explains hyperspecific discourse stan will nod along and smile at him because he doesn’t understand a single word he’s saying but he loves hearing kyle talk

they both like watching football to a certain extent but stan is the only one who actually is invested. kyle only cares if the broncos are close to or actively winning the super bowl, and even then it’s nowhere near as serious as stan takes it. kyle will try to proposition stan in the middle of an important play and stan will move his hands away and go “can’t. i’m watching.” which makes kyle get SO offended

kyle facebook stalks their old classmates and stan thinks this is the actual stupidest past time in the world. every time he does this stan goes “hey dude, have you been outside today? wanna go on a walk?” and kyle says something like “did you see that clyde got divorced again?” and stan goes “kyle, i literally doesn’t care at—wait, really?”

kyle is really controlling of the decor for their house once the two are like actual adults with real jobs. he wants their house to be neat and mostly minimalist and reflect their maturity (save for some photos and cute little tchotchkes) which conflicts with stan’s desire to fill their living space with anything and everything. stan will bring home some shit like a sexy leg lamp or a 6 foot framed and signed poster of john elway and go “living room?” and kyle will screech “NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT GET THAT OUT OF HERE.”

the decor issue is a trauma response to when the two of them shared an apartment with kenny for like 4 years and stan and kenny were allowed creative control, which meant some of the dumbest dude decor ever. it was acceptable at like 22 but by the time they’re 26 kyle is practically begging them to stop

whenever stan and kyle get into a big argument they use comparing each other to randy or sheila to be particularly nasty but they use comparing each other to cartman as like an ultimate trump card. it eventually gets banned because it’s too powerful and that’s not really fair!

[sharkfoodstore]

Why I love Ultra Violet, the one of the best indie rpgs you haven't played yet.

Ultra Violet has it rough. It is hopelessly obscure, but if you HAVE heard of it, you've likely played dozens of games like it. It's a Yume Nikki fangame, living in the shadow of the more popular games in the genre like .flow, Yume 2kki, Answered Prayers, and of course, Yume Nikki itself. And in the small community of Yume Nikki fangame fans, it struggles further to stand out. It's creative, but also leans on the existing ideas of Yume Nikki. It's extremely pretty, though nowhere near as pretty as 2kki. It gets dark and atmospheric, but not as dark as .flow. It's mysterious and tranquil, but not as mysterious nor tranquil as Answered Prayers. Between all the games in this niche genre trying to change and innovate, it seems to fail to find its voice. And yet, I can't stop thinking about it. Ultra Violet has been occupying a spot in my brain since I first played it half a year ago, and in an effort to figure out why, I decided to 100% it. I collected every effect, and got every achievement available on Yume Nikki Online. And now I finally get it. Ultra Violet isn't just some unique worlds in an otherwise standard yume nikki game. Instead, it has a specific story it is trying to tell, and quite an interesting one at that. Ultra Violet is the story of a young woman named Sometsuki. As is the standard with these kinds of games, she refuses to leave her room. However, going to sleep will allow her to explore her dream world. This is the basic setup most of these games follow, but Ultra Violet sets up one unique inversion. Sometsuki's room is very cozy. It's hardly the boring and barren room most of these other games have. Instead, she has an incredibly modern looking home. Where other games put static on their TVs, Sometsuki has cute cartoons she can watch.

This sets up part of the lie of Ultra Violet. This modern cute room doesn't seem to fit in the dark worlds of Yume Nikki games, but Ultra Violet tries hard to present itself as a cuter and more innocent game. This is the first impression the game creates, but it wasn't the one I was left with. There's one thing that becomes more and more evident over time as you play: There is something wrong with Sometsuki, and she doesn't want you to know about it.

I should preface this by saying I don't know if this was intentional. I don't know what story the developer wanted to tell, but due to the interpretive nature of this genre, this was the story I got out of the game. Ultra Violet's worlds are often extremely cute on the surface. Rabbit motifs are one of the most common reoccurring images. The game definitely wants to be cute and heartwarming, with even the game's equivalent of the Yume Nikki eyeball world, a nexus world filled with bloody body parts, being not TOO graphic compared to what other fangames have done. But the deeper you go, the deeper things get... wrong...

The nexus worlds are rather abstract. A snowy lake, a pastel forest, an ocean. But the deeper you go, the more things start to get specific. Things start to feel closer to her memories. And these are where the game dives into Sometsuki as a character. You can tell these are the areas that are clearly traumatic for her. But the game doesn't just hide the horror here, there are many horror easter eggs hidden in the cuter worlds, and the deeper worlds often contain the most comforting areas alongside the scary aspects. And this is where I think the character of Sometsuki lies. She buries and masks her memories due to her trauma, trying to hide her pain. But the trauma hasn't gone away, it's just well hidden. It leaks into the nice dreams she builds for herself, not letting her forget. The game's only horror effect, the headless effect, interacts with a surprising amount of areas in the cuter worlds. Sometsuki's dream world is lie. Her cute room is a lie. She buries her past, to avoid confronting what she's seen and is implied to have done.

One horror area is actively blocked off by boards and boxes you have to smash through, physically breaking down the walls she put up. Another requires her to continuously return to a room, similar to Yume Nikki's uboa event. But this time, every time you return to the room the woman inside is doing something different. This character appears in a variety of areas, obviously important to Sometsuki. It's like you have to go through her entire relationship with this person before uncovering what Sometsuki doesn't want to see. I think this, the way people bury what they don't want to feel deep inside and ignore the way it tears them up, and the difficulties of breaking through that habit and confronting the darkness, is the theme of Ultra Violet. Ultraviolet: A colour you cannot see, but is nontheless present everywhere you go. This is the overarching theme of the game, how one's demons can lurk within them even when they try to suppress things. It explores how trauma can manifest even in people who seem fine. Sometsuki doesn't come across like the more obviously depressed protagonists of the other fangames, but she is nonetheless suffering through her mask of tranquility and happiness, a mask she wears so well she believes it herself. The game commits so hard to its theme of hidden scars, that some horrific imagery is only visible by going out of bounds, and isn't allowed to be seen in normal gameplay. This doesn't make the cute stuff all a lie though. Ultra Violet has darkness lurking under the surface, but it can be very lighthearted and soft too. Sometsuki's memories contain a lot of gentle areas, maybe even more than the horror themed ones. Despite what I have said about darkness lurking under the cute facade of many of the lighthearted worlds, that doesn't invalidate the comfort they provide to Sometsuki, and the game understands that. It never frames the dark areas of Sometsuki's life as more 'real' than the happy ones. And in doing this, it pushes back on many of the theories about these types of games that interpret them entirely through suffering. Sometsuki has had a very hard life, one that she tries to bury, but as she works her way through her subconscious, she also finds a lot of buried memories of sweetness and tranquility. This game isn't a "this cute game is actually MESSED UP!" type of story. No, it is the story of a woman who has repressed her memories finally coming to terms with everything, the darkest parts of her psyche, but also the nicer places in her subconscious.

This is definitely one of the most standout aspects of Ultra Violet to me. It would have been so easy to make all of the deepest parts of Sometsuki's subconscious dark and edgy, but it doesn't. The sweet moments are just as much a part of the game as the scary ones. This gentle atmosphere carries through the game. While the eerie moments can be in-your-face, the happiest moments are often rather understated and tranquil. The peaceful areas are often as mysterious and open to theorizing as the scary ones. A bizarre shrine at the top of a hill in the countryside, helping someone in a blizzard and making a new friend, or sitting and looking out across a vast lake with the girl from the uboa analogue. The lasting image when I finished was not of a woman haunted by her past, but someone who made peace with what happened, the good and the bad. It's an unusually hopeful message for a Yume Nikki game. Overall, Sometsuki is one of my favourite Yume Nikki fangame protagonists. If Yume Nikki is about exploring one's subconscious, then the simple act of hiding Sometsuki's subconscious makes this game stand out from so many other fangames. Sometsuki is not an open book, so while the horror isn't as groundbreaking as .flow or even Yume Nikki, Sometsuki's relationship to the horror is what makes her such a compelling character.

If you'd like to play Ultra Violet, it is free to play on the Yume Nikki Online Project. It's incomplete and lacks an ending, but nonetheless I highly recommend it. It's both a cute and interesting game that does a lot in a genre that is hard to stand out in. I won't act like it's going to change your life or anything, but if you're a fan of Yume Nikki or surreal indie rpgs with horror elements, I'd say it's definitely worth a playthrough. It's cute, a bit scary, but overall very sentimental and sweet.

[domini-porter]

I Wrote You A Story: Hard Luck, Chapters 1-4

Rizzoli & Isles, F/F, Noir AU, Rated T for Tommy guns and Tommy's There, Too

You ever get dizzy for a hard-luck dame? A gumshoe with a gun on a storm-dark night? And also that they're Maura and Jane, and that they can't stop flirting? Well WELL.

Brains, bullets, bad people doing bad things; rich men found dead in their fiancées' beds; corruption, complications, and crackerjack intrigue, all wrapped up in a plot so thick you'll have to eat it with a spoon.

It's a hardboiled ode to hardboiled noir, and I offer its first four chapters to you <3

AO3 links and (spoiler-free) excerpts below!

Chapter 1: It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

I haven’t set foot in a church in so long I’m sure God’s forgotten my name, but I know a sin when I see one. And I’ve never been big on prayer—I can talk to myself just fine—but I still remember the first thing that came to mind when the door swung open was my Ma, making me repeat the Hail Mary until she got sick of hearing it. Not because I needed God. No, what I was going to need—a realization as sudden and clear as the jagged slash of lightning that showed me her face for the first time—was forgiveness.

Chapter 2: Coup de Foudre

She gave me that tight, annoyed little pout again as she slowly turned around, hands sliding across the slinky black satin of her dress to prove there wasn’t any place to stash an iron. Made sure I got a good look, too, even dipping a digit into the tease of cleavage at her scalloped neckline. “Satisfied?” Literal and figurative darkness or not; if I’d been cooked before, now I was the full Christmas goose. Still. “You’d be surprised where some dames can fit a derringer.” “Would I,” she purred. “Even in a dress like this one?” “In even less than that.” One eyebrow up. Tongue flicking at her lower lip. Jesus H. Christ.

Chapter 3: Don't Let the Button Men Bite

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” she’d murmured, flickering yellow lamplight making her glow like a gilt Pietà tucked in a votive niche as she lowered her lashes, gazed down at the ground. “But not here. Please,” she’d whispered with that wobbly little quiver of both voice and lip that had me on the ropes every time. “Take me somewhere. Anywhere. I don’t care. Just . . . get me away from this place. Please.”

Chapter 4: Benny the Bunny

All that would have, should have been enough for one person to stew on, except that person was me, and I had even bigger problems. Problems thinking wouldn’t be able to solve. Problems I was going to have to face sooner rather than later, since Lomond had just slowed the Rolls to a smooth halt. “All right,” I muttered. “Let’s go.” Hauled myself out of the gleaming machine, glancing furtively for any early risers. So far, everything still seemed to be buttoned up tight. One less problem, at least.

see you next time, kid

[freyafrida]

i'm assuming the rec they're referring to is this lovely post by @gogandmagog, to whom i must thank for unearthing this fic, lol. i wrote this chapter back in 2012(!!!) so unfortunately i don't remember what exactly i had in mind for shirley and pencil girl (love that nickname), or if i even had more of a story in mind. i don't see myself writing another chapter for arco iris (although never say never?) BUT i did have some vague headcanons and influences so i will share them!

anyway. what did shirley say to her afterwards? i didn't have a full idea for this in my head and i'm of two minds about it! i can see him just ignoring it because whatever, he's not interested in getting his name written up on the side of the schoolhouse and it's none of his business why Pencil Girl decided to, apparently, lose her mind one day after school. i can also see him being pretty straightforward and asking her about it and being completely embarrassed that she's sweet on him and again, having zero interest in getting his name put on a Take Notice.

either way, they both pretend it didn't happen for a few years, but Pencil Girl never quite gives up her little crush on him, and she and shirley grow to be friends in adolescence after he gets over being flustered by her existence. they exchange sympathetic letters during the war, maybe get into wacky adventures as college kids, and fall in love along the way. the end.

so, some background: this is very niche, but as a kid, i was very into the boy/girl battle series by phyllis reynolds naylor (which i also wrote fic for in 2012 -- maybe that spilled into arco iris?). i didn't do it consciously, but in hindsight, i think i was inspired by the dynamic between the characters wally and caroline. wally is the most introverted of his brothers, thoughtful and quietly imaginative, while caroline is an attention-seeking theater kid who drags wally into her mischief. they're both annoyed by each other because they're middle schoolers, but they're also both imaginative and slightly lonely because everyone thinks they're weird, and they find they (unwillingly) understand each other on that more fundamental level. anyway! it's not a 1:1 comparison, but i think i was imagining shirley/pencil girl from a similar place. we know shirley isn't totally opposed to mischief (see "well-deserved spankings" in RV) and while we also know he hates to be badgered with chatter per RoI, i was also picturing him as a bit matthew cuthbert-esque, where he doesn't mind exuberance as long as he's not expected to actually respond in kind (that's how i interpret "badgering", anyway).

i was also semi-influenced by the dynamic between kyon and haruhi in the melancholy of haruhi suzumiya, haha. obviously none of this is evident in that very short chapter, but uh, that's the backstory if you're interested, or if it gives an idea of how the rest of the story might go!

i also was actually influenced by the jenny penny section of anne of ingleside! i first read that book as a teenager and tbh i took the jenny penny section and all its judgment about Dirty Houses and Fighting Adults and Not Saying Your Prayers a leetle personally, lmao. i found the blythes pretty snobbish in that story* (this livejournal post is a pretty good summary of how i felt about anne of ingleside at the time). so i also had the loose headcanon of the blythes having to deal with someone a little socially inappropriate, who they wouldn't approve of very much. again, this was way too much to be evident in the actual chapter, but this is where the whole "girl who kisses rando boys in classrooms" concept came from, if you're interested.

anyway that's how shirley/pencil girl would've gone. hope this didn't ruin it for you, nonny, and thank you for reading ❤️

* i mean, upon reread, there are actual issues with the pennys: jenny is a more intentional liar than anne ever was, and the grandma makes di show her her underwear??? weird. but also jenny is, like, the lone realistically troubled child in a book of unusually twee children, and i found her surprisingly sympathetic for that reason. anyway. i had feelings.

[alatismeni-theitsa]

Hi Theitsa! half Greek in America here, looking for translation help and you're the only blogger I know 😭

long story short: my family on my mom's side all practice Greek folk magic, with my great-grandma and(possibly my great aunt)apparently being "completely" a witch.

i grew up with it but i'm still learning the language and my family disowned me for being gay so I can't ask for help with research.

the most commonly used term for "witch" is "magissa"/ μάγισσα right?? is μαγεία more common for magic in general? when I'm using Google translate γητεία seems to be the most common term for folk sorcery.

and i see the practices of Circe referred to as μαγγάνεια??

thank you for your help if you know anything, I know it's a niche topic.

bless you!!!

Hii! Dear anon I'm very sorry for what your family did to you :/ That's nor fair at all! May you thrive and be always blessed in your life!

This topic is not niche, actually! The average Greek in the country has some basic contact and knowledge of such stuff either by doing some or by hearing of them. I haven't talked a lot about Magganeia/Vaskaneia in Greece so let's do a Masterpost!

(Greeks with deeper knowledge please add to this post and let me know if something is inaccurate! All I have is "average Greek" knowledge but well, someone has to make the start.)

People throughout Greece (as in the whole Balkans and the Middle East tbh) practice a lot of customs to bring good energy and good things to them or expel bad energies and bad things. The most prevalent being the ritual of xematiasma (the prayer for which needs to be passed down by the opposite sex on a full moon), or customs with bridal koufeta for young girls to attract a good groom, reading the coffee and the palm, explaining dreams (and having recorded oneirokrites), giving new year talismans for good luck (mati beads, pomegranate charms, horseshoes) and hanging them around the home, or baking a pie to St. Fanourios if you want to find something you lost etc etc.

Traditionally such practices in Greece are intertwined with local customs and herb knowledge and it's not a big "issue" like it would be for USAmerican (cultural or practicing) Evangelicals. In Greece it's acceptable to do many things that in the US would be considered "witchcraft" but here they're just "tradition".

For Greeks the basic stuff I mentioned in the first paragraph is widely accepted to the point many of them have fused with church practices through the centuries. Coffee shops where one can have their coffee and palm read - although not many - have lots of customers. Tarot readers also have a good clientele. I've heard Greeks dismiss such stuff as "nonsense" but rarely dismiss them as "evil". Actually, the comments about such practices being evil here are very tame and usually connected to the church - but not in the US way.

Our Church might have cried about such practices in the past but... who listens to the church on these things! :P (only a few do) Our insistence on keeping folk practice led to Greece having no witch hunts or any witches burnt for at least a thousand years now!

Map of witchhunts in early modern Europe (source)

There is a line here, too, of course. Like, if one uses a heart from a mouse wrapped in an oak leaf bathed in frog bile to expel the bad spirits (a spell I just made up) that's officially "witchcraft" and we find it weird at best. More mild stuff like burning wishes written on paper or letting garlic absorb bad energies and then burn it are middle ground and not outright condemned - I feel the Greeks have a great tolerance of what is considered "folk tradition" to them.

The fear of being "pagan" in recent centuries is a Western panic. Traditionally Greeks and their Church were most worried about harmful spells (which included harming an animal or human in the process) and calling demons to do your bidding. If you called a saint for help in a non-harming spell... hmm that wouldn't be that worrying I guess. As long as you didn't ask a priest's opinion, you'd be fine :P

The sum of acceptable and unacceptable practices by the Greek public can be called "μαγγανεία" or "βασκανεία". Because they include unacceptable practices as well, the words have a negative connotation.

"Μαγεία" for Greeks is connected more to the Western archetype of a wizard with a tall hat going around with a big rod shouting "abracadabra". It's connected more to fantasy and fairytales. Traditionally I don't think we used μάγος/μάγισσα for people who did such practices. Even today I've yet to hear Greeks who call themselves witches say "κάνω μαγικά".

I'd say μαγγανεία or βασκανεία are the appropriate terms for what your great-grandma practiced. The spells are traditionally called γητείες (sing. γητεία). The word γόης which now means "very charming man" meant "sorcerer" in ancient years. We just use it metaphorically today. These words all have the same linguistic root.

Nowadays I haven't heard men call themselves "μάγος" but some women call themselves "μάγισσα", and they do "ξόρκια" (comes from εξορκισμός, exorcism - the English version of the Greek word). I think "μάγισσες" practice more Western types of magic because they learned the spells from Western European or US books and videos. I don't know if a practicer of Greek folk spells would be called the same.

I must note that all the above is the reason why when USAmericans practice Greek customs to worship the Greek gods and call themselves "pagans" feels a bit unsettling to me. I suppose if you add crystal balls and tarot and crystals to the practice that would shift it more to the "witchy" side (although as a Greek I'm quite flexible :P) But more than once I've seen USians call themselves "pagans" for simple acts of worship which are very much non-pagan. Having a home altar with the gods along with some blessed items and candles burning... is Basic Christian Orthodox stuff too, a tradition unbroken from ancient years (εικονοστάσια με καντήλια, κεριά, λουλούδια, κομποσκοίνια).

At the same time, I understand that in their society this can be called "being pagan" so I'm not saying that my view is the only one that matters in this. But some knowledge of the Greek culture always helps if you're practicing its customs. It will also help the Westerners stop calling Orthodoxes "savage pagans" for our religious practices after a thousand years :))))

Thanks for making it this far! Get a small bonus: a great article on ancient Greek "bindings/wishes" which is in Greek and it will be probably still fine if translated through Google.

Some things might differ between areas and eras so that's why I welcome other Greeks to comment here with their own experiences and stories of "witches" (or whatever they called them) if their areas had any.

[satanicbard]

The Soul

The soul is the origin of magic and is why anything exists, just as vital as blood and water. While idle in many, some creatures like Unicorns and extinct dragons have organs contributing to their ecological niche. However, no person is naturally born with a fire-sparking organ anymore. Instead, the world's mages must directly manipulate their soul to cast. Prayer, ritual, education, chance, people find many ways to do this.

Souls are defined by their density, changing from person to person. Usually found in the magically proficient and gifted, a dense soul has telltale qualities. Dense souls sink in water like heavy iron. Though the sea swallows them, nature itself receives them better. Animals don't flee, and dense souls find it easier to communicate with the forces of nature. Thin souls are too the result of magical manipulation, but indirect, 'magical scarring' left by being attacked or channelling a diety's power. They are rejected by the sea, unable to dive and spat out. Creatures either avoid or seem blind to the existence of thin-souled folks.

A soul can gain more rare issues and quirks. For example, too much channelling leads to Evolgified Soul Malady. The afflicted begin to develop traits of whatever magic they used their body to channel. Horns, extra eyes, pupils changing, new limbs and even changes in one's personality can occur. This is due to how energy is burned from the soul when magic is used, so pieces of the entity channelled may begin to replace the host's soul. This is a slow process that has no cure yet. Aside from changes to appearance and mind, the body will often identify the foreign soul mass as a disease and end up killing the afflicted or weakening the host enough for total soul replacement.

/////////////////////////////

I decided to work on more background detail and will be doing the races, magic and other fundamentals of my world! :3 . Comment and whatever and stuff I dunno how to use Tumblr.

[astrafiammante]

Love is a bully; inspired by Carmen

Love is a quaint, rebellious bitch, whom no one can tame, and she knows her niche.

She pulls hair in class, puts gum in your shoe, steals money and friends, cheats in Calc, then blames you.

Love obeys neither logic nor laws. Her magic comes mostly from exploiting your flaws.

She just loves your haircut, Her grandma’s is just like it. And yeah, she’s sure your crush Will think it looks like shit.

Love convinces you that it’s all your fault. You’re ugly and fat and if only you’d plucked your eyebrows more thin Or you lips were plumper Or you knew how to sing Or just had more income...

Maybe learn guitar and write her a song skip all your homework spend evenings alone

Let dust cover books you once longed to read they’re now all too girly or childish or weird.

If you just wear these jeans, and also watch “Friends” and don’t eat those cookies and paint your nails red…

Then, maybe then she’ll love you back.

Love’s there one day breathing down your neck And just when you think you’ve earned her respect

Through entreatments and prayers and threats and warnings Through shared notes And shared phones And shared late-night yearning

She’s gone. And you’re left looking ‘round at your room You’ve revolted yourself Thinking, wait, what'd I do?

Where’d I get these bad posters? Why’d I write these gross poems? I remember these books, I hate all these clothes.”

But then, you reset and it begins anew. It’s really humiliating What you let Love do to you.