#peasant to mistress

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

François-Hubert Drouais (French, 1727-1775) Madame du Barry, the last mistress of Versailles, 1770 Fabre museum

She was executed by guillotine during the French Revolution.

[linka-from-captain-planet]

since evidently this won't come up in DAV, my personal headcanon is that reconciled Celene and Briala were too busy fucking to show up in Trespasser specifically because they were having a sort of last hurrah before operationalizing the next necessary phase in Celene's rule: producing a legitimate heir

Celene avoided it for literal decades, but following the civil war and with the impending change in the Inquisition, and considering her age, it was just not something she could put off any longer if she wanted to preserve the Valmont line and her own legacy

(and it helps now that her relationship with Briala is more or less secure, so she doesn't feel as desperately clingy)

for her husband, I draft the late Duke Bastien's son, Laurent de Ghislain. As a Duke, the new head of the Council of Heralds, and a devout Andrastian, he's a suitably illustrious partner for an Empress but more importantly: the messiness. His elder sister, Calienne, was Gaspard's wife who murdered Celene's mother, and then took Celene's father out with her when Celene's father murdered her in retaliation. It feels very Orlesian and also makes Vivienne Celene's quasi mother-in-law, which is very fun for me

They manage to produce an heir in pretty short order and it's all Court Approval +10000 until - the second Celene finally fulfills her 'obligation' to the throne and is finally theoretically allowed to be publicly lesbian - Briala arrives at the child's christening with her hand on Celene's ass, pushing the pram, and the crier announces her as "Marquise of the Dales, Mistress to the Empress of Orlais" and it's like [Everyone disliked that]

[hrrtshape]

where is the stuff that i manifested?

why is my reality lagging? why am i, the divine, the ordained, the girl on the hill, not seeing the thing i have declared mine? i have sat in the temple of assumption. i have dined with the lords of the quantum realm. i have whispered my desires into the cosmos like a mistress to the moon. so where the fuck is it?

breathe. inhale. exhale. do not become a tragic greek figure, clawing at the sky, cursing the gods, wailing into the abyss. you are not sisyphus. you are not icarus. you are, in fact, the universe wearing a silly little meatsuit. and the universe is not incompetent.

but let’s get clinical. let’s get ruthless. let’s get biblical.

i , are you checking the 3d like a victorian wife checking the window for her husband’s ship? if you keep looking at the 3d for confirmation, you are living in the state of lack. and what does the 3d do? it mirrors. so if you live in the state of “where is it,” the 3d will say, “where is what” right back to you. congrats, you’ve manifested a waiting room. enjoy the grey chairs and outdated magazines.

ii , are you persisting or are you pouting? manifestation is not a negotiation. you do not get to sit across from the universe like a hostile business partner, arms crossed, demanding results before you believe. belief is the contract. assumption is the currency. you are either in the state of the wish fulfilled, or you are outside in the cold, shivering, looking through the window at your desire having a candlelit dinner without you.

iii , are you declaring or are you begging? the universe does not respond to “please, oh mighty forces, grant me this one thing.” the universe responds to, “this is mine because i said so.” you do not ask. you do not hope. you do not weep at the altar. you declare.

iv , are you actually embodying it? or are you just thinking about it in a cute way? imagining yourself as the version of you who has it is not a one-time aesthetic exercise. it is a full-body possession. the reality in which you have it is the real reality. this one, the one that says you don’t, is the illusion. the question is, which one do you choose to believe?

v , are you reacting to the 3d like it’s god? the 3d is old news. the 3d is a corpse. the 3d is a polaroid of a moment that has already passed. if you react to it, if you bow to it, if you let it dictate your inner world, you are breathing life back into the past instead of standing in the present, drenched in your fulfilled desire, dripping in inevitability.

vi , do you actually think it’s yours? or do you just want it? wanting is not having. wanting is the antithesis of having. wanting says, “this is separate from me.” having says, “it is done.” when you order food at a restaurant, you do not sit there worrying that it won’t come. you just know it’s on the way. so why are you treating your desire like a lost package instead of an assured delivery?

the 3d will fold. it will bend to your assumption like a devout disciple. but only if you hold the line. only if you refuse to be swayed by what is already dead. only if you walk like the god you are, not the peasant you fear you might be.

your desire is yours. it always was. the question is, will you finally start acting like it?

idea inspired by @scentedpeachlandcreator !!!!!! go check her out right neow .

[luv-lock]

⸻ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴛ ʏ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴛ ⸻

Pairing: Yandere HOTD x Targaryen Reader Part 4

Summary: after your conversion with your father, you just wanted to be in peace. Especially since your husband name day is close.

Warning: Y/n herself is a warning.

Notes: English is not my first language. Gifs don't belong to me, credit to the owner. Hope you enjoy!

The water was warm, steaming against her pale skin as she reclined in the tub, the scent of lavender and rose oil wafting through the air. Elira’s hands worked delicately, her touch soft as she poured water over her mistress’s shoulders, letting it cascade down in rivulets. The bath chamber was silent save for the occasional splash of water and the crackle of the fire in the hearth.

Elira hesitated, biting her lip as she wrung out a cloth. Her nerves were apparent, her usual timidness magnified in the face of what she wanted to ask. Y/n smirked to herself, already anticipating whatever foolish question the girl was about to utter.

“My lady… may I ask something?”

Y/n opened one eye, watching her through half-lowered lids, her expression languid and amused. “You may,” she said, her tone carrying a sharp edge of mockery, as if daring the girl to test her patience.

Elira hesitated again, then quickly stammered out, “Why… why did you choose to marry Prince Aegon? He’s just a child, my lady. If—if I were in your place… and a man like Lord Jason Lannister wanted to marry me…” She trailed off, her cheeks flushing red. “I would have accepted.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Then, Y/n laughed—a sharp, derisive sound that echoed off the stone walls. It was not a warm laugh but one laced with scorn. She turned her head slightly to look at Elira, her lips curling into a cruel smile.

“Of course you would,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “That’s the difference between us, Elira. You’re a peasant. A frightened little girl who would gladly sell herself for a crumb of comfort and a pat on the head from some bloated fool with a golden lion stitched to his chest.”

Elira’s head bowed, her hands trembling slightly as she dipped the cloth back into the water. Y/n continued, her tone growing sharper, each word a dagger aimed at the girl’s pride.

“But I am Y/n. I am a Targaryen, the blood of Old Valyria. I am the rider of Vermithor, the princess of dragon stone. I don’t need a man’s protection, nor his gold, nor his pathetic little affections. I don’t need anything from a husband save for two things: a pretty face to sit on and a hard cock to ride.”

Elira gasped softly, her eyes widening, but she said nothing. She knew better than to interrupt.

Y/n leaned back, stretching her arms along the edge of the tub, her smirk deepening. “But if you’re so curious about my decision, I’ll enlighten you.” She tilted her head, her voice softening into a conspiratorial tone, though the mockery remained. “I choose Aegon because he’s a child. A boy with no power to tell me what to do, no authority to make demands of me.”

She let her words sink in for a moment before continuing, her eyes gleaming with cold, calculating ambition. “And more importantly, he’s the firstborn son. He is father's heir, whether my father likes it or not. I may not have a chance at the throne, but Aegon does. And I will mold him. Raise him exactly as I wish, shape him into who I want him to be. And when that day comes, when he sits the Iron Throne…” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper, her lips curling into a wicked smile. “I will be the true power behind him. I will be queen.”

Elira’s hands faltered, the cloth slipping from her fingers and sinking into the water. She stared at Y/n, her face pale, clearly unsettled by her mistress’s words. But Y/n only laughed again, throwing her head back, her voice ringing with cruel amusement.

“Now,” she said, her tone suddenly light and airy, “be a good girl and fetch me more hot water. This bath is growing cold.”

The woods were unnervingly quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves underfoot and the distant cries of birds. Y/n walked beside Ser Criston, her irritation growing with every step. Hours had passed, and they’d yet to find anything worth hunting. So fucking annoying. She tightened her grip on the bow in her hand, the frustration threatening to bubble over.

She was about to complain when her ears picked up something—soft footsteps, the kind that didn’t belong to animals. Her gaze narrowed, her body tensing as she held up a hand to stop Criston. Then, she heard it: her sister’s voice, faint but unmistakable, carried on the wind.

Rhaenyra.

Y/n’s head snapped in the direction of the sound, her sharp violet eyes catching movement through the trees. She crept forward silently, motioning for Criston to follow. As they approached, the figures came into view: Rhaenyra, her silver hair gleaming even in the dappled light, and beside her, that hulking brute Harwin Strong. But it wasn’t the sight of them that made Y/n pause—it was the majestic white hart standing just a few feet ahead of her sister, its antlers rising like a crown from its head.

She grabbed Criston’s hand, holding him back before he could move. “Be quiet,” she hissed, her voice barely above a whisper. Her lips curved into a smirk as she watched her sister. “And don’t make a sound.”

Y/n crouched low, her eyes fixed on Rhaenyra. Come on, sister. Kill it. Her heart beat faster, anticipation coiling tightly in her chest. She waited, watching for the moment when Rhaenyra would draw her weapon, when she would finally prove herself capable of something more than riding her dragon and being a spoiled cunt. Show me you have the spine.

But Rhaenyra didn’t move. The hart stood before her, regal and unafraid, and Y/n saw her sister’s hand drop to her side. And then, Rhaenyra stepped back, letting the beast go.

Y/n’s smirk twisted into a sneer, her mind filling with sharp, cutting thoughts. Of course. Of course, you don’t, you stupid cunt. What did I expect, really? She shook her head, her contempt flaring as she silently drew an arrow from her quiver. The string of her bow stretched taut as she aimed, her eyes locking on the white hart’s elegant neck.

And then she let go.

The arrow flew true, piercing the hart’s neck with a satisfying thunk. The beast reared back, stumbling as blood gushed from the wound. Rhaenyra gasped, her shock written plainly across her face, but Y/n didn’t give her a second glance.

“Finish it,” she said coldly, tossing a glance over her shoulder at Criston.

Ser Criston moved quickly, drawing his blade and putting the hart out of its misery with a single, clean stroke. Y/n rose from her crouch, her movements smooth and graceful as she strode forward, stepping into the clearing. Her boots crunched softly against the ground as she approached Rhaenyra, whose wide eyes were still fixed on the fallen hart. Harwin stood beside her, his hand resting protectively on his sword hilt, though he didn’t move to stop Y/n.

“Well, well,” Y/n said, her voice light with mockery, “what a surprise to see you here, sister.”

Rhaenyra turned to face her, her expression a mix of anger and disbelief. “Why did you do that?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “I let it go.”

Y/n tilted her head, her lips curving into a sweet, venomous smile. “Why? Because I needed a new cloak, of course.” Her tone was dripping with false innocence. She gestured to the hart with a casual wave of her hand. “This beautiful creature is perfect for it. Don’t you think?”

Rhaenyra stared at her, speechless, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. Y/n took a step closer, her smile widening as she leaned in and pressed a kiss to her sister’s cheek, the gesture as mocking as it was intimate.

“Goodbye, dear sister,” Y/n whispered, her voice a soft purr. “Enjoy the rest of your little walk.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel, her crimson cloak swirling behind her as she walked back to Criston. “Bring it,” she ordered, gesturing to the hart’s body, and he obeyed without question.

As they disappeared into the woods, Y/n glanced over her shoulder one last time, catching the stunned, angry look on Rhaenyra’s face. Her smirk returned, satisfaction blooming in her chest.

Weak, little Rhaenyra, she thought. You’ll never understand. But don’t worry, sister—I’ll show you.

The ride back was slow, her mood as sour as the metallic scent of blood wafting from the stag’s severed head strapped to the back of her horse. The triumph of the kill had already faded, leaving her simmering irritation in its place. Criston walked beside her, one hand steady on the reins of her horse, his ever-watchful gaze scanning the path ahead. She barely acknowledged him, her thoughts consumed by the tedious pomp awaiting her return.

As they entered the camp, banners flapped in the wind, servants bustling about like ants beneath the royal pavilion. Y/n slid off the horse with practiced ease, her boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. “Take care of the stag’s body,” she ordered Criston sharply, tossing him a brief glance. “The head stays with me.”

Criston bowed slightly, his armor clinking. “As you command, princess.”

She didn’t wait for him to finish. Her sharp eyes scanned the camp until they landed on her brother, cradled in Alicent’s arms near the pavilion. Without a word of greeting, she strode toward them, her crimson cloak billowing behind her. Alicent looked up, startled, but before she could protest, Y/n reached out and plucked Aegon from her arms.

“Y/n,” Alicent began, her tone edged with concern, “he’s just—”

“I know,” Y/n cut her off, dismissing her with a glare. “Don’t fuss.”

Aegon, his little head still bandaged, squirmed briefly in her grasp before recognizing her. His tiny arms flung around her neck, hugging her tightly. “Si-ster!” he exclaimed, his small voice brimming with excitement.

Her irritation softened for a fleeting moment as she kissed his forehead, her lips brushing against the white cloth wrapped around his head. “There you are, my little husband,” she murmured, a rare tenderness in her voice.

But the moment didn’t last. She turned, gesturing for Criston to bring the stag’s head forward. The grotesque trophy swung slightly as it was presented, blood still dripping onto the dirt below. She held Aegon up slightly so he could see, her voice lilting with mock enthusiasm.

“Look,” Y/n said, holding him slightly away from her so he could see better. “This is yours. The white hart of the Kingswood, a beast worthy of a prince.”

But instead of the reaction she anticipated—delight, awe, perhaps even pride—Aegon’s lip began to quiver. His bright eyes welled with tears, and before Y/n could react, he burst into loud, pitiful sobs, his tiny body shaking in her arms.

Y/n froze, staring down at him in disbelief. “What… What is this?” she muttered, her irritation flaring. “Why are you crying? It’s a gift, you foolish boy.” She bounced him slightly, trying to quiet him, but it only made his wails louder.

Alicent rose from her seat, her expression a mixture of concern and anger. “He’s just a child,” she said, extending her arms. “He doesn’t understand.”

“Clearly, he doesn’t,” Y/n snapped, her patience wearing thin. She thrust Aegon back into Alicent’s arms, ignoring the boy’s desperate grip as he clung to her for a moment before being transferred. “Take him. If he can’t appreciate what I’ve done for him, then let him go back to you.”

Alicent cradled the sobbing boy, soothing him with soft words and gentle strokes of her hand. Y/n turned away, brushing her hands down her cloak as if to rid herself of the inconvenience. She cast one last glance at the stag’s head, her jaw tightening.

Ungrateful brat.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.

[joelslastofus]

[SUMMARY: You are a new maid for General Marcus Acacius.]

Dubcon smut

“Are you married?”

“Widow” you whispered.

“Ah…I take you haven’t been touched in some time then..”

What you would give to have a different life…

Constantly sold to be placed as a maid for the different rich men of Rome, except this time you were placed with someone you didn’t expect.

General Marcus Acacius

The man was a well known respected gladiator yet it was the last place you wanted to be. He was constantly buying any woman he wanted for self pleasure, you hated the idea of it. Thankfully servants weren’t meant for that type of pleasure, still, you didn’t want to be anywhere near it.

Standing in a room alone you soon were met with an older gentleman who explained to you that the General would be out very soon. Why the hell were you nervous?

After what felt like forever the front door slowly opened and there he was, General Marcus Acacius. Wearing white and gold his presence made your heart skip a beat. Walking towards you he stopped just a foot before you, his eyes taking in everything he could as you looked away intimated by him.

“You must be the new servant”

You swallowed nervously looking back up at him.

“Yes”

His eyes trailed over you as if he was expecting something else..someone else.

“Is there a problem General-“

“Marcus” he quickly corrected you.

“Marcus” you whispered slightly hesitant, it wasn’t common to be on a first name basis as a servant.

“Nothing is wrong at all. You are just not what I expected..” not for a servant anyways, he thought.

Maybe a mistress, a prostitute but not a servant. Servants were usually much older women in their seventies who strictly were made to clean and cook.

“I apologize if-“

“Don’t apologize. I’m not disappointed” he assured you.

“One of the other servants will come find you and explain your duties and where you will be staying, I expect to see you bright and early in the morning”

“Yes, Marcus.” You nodded and quietly bowed before he took one last look at you and left the room.

Marcus went on to his duties for the evening and that night was welcomed in a room by a group of young women. The women bought for him as a gift from a man that felt he was in debt to him. Gifted with women was a usual thing for Marcus, yet was never spoken of.

Miriam was the servant who introduced herself to you and explained everything that would be needed from you. She warned you that you may encounter ‘certain female guests’ from time to time. It didn’t surprise you, that’s what these men did.

Miriam explained to you that Marcus liked his food a certain way, his room set up a certain way and his warm baths at a certain time.

She explained that some times when entering his room he might be with certain guests in view but she reminded you to ignore it.

“You do not look, you do not speak to him, you knock, you walk in and you walk out. Understood?”

“Yes” you nodded as she handed you things that you needed to leave in his room and patted your back before walking away.

Taking a deep breath you knocked on his door and anxiously waited to hear his voice.

“Come in!” He called out. Quickly you opened the door and just as you were warned, there he was on the bed with three women. Instantly you froze feeling awkward as you rushed to the other end of the room and placed his belongings down. Hearing the women laugh together you turned your back to them and continued your duties. Never had you been in a situation like this, the only time you had ever been sexual with a man was with your husband whom died years ago. You couldn’t understand how women enjoyed being sexual peasants to these men, of course the luxury that came with it must’ve been nice but you despised men for this. For a moment you turned, your gaze catching him sticking his finger in a woman’s mouth. Whatever he was doing you could tell he liked, the look on his face almost hypnotizing you. Something seemed so erotic about General Marcus when suddenly his eyes caught yours. Quickly you turned away ready to leave before accidentally tripping over your own foot and falling to your knees. Marcus quickly sat up slowly pushing the woman to the side as you gathered what you had dropped and quickly stood up walking towards the door. Yet, just before you could reach it, he caught up to you.

“Are you alright?” He tilted his head looking down at you.

“I apologize I was just-“

“Are you alright?” He repeated his question sternly.

“Yes” you answered without looking up at him.

“I didn’t mean to…interrupt”

“You didn’t interrupt anything” he assured you. Marcus could tell this wasn’t something you were familiar with in any way yet before you he could say another word you quickly excused yourself and bowed. Marcus watched as you ran out closing the door behind you while one of the women from the bed stood up and came up behind him.

“Aren’t you going to join us?” His attention elsewhere.

“Not tonight” his response taking them by surprise.

“Seek another” the women knew they couldn’t argue. Quickly grabbing their clothes they ran out of the room unaware of where to go.

Standing in the kitchen with Miriam you watched as the women whom were just naked in the Generals room came running down the hall and out the front door.

“That’s a first” she uttered under her breath when Marcus appeared at the door.

“General Marcus” Miriam quickly stood up straight nudging you with her elbow. With your chin up beside her you stood still as he walked towards the both of you, stopping right before you.

“May I have a moment alone with my dear new servant?” He looked at Miriam whom seemed rather shocked by his request but quickly she obliged and left the room.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” You asked anxiously. His eyes squinted as he stared down at you, a smirk slowly appearing on his lips.

“Did you want to join us?”

Your eyes widened by his question.

“I beg your pardon?!”

“I saw you looking-“

“And I-I apologize for that. I will never do that again, it was a mistake and-“

“You were curious” he sounded amused.

“No” you attempted to defend yourself but you didn’t even sound convincing to yourself. Marcus took another step closer, his body an inch away from touching yours.

“Tell me..” he slowly tilted your face up to him.

“Are you married?”

“Widow” you whispered.

“Ah…I take you haven’t been touched in some time then”

“Excuse me” you moved your face away from his hand.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t help but notice when a woman is lacking physical touch-“

“I am not” you lied. God, it was like he could see through you.

“Is that so?” His large hand took hold of your face again as you looked up at him. Your lips moved but you didn’t make a sound, yet you didn’t have to. Marcus smiled and slowly brushed his thumb along your bottom lip. Never had you experienced this in any other place as a servant, it wasn’t suppose to happen. You would be lying if you said you weren’t feeling a tingly sensation in between your thighs, a form of excitement you hadn’t felt in years and you couldn’t control it.

“Would you like me to make you cum?” His question snapping you out of your trance. You instantly took a step back and gasped.

“Excuse me- what do you think I’m here for?”

“To serve me, yet here I am asking to serve you” you shook your head in confusion. Confused that he spoke to you like if you were a mistress, more confused that part of you wanted to say yes.

“I have to go” you panted before running off to your bedroom not caring about any rules when leaving his presence. General Marcus was left with amusement and didn’t say a word.

The next day you woke up thinking over and over what Marcus had said to you the night before. You found yourself having a dream of him that you didn’t expect to have, a dream that left you…aroused. Why the hell were you so turned on by this man? This wasn’t like you in any way.

Meeting Miriam in the kitchen she looked over at you curiously as you prepped for the day.

“Good morning”

“Morning” you uttered softly.

“What happened last night?” She asked distracting you.

“Nothing, why?”

“I didn’t see you again after General Marcus spoke to you and he has specifically requested for you to prep his bath after he’s finished training in the evening”

“Isn’t it suppose to be you today?”

“Mhm” she nodded.

“Just don’t say too much, don’t look him in the eyes and make sure you always address him as the General” she whispered unaware that Marcus had already strictly approved you calling him by his first name.

“Yes, thank you” you whispered with a nod as you began your duties.

As the day went on you couldn’t stop thinking about the night before, you couldn’t stop thinking about what he could possibly want later on that evening. The thought of facing him made your heart race, were you suppose to act as if he hadn’t asked you such a vulgar direct question?

That evening you decided to get a head start and have his room prepped trying to find a way to avoid seeing him.

Of course, that didn’t work.

Humming to yourself you placed his freshly clean clothes on the bed as he walked in the room silently. Slowly walking towards you he waited until he was just a foot behind you and cleared his throat. With a loud gasp you jumped with your hand on your chest.

“Marcus!” You turned to him not expecting him to have been in the room let alone so close. He chuckled with his hands behind his back, moving closer, towering over you.

“Did I frighten you, my dear?” Your eyes tracing over his armor he wore ready to train.

“N-no…I just…I wasn’t expecting you just yet”

His tongue sliding slowly between his teeth as he looked down at you analyzing your every feature, taking in your every breath.

“Marcus…I believe there was a misunderstanding last night”

“Is that what you think?” He bit his bottom lip with a smirk.

“I am simply your servant, no more than that.”

You spoke hesitantly taking a step back.

“Then answer me this question” you took a deep breath wondering what his question would be.

“Did you feel something…between your legs when I spoke to you last night?” He moved closer, his question making it hard to catch your breath.

“Did you feel an ache to be touched..” his words somehow once again making that very same feeling form.

“Stop it” you whispered practically rolling your eyes back.

“I haven’t even begun” his lips brushed against your temple, searching for yours when he suddenly grabbed your face and kissed you. In shock you whimpered unable to push him away. Once he pulled away he left you gasping for air, a look of confusion as your heart raced.

“What are you doing?!”

He pulled you against him as you placed your hands on his chest attempting to push him away. The more he touched you the weaker you felt, he knew you wanted him just as much. But you couldn’t let this happen, the only man to ever kiss you and touch you was your husband. For seven years since he died, you had never wanted another. This wasn’t right to want this, let alone with a man who only wanted to use you. Once again you attempted to push him away but his hold was much stronger.

“I will not be one of your whores!” You yelled when he reached behind you and grabbed a chunk of your hair, with a hard tug he made you gasp. He didn’t say a word, forcing you to look up at him you felt his hand slowly make its way beneath your dress.

“What are you doing?!” You whispered as he parted your legs with his foot.

“I’m gonna make you cum-“

“No” your hands attempting to reach for his but he tugged at your hair harder making you scream. His hand brushing along your inner thighs until he slid his fingers beneath the fabric that covered your womanhood. His eyes focused deeply on yours as they widened feeling his finger slide between your folds. He moaned deeply once he felt how aroused you already were.

“Marcus..please-“

“Shhh” he slowly began to move his finger in a circular motion on your clit watching as you became hooked on the feeling he was giving you. A soft moan escaping your lips before you once again attempted to push his hand away but again he yanked at your hair making you whimper. Moving his hand faster he felt your legs grow weaker, his legs holding yours against the wall as you began to pant uncontrollably.

“Marcus wait-“ your hands now grabbing onto him as he stared down at you serious waiting for you to explode. He didn’t say a word, he didn’t have to, he breathed heavily moving his hand as fast as he could when your legs suddenly bent and gave out. A feeling you never thought you would feel again taking over your entire core, you moaned loudly as Marcus held you balanced between him and the wall.

“Oh my-“ your legs shaking not allowing you to stand straight as the electric waves of pleasure ran through your body down to your toes. Attempting to catch your breath Marcus unexpectedly picked you up and sat you on the near by windowsill immediately removing his armor.

“Wait, we’re not suppose to-“ aggressively he grabbed you by your legs and pulled you towards him.

“Marcus!” You gasped just as you felt him plunge into you. Both of his hands dug into your hair as he gritted his teeth and continued to slam himself into you. Locking eyes with you he made you take all of him deeply. You couldn’t speak, your mouth open as your body felt something it hadn’t felt in years.

But it was different.

Why did it feel so intense?

“Fuck!” Sweat beginning to form on his brow and the center of his chest, you found yourself wrapping your arms around him pulling him closer. His hands moving down your waist pulling your body to the edge as he kissed you erotically, you were about to cum again and he could feel it.

“You’re gonna cum again aren’t you?” He whispered roughly out of breath.

“Oh-oh-“ he grabbed your face watching as your eyes rolled back, your hips jerking against him as you felt as if your body was floating. You cried out in pleasure as he waited for it to move throughout your entire body before he’d let himself cum. And when he did he made sure he spilled every drop of himself inside you, with a groan he pushed your body against the window and held himself in place.

Out of breath you could feel him throbbing inside you, you hadn’t expected him to release himself in you yet you didn’t say a word at first.

Marcus slowly pulled himself as he grabbed a towel and dried his face. Slowly letting yourself down to your feet you grabbed onto the wall feeling how your legs felt like jello. Fixing your dress you watched as he wrapped a towel around his waist silently before you found the courage to speak.

“You…you finished inside me” your words making him look up at you.

“Of course I did” you looked down slightly disappointed making him slowly walk to you and tilt your face up to him.

“You didn’t like that?”

“No- I mean yes- I mean no- I…look I’ve only had sex with my husband, I’m not used to this. I never had children-“

“Are you afraid to be with child?”

Silently you swallowed nervously unsure how to answer his question, it was something you never thought of.

“We shouldn’t have done this” you whispered.

“May I be excused” Marcus stared down at you silently noticing the tears you held back, a hint of guilt forming in his chest. Without saying a word he moved aside motioning with his arm for you to pass and you quickly did…

[spectrechosts]

The vampire stands silently in the doorway of my study.

She waits for my invitation, though she does not require it. She is inside my lair already, comes and goes to do my bidding. I know not why she hesitates, why she watches me work from a distance. Perhaps she plots my downfall?

Many a necromancer has met their end between the jaws of a vampiric servant. The vampire is far craftier than the mindless zombie, the puppet skeleton. The vampire is prideful, scheming- has goals and desires all its own. The autonomy that makes one useful also makes them a threat.

"Come in."

She glides across the room soundlessly, kneels beside my desk chair, head down. Her subservient demeanor is- excessive, she lays it on much too thick. I'm not fool enough to question if it might be sincere, only if it's meant to hide that she's using me or that she simply wants me dead.

"I have quelled the villagers as you asked, my penumbral Mistress."

~Penumbral Mistress~, feh, who falls for such simpering acts?

"Their newly dead are being carted to your mausoleum, and the excavation of their graveyards is back underway. All is as you desire."

Suspicions aside, she does good work. Such uprisings used to set me back weeks, now she settles them in a few nights at most. Whatever she plans, she's useful enough to be worth it.

Besides, I am no neophyte, playing with forces beyond her control. I am a necromancer, and she is undead. The moment she lifts a hand against me will be the moment she is flayed from within, her unbeating heart exposed to the light of the sun for her treachery.

"Excellent," I say. "What do I owe you for your services?"

She deigns to lift her head, to look at me.

"I wish to taste you, my Mistress."

Ugh, vampires, predictable.

"Very well. Open."

I take her chin with one hand as she opens her jaws. My other hand I rest on her cheek, placing my thumb into her open mouth. I swipe it across her teeth, trace it up a sharp fang and press the pad into the needle-tip until it punctures the skin. I pull off the fang and press my now-bloodied thumb into her tongue, holding it to the floor of her mouth.

Through it all she doesn't move an inch. She watches me wide-eyed, unblinking, unbreathing. I am of course warded against the hypnotic gaze of her kind, though- I don't feel her trying to use it. Perhaps she does this to lower my guard, in the hopes that one of these feedings I'll forget, I'll trust her enough not to bother. Perhaps she is so beneath me it doesn't register.

Perhaps she is simply stupid, and doesn't even think to try.

She swallows softly as I hold her there, the tiny amount of blood enough to bring color to her cheeks.

"Enough," I say, removing my thumb from her mouth. The vampire whimpers softly, but I am far too important to be made a meal. "Slake your thirst on some peasant, I have work to do."

She swallows again, her eyes pleading before she casts them back to the stone floor.

"Of course, Mistress."

[xenosaurus]

I’ve been plotting out a story that is either horror or comedy depending on which half of the main romance you’re following.

On one side, you have Shiloh, a profoundly awkward and unlucky young peasant woman. Considered too tall and ‘mannish’ to serve the lord’s beauty-obsessed daughter, she instead spent her teen years working for the groundskeeper. This was, of course, until she turned out to have a magical talent! Of changing the colors of things, and nothing else. However, given the price of dyes, stained glass, gemstones she can replicate with quartz, decorative stonework, paints that don’t have poison in them…. Well, that’s a good talent!

The lord of the house cheerfully sells her off to the capital to work for the royal family. Dressed a little better but deeply in over her head, her life becomes a comedy of errors where she never notices how many girls around her actually prefer a sincere butch girl with rough hands.

On the other hand is Colette, a beautiful maid working for the daughter of the original lord. She was extremely shy when she was young, and often bullied by her mistress. She often snuck out of the manor to get away from the mistreatment, where she would spend time with Shiloh, who was friendly and kind to her.

Shiloh being sold to the capital started with an incident where she used her magic to make Colette beautiful purple hair ribbons for her birthday. The lord’s daughter accused her of stealing them and was going to have her beaten, before Shiloh came forward to prove her story, exposing her magic.

Colette… does not handle it well.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Salome!

"La Belle Dame sans Mercy" ("The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy") - A ballad by John Keats

"The poem is about a fairy who condemns a knight to an unpleasant fate after she seduces him with her eyes and singing." please

This screams Knight!König x Fairy!Reader to me.

I just know König would gladly die by the hand of such an ethereal being.

"She looked at me as she did love, and made a sweet moan."

"And sure in language strange she said—'I love thee true.'"

That’s it. Thank you.

I swear this artwork kills me everytime I see it....

Ok this became the silliest fairytale ever 🩷✨️

CW: Historical AU blending with mythical/supernatural AU. König being a dreamy mess of a knight who doesn't fit in "normal" society. Reader is part of faefolk. Heavy Arthurian Romance vibes.

König returns to the castle one day. The son of a great liege lord, a warrior through and through, but some people say he should’ve been a poet: so dreamily he looks beyond the battlements at times, sighs after drinking too much wine, stares off into dark corners of the room while tending to his sword and armour as if he can see little pixies dancing there.

His siblings sometimes hit him on the back of his head, or wave a hand over his eyes when he’s about to slip into the fairy world, a forgotten plane that is not supposed to reach the castle. But the castle stones were taken from the moors and the woods, the old land not bending to the priest’s will no matter how many crosses they brought here. Fragile souls are wanton prey for the elves and the fairies who would take them to their land the moment they drop down their guard, and only prayer and fasting hold them at bay. In the fairylands, there is no toil or sorrow; the food is golden honey and wine, the dance and love everlasting, and the fae girls more beautiful than any human maid.

It sounded too good to be true, and it was: God had created men to work and women to give birth, and all the land was theirs to use and cultivate, it was not made to simply run and frolic upon. Some say that these were just old tales and that Christ would banish these creatures away, turn the land to yielding crops and tame firewood.

But some still believed.

When he was a child, the mighty son of the feared lord took porridge and almonds to the woods. “For the fairy people,” he said with bright, trusting eyes. Stole food from under the mistress’s nose, and no one ever dared to say anything about it.

But when this nonsense carried on to adulthood, people had to intervene. There was work to be done, war, harvest and building, and no matter how many coins this man paid to the visiting bards, it would never turn their stories true.

His arm was strong and his strike was true, but his head seemed to be filled with dandelion wine, even when he hadn’t been drinking. Sighed after this maiden or that, wished to travel to foreign lands, courted every nobleman’s daughter who visited the castle, but no one ever took him seriously.

This man had to watch how lady after lady chose some other valiant knight as their husband, some men whose heads were not filled with fairytales and dreams. They did flirt with him, for who could’ve resisted the temptation of making this giant a little sweaty under all that armor? Armor that demanded plate for two people, and a smith who had the talent to forge such a beastly thing.

Nevertheless, he was always left without a warm embrace, and so he was usually found outside, looking at the full moon or spending time in taverns, choosing the company of thieves and rascals over his serious kin.

And now he has returned from the woods, having been gone for months.

People thought he had finally left to fight for some other lord, posing as a simple footsoldier, a disguise that would relieve him of his tedious duties as a knight. Or to court some “lovely peasant girl” he always talked about – such talks were usually crushed by his father, demanding him to be sensible for once in his life.

But he doesn’t prattle about peasant girls now, nor does he ramble about screaming ships at the bottom of the sea. He doesn’t hold a speech about forgotten stone circles in the forest, the ones that already grow moss. No, he has finally lost it completely.

His eyes are wild, as is his hair; his armour is nowhere to be seen, and his sword is without its sheath. He doesn’t talk about what he saw in that forest to anyone, nor is he willing to tell where he has even been these past few moons.

He seems very shaken when he’s told they were worried he wouldn’t make it to the May Day feast, and asks for how long he was gone, drives a hand through dishevelled hair when he hears that he was away for three full months.

“Three months…” he mutters to himself, then leaves to his room, the huge sword dragging against the stone floor as he goes. He has always, always made sure it wouldn’t dull, but now he’s treating it like it’s become a part of him, confused and lost.

He doesn’t eat, hardly speaks after that.

The food tastes like ash, he says, and the ale tastes like bile. But the following evening, when his mother orders someone to pour her poor son some more wine, he looks up helplessly like a child.

“I have to go back,” he says.

A clamour arises, huffed exclaims of “What on earth is he on about” and “Sir, you only just got back!” His father rises from his chair and orders him to stop this nonsense at once. But this time, there is no embarrassed sweep of hand through hair, no red colour that rises on this peculiar knight’s cheeks. His lips only make a thin line before he rises as well and leaves the hall with a weight on his shoulders and dark determination in his stare.

At the stables, a stout Moorland pony and poor stable boy get to witness the drunken bawls of a forlorn knight. The wine sack almost slips from his hands to the dirt as he slumps against the timber of the stall, distorted face coming to rest against a wide, shaky palm.

Luckily, a friend of his knows where to look, and the stable boy sneaks into the shadows, slightly scared of the sorrow of such a big, intimidating man.

But even the companion who always listened to every enthusiastic story since they were kids and ran across the moors, throwing little rocks at his father’s soldiers and laughing when their helmets made a funny clinky sound, can not understand the drunken babble that comes out of König’s mouth this time.

He starts from the middle, which is highly unusual, and talks in strings of sentences that don’t make sense. “She was real, I just know it,” he repeats, over and over again in the middle of confessions about how beautiful she was, how her hair was like the softest spun yarn, her body incredible, naked and wild when she came to him. That her laugh was like the chime of little bells or the sound of the loveliest harp, a song on its own when she walked to him.

She was fascinated with his sword, especially the pommel and the handle interested her, and the curve in the middle of the blade she brushed with her fingers as if it was an entire vale.

He had never seen a woman touch his sword like that… They were never interested in such things, but she was, and she asked him so many questions.

Had he ever felled a tree?

Did he like squirrels?

Were his thighs as hairy as his chest?

She took him down the river, or he followed her; he can’t remember. Her step was so light it didn’t make a sound, and the moss seemed to turn brighter every time her little foot stepped on it. Her hands were tiny too when she wrapped them around his neck, pressed her body against his, and kissed him until there was nothing left of him: no helmet, no sword, nothing but sun and her, her hands and her lips.

Her mouth was still on his when she whispered she didn’t like his armour because it was so hard and rigid and cold, oh, she wondered if there was a man inside there at all.

So of course he showed her.

She giggled at the sight of him, especially his thighs, knelt down on the moss to see how hairy they were.

And would you believe the way she touched him then? It makes him heady even now…

Yes, he took her. But not the way a man takes a woman. She came to straddle him and laughed again, and the things they did together… He can’t even speak about them, but he knows the sun always shined when they rolled on the grass. Her giggles and moans surrounded him, her soft little thighs were stronger than they looked, her breasts so round and soft, so perfect he swore he had gone to heaven.

He bathed in her, with her, all day long. And the nights… You wouldn’t believe the nights: there was song and dance and more giggling women, and also a man dressed all in leaves, so big and thick he first thought he was a tree. An old king, she said, nothing he should worry about. And the wine tasted like summer and honey and gold; it was red, perhaps, but also like sea amber and sun…

She fed him flowers and laughed, caressed his face and said he’s the biggest and hairiest human she had ever seen. She let him lick honey from her fingertips and caressed him with heather and ivy, opened her mouth before feeding him a soft, sweet piece of cake, showing him how he needed to open his mouth as well if he wanted it on his tongue.

She kissed the crumbs from his lips and trailed a finger down his chest, all the way down, until…

Oh, he can’t talk about it.

It was better than he ever even imagined: better than the stories they tell in the taverns. It was like his wedding night, over and over again, it was like he was Lancelot, and she was his Guinevere.

No, no, she was not an enchantress, although everything about her was enchanting... All the stories came alive with her, even the moon was bigger than anywhere he’d ever seen, the deers ran past them while they made love, and the birds sang even at night.

He told her he loved her, but she didn’t know what it meant. When he explained it to her, she looked at him gently, so gently…

He cried from joy then, but she never mocked him. She only said it’s a sign that he’s hers. That he will never forget her. She said he’ll always find her, even when he’s old: she will make him young again. He’s welcome here if he wants: she has so many places to show him.

He thanked all the saints for having found her, Saint George and Saint Mary first, but stopped when her little brows furrowed with sorrow. Her eyes, filled with starlight and love, turned so sad that his heart couldn’t bear it, not for one beat.

The sea is far wilder here: he should come and see the ocean as it was at the dawn of time. The ivy is so strong you can use it to climb the trees and see the whole world from atop the tree, the whole land, covered in forest, such as it was before humans came. There’s no smoke or fire or war: just green everywhere, wild rippling streams and honey bees and berries and fish for everyone who ever feels hungry... They can make love day and night, and she’ll teach him all the songs of old. Humans only remember bits and pieces, but she knows how things really happened, she can tell him everything about heroes, kings and queens.

She said she wanted to sleep, and so he took her from the feast and laid her on the grass… She might’ve sung to him, he can’t remember, but it was like an angel’s caress all over him, somber and sweet before the dreams took him, a dream within a dream.

He slept for ages, it seemed, saw so many dreams, each more beautiful than the last until he woke up and saw that the forest had turned grey.

There was no maiden in his lap, no dance and song in the distance, no scent of flowers and dreams and springs to be found. The sun was up in the sky, but it didn’t paint all the colours with gold or fill the streams with light. The forest was half dead to him, just old, thick trees around him, a green-grey forest floor and a shaggy squirrel who chirped and squeaked at him as if it was his fault that the fae folk were gone.

He searched for her, called for her, but she didn’t answer, and how could she have? He didn’t even know her name. He only knew how lovely she felt, how soft her hair was when it fell to cover him like a veil, how adorable her sighs and tiny little gasps were when he filled her, over and over again.

His armour was nowhere to be found, and his sword was somewhere downstream, half covered with leaves and dirt, rusty and beaten by the wind. It was early spring when he came here; the land was still barren and grey, but now, everything was green. Still, it was not the green he wanted. It was not the green that filled his vision entirely, bright, blooming green that pulsed with lush joy. It was just… earth and grass and dirt.

So you see, he has to go back. He has to find her, whatever it takes. She promised he could always come back… She promised…

He cries once more, head bowed and mighty shoulders trembling from the force of his sorrow, and it is no use to tell him that the fae folk are evil. That they’re from the Devil and only want to make good, decent men like them forget. Forget their duty, their laws, their Christ.

It’s no use to tell him that it is not natural, the place he has seen. No doubt he has been somewhere, but it cannot be anything good… No man can survive on flowers and spring water for three months; they cannot frolic with the faeries for days on end without losing their mind and soul.

And König is already lost; he was lost since he was a child, rambling about how he received flowers, sticks and stones as tokens of the faefolk’s gratitude because he brought them food.

He tries to tell the boy who never grew up, the mightiest man in this kingdom, the dreamiest knight there ever was, that he needs to return to the real world. No fae woman would have him as a husband, they are only after his soul. But surely some human lady would take him into her bed, think about it, for God’s sake, please... He has duties here, people who love him, his father would make him a lord if he only put himself together. What kind of knight would abandon his sword, helmet and armour for the sake of an elf who despises the saints...?

But in the morn, König is gone.

His rusty sword is on the floor, the wooden cross taken off the wall. There lies a honeycomb and a flower on his window, a blossom so sweet it cannot be plucked from any field around here. Too exotic and bright, especially when placed atop the rough, grey stones, it looks like it could never wither from how beautifully it blooms.

The peasants now tell a tale of a man that haunts the woods: a huge giant dressed all in green, donning a leaf cloak of some sort and a beard that grows ivy. But they say he is not evil: he only shows himself to hunters who are about to fall a deer, or children who remember the land with little gifts.

Old men say they saw a green man when they were kids and brought bread and milk to the faeries, they swear to this day they saw a man who greeted them with a smile. And when they looked again, there was nothing but a tree where this giant stook, a young oak, sighing with the wind...

[lesorciercanadien]

My Current Inventory of Magic Tools

Here's a list of tools I use in my spiritual practice that can inspire others that are on this path! While some are heritage pieces that cost a lot of money up-front due to craftsmanship, the every-day tools are pretty inexpensive. For example, most candles can be found at the dollar store, and incense can be personalized to your taste. For my practice, I use cedar incense, since it is known as a cleansing plant in the Christian tradition, and many Acadian and Québécois households used cedar on Palm Sunday before palms became widely available.

Most of the heritage pieces, for anyone wanting to participate, I strongly encourage investing a few extra dollars to get good quality items! It will last you years of magical practice, and you can use them with pride.

La ceinture fléchée - the woven sash

A symbol of identity to the Métis living on the Canadian plains, the historical Huron-Wendat people, and historically worn by French voyageurs and fur traders and their indigenous partners in trade, these sashes were strapped around the waist. These were mostly useful in keeping the woollen coats closed, store belted tools, help with the strain of carrying heavy pelts, and prevent hernias and back strain on long canoe expeditions. The long strands on the end could also be used as impromptu sewing thread. These sashes would reach about 15cm to 25cm and its length easily passes 2 metres. These sashes were traded among indigenous groups for furs, and later, by the Hudson's Bay Company in the 19th century. It became a part of the traditional Québecois peasant clothing at least since 1776. As the sash travelled upriver to the plains and beyond, Métis groups adopted the sashes, elaborated on its craftsmanship, and truly made it one of their most recognized symbols. Depending on where the sash is woven, the colours can change. For example, for Québec, they preferred a blue colour scheme, for Montréal, red, and for those woven in between Ottawa and the Red River, black was more prominent. Hand-woven sashes can take up to 500 hours to complete. (1)

The one pictured above I bought from Etchiboy, a Métis artisan. The sash I bought was inspired from the Assomption sash motif, one of the oldest known woven patterns from the 18th century. I wear it on my woodland wanderings, for rituals, and cultural days. I especially wear it in winter to keep my coat closed. I chose to adopt the sash into my practice after lots of research. It is an item of rich history between the French and their indigenous allies, and a consequence of the fur trade in our country. I encourage anyone who's interested to buy from artisans who hand-weave them! There are machine-woven ones nowadays that might be less expensive, but nothing beats the quality of good wool and good weaving. With the richness of variety in the weaving patterns depending on the region they're from, why not have a sash that harkens back to the history of your region?

The walking stick or 'le gourdin'

In Québécois folktales, the stick, known as 'the gourdin', was most seen as a gift from a woodland fairy (like a guardian of all trees, or a mistress of the birds) to the intrepid hero Ti-Jean. This magical stick could thwack all his adversaries with the simple command of "tappe, gourdin!" (slap, stick!), among other fabulous deeds (2) This stick was a tool of protection on long journeys fraught with peril. So, what better companion to the Canadien witch than a walking stick? I use mine for every excursion, and have added to it some talismans of a wolf, owl and skull to keep evil spirits at bay. There's also a portable rosary around the stick, and the Ste. Anne of Beaupré religious medal. Historically, she was often a saint prayed to by voyageurs before they undertook the long and perilous journey to the fur trading posts, usually near present-day Montreal. (3)

The pocket knife

The pocket knife is a multi-talented tool of our trade! It can carve folksy figurines, cut wooden branches for weaving, harvest plants, cut curses, and keep les feux-follets (willow-the-wisps) at bay. Folklore has it that if you're out camping in the woods, fold you knife so that it creates a 90-degree angle, and stick it into the bark of a tree bordering your campsite. In the morning, if the blade is bloody, chances are it was the feux follet being intrigued by the space between the blade and the tree, and cutting its throat, thereby being free from its doomed roaming. (4) It is also a well-known tool in case you need to free a loup-garou (werewolf) from its curse by cutting it on its white spot on the forehead where he previously received communion as a kid. (5) By extension, it is a vital tool to break curses. Of course, don't make anyone bleed with the knife. That goes without saying. Treat the knife well, keep it sharp.

The rosary

Yes, my path has Catholic tools in it. Of course! Quebecois and Acadians of my ancestry were Catholic people primarily. It is a versatile tool in my practice, used for spellwork as well as meditative prayer. For those who are interested in praying the Rosary traditionally, I'll create a separate post. For spellwork purposes, I usually say a round of "Hail Mary" ten times before starting a spell for the ultimate protective shield. There is also known folk uses for the rosary in Acadian and Québécois communities. For example, to fidget with the rosary without intent or purpose brings about the Devil. (6) The rosary can also be used as a tool to find lost items. Simply toss the rosary over your shoulder, and the crucifix will point in the direction of the lost item. If you want good weather on your wedding day, hang up your rosary on your laundry cord the day before. (7). Rosaries nowadays even come in decade forms as portable rings for your pocket, and some are actual rings you can wear on your finger. I got a few rosaries myself. One for special rituals (I never toss that one over my shoulder!), and cheaper, more portable options for the tossing spell.

Holy medals

I amassed quite a collection of holy medals for individual saints. Other notable ones are those for the souls in Purgatory (worn on All Souls Day), the Holy Spirit at (worn on Pentecost or when I do divination), Jesus the Shepherd (it's comforting), Stella Maris (patron saint of Acadians). I have a few of the same for more frequented purposes, for example, I keep a Saint Luke medal on my artist's pencil case, since he is the patron saint of artists. Traditionally in Acadian communities, it was known that when your day was going awfully, and your bread dough just wouldn't rise, you just needed to boil some holy medals in water to turn your luck around (8). They are quite inexpensive, so it's fast and easy to grow a collection in a short period of time. Many catholic retailers sell them.

Divination tools : the playing cards, dice and coin

My divination tools can be found in anyone's cupboard and drawers. The trusty playing cards deck nowadays comes in such amazing variety of art, the one I picked for myself was the Bicycle Aviary Playing Cards. It has such a lovely folk art vibe to them! The way to divine them comes from sources of card-playing and superstitions from history and folktales from folklorist Marius Barbeau, and people over centuries carrying around the cards for entertainment and perhaps a glimpse into their futures. One guide on reading the cards: Fifty-Four Devils: The Art & Folklore of Fortune-Telling with Playing Cards by Cory Thomas Hutcheson. Dice can also be used in the same manner if you're doing a numerology-based divination. The coin can be used as a simple yes or no divination by playing 'heads or tails'. The coin can be a beautiful commemorative coin like mine, or a simple 'cenne noire' (blackened penny), or whatever currency you have on hand.

The sewing kit and fibre arts

I wanted to add this iconic cookie tin into the folk witch's repertoire, because we all had grandmothers who had this tin lying around with their tools to mend and sew anything. In my practice, and in my hobbies, I make clothing and I embroider. I can use this tin to house my relevant supplies to have some sacred time darning old socks, creating spiritual garments by hand, or embroidering pretty things. You can also draw sigils on the rim's inner side for blessing your items inside! There's also other uses for some of these tools in your home! For example, my great-great grandmother used to use her thimble to create the holes in her croxignoles, these woven doughnut style rings from the Magdalen Islands.

Musical spoons

Musical spoons, sometimes made of wood to be used for musical purposes, as shown here, or made from every-day metal spoons held together for the same effect, are an iconic instrument in French-Canadian folk music. I would recommend learning how to play them rhythmically and to use that as a grounding tool. I just find these way more authentic than a drum. Not to mention rhythmic foot tapping and step dances are frequently used in our folk music to set up a beat.

Woven Cloths

These beautiful cloths or 'serviettes' were woven by my mother on a giant hand-loom, often employed by local farmer's guilds in Québec. Les Cercles des Fermières du Québec sometimes has craft fairs where they sell these among other hand-crafted items. In folklore, the cloth was present when Ti-Jean needed to create a magical feast on the fly, create a magical tent for shelter, or carry around all his tools for his journey. These cloths however were almost always given by a fay creature, so best be cautious in eating food from it. Nowadays, it can be used as altar cloths, protective shields for your tools, or to apply healing energy to an ailment you carry. (9) I use mine to do my card readings, wrap special items. If you are lucky enough to find a 'catalogne', which is a heavy blanket woven on those big looms from scraps of old t-shirts, cottons and the like, that's like, a massive cloth you can have over your bed and its folkloric properties can be used for protection and good dreams. It is also the best weighted blanket for anxiety, tried and tested by me! Mine was woven by my grandmother.

Cited sources

Wikipedia "Ceinture Fléchée" consulted on Jan 21 2025/ 2. Barbeau 1st series/ 3. Podruchny / 4. Butler/ 5. Maillet / 6. Dupont 83. / 7. Dupont 122. / 8. Dupont 83. / 9. Barbeau 2nd series

Bibliography

Barbeau, Marius, « Contes populaires canadiens », The Journal of American Folkore, vol. 29, no 111, janvier-mars 1916, 154 p.

Barbeau, C.-Marius. “Contes Populaire Canadiens. Seconde Série.” The journal of American Folklore 30, no. 115 (Jan-Mar., 1917): 27-36. http://www.jstor.org/stable/534454. 

 Butler, Gary R. Histoire et traditions orales des Franco-Acadiens de Terre-Neuve. Québec 1995. p. 156

Dupont, Jean-Claude. Heritage d’Acadie. Collection Connaissance, éditions Lemeac. 1977. 

Maillet, Antonine. Rabelais et les traditions populaires en Acadie. Les presses de l’université Laval, Quebec. 1980. 

Podruchny, Carolyn. Making the Voyageur World: Traveler’s and Traders in the North American Fur Trade. University of Toronto Press. 2006.  

[muiitoloko]

Cinderella

Summary: She came to witness the grandeur of Versailles but left with the Sun King’s undivided attention—a dangerous prize for a girl who never meant to be noticed.

Pairing: King Louis XIV × Fem! Reader

Warnings: none

Author's Notes: This isn’t canon at all; I just watched an anime scene and got inspired to write this 😅

Also read on Ao3

The Palace of Versailles loomed before you, its golden gates thrown open in a rare display of generosity—or, more likely, vanity. King Louis XIV had decreed that for the first time in years, the common folk were permitted entry to his grand ball, an unprecedented spectacle that had set the entire city abuzz. Some whispered that the Sun King merely wanted to flaunt his magnificence to those who could never hope to touch it. Others claimed it was a ploy to find a new queen, though it was baffling why he would look among the rabble when he had mistresses aplenty.

You, however, cared little for the king’s intentions. This was your one chance to see Versailles from within, to walk its mirrored halls, to breathe the air of those whose lives were spun from silk and gold. The palace had always been a distant wonder, admired from the fields where you and your brother toiled. But tonight, dressed in your finest—though still a poor imitation of true nobility—you would see it up close.

Your brother, standing beside you, adjusted the fraying cuffs of his borrowed coat, his expression a mix of wariness and reluctant excitement. “If we get thrown out, I’m blaming you,” he muttered under his breath.

You rolled your eyes. “Then don’t get caught staring at the food like a starving dog, and we might just pass for something other than beggars.”

He snorted but said nothing more as the two of you stepped through the towering entrance, swallowed whole by the sheer opulence of it all.

The Hall of Mirrors glittered like a dream, candlelight bouncing off its endless reflections, making it appear as though a thousand ghosts waltzed through its gilded expanse. The air was thick with perfume and intrigue, nobles eyeing the unexpected presence of peasants with barely veiled contempt. Though none dared openly sneer—the king had, after all, extended the invitation—there was no mistaking the lines drawn between silk and linen, lace and coarse wool.

You had never seen such extravagance—tables overflowing with delicacies you had only heard of in passing, strings of pearls glinting on the necks of women who seemed more like dolls than real flesh and blood, musicians playing a waltz so hauntingly beautiful that it made your chest ache. It was all too much, too magnificent, and for a moment, you simply stood there, drinking it all in.

Then, the room fell silent.

A shift in the air. A moment of stillness, as though the palace itself held its breath.

King Louis XIV had arrived.

He moved through the hall with measured grace, the embodiment of power and opulence, his black wig framing sharp features, his hazel eyes heavy with the weight of a kingdom. Without a word, he ascended the stairs to his throne and, in an almost lazy gesture, sat down. That was all it took—the ball resumed, conversations picking up in hushed tones, musicians finding their rhythm again, and couples sweeping back onto the dance floor as though nothing had happened.

You, however, could not look away.

Your gaze locked onto the Sun King, the man whose whims dictated the fate of France. He lounged upon his throne with the air of a man who had seen it all, who had nothing left to be impressed by. He watched the dancing figures before him with mild detachment, fingers resting against his knee, expression unreadable.

A nudge against your ribs startled you.

"Stop staring," your brother murmured, his tone both amused and exasperated.

Blinking, you turned to him, only to notice the women kneeling in perfect formation at the foot of the king’s elevated throne. They were beautiful, pristine in their silks and satins, their heads bowed slightly as they remained poised in eerie patience.

"What are they doing?" you whispered, frowning.

Your brother shrugged. "Noblewomen, I suppose. Perhaps they wait for an invitation to dance with the king."

The idea of it—women reduced to mere ornaments, kneeling in silent hope for a glance, a gesture—made something in you burn. It was foolish, wasn’t it? To expect anything different. This was the way of things. And yet, when your gaze drifted back to the king, when you saw the boredom in his eyes, the utter indifference with which he sat above it all, something inside you snapped.

Before you could think better of it, you grabbed the fabric of your dress, lifting the hem just enough to move freely, and marched forward.

You heard your brother’s breath hitch. "What are you doing?" he hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.

You ignored him.

The music, the dancing, the laughter—it all became background noise as you moved through the crowd, dodging twirling figures, brushing past the heavy perfumes and the lace-trimmed sleeves. You stopped at the foot of the stairs, between the bowing ladies.

And then, in a single bold motion, you extended your hand.

An invitation. No—a challenge.

The silence that followed was deafening.

All around, the ball came to a halt once more. The musicians faltered, the dancers froze, and a collective breath was held as every pair of eyes in the room turned toward you.

King Louis XIV regarded you with the slow, calculating gaze of a man unaccustomed to surprises. His hazel eyes flickered with something—curiosity, amusement, irritation? It was impossible to say.

For a terrible moment, you thought he might laugh, might cast you aside with nothing more than a smirk. But then, without a word, the king rose from his throne.

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

He descended the stairs, step by deliberate step, until he stood before you.

You had to fight not to flinch when he reached out, taking your outstretched hand in his own. His grip was firm, his skin warm, and before you could fully process what had just happened, he was leading you onto the dance floor.

The nobles moved aside as though the sea itself was parting.

The musicians scrambled to recover, launching into a waltz fit for royalty.

And there you were, in the arms of the king, your feet moving in perfect rhythm to the music, your body following his lead as if drawn by invisible strings.

The two of you danced in silence.

Despite the music swelling around you, despite the fact that the King of France held you in his grasp, you felt your confidence waver. It was one thing to challenge him, to throw yourself into the center of the Sun King’s world with reckless abandon, but it was another to stand in the middle of his court, crushed beneath the weight of a thousand whispered judgments.

You could hear them—murmurs behind delicate lace fans, the barely concealed sneers of noblemen whose powdered faces betrayed their disdain. A peasant, in the arms of their king. A girl in linen and borrowed silk, daring to stand where only those with titles and fortunes belonged.

Your face burned. Your pulse pounded in your ears. The sheer absurdity of what you had done crashed down on you like an avalanche, and your grip on the king's hand faltered. What were you thinking? What madness had possessed you to reach for something so unattainable?

You were just a girl from the fields. He was Louis XIV.

Your breath quickened, and your eyes darted around the glittering ballroom, searching for your brother, searching for an escape, anything to ground you. But then—

"Look at me."

The words were sharp, quiet, yet laced with undeniable command.

Your body stiffened.

His grip on your waist tightened, steadying you as he turned you in a slow, deliberate motion, drawing your gaze back to him. His hazel eyes burned with something you couldn’t place—something piercing, unyielding.

"Not at them. At me."

You swallowed, suddenly feeling like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. You had broken so many unspoken rules already, but this? To meet the king’s eyes, to hold his gaze—this was defiance. This was treasonous audacity.

And yet, you obeyed.

Your eyes lifted, locking onto his.

His face was unreadable, carved from stone, regal and imposing beneath the candlelight. The powdered curls of his black wig framed his angular features, a stark contrast to the graying hair hidden beneath. His baritone voice had left no room for disobedience, and something inside you bristled at that—the way he wielded power so effortlessly, so completely, as though the world bent to his will.

Because it did.

Who was he, really, behind the embroidered silks and golden halls? A pompous man with too much power. A king who wore his arrogance like a crown.

And yet, as you stared into those hazel eyes, as he led you through the waltz with perfect, calculated ease, you saw something else flicker behind them—something tired, something worn. The Sun King, basking in his own light, surrounded by beauty and decadence, but impossibly alone.

You didn’t know whether to pity him or despise him.

So you did neither.

You simply danced.

The whispers faded, the watching eyes blurred into nothing. The music carried you both, and for a moment, just a fleeting moment, it was as though there were only the two of you, moving through the golden halls of Versailles.

When the final notes of the waltz faded into the gilded air, applause rippled through the ballroom like a distant thunderclap. You stepped back, bowing respectfully, your fingers slipping from the king’s grasp as propriety dictated. Louis XIV did not bow in return—kings did not bow—but he inclined his head ever so slightly, a gesture that carried the weight of acknowledgment.

Yet his hazel eyes never left you.

Your dress, though the finest you owned, was a poor imitation of the elaborate silks that swirled around the room. It was the single thing that betrayed you, that made it clear to him—you were no noblewoman, no courtly lady maneuvering through the hierarchy of Versailles with polished ease. You were a bold peasant, a reckless girl who had dared to reach beyond her station, and yet… you had danced as though you belonged.

Louis reached for your hand once more, his fingers warm as they wrapped around yours, anchoring you in place. A slow smirk played at the corner of his lips, something unreadable glinting in his gaze as he tilted his head, studying you like one might study an anomaly.

"Your name," he demanded, his baritone voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

You hesitated, your pulse hammering against your ribs. A foolish part of you wanted to refuse—to remind him that peasants owed kings nothing, least of all their names. But before you could decide whether to answer, a flutter of silken skirts interrupted, breaking the spell between you.

"Your Majesty," a woman’s voice chimed, honeyed and lilting. Another followed, then another. A small group of noblewomen, perfect in their powdered grace, had approached, their faces carefully arranged in expressions of expectation and adoration. Each one curtsied with delicate precision, their gazes flickering briefly to you before dismissing you altogether.

"Will you dance with us, Sire?" one of them asked, batting her lashes in a way that made your stomach turn.

Louis turned his head, his gaze shifting to them, and just like that, your hand slipped from his grasp.

He did not notice at first. He was the Sun King, after all, and the world revolved around him. Women bowed, men whispered, and the court ebbed and flowed to his whims like the tides obeying the moon. Why should he expect that anyone—especially a girl of no name, no title—would simply walk away?

But that was exactly what you did.

You turned, slipping through the crowd before he could realize his mistake, before he could demand that you stay. Your heart pounded as you navigated through the sea of nobility, ignoring the curious glances, the whispers that trailed in your wake. Your brother was nowhere in sight—perhaps he had already escaped, perhaps he was still lingering in the ballroom, watching in horror as you committed what was surely a dangerous act of defiance.

You did not wait to find out.

Your feet carried you faster now, urgency threading through your veins. The gilded halls blurred around you, the chandeliers above casting fractured reflections along the polished floors, but you did not stop. You did not stop until you reached the grand entrance, the towering doors that had once seemed impossibly distant.

Then, with a final push, you burst through them.

The cold night air hit you like a slap, stealing the breath from your lungs. You stumbled, your legs trembling, but you did not slow. Versailles, with all its gold and grandeur, loomed behind you like a dream you never should have stepped into.

A foolish, reckless dream.

You ran.

And inside the palace, Louis XIV lifted his gaze just in time to see the great doors swing open. Just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of you, disappearing into the night like a phantom. His expression did not change, but something in him shifted—something sharp, something that burned just beneath the surface.

Like Cinderella, you had fled from the ball.

Except it was not yet midnight.

And you had left nothing behind. No glass slipper for him to chase.

Only the echo of your defiance.

And for the first time in a long, long while, the Sun King felt the sting of being denied.

[auspicioustidings]

Does this orc romance journey mean we might get orc 141 and reader thoughts???

See now I think the way the 141 lures in a nice human woman to fuck would be that not all of them are orcs.

Ghost and Soap are and they are mean looking fuckers. Ghost is covered in battle scars and is just unimaginably huge, Soap is so clearly a warrior with how his hair is shaved at the side with the top braided in a fighter's style.

But Price is a rough yet regal looking human man, the kind that is contracted to act as a guard for nice, noble women. Elven Gaz had thought it would be how they'd find a woman for all of them, that one of these nobles would take Price's eye and they could steal her away. After all he may enjoy how rough his three companions are, but part of him still misses a gentler touch, a more feminine energy to balance it all out.

It is not a noble woman in the end. There is one Price thinks to test, to introduce to his orcs. He doesn't love her, but she certainly is pretty to look at and perhaps the haughty arrogance might please his elf (it would not, Gaz is not much like his kin in taste).

Imagine Soap's surprise when he goes to grab this woman as Price is making a show of fighting off Ghost to see her reaction and he ends up with a knitting needle jammed into his side by her quiet mouse of a ladies maid. He is in love just from that, even as Ghost drags him away so Price can look the conquering hero he is twitterpated entirely, holding the bleeding wound in his side in a lovers caress.

Price pays attention to this maid afterwards having never truly looked her way before. He finds her clever, witty and scrappy as all hell. She is not the delicate beauty of her mistress but he comes to find his heart starts to race at the sight of her anyway. He discovers she grew up the eldest of 10 children to a poor family and that this position was one she clawed her way up to in order to support them as best she could. She makes such a good ladies maid because she can more or less do everything. It's her resourcefulness he falls for, how any task she is given she will find a way to deliver and not expect praise or adulation.

Gaz can't help but be curious when Price talks about her and decides to verify these claims, visiting the family home to find she was truthful. Her younger siblings are fascinated by his ears while her parents try to do their best to be worthy hosts of a visiting elf. They are crude peasants, their hovel small and messy and the food they serve not fit for even the lowest elf. But somehow he cannot help but feel such a pang of warmth from how they treat him like family even though he is only a stranger who was passing by and asked for shelter. He does not need to meet the girl to fall in love with her, he only needs to hear how her family talks about her.

It drives Ghost into a foul mood as the months go on and all his mates can fucking talk about is some useless human girl. He never wanted a woman with them, was rather hoping they'd get over this notion eventually. He means to ruin her, breaking into her room by cover of night and holding her to the bed while he undoes his trousers. He tries to shove himself down her throat and she damn near bites his prick off. Bloody mouthed and scowling she fights her fear and will not submit as he assumed she would so easily. He barks at her about how he will bloody her cunt with his now bloody cock. He does not in the end, only because he falls for her the moment she barks back that she will bite his bloody cock clean off even while he can scent the flood of arousal between her legs from the idea of him taking her. He decides then that he will have this human woman only when she begs for him and he will do whatever he damn well must to make that happen.

[slavetohersmile]

When the Princess bumped into an old classmate, a girl who She had cruelly bullied throughout their school years, She promptly informed her that if she and her family didn't agree to become Her slaves, She would have them all arrested and thrown in jail.

The poor girl knew that this was not some idle threat and convinced her family to join her in service to the evil Princess.

Here they are helping Her Highness get ready for a date with Her boyfriend. The girl (The Princess couldn't remember her name!) carefully brushed her new Mistress' hair, while her mother was made to lick the Royal shoes, and her sister's face made an excellent stool.

Not wanting the girl's father to perve on Her as She got ready, he was sent to wash and polish Her collection of priceless cars - a job that would take him several days without a break.

She couldn't wait for Her boyfriend to arrive, so that She could show off Her new possessions. It always turned him on when She was mean to peasants, and She decided that She would make the three women kneel and watch with jealousy, while she rode his huge cock.

[brightest-stars-if]

iiiiii want to know Caius' peasant-lover's name so badly (if allowed, im not entitled, just excited), you said that's part of how he and Isolde bonded right?? that is very fascinating to me specifically lol

You're right, anon, Caius and Isolde did find kinship in loving and fumbling peasant women. I also have no issue with sharing some info about Caius' old flame :)

Her name was Emery. She was a servant who worked in the capital when Caius was still a prince. She saved his life, and from then on earned his eternal gratitude. As he tried to repay her, they fell in love. Well, more like he fell in love and she was like "Why tf is this spoiled princeling following me like a puppy," and eventually she fell for him too XD.

They had made plans to marry, but then Caius' cousin died, and suddenly he was the Crown Prince of Taras. He couldn't marry Emery, not after that. He offered to make her his official mistress, but she rejected this offer. He was shattered but accepted her choice and gave her money to start a life outside the capital.

Emery might have been the only woman Caius was both romantically involved with and actually respected. She's also one of the few women he didn't screw over. Ymeric is named after her.

[city-of-ladies]

Women warriors in Chinese history - Part 2

(Part 1)

"However, court confessions, unofficial histories, and local gazetteers do reveal a host of women warriors during the Qing dynasty when patriarchal structures were supposedly most influential. Women in marginal groups were apparently not as observant of mainstream societal gender rules. Daughters and wives of “peasant rebels,” that is, autonomous or bandit stockades, were frequently skilled warriors. Miss Cai 蔡†(Ts’ai) of the Nian (Nien) “army,” for example, “fought better than a man, and she was especially fine on horseback. She was always at the front line, fighting fearlessly despite the large number of government troops.” According to a folktale, she managed to rout an invading government force of several thousand with a hundred men and one cannonball after her husband led most of the Nian off to forage for food.

Related to the female bandits were the women pirates among whom Zheng I Sao 鄭一嫂†(literally, Wife of Zheng I; 1775–1844) is the best researched. “A former prostitute … Cheng [Zheng] I Sao could truly be called the real ‘Dragon Lady’ of the South China Sea.” Consolidating her authority swiftly after the death of her husband, “she was able to win so much support that the pirates openly acclaimed her as the one person capable of holding the confederation together. As its leader she demonstrated her ability to take command by issuing orders, planning military campaigns, and proving that there were profits to be made in piracy. When the time came to dismantle the confederation, it was her negotiating skills above all that allowed her followers to cross the bridge from outlawry to officialdom.”

We know slightly more about some of the women warriors involved in sectarian revolts. Folk stories passed down orally are one of the sources. Tales that proliferated in northern Sichuan on the battle exploits of cult rebels of the White Lotus Religion uprising in Sichuan, Hunan, and Shaanxi beginning in the late eighteenth century glorify several women warriors. The tall and beautiful Big Feet Lan (Lan Dazhu 籃大足) and the smart and skillful Big Feet Xie (Xie Dazhu 謝大足) vanquished a stockade together; the young and attractive Woman He 何氏 could kill within a hundred feet by throwing daggers from horseback. The absence of bound feet in Big Feet Lan and Big Feet Xie suggests their backgrounds were either very poor, unconventional, or non-Han.

Sectarian groups accepted female membership readily, and many of these women trained in the martial arts. Qiu Ersao 邱二嫂†(ca. 1822–53), leader of a Heaven and Earth Society (Tiandihui 天地會) uprising in Guangxi, joined the sect because of poverty and perfected herself in the martial arts. Some women came to the sects with skills. Su Sanniang 蘇三娘, rebel leader of another sect of the Heaven and Earth Society, was the daughter of a martial arts instructor.  Such sectarian rebel bands are frequently regarded as bandit groups. A history of the Taiping Revolutionary Movement refers to these two cult leaders as female bandit chiefs before they joined the Taipings.

Male leaders of religious rebellions frequently married women from families skilled in acrobatic, martial, and magic arts. These women tended to be both beautiful and charismatic. Wang Lun 王倫, who rebelled in 1774 in Shandong, had an “adopted daughter in name, mistress in fact,” by the name of Wu Sanniang 烏三娘 who was one of Wang’s most powerful warriors. Originally an itinerant performer highly skilled in boxing, tightrope walking, and acrobatics, she terrified the enemy with spellbinding magic. She brought a dozen associates from her old life to the sect, and they all became fearsome warriors known as “female immortals” (xiannü 仙女); three of them, including Wu Sanniang, lived with Wang Lun as “adopted wives” (ifu 義婦). A tall, white-haired woman at least sixty years old, possibly the mother of one of these acrobat-turned women warriors, wielded one sword with ease and two almost as effortlessly. Dressed in yellow astride a horse, hair loose and flying, she was feared as much for her sorcery as for her military skills. Her presence indicates that some of the women came from female-dominated itinerant performing families. Woman Zhang 張氏and Woman Zhao 趙氏, wives of Lin Zhe 林哲, another leader of the cult, were also known for being able to brandish a pair of broadswords on horseback.

Hong Xuanjiao 洪宣嬌†(mid nineteenth century), also known as Queen Xiao (xiaohou 蕭后), wife of the West King of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom (taiping tianguo 太平天國), was so stunningly beautiful and impressive in swordsmanship that she mesmerized the entire army during battles. The link between early immortality beliefs and shamanism also suggests that these women warrior “immortals” of sectarian cults may represent surviving relics of the female shamans who occupied high positions during high antiquity.

During the White Lotus Religion rebellion in Sichuan, Hunan, and Shaanxi beginning in 1796, five of the generals were at once leaders and wives of other leaders of the cult. They were Woman Qi née Wang (Qiwangshi 齊王氏; Wang Cong’er 王聰兒), Woman Zhang née Wang (Zhangwangshi 張王氏), Woman Xu née Li (Xulishi 徐李氏), Woman Fan née Zhang (Fanzhangshi 范張氏), and Woman Wang 王†née Li 李 (Wanglishi 王李氏). In the Heavenly Principle Religion (tianlijiao 天理教) rebellion that began in Beijing during 1713, the wife of its leader, Li Wencheng 李文成, led three invasions into the city. There was even a “Female Army” (niangzijun 娘子軍) within the Eight Trigrams (baguajiao 八卦教) uprising in Shandong during the Daoguang 道光† reign (1821–51). The female generals, Cheng Sijie 程四姐†and Yang Wujie 楊五姐, were particularly impressive when they wove among enemy forces in the style of “butterflies flitting among flowers,” wielding broadswords on horseback, their hairpins glittering in the light.

A number of female rebel leaders used religion and magic to buttress their power. Many claimed to be celestials and were leaders of sectarian cults (...). Chen Shuozhen 陳碩貞†(?–653) mobilized a peasants’ uprising by declaring that she had ascended to heaven and become an immortal. Tang Sai’er (ca.1403–20), a head of the White Lotus Religion (bailianjiao 白蓮教), designated herself as a “Buddhist Mother” (fuomu 佛母). The spellbinding old woman warrior in Wang Lun’s Clear Water Religion (qingshuijiao 清水教) sect was known to the rebel community as a reincarnation of the highest White Lotus deity, the Eternal Venerable Mother (wusheng laomu 無生老母). Wang Lun relied on her for performing magic and the rituals for calling on their supreme deity. Woman Wang née Liu (wangliushi 王劉氏), one of the numerous female leaders of the White Lotus Religion revolt, also titled herself the Eternal Venerable Mother. Wang Cong’er (1777–98), originally an itinerant entertainer, became the commander in chief of the rebel army she launched with her husband, a master in the White Lotus Religion.

Indeed, itinerant performers such as Wu Sanniang mentioned above were frequently trained in the martial arts since childhood and must have been skilled at performing magic tricks as well. Lin Hei’er 林黑兒†(?–1900), leader of Red Lanterns (hongdengzhao 紅燈照), the young women’s branch of the Boxer’s Movement (yihetuan 義和團), was also originally an itinerant entertainer (her husband was a boatman). Designating herself the Holy Mother of the Yellow Lotus (huanglian shengmu 黃蓮聖母), she taught her followers the skills of wielding swords and waving fans as well as magic to defeat their enemies.  Wang Nangxian 王囊仙†(literally, Goddess Nang, 1778–97), an ethnic minority of the Miao tribe, was worshipped as a goddess by her tribesmen before she led them in revolt against the Chinese government."

Chinese shadow theatre: history, popular religion, and women warriors, Fan Pen Li Chen

[folkdances]

hello everyone! it's been long enough that we can do round two of good videos from me to you, where i list good youtube videos i've watched recently ^_^ there's essays and music and funnies and more beisdes, and the blue ones are ones i especially enjoyed. feel free to drop any recs in my comments and i hope you find something fun!

how feminism turns into fasc*sm

This Broadcast Gave Viewers Clinical PTSD

Our Houses of Lies

that time To Catch A Predator kinda killed a guy.

What is FASCISM?

The Myth of the Great Male Genius Needs to Die.

How to Perform an Exorcism

2021 '시카고' 프레스콜 We Both Reached For the Gun 민경아 최재림

Birds Do Not Sing in Caves

RASPUTIN: The Devil in the Palace

LOLITA: The Worst Masterpiece

Why Lolita is Impossible to Adapt into Film

Cycles of Violence in Sharp Objects

Frankenstein's Lobotomized Mistress: Dissecting the Poor Things Discourse

Why American Psycho is More Relevant Than Ever (And Why Women Love It)

The Mysterious Death No One Can Solve

A Deep Dive into the Horror-filled Production of The Wizard of Oz (1939)

The Scandalous Films of Pre-Code Hollywood

What Happened at Roopkund Lake?

"The Most Mysterious Finds Science Cant Explain"

Unmasking a Killer Serial Arsonist

The Hike That Killed Five Schoolboys

YouTube’s Oldest Horrors

The Story of Seahenge

The Island of WITCHES

The Unending Violence of Vincent van Gogh

Was Merlin a Real Person?

The Philosophy of Robin Hood

bumpin that

Song of Storms on an old-ass organ.

James Baldwin — I'm writing for people, baby (Meeting the man)

Rebuilt Antler Flute

There Are Mountains in the Clouds

phil ochs - the highwayman

EDGAR ALLAN POE: The Most Mysterious Death

Is the Myth of the Genius Director finally dying?

Why Are AI Generated Videos So Terrifying?

Shira Utagai - so faint reflection of you

It really is that damn phone

crime & punishment (animation)

What is Gothic? The Historical and Philosophical Origins of Goth and Gothic Horror

GUESS | animation meme

Going Out of Bounds in Google Street View

phoenix's OBJECTION but gently... (ft. edgeworth's "*hoho*")

Thelonious Monk - Live In Paris 1967

Great, now none of us can watch TV

GENGHIS KHAN: The Peasant Who Conquered the World

Cannibalism & Witchcraft: The True Story of "Hansel and Gretel"

Nero: The Monster of Rome

Sweet Sue - Paul Whiteman and His Orchestra - 1928 

Wikipedia's King who Doesn't Exist

Advice for time traveling to medieval Europe (+ qna)

MACHIAVELLI: Be the Wolf Among Sheep

The Search For D. B. Cooper

[browneyesandhair]

Non-Exhaustive List of Soulmate Fics: Merthur

Okay, I'm bored so I'm compiling my favorite soulmate fics. Here's the Merthur edition:

True Love by platonic_boner

Summary:

AU where soulmates can’t lie to each other. (That’s okay, Merlin wasn’t planning to lie to Arthur anyways! Haha.. ha.. ha…)

Don't Know You by platonic_boner

Summary:

Arthur can't wait to meet the voice inside his head.

Sharing is Caring by platonic_boner

Summary:

Arthur hadn't really given his soulmate much thought, until he beat a peasant with a broomstick and every blow hurt like he was hitting himself.

Thousand Times Worse. Or Better? by elirwen

Summary:

Forced by Morgana's nagging, Arthur visits soulbond guidance office. Merlin Emrys is asigned to be his guide. That's where the simple ends and complicated begins.

Deeds by the5leggedCricket

Summary:

Arthur is coming of age, and that means he’s about to get Deeds—marks on his body telling him of his soulmate’s greatest accomplishments. But as he tries to find his soulmate, he also makes some worrying discoveries about the kind of person his soulmate is.

Take Your Pain Away by BlueGrassSax

Summary:

Merlin was young when he came to realise that his soulmate was either really clumsy or lived a chaotic existence. Being able to take on the injuries of your soulmate is just a fact of life, a fact that Merlin happily accepts as he learns the ins and outs of his healing magic. But coming to Camelot has disrupted his long held trust in the Fates, for how can someone as bull-headed and arrogant as the prince wear his mark?

Now I Will Unsettle the Ground Beneath You by nu_breed

Summary:

Merlin's dreams have always fuelled his art, but they've always been abstract and removed from reality. Soon after he meets Gwaine, he starts to see vivid images of a past full of death and magic and love for a King who was ripped from him. Things only escalate further when he spends a weekend in the country with Gwaine and meets his group of friends, which includes aristocrat and It Boy, Arthur Pendragon. Merlin soon realises that no matter how hard you try, one thing is certain, you can't fuck with destiny.

Heart Lines by PeaceHeather

Summary:

Everyone is born with a heart line, a pigmented mark running from the heart down the left arm to the palm, which turns color when the person comes of age, telling them when it is time to seek their soulmate. Red indicates a romantic love, while blue is for platonic "heart-friends", as the minstrels called it. Uther had always told Arthur to ignore his heart line, that it wouldn't matter who his soulmate was; princes did not marry for love, after all. If was lucky, he'd be able to keep her as a mistress, so long as he did not get any children with her. Uther hated magic and would have urged Arthur to ignore the heart line anyway, if he could. Arthur wasn't sure his soulmate was really a woman despite Uther's assumptions. But Arthur's heart line hadn't even come into its full color yet, which meant he hadn't come of age in the eyes of the gods, despite being named crown prince by Uther. So it really didn't matter: whoever his soulmate was, he wasn't yet ready to meet them. Then one day his heart line comes in, and it's neither red nor blue.

the gold of you that can't be seen by Fleetling

Summary:

Arthur grins at him, waves his chubby hand. "Father!" he says, because he knows he should be formal with his father. There is no Pa here, no Dad or Da. There's something shiny on his father's head. He points to it. "What's that?" "Prince Arthur!" hisses the woman holding him, but his father only chuckles. The woman relaxes, just slightly. "It's a crown, my son. One day, you will wear one just like it." Arthur tilts his head, curiously. "What colour is it?" He thinks it's grey, just a shade off of the silver of the swords. It's the same silver-grey as half of the household's shiny jewelry, a not quite true silver. He doesn't think he likes it. "It's gold," says his father. "There's a lot of gold here in Camelot, my son." Arthur nods his head, and labels that silver-ish colour gold in his mind.   (Or: in a world where you can't see the colour of your soulmate's eyes until you meet them, Arthur can't see gold, and it makes his life as a prince much more difficult.)

Of All The Planets In All The Galaxies, He Walked Into Mine. by supercalvin

Summary:

On Camelot, the base planet of the Albion Intergalactic Alliance, the people have a unique gift where the name of their soulmate appears on their arm. Finding one’s soulmate could be as easy as taking a shuttle over to the next planet or it could take years for destiny to find its way to their side of the galaxy. Ten years ago, Ambassador Arthur Pendragon found out the name on his arm wasn’t from any known language in the galaxy. He hadn’t had much faith in love ever since.

The Druid Consort by bluevalentine69

Summary:

27-year-old Alpha Prince Arthur has been married off to 16-year-old Druid Prince Merlin to unite their kingdoms. Meeting for the first time at dawn to be handfasted by the customs of Merlin’s druid people - and expected to mate that night by the customs of Arthur's wolf-people - neither prince is best pleased by the situation. Tomorrow they will belong to each other in body and soul. Turns out, married life's not so bad ...

Four Days To Fall In Love. by CupCakezys

Summary:

In a world where everyone has a soulmate (or two or three), Arthur Pendragon knows he is destined to be alone. For Arthur can see his heartstring, could follow it to where his soulmate lived, and that could only mean one thing. His soulmate had magic, and should they ever meet, Arthur would have to kill them.

the world entire by schweet_heart

Summary:

The world is very still, and it occurs to Arthur suddenly how quiet it is. The bells don’t toll for dead manservants, only for princes and kings, but that just makes the clamour of his heart seem louder.   “Very well,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “Then I’m going to have to save him.” Episode 1x13 AU. Nimueh accepts Merlin’s offer to exchange his life for Arthur’s. Arthur does not.

Hear Your Heart Sing (Love, Love, Love) by schweet_heart

Summary:

Merlin used to like the idea of finding The One – until he fell in love with Arthur Pendragon. Now he has a boss he can't date (but can't stop thinking about), a soulmate he can't find (who has terrible taste in music), and a best friend who can't believe he still hasn't got his act together (even though it's seriously not his fault). Sometimes, life is unfairly complicated, even without your soulmate singing painfully catchy tunes in the back of your head.

Dreams Don't Turn To Dust by goodluckgettingtosleep

Summary:

In a world where every person starts dreaming about their soulmate on the day of their 16th birthday, Prince Arthur is expected to be the soulmate of a beautiful princess. But when the big day finally rolls around, it turns out that his true soulmate is as far from a beautiful princess as one could get... a peasant boy with magic.

Let it be you by amithia

Summary:

This is all Gwen's fault. Merlin never wanted a stupid smartphone in the first place. Now, he has a smartphone and a supercilious, posh git bullying him on Whatsapp. He really should block the prat. or The one where Merlin doesn't block the prat and finds out that, maybe, smartphones aren't so bad after all.

Feather and Fang by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf

Summary:

Everyone knows that magic users have magic dæmons. Creatures of myth and legend. Some appear normal but have hides in unnatural colours. It's a way to pick them out of a crowd, find them, even when they try to hide in plain sight.

The Worst Wizard by bluevalentine69

Summary:

Merlin is the worst wizard in wizarding school: his spells are accident prone and he is generally a walking disaster. When the time comes for his class to summon their familiars for the first time, many of the students summon powerful magical creatures. However, upon Merlin's turn, he summons a very unamused, regular human as a familiar: Arthur. Based on this prompt: https://kinksofcamelot.livejournal.com/1806.html?thread=557070#t557070. Now with original artwork!

Strangled by the Red String of Fate by idlestories

Summary:

“It has its roots in a legend from the east, sire. I believe it’s called the red string of fate.” “Fate?” Arthur said incredulously. “What, is he going to be the one to kill me?” “Getting more likely by the minute,” Merlin supplied. “Shut up, Merlin.” Gaius held up a weary hand. “Legend has it that the string connects people to the person with whom they are most compatible.” There was a beat of silence. “You have got to be kidding me.”

octarine by schweet_heart

Summary:

Merlin isn't Arthur's soulmate, and Arthur isn't Merlin's, yet somehow in spite of themselves they're everything to one another. Which is why, when Arthur finally starts seeing in colour, he isn't willing to let Merlin go without a fight. Written for Merlin_Holidays Fest 2016.

you are my favorite mistake (it can only be fate) by muItifandomjess

Summary:

When Merlin accidentally creates a mental link between himself and Arthur, they discover far more about each other than they could ever have imagined.