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tragedy-of-commons · 2 months

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composition

aventurine x gn!reader | wc: ~1k

He needs to go before he decides that he needs to stay.

tags/warnings: cute domesticity, but since it's aven it has to be a little angsty, skin drawing/inking, mentioned topaz

notes: standalone but i'm thinking of expanding on this universe in the future :3c sdfsdfsdf not happy with how it turned out but fuck it

The ballpoint tip of your pen glides over his hand, leaving another trail of red in its wake.

Aventurine watches with rapt attention. The intricate patterns of swirling ink that you insist on marking him with definitely make it harder to color-match an outfit - but he indulges the habit anyway. Perhaps it’s the artificially sweet aroma that’s typical of such cheap writing utensils; he’s now accustomed to the smell of chemically-grown raspberries while you use him as your canvas.

It’s tolerable, seeing you poke out your tongue in concentration while doodling with no rhyme or reason. Some strokes are thick and jagged, wrapping around the myriad of thinner ones to create a picture he can’t discern.

(However, when you usually finish, you beam in satisfaction. He doesn’t peg you as the abstract type, but he wonders what you see that he can’t.)

His phone vibrates twice in his free hand. The new messages that grace the screen are of no surprise:

Topaz The booking’s confirmed. I handled it and was able to score us better rooms ✨

Topaz Cruor V is too cold to skimp out on the suites with thermal heaters. Now if you could just be on time for once, that’d make my job a LOT easier.

You hum, sage. “Time to go?”

Aventurine makes a show of examining your handiwork after you pull away from him. “Unfortunately, the IPC’s gains take precedence. Although, I could argue that dedicating my time to the arts is much more valuable in the long run.”

“Hah,” you snap the cap back onto the pen. “If you argue much longer, you could make somebody mad. Don’t let my silly doodles keep you, okay?”

There’s a sad smile on your face, and though it doesn’t deter him from leaving right now, he knows that he’ll count each star separating you from him while he sleeps alone on business. He’ll do so with his gloves off, fingers tracing over the faded curves and dips of red - theorizing how many rainstorms it would take to wash you from his person completely.

He finds himself hoping that he’ll never reach a consensus. Aventurine really hasn’t gotten any better at fooling the wide-eyed child clawing at his insides.

“Yes. That Topaz is probably wishing unspeakable curses upon me right about now,” he lilts, the beginning of the end on the horizon. “See me off?”

“Don’t make it sound so grim,” you complain, “I’m just gonna miss you. You’ll be back on the 24th, right?”

You say it so casually. If he had any less restraint (or any more courage), he would let out a breathy laugh and then chase it with a kiss to your lips. In the past, honey-trapping had come natural to him when he was on assignment; wrapping an arm around the ambassador of an indebted planet, using the bells and whistles of his disposition to make friends with the right people.

You’re not any of that. You’re not any of that, and he knows. It would be pathetic if you knew how much sway you hold over him - how much sway that this pantomime of a relationship holds over him.

Though the scales are forever tipped in his favor, Aventurine finds that it’s woefully unfair. You appear as nonplussed as him; wordlessly letting him into your home at any hour, always cooking for two, and always decorating his skin with that accursed red pen.

If that makes you cruel, he cannot begin to imagine what it makes him.

“Keen memory,” he brings himself to stand, “Wonder what changed.”

“My memory is fine, thank you very much.”

He cocks an eyebrow.

You flip him off. “Forgetting a few deadlines isn’t substantial evidence!”

Aventurine chuckles, ambling over to the table by the door. On it rests his gloves, which he pulls over his hands. If the ink stains the fabric inside, no one will be able to tell. “Then I’ll make sure to amass a comprehensive portfolio of ‘evidence’ while I’m gone.”

He’s already dressed and presentable for this assignment. In truth, he could have spared Topaz the headache of his tardiness, but what’s the job of Director without a little challenge? He’s sure it will count towards her experience and character, and you get to scribble on him without the constraint of time.

You pad over, embracing him tentatively. Aventurine dithers between pulling you closer and pushing you away, before he settles on doing nothing. His heart isn’t racing, but it feels too small and too big and too full of you.

“That better be a promise,” you murmur.

(He smells raspberries. He can’t decide if it’s therapeutic or noxious.)

If he were a more selfless person, maybe he’d tell you that promises never go over well for him - that you shouldn’t bother with any of this. After all, ruling a gambler’s heart only serves to turn you into a bargaining chip.

But Aventurine basks in your warmth anyway, letting his shoulders droop. “If you’re so hung up about it, then why not?”

His phone buzzes somewhere again, and he’s cold as you pull away. “Perfect. Good luck on your.. uh, thing! Tell Numby I said hi.”

“What is it with you and that animal?” he heaves a martyred (fond) sigh.

You huff. “Warp trotters are cool, Aven!”

“Not when they mercilessly chew up your clothes.”

Your demands for more information fall on deaf ears, because it really has become time to go. Interastral travel is bothersome, but not so much anymore - meaning that if he’s not at least an hour early, he’s inconceivably behind schedule. His own reasoning tastes acrid.

That note of something has been with Aventurine ever since he woke by your side, searching your sleeping expression aimlessly. He’d chased the feeling with coffee in one of your stupid mugs, a conversation about your too-bright dreams, and letting you scrawl all over him when he desperately needs to go.

He’s ferried past the door, another farewell echoing behind him before he starts walking. The idle images that plague his mind are of stained gloves, the interior of your bedroom, and the calendar in your kitchen with the date of his return circled in red.

You wave to him from the window as he turns the corner.

He wagers he'll be back on the 24th.

taglist: @hanyi-writes, @karagatan02, @aphrodict, @nomazee

#—stellaronhvnters.#aventurine x reader #hsr x reader #hsr aventurine x reader #aventurine angst #aventurine fluff #honkai star rail x reader #aventurine hsr x reader #honkai star rail #star rail x reader #✧ my works

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thelearnedsoldiertoo · 2 months

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Highlord Auridyce Rialla

A continuation of this post, fifteen years after witnessing her big sister's death in battle, Auridyce has made a name for herself as an experience Blood Knight and skilled Paladin Officer; through a somewhat complicated and bizarre series of coincidences, misunderstandings, and windfalls, she found herself asked to command an Order of Paladins tasked with reclaiming Duskwood from the dead that plague its forest eaves and the curse that afflicts its people on behalf of the Kingdom of Stormwind.

Seeing this as both a way to reinforce the peace after the Fourth War and to help her sister(who she believed at the start of the conflict was being controlled by the Banshee Necromancer, Sascha Cruor), Auridyce formed the Order of the New Dawn, an Argent Crusade-style organisation dedicated to reclaiming the darkened lands south of the river--metre by metre if necessary.

Huge kudos as always to @cadhla182 for the amazing work!!!

(Combination art of the two sisters, fifteen years since the previous one)

#sin'dorei #my ocs #blood elf #blood knight #my oc #paladin #wow oc

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voraciousvore · 1 month

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Giganterra (Chapter 17)

Prologue/ TOC | Previous (16) | Next (18)

Content Warning: Vore themes/ mentions

Word Count: 2.2k

------ Chapter 17: Chef Cruor ------

Chef Cruor was tired. He was always tired, right down to the marrow of his bones. His joints and ligaments cracked and popped whenever he moved, the inevitable result of a lifetime of grueling manual labor. His feet were sore from carrying his weight, and his back, neck, and shoulders ached from stooping and lifting. His hands were roughened and scarred from working around heat, harsh chemicals, and sharp objects. Even the skin on his waxen face sagged from weariness.

Cruor had one passion that made life worth living, and that was cooking. He practiced his art with a fervency that belied his constant state of exhaustion. He’d worked hard to claw his way up to the position he was in today. As a royal chef, he had the privilege of access to the highest quality ingredients, including unusual and exotic culinary treasures from faraway lands, and the most state-of-the-art equipment. Sometimes, he even had the opportunity to experiment and craft new masterpieces for consumption.

Unfortunately, he paid a high price for his position. His job sucked. His boss, Bucky, was a slave driver who was incessantly rushing him, nagging, heckling, and cursing him out. The brute didn’t have an eye for quality, and only cared about production. He forced Cruor to perform menial tasks, such as mopping the floors and washing dishes, when all he wanted to do was cook and create. Bucky failed to understand that Cruor was not a mere kitchen worker, but a suffering artist.

Furthermore, his talents were wasted on the unsophisticated palates of the royal family. The king cared more about the taste of the humans in his food than the food itself. Crown Prince Ronny always found a reason to complain about his meals and threw tantrums over the most petty problems. Princess Bianca was exceedingly picky, and ate like a bird. Essentially, his perfect food creations were fed to swine.

Regardless, Cruor put his soul into his cooking. This morning was no different, as he meticulously garnished crêpes cooked to perfection, mixed batter for scones, and sliced fruit into artistic shapes. Bucky came up behind him and slapped a meaty paw on his shoulder.

“You’re wasting time, Cruor,” he chided. “The fruit will taste the same regardless of how it’s cut.”

“Presentation matters,” Cruor sniffed derisively.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Just hurry up and get it done. The royals will be up soon and they’re expecting breakfast in bed.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Cruor mumbled, shrugging off Bucky’s hand with annoyance. He hastened to plate the food, trying his best to strike a balance between efficiency and visual appeal as he arranged the various entrées. He made sure the strawberry slices that he cut into hearts and stars were displayed on the top, with the other berries buried under the cream. Once he was satisfied, he sent the trays out and began cleaning up his station.

His pride switched to dismay when Ronny’s tray returned in ruins, with shattered dishes and splattered food. “What happened?” Cruor asked the prince’s servant. “Did he not enjoy the food?”

The servant scoffed and threw up his hands. “Who knows? You know how he is. He threw one of his little tantrums and smashed everything all over the walls and carpet.” He rolled his eyes.

“Oh.” Cruor let out a long, fatigued sigh that seemed to drain all his remaining energy. He attempted to console himself with the fact that he at least wouldn’t have to wash the destroyed plates. He tossed the broken shards in the trash, wiped down the tray, and started prepping for lunch. Soon after, Princess Bianca’s maid came in with a tray that had hardly been touched, excluding the crêpes. Cruor looked over the spread and furrowed his brow.

“Did she say anything about the food?” he inquired. “Was there something wrong with it?”

The maid shrugged. “No. She was more interested in tormenting her little men. She rolled one up in a crêpe and ate him alive.”

“I see.” Cruor slumped his shoulders. He didn’t expect praise by any means from the spoiled princess, but he was dejected that his hard work had gone unnoticed and unappreciated. The fruit pieces had sunk into the bowl of cream, becoming soggy as the juices leeched out. The scones, biscuits, and eggs didn’t have a single bite. He was annoyed that his cooking had been upstaged by the flavor of some stupid little humans instead.

The same seemed to be the case with the king’s breakfast. King Richard had eaten well, but the servant reported he was distracted the entire time, playing with his tiny women and feeding them, so he probably didn’t pay much attention to the quality of the meal. Cruor wilted as he morosely gazed down at the spread of leftovers, particularly Bianca’s tray. He didn’t want the food to be wasted, but by now it had been sitting out for too long in the open air, and was probably cold and stale. He glanced over at the human enclosures. Nobody had fed the prisoners yet. Perhaps he could dispose of the scraps that way. Maybe they would be more grateful, to at least be fed a good meal despite their harrowing confinement.

Cruor broke off a generous chunk of a sugary pastry and deposited it in Eren’s tank. The human within looked half-feral, with the way she was glowering at him, so he retracted his fingers before she could bite or scratch him. She cursed at him in a squeaky voice, shook her fist, and spat on the glass with contempt. He leaned down and watched to see if she would eat, but she kicked the doughy mass away with her tiny foot instead and crossed her arms in defiance. Cruor frowned and moved on to the next tank.

He gave Jackie a piece of flaky biscuit. She jumped when she saw the giant chef looming over her and crammed herself in the corner of her terrarium with her back to the glass. He observed her for a minute to see if she would eat, but she was too terrified. Her eyes, wide enough for him to see the whites even with her diminutive stature, remained glued to his face. Her little noodle arms and legs vibrated like rubber bands. Obviously, she wasn’t going to show any interest in the food.

Cruor bestowed another tidbit upon the next tank. Iris didn’t respond at all, didn’t even raise her head as she laid there like a slug. She didn’t care anymore and felt nothing. Cruor figured this particular human would need to be disposed of soon; her flavor wouldn’t last, when she lacked vitality and enthusiasm for food as she did. She was in the end stages: Cruor had witnessed it enough times before to recognize the signs.

The dejected chef fed the remaining humans, who responded in similar ways to the first three, with various levels of indifference, fear, or resentment. Chef Cruor became more and more depressed with each rejection. Nobody appreciated his talents, not even the living food ingredients. He exhaled wearily and began dumping the rest of the leftovers into the trash.

He had one more scone to get rid of when he recalled the scraggly human he’d isolated last night. He needed to feed her too, but he doubted she would eat much. With how emaciated she was, she was probably sick or on some sort of hunger strike. He might have to force-feed her to prevent her from dying, a task that he did not enjoy in the least. He crumbled off a corner of the frosted scone and padded over to an inconspicuous shelf in a less trafficked area of the kitchen. He’d trapped her in a jar and placed her there.

Addison looked scrawny and pitiful, slumped to the side with her ribs and hip bones visible under her stretched skin. Her eyes were dull and shrunken into her pale, gaunt face. She didn’t notice Cruor at first, when she was wandering alone in her troubled thoughts, so he took the opportunity to examine her while she held still. When he turned her over in his hands yesterday, he’d noticed small blemishes all over her skin, especially on her back, that he only realized now were scars. His curiosity was piqued over how a frail young woman like her was more scarred than a battle-hardened soldier.

He picked up the jar and unscrewed the lid. The human inside jolted, shirking away from the gigantic hand that encircled the glass around her. Cruor figured she probably would be too scared to eat if he continued to hold the jar, so he set it on the counter with a thunk that made Addison bounce. He dropped in the crumb of food, fully expecting the skeletal human to ignore the food or refuse to eat.

To his shock, the thin girl leapt forward, snatched the sweet treat with both hands, scrambled back, and tore into it with the fervency of a starving animal. She seemed to forget the giant chef was present as she lost herself in sweet bliss, savoring the delightful flavor and fluffy texture. Cruor lowered himself to his knees in amazement, ignoring the uncomfortable protest of his joints popping, so his eyes were level with the jar on the countertop. Her face, vacuous and wan before, now glowed with lively relief.

Cruor gaped as he saw wet sparkles on her cheeks and realized she was crying. She was crying with joy. “Thank you...” she murmured. The giant had to lean in to hear her soft, small voice. “Thank you so much... I was so hungry...”

Cruor was dumbfounded. Nobody had ever cried over his cooking before. During the span of his entire employment in the royal kitchen, he had never received any thanks—not from his boss Bucky, not from humans or servants, and certainly not from the giant royals. All he got for the blood, sweat, and tears he poured into his job, for the passion and heart he baked into his creations, were complaints and criticisms. Until now, nobody had acknowledged his talent.

He slowly backed away from the jar, so as not to startle the fragile woman, before hopping to his feet with excitement and hurrying off to grab the rest of the scone. He plucked off another chunk and dropped it into the jar, watching as she scarfed it down with alacrity. To see a person enjoy his cooking as much as she did wiped out his disappointment from earlier.

He kept feeding her tiny pieces until she couldn’t eat any more, and her tiny concave belly had filled out into a cute bump. “That was so good,” she squeaked, patting her belly and blushing under Cruor’s eager gaze. His eyes were as big as she was, gleaming with exhilaration, and so close that she could see the tinge of violet in his dark irises. She still felt anxious around him, but the relief of finally sating her tortuous hunger outweighed her fright. Besides, he didn’t seem like he intended to hurt her or snatch her up, at least not at the moment.

Her blood ran cold when she saw the colossal figure of Bucky stomp over behind Cruor. He grabbed Cruor by his knobby shoulder, making the happy chef’s grin morph into a grimace. “Cruor! What are you doing?”

“Just feeding the humans,” Cruor answered, maneuvering his aching joints back into a standing position. He turned to face Bucky.

Bucky squinted at him, puzzled. “What’s gotten into you? I’ve never seen you like this...” Cruor’s eyes were still sparkling with the enthusiasm of a child over his triumph. Bucky watched the light drain from his eyes at the remark, to be replaced with the dull fatigue he was more accustomed to.

“N-nothing...” Cruor mumbled with mild embarrassment, rubbing his sore neck awkwardly.

“Well, quit fooling around and get back to work!” the head chef barked, stabbing his fat finger into Cruor’s chest. “We don’t have all day!”

“Yes, sir,” Cruor replied, deflating. Bucky gave him a suspicious glance before lumbering away to harass Chef Gore. Cruor turned back to the counter and picked up the jar reverently. Addison stared up at him as he screwed the lid back on and returned the jar to its spot on the shelf.

“I’ll be back later, little one, don’t you worry,” he assured her, tracing the tip of his finger down the side of the glass. “I’ll be sure to prepare you something filling. Something special.” Addison brightened at the prospect. She may have stuffed her stomach full, but her body was still malnourished. She’d never eaten a snack as delicious as that scone she’d been blessed with, and she was desperate for more. She nodded.

Cruor felt like skipping like a giddy schoolgirl as he hustled over to his station and began plucking a flock of freshly-killed pheasants for lunch. His hands moved mechanically over his work out of habit, but his mind was elsewhere. He was floating in the clouds. Somebody actually appreciated his art for once. He brainstormed fresh recipes he could feed the human that she would like. It would be difficult to plate a meal so small, but he was up to the challenge.

Chapter 18

#giant #g/t #g/t writing #tiny #giant/tiny #giant tiny #size difference #g/t story #g/t fluff

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ruler-of-thorns · 5 months

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My son//my father

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst malleus #malleus draconia #twst lilia #lilia vanrouge #twst spoilers #twst chapter 7 spoilers #twst chapter 7 #twst ch7 #twst book 7 #twst fanart #cruor's art #really like the shading on this but Lilia's hair took me a solid three hours. what the fuck peepaw #i hate them they make me cry

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twstfanblog · 7 months

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*~*Midnight Chronicles*~*

A/N: I'm gonna start cross-posting and this is where my main story rewrite will be posted to at a later date. Until then enjoy my monster AU! Here's the link Midnight Chronicles on AO3

VIL 1

Pale hands clasped over a flat stomach, bright amethyst eyes staring at the flawless flesh with an unblinking gaze. To a normal person, there'd be nothing wrong with the young man standing in the ornate room. Silvery, wavy blonde hair curling just barely against his bare shoulders, nude and open to the chill of the open balcony doors.

But he wasn't normal. He was 'Vil Schoenheit', a name picked by his 'father', and he was a monster.

He looks up from his stomach, eyes meeting his own in the mirror. The faint thump of a new, tiny heart beating under his fingers. Blood splashed against the mirror's surface and his own body, the cooling gore painting his body in artful brush strokes. It was a messy meal, something he wasn't accustomed to doing. He was neat, precise, eating his meals in a proper manner that left no trace in the light of day. This meal, he could barely wait for the moment they were alone. The door closed and Vil was on the poor human. Claws sinking into flesh and pulling, tearing the meat from bone and spraying cruor in wild arches along the walls and against the polished floors. He ate the body, bones and all with nothing left to even use as an accessory or gift for his loved ones. But now he knows the reason for his beastly hunger. His little one was hungry too…he had a little one on the way…a child…with Him .

The green-eyed hunter that he let live. That Vil went back to willing. That he let… inside him .

Vil scoffs, walking away from the mirror but keeping a protective hand over his stomach as he opens the large bathroom door. A bath was needed, new clothes, and maybe a gift of bones from the woods for the hunter. His hunter, Rook.

Rook was a threat, Vil knew it from the moment their eyes met in the crowd of the festival all those months ago. He will admit he let his guard down briefly. The golden blonde was so… predatory , Vil simply thought he was also a monster, some manner of beast that could look past lies and masks. But he learned quickly. The hunter stalked, tracked him across towns and through his numerous disguises. He literally hunted him down like an animal through the wilds. And he did it all with a serene joy in his eyes.

He caught him one night. Vil had never tasted fear, not as strongly as he did seeing the glee in that man's eyes as he approached his trapped form. Only for his happiness to fade upon hearing his comrades coming closer. He worked quickly, cutting his bonds, and before Vil could so much as bite his nimble gloved fingers, he was gone.

Their next meeting sealed Vil's fate. He hunted the hunter in turn. Tracked him through the woods and cut him down with a furious swipe of his bladed claws. As he stood over the bleeding hunter he smiled, asking if he had a final wish. He had been such a stimulating hunt, Vil would feel like a reprobate to not grant him one wish on his dying breath.

Rook smiled, a hand grasping onto his gushing shoulder. He asked to see him. The true him. Not the ethereal flesh he cloaks himself in to lore his prey into his jaws. Vil granted him his wish. Bones snapped, flesh churned under and through the skin to take true shape. The horror was no longer hidden under a delicate mask. Vil felt a moment of anticipation, to see terror form over the hunter's face at seeing his true form.

Instead, green eyes widened in surprise. Almost shining, glittering in awe like falling stars. A blissful smile taking over his face, the trail of blood still somehow perfectly in place as he cried out in joy, "As I expected. You're beautiful …"

…

It's embarrassing, but he fled. He saw that stupid, handsome fool reach a hand out to his uncovered visage as though he were a bird coated in golden feathers and he ran.

Vil found him later. He disguised himself as a drunken tavern woman who whispered in the hunter's ear to take him upstairs, ravish him like he was his only love. If it weren't for the familiar smile Rook gives, Vil would have killed him for daring to sleep with someone else after calling him beautiful.

But Rook knew, he had always known. And he still saw him as beautiful, a being who was something to be gazed at in awe and kissed gently on his blood-stained hands. So Vil was kind in return and gave his hunter the prize of tasting his pleasurable flesh. Over and over and over and over .

Vil blows bubbles angrily in the water of the bath. Soap foaming under the faucet quickly turning pink from the blood. He rubbed his stomach, hoping to calm the excited beating of the new heart. He was paying for his actions sadly, paying for them by being with child from the very person who was supposed to be his killer. Or his dinner.

…

He wonders if this was all a trap somehow. To get him comfortable with his presence and actions, only to betray him in his moment of weakness. But, then he remembers how Rook looked at him. So soft, so cloyingly tender. His eyes showed his want, his need, to embrace him from their first meeting. The expressions made beautiful masks for his collection. And so far every time he used one, his prey fell into his arms easily.

Vil wonders if that is how Rook got him into his bed.

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twst #twst wonderland #vilrook #twst vil #vil schoenheit #twst rook #rook hunt

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galderthefuzzy · 1 year

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The Blood Mender

The Brigade's war on the Cruor Sanguis Blood cult has been going on for more than a decade now. While undeniably costly and with mounting casualties on both sides, it has not come without its benefits. One of them is understanding of the Blood magic and various rituals that can be used both to cause harm and mend even the most grievous injuries. The Brigade has captured a few cultists at the very beginning of the conflict and managed to free them from the cult's influence. Some of them left, never to be heard of again, but some stayed and joined in the fight against their former captors. One of them is Borgia, the veteran leader of the Brigade's Blood priests. A small, secretive unit comprised mostly of former cultists who seek redemption and some of them most likely revenge. While not as formidable as Octavian or Alanna Vex, the feared Blood Countess, Borgia is a powerful spellcaster in her own right. Over the years, she has managed to mend injuries that resisted the efforts of the more conventional healers at the Brigade hospital, and has proven to be an invaluable instructor to those few who attempt to master the crimson arts. I have finished this piece some time ago, in an attempt to bring back Borgia in a more stylish and 'modern' fashion - opting for the stained glass I've recently fallen in love with. The last piece I've done of her was back in 2017.. 6 whole years, unbelievable.

#sindorei #blood elf #warcraft #world of warcraft #warcraft art #fanart #oc #original character #fantasy #gaming #the brigade #blood magic #magic #spell #stylized #digital #digital art #stained glass #female

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gasotea · 1 year

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ʟɪɴ ᴄʀᴜᴏʀ

{ REDACTED } Kira Tsunami

🪞 I actually went ahead and changed her name~ Her info is still planning. Have this art first! 🪞

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland original character #Lin Cruor #Kira Tsunami #Kira Tsunami { READACTED }#art #original art

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necrotic-nightshade · 1 year

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Artsy thing number 2- I finished Cruor’s ref! TH link TBA I’m currently working on a proper bio for him.

Square Hammer lookin’ motherfucker

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11vein · 1 year

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hello again, ever since I found out you where the one behind the art in rbb & ewn I’ve become a big fan of yours and have figuratively inhaled your art. Anyway I have 2 questions

Where/how do you get art inspo

how did you come up with ‘cruormor’ as your username?

thank u!!! 1. augh i get my inspiration from everywhere... someday ill have to compile a list of some of my biggest inspirations

2. cruormor is the word cruor and the prefix mor stuck together. originally my username was ichor mor (and honestly ichor mor is cooler but cruormor is what im known for now so i feel kinda forced to keep that) but i had to jump ship from that cause i had a paranoid breakdown my family found my stuff lMAOO as a side note, i just completely made up the name mors one day and only found out later the meaning but it was cool and i kept it. i extended it to be a nickname for morris though so it im not trying to seem too edgy

#qna

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bewitchingbooktours · 2 months

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Release Day Blitz The Holy Man’s Sinner by T. M. Smith

The Holy Man’s Sinner

Blood Coven World

Book Three

T. M. Smith

Genre: Paranormal Romance

Publisher: Evernight Publishing

Date of Publication: April 2, 2024

ISBN: 978-0-3695-0982-6

ASIN: B0CZ18QJRN

Number of pages: 79

Word Count: 1597

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Tagline: An unlikely heart seeks redemption

Book Description:

In an opposites-attract story, the vampire Elisabeta is searching for more than just pleasure and the bludfrenzy.

When she crosses paths with Nelo, a holy man with a rebellious streak, her world is turned upside down.

As she navigates a new path filled with self-discovery, romance, and redemption, she must confront the challenges that threaten to tear them apart.

Will their love transcend the judgment of others and the shadows of their pasts?

Amazon BN Kobo Apple Books2Read

Excerpt:

“Tell me about these selfless acts which will heal me.” Her lips caressed the glass as she sipped her drink.

Nelo’s breath caught at the sight. Remembering the conversation, he puzzled his chin with forefinger. “Good deeds will fill your days and contemplation your nights. At the end of your healing, a worthy, seductive male awaits your recovery.” He patted his chest. “The male would be me.”

“Cruor, you lack humility.”

“It is a flaw I work on.”

“In the meantime, you’ll assign me to a soup kitchen until I feel better about myself?”

“To something. Not a soup kitchen.” He tilted his glass, swallowing a sip and noticing how Elisabeta watched him.

“How do you know your solution will work?” she asked.

He rolled the amber liquid in the tumbler. “I am the Cruor, a male wise beyond his years.”

“With only a small flaw.”

“So tiny. Not worth mentioning.” He threw back his drink, rose, and shoved out his hand.

About the Author:

After retiring from her career in education, T. M. Smith settled in to write something more creative than lesson plans on split infinitives and inner-school memos on noise in the hallway.

Taking great interest in the lives of vampires, demons, elves, mages, and other magical beings, she began a paranormal romance series of five books with alpha males who aren't always nice and females who have no problem keeping them in line. The Blood Coven Series is complete. Her new project is a series of stand-alone, short novellas set in the Blood Coven World. In the meantime, she is working on a longer surprise project.

Here are more orts, scraps, and fragments from her life. (a homage to Virginia Wolf and Shakespeare.) She moved from sunny Las Vegas to the less-than-sunny Pacific Northwest. Here she has adventures with her daughter, son-in-law, and two granddaughters who also moved to the area. She also enjoys a membership at Bainbridge Artisan Resource Network (BARN), a local organization that supports the arts and offers classes and events in eleven different studios. It was at BARN where her critique group began. With equal time given to in-depth comments on each other's works, snarky remarks, and laughter, they have now been together nearly eight years.

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