#color correction on the breeches

[itsclydebitches]

Summary: Tarina, a new apprentice at Sorcerous Sundries, becomes intrigued by a wizard and his oddly colored raven. 

Pairing: Gale/Astarion, outsider PoV

Word Count: 3,427

Part of the Little by Little, Step by Step collection

Inspired by @cake-apostate post <3

Tarina had never seen a white raven before.

It sat tall on the wizard’s shoulder, surveying Sorcerous Sundries with what she wanted to say was a haughty air. That was ridiculous though... right? Plenty who passed through the store could summon up a familiar, but this creature lacked the same aura of magic those conjured beasts wore. It might have been a druid showing off their impressive Wild Shape, but Brenan had given her that You’re An Idiot Apprentice look when she’d asked, reiterating that every druid’s shape was identical to another’s. It was built into the spell. You’d have better chance spotting a Wild Shaped druid not by its behavior, but by how conspicuously brown it was.

She supposed it might have been a normal bird bound to the wizard, even trained, but Tarina had never seen plumage of that coloring. The raven was pure white, from the tip of its beak all the way down, the only color on its body stemming from piercing, blood-red eyes. Sometimes Tarina caught the bird watching her and shivered, feeling hunted. Which again, ridiculous. She might have only just started her training, but even she could best a two-pound corvid.

The wizard must not have found what he was looking for because Tarina watched as he shook his head, gesturing angrily at their collection of scrolls. As he did, the movement dislodged the raven, nearly sending it to the floor.

It proceeded to bite the wizard’s neck in retaliation.

Then it gagged.

“—don’t know how many times I need to say it!” the wizard was yelling as he left the shop, one hand on the small wound and the other trying to grab the raven by the scruff of its neck.

They got all types in Sundries, but this was odd even by their standards. Tarina didn’t know what was up with those two but she was damn well going to figure it out.

Besides, mysteries were better than doing inventory any day.

***

“Excuse me, um—Master Rolan?”

Tarina had tried to present herself as respectfully and unobtrusively as possible, going so far as to give a little curtsy as she approached (which probably looked stupid in breeches). For a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her—or worse, was ignoring her—but then Master Rolan sighed and raised a hand to his eyes, squeezing them shut.

“Please don’t call me that.”

Tarina blinked. Being corrected probably wasn’t a good thing, but he didn’t sound mad. She decided to risk shuffling a little closer, standing beside him as he looked out over the store’s upper railing. “Why...?”

“Would you like to know what I’ve learned about others, myself, or my true motivation?”

Okay, maybe wizard dude and his raven weren’t that weird, not if this was the guy running things. Tarina was trying to figure out if this was some kind of test when Rolan turned, his lips twisting into a self-deprecating smile.

“Lorroakan was this tower’s previous master,” he said, “and I have no intention of following in his depraved footsteps. Beyond that, however, I still have a great deal to learn about the arcane arts and have not yet earned the title of ‘Master’ even if I wanted to take it. Mystra knows my folly has endangered enough of us already. But really...” Rolan leaned closer, a spark of... something lighting up his eyes. “My sister Lia will never let me hear the end of it if she catches you calling me that, so save me the trouble and I won’t have to fire you without recommendation. Alright?”

“Right!” Oh, this had been a bad idea. Tarina couldn’t tell if Rolan was joking, but she really wasn’t inclined to find out. She couldn’t afford it. Literally, given the weight of her coin purse. She mumbled a nonsense apology to her feet and started backing away when Rolan raised a hand, halting her.

“Where are you going? Didn’t you need something?”

...right.

“It’s nothing much Ma—uh, Rolan. I was just wondering if you knew this customer?” Tarina started gesturing a little wildly and willed herself to stop. Her hands didn’t listen. “Wizard type. Shoulder-length brown hair. Beard. Wears a weave earring and seems to have a preference for purple?”

Rolan was staring at her, long enough and hard enough that Tarina because to sweat. She could see a muscle ticking in his jaw and wondered if she was about to be blasted off the balcony.

“Yes,” he finally said. “I know him.”

“Do you... know what’s up with his raven?”

All at once the tension left Rolan and he snorted, a sound of dry amusement. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, Attention seeking idiots but Tarina couldn’t be sure. When he spoke though it was with such deliberate seriousness that she was instantly suspicious:

“Would you believe me if I said that raven is his husband?”

“...No.”

“Well then. I suppose there’s nothing left but for you to get back to work.”

Tarina went, wondering halfheartedly if Arcane Atheneum was hiring. Without recommendations.

***

Two months since she’s started working and training at Sorcerous Sundries. A month since she’d first seen the raven. A week of making her list.

It was, unfortunately, a rather unhelpful list.

Things The Raven Does (That Maybe Aren’t Very Raven-y?)

Likes to sunbathe on the Southside bookshelves while the wizard browses

Seems to enjoy annoying whoever is in his vicinity. Master Rolan is a favorite target

(Raven is a “he.” Heard wizard use pronoun after kissing his beak. Husband???)

(Look up legal precedent of human/animal relationships in Faerûn)

Preens at compliments but won’t let anyone else hold him

Update. Exceptions: white-haired cleric, githyanki (!!!), two druids, adventurer of undetermined race/gender, and Minsc. Fucking Minsc was in our shop

Update for the update: raven tried to hunt Misc’s hamster. It didn’t end well

Snatched a bracelet off a woman’s wrist and tried to fly off with it. Wizard summoned ice wall that Raven slammed into. Woman distraught. Raven pissed (sounds like a tea-kettle crossed with an un-oiled hinge). Rolan threw fireballs until wizard cleaned up the water from his melting wall (this did more damage to the books than anything else, but I was too scared to point that out)

Possible successful second attempt: man’s gold-plated quill went missing during checkout. Raven nearby. Can only describe his behavior as ‘too innocent’. Looks like he would have whistled if he could

Tends to bite. Has a preference for necks (kinky??)

Is generally an asshole. Like, even more than the average bird

Tarina started down at the notes, hoping that something would jump out at her and make it all make sense.

Nothing did. If anything, her already messy scrawl grew incomprehensible as her eyes watered. Tarina let out a massive yawn, tipping her head back to suck in more oxygen. Maybe Rolan would let her pop out for a coffee before next shift? 

When she opened her eyes again the wizard was standing before her.

“Hello there,” he said, giving a wave.

Tarina made a sound approaching ‘Ulp’ and ‘Gah’ if they’d had an unholy baby together.

“Quite,” the wizard replied. “Now, I don’t suppose you have any tomes on the magical co-efficient found in cherry wood carved staffs, do you? While I wouldn’t go so far as to describe this as an emergency per se, your expedience in the matter would be greatly appreciated.”

The raven sat on his shoulder once more, staring at Tarina with an unnatural focus. Without taking his red eyes off her he croaked something towards the wizard’s ear.

“Well yes, but I would prefer to know how much magic I’m getting before I destroy the staff.”

Croak. Croak croak.

“Halsin gave me that! Just because you keep losing to him in lanceboard—”

A loooong croak.

“I do not get grumpy when I need to eat!”

Tarina stared.

Now that she knew what to look for, the wizard did seem a little peaky. He was paler than anyone should have been on a hot day like this, even if they were reclusive scholars. There was a thin, sickly sheen of sweat on his forehead and his hand, when it went to give the raven a solid flick, trembled slightly. Frankly, he looked like shit. 

There were so many things to address here that Tarina’s brain felt like a Melf’s acid arrow hurtling at full speed. Who was doing research that esoteric and specific? Who wanted to? Was the wizard using a Speak to Animals spell? He must have been, otherwise Tarina should probably find Brenan and alert them that a crazy was on the loose. Someone crazier than the average wizard, that is. The man just looked tired though, a little sick, which made Tarina wonder if it was contagious, if she should find a healer, if she was even conceivably paid enough to be dealing with any of this.

“I’ve got crackers,” she blurted, wincing slightly when their combined attention turned her way. “In my satchel. In the back. Crackers for... eating? If you’re hungry, I mean.”

The smile the wizard gave her was kind, but the noise the raven made sounded like laughter.

“Thank you,” he said, “but a book will serve me just fine. If you would?” and he waved an imperious hand that clearly said, Get on with it.

Okay, so he was a little bit of an asshole too. He and the raven were meant for each other.

Still, Tarina flew to the back, pulled up their catalogue, and found every reference to staffs, cheery wood, and magical coefficients that an Elixir of Hill Giant Strength would let her carry. It wasn’t her job to question why their patrons wanted the information, only to supply it. 

The wizard spent a while pursuing the volumes she’s brought out, seemingly content to let the other patrons wait than take his load to one of the nearby tables. Tarina shot them an apologetic smile, nodding towards other employees who could help them out. The angle at which she visually negotiated with an ancient, terrifying woman put her in the perfect position to spot the necklace on the raven’s neck.

Tarina blinked, trying to get a closer look without it being obvious that she was doing just that. The necklace—amulet?—was expensive, that much was obvious. A pure gold chain tapered down into a disgustingly massive purple gem. A garnet? Amethyst maybe? Tarina might have known a little more about precious stones if she’d ever been in a position to purchase one. Or even see one up close before now. There were smaller gems too of a similar color and though the raven’s feathers covered many of them, there was no hiding the overall size of the jewelry, nor the contrast against that unnaturally white plumage. Tarina was staring now, caution be damned, because how had she missed that?

Magic, Dum-Dum, her mind supplied. Something simple to deter attention, but not true invisibility. Once you do notice it, it’s obvious what's there. But until you do...

She wasn’t the only one noticing things. With a jerk, Tarina looked up to find the raven staring at her. Hard.

Shit.

“Utterly useless,” the wizard was muttering, flipping through two books at once. His body swayed with the motion and the raven swayed with him, perfectly balanced, its sharp gaze never once leaving Tarina’s face. “Well, I suppose that’s not the worst thing considering I really didn’t want to part with the staff—your feelings on the matter notwithstanding—but that does still leave me in a bit of a predicament. Do you think Tav has anything on hand? I do hate to bother them with this, though I suppose in the grand scheme of things they’d much less rather the city be demolished so soon after saving it...”

Before Tarina could unpack that statement, the raven gave a squawk of what was undoubtedly self-satisfaction. Lifting one foot he extended his leg out from beneath the mound of snowy feathers, revealing a gold bracelet with runes etched down one side.

“Where did you get that?”

What followed was the strangest display of tenderness and fury she'd ever seen, with the wizard swatting at the raven one moment and pressing kisses to his head the next. He bore both with the same, haughty attitude. There were shouts of theft, and gratitude, and more than one muttered, “You insufferable rogue.” The wizard left the small mountain of books in disarray with only the swiftest ‘Thank you’s as he left the shop. However, before the door slammed shut behind him Tarina caught a strange purple light emanating from his chest. 

“Honestly!” the old woman said. Tarina agreed wholeheartedly.

But she couldn’t think about that now. Snatching her list, Tarina began scribbling madly, trying to recreate the amulet before anyone else had need of her.

She really should have gotten that coffee.

***

The Corvid Token.

It took a while, but Tarina hadn’t been hired on pity alone. She found mention of the amulet buried in the appendix of an otherwise boring tome on artifacts that manipulated jump distance. Why anyone would want to influence that was beyond her, but now she was glad people cared about such things.

Prized for its beauty as well as its power, the Corvid Token is an amulet of legend. Said to have first belonged to a favored follower of the Raven Queen, it allegedly gifts the wearer with jump distance, flying speed, and Feather Fall while Polymorphed or in Wild Shape. However, these abilities alone would not be enough to earn the amulet its coveted status. Records show that wearers are able to take on a unique Polymorph while in possession of this token: the Dire Raven. This transformation, far from simply providing the ability to fly and blind opponents, circumvents the usual limitations of a Polymorph, allowing wearers to take on all physical aspects of the raven while simultaneously maintaining their faculties. This transformation also lacks the usual time limit. One diary details a father who gave the amulet to his ill daughter, allowing her to physically circumvent the illness while maintaining her mind and personality. She would remove the amulet once a year on her birthday and otherwise lived a long and purportedly happy life as the town’s beloved corvid. 

Slowly, Tarina shut the book and breathed out a giant, full-body sigh. Though Sorcerous Sundries was open through the night, it only took a skeleton crew to keep it running during the late hours. She’d offered to take this shift precisely so she could do a bit of research without anyone looking over her shoulder, but now...

“Is he sick?” she wondered aloud, idly toying with one of the pages. The raven? The peaky wizard? Customer service was boring; an apprenticeship even more-so until you got to the casting bit of things. Tarina could admit that she’d been using the raven as a distraction, just something fun and mysterious to pass the time. But now that this was on the table, the possibility that the two people she’d been obsessing over for weeks on end—two strangers who didn’t feel much like strangers anymore— might be going through something like that... well, it shouldn’t have come as a shock, but it did. Suddenly, the mystery didn’t feel like a game anymore.

Tarina shut the book with a snap, pasting on an insincere simile when the bell over their door rang. The man who stepped through wore a hooded cloak with his head dipped low—not an uncommon practice in these parts—and she did her best to toe the line between false interest and respect for his privacy when she asked if he was looking for anything in particular.

“Nothing much, darling. Just a story tonight. My handsome, high maintenance husband has a weakness for books and he’s been particularly excitable tonight—though not in any way I’d prefer.” The last was muttered into the hem of his hood as it dropped down, revealing a shock of unnaturally white hair.

Sorcerous Sundries did have a fiction section. It was small, outdated, and very rarely browsed, but they prided themselves on providing their customers with anything and everything the magical community might need, which sometimes translated into a much-needed break. Tarina should have pointed him towards the alcove in the back and returned to quietly chastising herself for treating real people like toys. Instead, something about that hair had her blurting,

“How about a love story?” Once the words were out Tarina couldn’t keep the rest quiet and what followed was a rushed outpouring half-swallowed by a laugh. “I’ve got one about a wizard who hunts down a rare amulet that turns his love into a raven, all to save him from the fatal illness that plagues them both. Or something.”

Tarina winced. The customer was staring at her. Of course he was. She should have been embarrassed at the very least. Or worse: worrying that he’d issue a complaint to Rolan and get her fired. But his appearance had rooted her in place. There was something familiar about that white hair and those piercing, mischievous red eyes.

...and the purple amulet, just peeking out from beneath his cloak.

The man laughed suddenly, revealing fangs that glinted in the candlelight. He sauntered over, placed his elbows on the counter, and gave her a look that was nothing short of gleefully dangerous.

“Oh yes, this encounter will do very nicely. Gale’s going to have kittens! How about a trade, my dear shopkeeper? Your funny little assumption for a far superior version of the story.” He took her hand, stopping just short of kissing it. “I’m Astarion, by the way. We’ve met. Though I’m afraid my far less handsome visage didn’t catch your name…?”

“Tarina.” She couldn’t breathe, could barely think. A vampire. Tarina wasn’t sure if she should be pulling out the snacks, or running for the hills.

“Tarina,” Astarion echoed, flicking his cloak out as he settled in. “Well, Tarina, would you like to hear the real tale? About how the wizard hunted down a rare amulet… to allow his vampire love to walk in the sun? Or fly, rather, if we’re being precise. It's quite disgustingly sweet. ”

Oh. Hells, that was so much better—and suddenly Tarina remembered where she’d stashed the extra wine after their last shop party.

“There’s lots of adventure in it?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“But of course.”

“Danger?”

“As only a rogue and his fool can attract.”

“Embarrassing anecdotes about Rolan?”

Astarion paused, then grinned. That was a true smile. Tarina could tell the difference now that she’d seen both and it felt like she’d unexpectedly passed some kind of test.

“Not in this particular story, darling, but I can make time for a few more.”

“There’s no one else coming in tonight,” she said with the certainty of someone who would be announcing the store’s unexpected closure if anyone did show up. “I’ll get the wine and you tell your husband you’ll be back late?

“Early,” Astarion corrected, “but yes. Tara can entertain him for a few hours. The Gods know that tressym owes me.”

Tarina hadn’t a clue who Tara was, but she hoped to find out soon. As she started taking the stairs two at a time, she caught the unmistakable sound of wings in the store’s silence before the bell on the door rang again.

She smiled to herself. Alright. Working here wasn’t all bad. Two months down. One mystery solved.

One friend gained. 

#BG3 #Bloodweave #Astarion #Gale #Gale/Astarion #BG3 fic #outsider pov

[diacripticcomplex]

Shu x Yui smut (Yui going back in time again?? Optional)

Shu x Yui: (Crusader time period)

TW: War and sexual violence, rape, murder.

Shu’s POV:

Our calvary managed to breech into the desert kingdom, it was quite beautiful but I just wanted to take a moment to myself…it’s been a long war, I didn’t sign up for this, nor did I lead or devise any plans that was mainly Ayato and Reiji. I don’t care for glory or power, I just want to be left in peace..

Roaming this desert area was a pain, it was unbearably hot and due to the war there weren’t any women in sight. Most of them hiding, waiting for us to take them for the capture, the spoils of war, we were allowed to do as we wished with these women, we killed their men, enslaved their children…it was the way. I sigh out to myself. “What’s wrong Shu~?” Laito’s annoying voice sang out. I don’t say anything to him. “Where are the women??!” Kanato yelled out, throwing his sword to the ground, it made an irritatingly loud sound. “They’re probably hiding in that temple over there” Laito stated, and pointed in finger to a large structure it was quite lovely, the art and the color, it was a sandy dune nothing like the churches that were built in Europe.

We all make our way to the temple, Laito was indeed correct, the women were there and they were in for a difficult time, but as I said before, this was the way of war. My brothers wasted no time and began to defile the women they found. Reiji had them strung up, naked and slice cuts all over them. He’s usually not like this, but war took away his gentlemen aspect I guess..the triplets raped women together then killed them slowly. “This isn’t right…” Subaru said to me, we were the only two not participating in this slow slaughter. “There’s no point in stopping them…I don’t care I’m going to find a place to sleep..” I tell him, and I got up the stairs on this lavish temple. There was a dark room that I entered it was much colder in this corridor also, it felt nice, I couldn’t hear the screams of the women anymore.

“You..! You can’t be here..!” A human woman shouted at me, just when I was enjoying the quietness. “Yea? Tell it to someone who cares, get out my way mortal” I reply back to her, she looks furious, I got a better look at her, she had silky slightly curled platinum hair and pink eyes, she was very pale for a desert person, she must be royalty..the princess Yui it had to be her.., always indoors she’s wealthy enough to be kept inside. I come up to her, closing in on any space she believed she had the right to, I shoot my hand to grab her face, such soft delicate features, I want her on her knees. “On your knees, we control this kingdom now, you have no choice but to submit to me here..or you’ll suffer much worse by my brothers, make your choice…” I gently tell her. “Your brothers..?” She questioned, I nodded and explained to her all the vile things they are doing to the women of her kingdom that she is supposed to protect, her face twists with sadness and fear, it wasn’t a bad look at all. “Please don’t do this to them.” She begs, I chuckled. “I can’t do anything about them…better pray my brothers give them a swift death…you however are a real treat, you smell awfully appetizing..” I state then lick her neck, I took a bite out of it right after, she hollered in pain, her cries were music to my ears. “I don’t want this..get off me!” She screamed and with all her pathetic strength she pushed me off her. “Alright I’ll give you to my brothers then..” I state firmly, and gripping her by her hair, felt like silk in my hands. I dragged her all the way downstairs like this, she kicked and screamed, she’s such a nuisance but it’s definitely giving me some energy.

“Who the fuck is this? She smells great” Ayato remarked and flashed his stupid smile. Reiji turned, he was holding a fresh head he just decapitated. “She does indeed smell quite ravishing.” He commented, all my brothers even Subaru were intrigued by this woman. “Her blood is of the finest quality..I gave her a choice she hasn’t made it yet..” I say out to them, I think after looking at all the disbursing things my brothers committed towards these innocent women she grew mortified.

“You’re all monsters…” she whispered, her eyes widened with fear, gripping her flimsy cross. “Make your choice human..” I tell her, she gulped. “Fine..I choose you.” I smirked at this answer, then I grabbed her by the back of her neck and bent her down, pulling up her dress, I guess desert women don’t wear under garments, must be too hot for that…not complaining. Her skin needed to be defiled with my handprints. I smacked her butt, hard. Instantly the skin turned bright red. I was already half hard, and decided to just take her then and there, in front of my brothers, I didn’t care what they thought..or what she wanted I cared only for my pleasure and power over this foolish human. “Know your place…you’re my slave now princess Yui..” I say, sadism and lust dripped in my voice, her moans enticed me further, she cursed at me and begged for me to stop already, I didn’t want to, and she couldn’t do a damn thing about it, she’s nothing now, nothing but my plaything.

#diabolik lovers #diabolik boys #dialovers #yui komori #diabolik brothers #diahell #shu sakamaki #smut #rape #war crimes #trigger warning #diabolik lovers community #smut diabolik lovers #sakamaki brothers #crusaders #dead dove fic

[dimmadoome]

No Good Deed

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Ship: Gale/Halsin (Pre-Relationship)

Rating: Mature

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Gale shuddered heavily, almost hyperventilating with stress and fear, as he pulled his pouch from his neck and fumbled with the leather straps. Pulling them apart with shaking and bruised fingers. 

He should not be doing this. His mind supplied. He should be saving the scroll for his own death, but the goblins that had brought him here would never listen to his mirror image and use it to save his life. The drow that stared at him with cold red eyes and a look of contempt didn't seem like the type either.

The corpse he was jailed with seemed to be his only option of escape...if it was once again a living person that might help try to save Gale's life...that is.

Gale knew he couldn't escape the temple ruins on his own. He could fight a few goblins well enough, maybe even a drow or two, but a whole camp of goblins and drow and hobgoblins....no. Gale couldn't fight them all on his own.

Even he had to concede his limits sometimes.

The answer to his dilemma was simple really. Gale needed help and trapped as he was, This was his only option.

The pouch by his heart was the only thing left on his person after his capture. His stave was gone, his pouch with his gold was gone, hells, they even took his outer robe. Leaving him chilled to the bone in only a light undershirt and some breeches. All he had, all he managed to hide from the grasping fingers of the goblins, was his scroll of true resurrection and a ball of temperamental weave trapped in his chest. 

Gale cast a glance around the large room they were in…. correction...he was in. Besides a couple worgs snuffling and howling in the next cage over, there was no one here. No guards or drinking goblins, no drown, no hobgoblin. No one but him and the corpse.

Which meant no one was there to stop him from performing his next trick.

The corpse beside him was still in its death. Its ruddy skin was bloodless and cold. The chestnut hair covering half its scarred and tattooed face was covered in blood. The color was almost obscured by it. There was so much blood. So much viscera. all of it looked to be from a gaping wound by the left temple of its head.

Gale shakily pressed his fingers to the hole in the corpses temple, feeling around for any debris that would be stuck there when the scroll did its work. The flesh was cold, blood congealed. But the corpse looked to be in fresh enough condition that the scroll would work if he used it.

He had to make sure that the use of his one life line wasn't wasted. Had to make sure it would work.

With that task done, Gale brought his bloody fingers to the pouch. Pulling the string off of it and whispering the words to open it. The cold stone of the floor bit into his knees. A chill went down his back. He could swear the broken statue of Selune in the corner stared at him with pity. Even though the glittering lapis eyes were never alive to begin with, they looked to have lived a thousand years or more. What those eyes had seen, Gale would never know, but he hoped that, at least once, they would see a miracle.

If this didn't work….if this man he was trying to resurrect couldn't help him …he was out of luck. He was out of luck.

Not that he wasn't already out of luck. Not that he hadn't been out of luck for over a year.

The acorn and leaf motif emblazoned on the corpse's chest denoted him as a druid. Druids were usually helpful…. weren't they?

This one better be anyway.

Gale unrolled the golden scroll and pressed it gently to the man's chest. Then he sat cross legged by the corpse. Close enough that he could read the wording on the scroll and manipulate the weave in a way that the spell could encapsulate the dead man's massive form. Gale took a moment to check the stairs leading to the door. Making sure no one would come in and interrupt him while he was working.

When he was sure the door was firmly shut and no one would enter it, Gale turned his attention to the ritual. Cracking his torn knuckles and flexing his bruised fingers. Relaxing them as much as he could to make sure his casting was as precise as it could be.

Words poured from his mouth, weave poured from his hands and the whole room glowed a brilliant purple. He felt her press herself to his back, looking over the subject of his attention with thinly veiled curiosity. He felt a tug in his navel and suddenly she was gone. Replaced with the feeling of…warmth. The feeling of a father…proud and strong….standing over him with a critical eye.

Tendrils of gold snaked between his fingers. Overwhelming the brilliant purple and eventually taking its place. Responding to his manipulations as if it was trained to do so. The sensation of new magic tickled his sinuses. Filling his throat with the taste of honey and cinnamon and pine.

Strange, this was not a magic he was used to. Whoever it belonged to, they wanted something from Gale. Wanted to use him for its own ends. Ends that just so happened to correspond with Gale's own.

Whatever god had granted him use of their weave must have had a vested interest in the man whose corpse Gale was resurrecting.

The whole process took less than five minutes, though it felt like an hour or more. Slowly blood and viscera eeked its way out of the man's mouth and nose, ejecting itself from his lungs as it was not supposed to be there and would choke him if left there when he breathed anew. 

One breath. Then two. Then three. A shake and a whine. Then Gale knew it worked as warmth and color seemed to spread across the now living druid's face. Finally, the man's eyes opened and hazily searched out Gale's face. The mans eyes glittered with the most beautiful Blue Hazel color Gale had ever seen.

“Oak Father?”

The man's voice was rich like chocolate. Deep like coffee. He moaned, low and keening, deep in his throat, and brought his hands to his face, pressing fingers to his skull where it had knitted back together. Gale watched as he winced and gasped, smearing blood across his face with a sluggish, half aborted attempt at prodding for more wounds.

“Don't move for a while.” Gale set his hands on his knees and blinked away the sudden wave of exhaustion. Watching as the gold magic finally settled around the man and sunk into his skin. Converging in the druid's eyes before disappearing entirely. The scroll followed suit. Cooling from a bright gold to a plain, yellowed piece of useless paper.

There it went. His one shot at keeping himself alive. Hopefully the man he had saved would take the duty from it.

A hand pressed against his thigh. Large and warm and clumsy from the man's recent death. The touch startled Gale out of his thoughts. Forcing him to look below. Forcing him to face the consequences of what would be a very, very terrible idea if this man turned out to be useless.

“Thank you.” The man shuddered, then let out a wracking cough, loud and hard and terrible all at once. The flames from the braziers overhead cast long shadows across the blood covered stone floor. Making the world around them look like they had descended to the hells.

The parasite in Gale's head squirmed. It was the hells. Whatever the hells were, he was there. Trapped in them.

“Please tell me I did not save you in vain.” Gale found himself pleading with the man. “Please tell me you'll get us out of here.”

The man just nodded and squeezed Gale's thigh with his soft, calloused touch. He slowly sat up, groaning as he did so. His hair fell away from his face, showing the tips of his ears. one was still covered in sludgy blood, the other was half bitten off by what looked like a feral animal. Maybe a Worg or a goblin. It looked fresh and painful. Gale couldn't help but grimace at it. Scrunching his nose in sympathy at the bits of chewed cartilage.

“By the grace of the oak father, I will get us out of here. You have done your part, more than I could ever have asked of you. Let me rest for a moment, then I will do mine.”

Hours later Gale followed the large man, who called himself Halsin, out of a hole in the back of the temple. They misty stepped their way across the river and into the woods. Heaving with exertion and exhaustion. 

He settled himself against a tree, falling down to stare, wide eyed at Halsin. Thankimg all the gods that he chose correctly and rescued him from the jaws of death. As he closed his eyes to rest them, something brushed against the back of Gale's mind. The presence had the same warm, masculine feelings to it that he remembered during the resurrection ritual.

“Thank you my boy.” it said. “Thank you for saving my chosen. His path has not yet been walked, neiter, I think, is yours. I owe you a great debt Gale of Waterdeep. Speak your desire to me and I will see it done.”

Gale, who had never been owed anything by a god before, closed his eyes and wished. Feeling his heart beat out of his chest at the excitement, pressing against the orb in his chest and burning through his lungs.

When he opened them again, for the first time in over a year Gale could breathe freely again.

The tadpole still wriggled around in his head, but the orb that had been destroying his entire life for the past year was finally gone.

Thanks to his unintentional good deed....thanks to Halsin and whatever god that took patronage of him, Gale was finally free of his greatest burden.

He was finally free!

#gale dekarios #halsin #halsin silverbough #ursaweave #gale/halsin #gale x halsin #fanfiction

[stedeswardrobe]

Hi this blog has been so helpful, but I was hoping to ask if you have any reference photos of the back of the purple suit that Ed wears? And maybe the waistcoat?

Unfortunately, we don't have any behind the scenes photos of the back of the suit. In the episode itself, we only get one shot where we can see the direct back of it, but the scene is in shadow. I've attempted to brighten it up and color correct it:

We do get some sideways shots where we get some hints of the back, and those shots may actually be more useful:

As for the waistcoat, it appears to be a solid color - indigo. With purpleish-brown buttons. I've zoomed in on the colors, as well as color-dropped them for better visualization.

I hope this helps! Since i'm already here, i'm going to add some more references of the outfit.

Hannah Green's instagram photos of the suit coat:

Close ups of Ed's cravat(s?) in this outfit:

Hair and beard references:

Full-body shot that includes breeches, stockings, and shoes.

#from the show #queries #bts #long post #ofmd #jeff the accountant #edward teach

[theoldsouls]

I have many questions; first, how can you be sure about your past lives? I'm not asking in a I-don't-believe-you way, I ask because I've read, study and analize compilations of people claiming to be some person in a past life, but there's always this incognite about how far can human brain takes us, if there's really a soul that connects us to places along all the history or if it's all just a extremely complex tool of our brain. Doesn't that scare you? The knowledge that all you can believe at the end of the day could be your brain dealing with something?

In other hand, what kind of point of view has given this to you about fate and destiny? Most of times we associed the existence of past life and soul to a destiny or fate, in the books I've read about the subject, the individuals said that they knew the same people, sharing similar relationships, going through similar events, and in general, going in a ciclical experience; but, for the things you say, I don't think it's your case. In fact, for the things you say I don't think there's something as a ciclical experience nor a similarity, it looks like two different lifes and two different people, except that one is carrying the memories of both. In my opinion I think that's beautiful, there's something ugly to think there's not freedom and we all are going in the same patterns forever, but correct me if I'm wrong.

To finish I just would like to know what kind of misconceptions you can refute about your past life, I'm not interested in history, I'm just a little of a gossiper. (If you're confortable with it, I'd like to know how you feel about the fanart/fanfic about your past life, but if you don't like talking about that, ignore it. In fact, ignore anything of this message if you don't like it.)

Have a good day.

These are incredible questions with even more complex answers. Thank you for sending these my way.

At the end of the day of course we'll never know how much of the things we remember are real. After all, even with memories of events relatively close to us now there's a danger of coloring things in that weren't there and erasing things that were, and you and another person you shared this event with might have completely different memories of this - which might even contradict each other. It's a complicated part of our brain that we haven't really figured out yet. And just as much religious epiphanies and spirituality, these past life memories very well could be some messed up way my brain has tried to cope with trauma or something unrelated. At the end of the day you'll never know for sure, and as you said, that can be a very scary thought to grapple with.

However.

There are some reasons why I believe it might be not made up, and they're the reason why I feel relatively comfortable stating who I was with just as much confidence I have when stating who I am now.

I am not American. I did not step foot in the US until I was 19 years old. The education system I was in did not touch upon American history - besides briefly touching upon the Boston tea party, and diving in a bit with the Cold War. I heard of George Washington for the first time through Fairy Odd Parents on TV, and all that taught me was that he had wooden teeth (which is factually false). This means that I could not have heard, seen, or learned anything of the American Revolution and its early founding unless I myself consciously researched that area of history - which, for a long time, I didn't.

I did have memories, though.

Memories I at first did not understand nor had a name for. I remembered the clothes I wore, the faces of the people I was with. I could remember writing - which stood out to me, as I normally couldn't write or read in dreams at all - I could remember the drills and could reenact them with ease. I remembered how to load and fire a gun. I remember the feeling of my kids tugging at my breeches to go up, up! I remember events that - well, were less pleasant as well, being sick for example - the kind of sick you don't notice until your eyes roll back and you collapse, waking in your bed with blood crusted on your cheeks (face) and leeches on your arms. I remember my mother singing to me, our house near the sea, I remember her dying. I remember my brother carrying me after but the funeral is a blur. I remember my wife, angry, silent as she got, just sitting there and looking at me and me frantically talking and talking and talking and she just sat there. I remembered her name, Betsy, i remembered our first Dutch bed in the wall, and the guilt i felt as i looked at her livid. I remember my own death.

I remember more but I don't want to get lost and lose track of your question. I know these are memories, and not my imagination or dreams, for a few reasons.

First, they are repetitive. If I dream of them, or they come to me during the day, the details don't seem to change. The dialogue is the same. The people don't change, etc.

Second, though not good at recognizing or recalling faces in dreams or my imagination, theirs are crystal clear to me. And again, they don't change - only with age.

Third, I feel phantom pains from particular memories. My way of walking changes when thinking a lot on the war (it's more of a march then a walk). I sit different, i talk different.

Fourth, the languages and other skills. Thought not speaking neither French nor English, both kind of "fell" into my head with relative ease. I remembered doing the studying - I sometimes forget if I read or learned a thing here or then as I recall it well, i could converse with a professor of economics at a university with comfort (he gifted me books to read, impressed by my knowledge) even though I had not finished my degree nor had I specialized in the political economics we were discussing. I had not studied these things now, and yet I knew them still. I played the piano in a different past life, and now was able to pick it up without a teacher, quickly.

These things solidified the belief that I had a past life for me, even before I could put a name to the person I was. Since then I've met others whose memories directly coincide with mine (sometimes with minor differences, as is the pitfall of memories) and who literally recognized me by looks and mannerisms alone, but I won't touch too much on this reason right now as this is maybe not applicable to other people struggling with this and I don't want to give off the impression that external validation is necessary.

As to your second question in regards to fate and destiny - I do actually believe that people we meet and situations we end up in echo past lives and will repeat ad infinitum, until we learn whatever we are meant to from that situation. I go on a bit more in detail on that in this post.

For example, I started university at the same time I did then (same age). I dropped out (due to external circumstances) after the same amount of time had passed. I met an ex at the same time I had previously, we dated for a similar amount of time and broke up due to similar circumstances, I married my current spouse at the same age - and I intend to return to law very soon and apply for a clerk's position in the court near me this year. I have the exact same facial features, hair texture, body, length, cadence of speaking, mannerisms, tastes in food and drink, tastes in music, reading, gardening - even though I grew up in a different culture and do not have the same ethnicity as I used to.

These are but a few examples of how things echo very strongly - and I have no idea if they are simply coincidences, or things and people I was meant to meet, meant to experience. After all, experiences in life shape you. Friends that you meet, parents that raise you, even people who dislike you, make an insurmountable impact upon you as a person. You might carry yourself the same way a father figure did, or hold your loved ones the same way your mother did. As the 'lessons' you learn, with the people you're surrounded with, stay the same in life after life, perhaps that is why we are so similar every time? I have no idea. I'm not a philosopher - I just live and remember.

Some 'lessons' I did not learn last time I have been able to rectify - and with others, I made the exact same mistakes all over again. I guess this is why people end up with thousands of lives lived. After all, if anything, we are stubborn creatures.

So I guess I do view destiny and fate as something tangible. I believe that free will appears in how you react to the things that happen to you, rather than what happens to you. For example, I think I was meant to end up on the path of law regardless of what I did or didn't do in the past few years. But choosing to pick it up, and go into social justice law - that's free will. That's prioritizing things I could not and did not want to, before.

And thirdly, your question on any misconceptions - there are many. Of course there will always be generous and studious scholars who dig deep and find these, I will touch upon a few closest to my heart that seem, to the general public, factual and real even though they are not. As an entire life is long, and this post is already enormous, I shall keep it short and inexhaustive.

I loved my father. I never hated him, and he did not disappear from my life forever. We wrote to each other. I wrote to relatives in Scotland. I loved him. I do not blame him. I don't know if he was my biological father, nor do I care much to know who was.

I never had the hots for my sister-in-law.

I wasn't a 'womanizer,' nor a 'slut.' I enjoyed the company of women, I enjoyed flirting banter. Calling someone who danced on both sides of the fence a 'slut' is a whole can of worms I cannot and will not touch on, but it's bordering on homophobic. I adored my wife; anything that went on in my marriage concerning infidelity concerns only me and her and that's all I will say about that. Plenty has already been said (including by myself).

I hung out with more gay men than some suggest, and was more 'out' (to use modern terms) as a 'molly' (to use older terms) than is now perhaps known or acknowledged. It was not out of the ordinary for jokes about my inclination to both the male and fair sex to fly across the dinner table, which is why, unfortunately, it so often made it to the papers. In modern history this however seems to be deemed 'speculative,' and is dismissed. Queer people have always enjoyed to meet up with like-minded fellows, the age you live in be damned.

I am not entirely sure what date I was born. Birthdays are hard to remember and were largely unimportant then; we celebrated our children's birthdays sure, but when I was a young adult it hardly mattered and multiple people frequently forgot or ignored their birthdays with little to no remark. It was probably the 11th of January, before the crack of dawn. Maybe the 10th if you count nighttime as belonging to the day before. Who knows. Not me.

Last but not least, you were curious to my opinion on fanart/fanfic. I think it's very natural - at least, I soothe myself in this sometimes - that anyone who remembered as much as I did would be curious to see what others wrote and devour it all. Some of it I want to bleach from my brain, some of it is sweet but has nothing to do with me as a person (fanart of the musical, for example, is to me fanart of the cast of 'Hamilton', not me nor my contemporaries), and some of it is heartwarming and will forever be cherished by me. Some of it makes me laugh and others sting a little (deservedly or undeservedly so). I guess I'm glad I went from obscure and nearly forgotten to famous internationally - though I could've done without the toxic elements of the fandom or the 'thirsting on main' for me (and people self-inserting their kinks onto me as a vessel I suppose!). In the end, people are allowed to draw or write what they will and it's not really up to me to judge. If something someone said hurt my feelings or makes me uncomfortable, it's not like I can say 'hey Alex here, thanks for honoring me but no thank you' haha!

I hope this post is not too long - thank you again for taking the time out of your day to sent this to me and I hope I was able to do justice to the things you were curious about. Adieu.

#LONG post #reincarnation #alexander hamilton #the statesman #asks

[violetequus8]

Who's the Man? Annotated Bibliography

DISCLAIMER: I am not in any way credible or historian adjacent (I write porn on the internet, guys). I have access to the internet and literacy, and these are the only laurels I rest upon. I have written this bibliography in the hopes that it may be of use to others, who wish to not make *basic* mistakes about Tudor fashion (of which, I knew nothing before beginning my research). I cannot claim to even like or prefer fashion, but did this in the interest of not being jarringly out of touch. Like writing a zipper into the 1580s. 

Alchin, Linda. “Tudor Clothes for the Rich.” Six Wives, 2014, https://www.sixwives.info/tudor-clothes-for-the-rich.htm.

        This site was a welcome boon for getting an easy-to-read graph of what types, colors, and fabrics of clothes could be worn by whom and on what occasion. I used it when referencing the color of the innkeepers’ shirt, as well as the colors that Hob himself is wearing. I am fairly certain Hob’s doublet is brocade, but I may be wrong (I was only looking at the show footage). Hob, in his position as a regular old knight, is allowed a fair amount of leeway. Additionally, he is rich, and in the context of my fic, not present in court activities (though it could be surmised that he is, given the Queen stayed at his house). So he could simply pay off any fees incurred if he did dress in clothes he wasn’t allowed to wear. 

Ashelford, Jane. Dress in the Age of Elizabeth I. The Bath Press, 1988, https://archive.org/details/dressinageofeliz0000ashe/page/n7/mode/2up.

        After I had done a bit of cursory research, I was fairly confident I was correct in calling Hob’s upper outfit a doublet, and knew what Dream was dressed in. However, the lower regions kept annoying me. What was “hose,” exactly? It seemed that all the pictures and documents used hose interchangeably with stockings, but I knew that there were two separate pieces of Hob’s outfit: a kind of “shorts” on top, and yes, something we would call “stockings” below. That is what led me to this resource. 

        First, Ashelford beat it into my head that Hob had to have a man help him dress; “the fashionable man [...] required the help of a servant to sort out and air his clothes” (45). What followed was, finally, an explanation of what had confused me. The upper/trunk hose (also called breeches) was above, and below were the lower/nether hose (also called stockings, may be called canions—not to be confused with regular canions, which were an additional piece of fitted cloth tube between the stocking (lower) and hose (upper), which sometimes was joined to the stocking (lower)) (47). Unfortunately, I could not find any resources online which told me exactly how hose (upper) were actually fashioned at the waist; I assumed for this story that laces were involved, though I suppose buttons may have worked as well. I am only thankful that the codpiece was moving out of fashion by this time.

        There was a bit more terminology that I borrowed from Ashelford: Dream’s jerkin is indeed a “buff jerkin,” a sort of military garment made of oxhide (47). Ruffs are attached with bandstrings. The shirt (undershirt, for those of us in the 21st century) was made of linen and usually embroidered around the collar. Stockings (lower hose) were made of silk (and quite expensive). 

Elizabeth I. Elizabeth I’s Proclamation Against Excess. 1577, https://www.bl.uk/learning/timeline/item102766.html.

        This is the primary source document which the Alchin is undoubtedly referencing.

Elizabeth I. (1574). Enforcing Statutes of Apparel. http://elizabethan.org/sumptuary/who-wears-what.html

        In which I had a good laugh. Elizabeth was very concerned about the “wasting and undoing of a great number of young gentlemen” by virtue that they were spending undue amounts of money on clothing. It should be noted that, in spite of Elizabeth’s urging, it was very hard to enforce these policies if one was not at court. 

How, William. A Proper New Booke of Cookery. 1575, http://www.medievalcookery.com/notes/pnboc1575.txt.

        Used in reference when making up the menu for what was available to Hob at the White Horse. 

Lambert, Tim. “Tudor Society.” Local Histories, 2022, https://localhistories.org/life-in-the-16th-century/.

        Used as a general guide for a basic overview of Tudor living. Just enough for me to work forwards with. 

Ms. Napier, Alexander, editor. A Noble Boke Off Cookry: Ffor a Prynce Houssolde or Eny Other Estately Houssolde. https://archive.org/details/b21529565/page/n8/mode/1up.

        This book was reprinted verbatim from a rare manuscript in the Holkham Collection. Published in 1882. Original Manuscript likely dated from circa late 1460s.

        Ah, Middle English, my beloathed. A billion different changing spellings of common words, and a headache besides. I so love English being my first language. Anyways, I had fun flipping through this and randomly picking out dishes which could have been arranged for Hob’s table. Notably, the two things which are clear in the episode six sequence are the lamb, and that Hob is eating oysters. Surprisingly, there is no mention of lamb in this cookbook (though there are mentions of other, more exotic meats to our modern tastes: dragon (10), larks (4), tellis (4, by the way, if anyone can tell me what this is, I would be grateful)). The book has quite a few recipes, and I perhaps spent more time reading it than was strictly necessary. The Tudors managed to eat quite a lot of meat. One wonders how their digestive tracts fared. 

Uckelman, Sara. Dictionary of Tudor London Names. 2014, https://www.ellipsis.cx/~liana/names/english/tudorlondon.pdf.

        A good resource for period-appropriate names. 

#my fic #who's the man #bibliography

[starrysnowdrop]

11 and 16!

((I’m so sorry that I didn’t get to answering this till just now!! 😵))

11. The trial/dungeon that you will never do again unless forced to do so?

For me, The last raid in the Nier crossover, The Tower at Paradigm’s Breech, is by far the one dungeon, trial, or raid in the entire game that I hate the most. Back when it was released, I thought that Copied Factory and Puppet’s Bunker were annoying, and this one can’t POSSIBLY be any worse than those were… oh what a sweet summer child I was. I had no idea how many times I would die in this raid. And it’s been a very long time since it was released and I STILL die over and over again here where in other trials and raids I hardly ever die. For example, I never die in Aglaia now when I run it, and it’s supposed to be harder than Paradigm. Then there was the whole issue with players that couldn’t see the mechanics correctly with the colors and flashing lights, and I’m still not convinced that those were entirely corrected. Every day that I go into alliance raid roulette, I pray that I don’t get this one.

16. Your rarest mount?

Hmmmm, this is a hard one to answer because I normally don’t do high level content like savage raids or extreme trials until it’s considered old content, so I wouldn’t necessarily consider any of the mounts I have particularly rare. I’d say the rarest is probably the Regalia, Noctis’s car from the FFXV crossover event, since it’s such a limited time event and you can’t get the car after the event is over with until the event comes around again.

Thank you so much for the ask @windupsummoner!! Thank you so much for being patient with me!! 🥰💖

#asks and replies

[j-a-smiths-blog]

0633 13Dec23: Took an evening walk last night. Almost two miles worth. I ended with 1.96 miles. Just did a loop around the town, not the entire town, just a few roads.

Now that I don't have a vehicle, I am trying to take walks because I need to get away from driving all the time. It's like if the vehicle is here, then I feel there is no reason to go for the walk, but in fact, the reason to go for a walk is strictly health related. So once I confirm my nephew is up, I feel I should go for a walk before it gets too hot out.

I still haven't gotten the fabric out to start inventory of what I want to make. I know for a fact that the off white will be another undershirt and the blue will be a vest. For the green I have enough that I should be able to do a vest and breeches. But I do question myself if the green is a good color for breeches. My mind is saying no because I am basing my mind off of today, as in its not a common color to wear as breeches. But in fact it could have been a color so you know why not?

That leaves me with the grey. The grey could be a shirt, breeches or a vest. It's like the odd color that kind of stays neutral. I like the fact but at the same time I don't have to make my mind up just yet.

The fact that I got four yards is great because four yards give me plenty to make an undershirt, which does leave me with some excess but not enough for something else. But I have to figure out how much material does a pair of breeches really take. If I only use half the material for a pair of breeches, then that means I have plenty to make a vest as well. I suppose the correct answer right now would be to make a vest so I can justify material usage. Suppose a blue vest will be the direction I go. This way it works well with black and white breeches and shirt right now. Then I can start justifying next steps.

I also had a slight little film thought. My Pinocchio story could be an intro into a little film series idea. Talking myths and legends: Wouldn't it be crazy to have a marionette doing like a small silent film style story telling of mythological creatures and fade into a short story film? This would give me a chance to build content on the making of these figures and stage stuff, then filing the sequence for the film, and then finding and filming the short story about the mythological creature. Ideas.

But I just looked at the time. My nephew hasn't come out yet and he needs to leave for school in a half hour or so!

[archive-double-knots]

things i realize about tia after researching for this ONE god damn scene i'm trying to write between her and evelyn:

Tia and her mother wore drawers under their dresses. this was totally considered immodest, risqué, and shameful. but as we know: they don't give a fuck about shame. The only people outside of them that knew would be the brothers, who probably didn't know it to be wrong.

When Tia got her period for the first time it was a big deal. Not for any reason that the puritans normally would speak in hushed whispers about (it was sinful and blah blah), no. because suddenly they had another thing to keep secret. Tia was only 12 when she got it, which was very early for the time period. This was because Felicity was a witch, her family was never malnurished due to her using magic to grow food.

The Hathrone family did not view menstruation as shameful, or sinful, but they did realize that it meant Thomasin would be viewed as a 'woman' in their society, rather than a 'girl'. And Felicity did not want Thomasin to be treated as such yet. So, they would actively burn rags and bedding in the fireplace, instead of washing them in order to keep from word spreading. They did this as long as they could, until Tia was roughly 16, which was the more common age for girls to get it.

Thomasin would have worn a stay (Hers was specifically lined with bone), and specifically been instructed to bind her chest to keep it appearing as flat as possible. The stay was to keep her waist the 'correct' shape. She owed exactly one corset (that is, the type of corset you're thinking of), which would have been her mother's originally

Things I also realize about Tia once she's in the demon realm:

Tia wears so much fucking jewelry, i cannot explain to you. she sees shiny adn puts it on. it becomes her biggest vice. She was never allowed jewelry due being a puritan. fuck you, she wears five necklaces at once now

she never binds her chest or wears a stay again

her favorite thing to wear is a split-open gown over a pair of breeches or trousers. She loves wearing pants, but still having the 'swoosh' of a skirt.

Tia also wears bright colors, fancy fabric that would usually be considered immodest, and loves the use of gold silk thread. Basically, once someone coughs evelyn coughs dangled the pretty stuff in front of her face, it was over. she literally can't wear the not-pretty stuff now lol

#hc; || thomasin; #tw menstruation #tw period mention

[your-krazy-uncle-bob]

l'uniforme de l'infanterie française

For millennia, soldiers have gone into battle dressed like peacocks. There were a great many reasons behind this, many of which were quite rational and beneficial. In an era where commanders relied upon sight for controlling their units, brightly arrayed uniforms helped command them on the battlefield. Flashy and distinctive outfits made for higher esprit de corps, and hence morale. Bright uniforms made distinguishing between friendly troops, and enemy troops, easier - vital in particular in the early modern era, when black powder barrages left battlefields shrouded in smoke. And of course, it was stylish, fashionable, and well appreciated in particular by nobles and elites who made up disproportionate percentages of militaries.

Unfortunately for this style of uniform, times were changing. In the decades prior to WW1, black powder had been replaced by smokeless powder, making rifles more accurate, longer ranged, and removing the clouds of smoke that dominated battlefields prior, thus meaning that accurate shooting could be continuously maintained. Muzzle-loading or single-shot breech loading rifles were surpassed by magazine-fed bolt action rifles. Machine guns joined the fray, and artillery dominated it all. Firepower was becoming more and more important. Already in 1870s, attempts by the Prussians to storm French positions with élan brought about withering casualties, such as at the Battle of Gravelotte, where 5 Germans died for every Frenchman who fell. By 1914, battles were yet more bloody.

Of course, as mentioned earlier, this was not always effectively dealt with : theorists could see that firepower on the battlefield was increasing, but not always draw the correct result from it, such as the idea that firepower favored the attacker and not the defender. But most countries increasingly realized that the old uniforms drew too much fire and led to dramatically higher casualties. Italian trials of firing bullets at dummy targets revealed that old style blue uniforms were hit 7 times as often as new style, less gaudy greyish-green ones. Thus, in the decade leading up to the war, nations changed their uniforms, so that by 1914, every nation had replaced the old-fashioned, bright and colorful uniforms of the 19th century with ones which were less visible. Germans went to war in their grey, Austro-Hungarians in "pike grey" from their Jager troops, English in khaki, Italians in grayish-green, every nation that is, except for France.

In France, tradition had kept the red trousers and blue jacket from being changed. This uniform, the same as that of 1870, actually dated from 1829, making it nearly a century old. By 1914, this traditionalist opposition was fading, France actually had been considering the shift to new uniforms, and by 1914 had ordered a shift to new uniforms - blue-grey in color, later to become the famous "horizon blue" uniforms - but this was not complete by the time war broke out. As a result, French troops went to war being dangerously visible, and suffered intense casualties as a result.

[miekasa]

iced tea

+ pairing: levi ackerman x reader

+ genres and warnings: college au, levi is the best not yet boyfriend au, erwin would definitely be an insufferable project partner to have but you gotta love him au

+ summary: there are three rules of night class. come on time, come prepared, and come with snacks. you forget about rule number three. luckily, levi’s there to save the day.

There’s only one appeal to signing up for a three-hour night class, and it’s that you only ever have to muster up the will to attend once a week. It’s a sacrifice, but it definitely cuts down on the temptation of skipping like you would a normal, one-hour section course. Just one and done.

Plus, you have Erwin with you in this class. Is he a little bit of a professor’s pet and consistently overly chipper every class despite knowing he’s about to endure 180 minutes of lecture? Sure, but at least you don’t have to suffer alone.

Really, it’s not as bad as it sounds, especially if the course is interesting enough, or easy enough, and luckily for you, yours is both. Not to mention, your professor is brilliant, actually entertaining, and does her best to keep the class engaging—she’s funny in the dorky, lovable professor kind of way. And she gives you short, ten to fifteen minute breaks at every hour mark just to make sure everyone doesn’t completely lose their minds.

It’s a commitment, but you’ve grown to actually enjoy it. As long as you follow the three rules of night class: come on time, come with your notes prepared so that you don’t get upstaged by Erwin, and come with—

“Fuck,” you curse, watching as Erwin pulls out one of his many, tiny, organic, boxed juices. The ones meant for children with soy sensitivities that Erwin claims are packed with more nutrients.

“What’s up?” He questions, more shocked than concerned, at your sudden profanity as he sets his juice box in the right corner of his desk.

You pout. “I forgot to bring snacks.”

Come on time, come with your notes prepared so that you don’t get upstaged by Erwin, and come with snacks. Those were the only three rules of night class, and you’d completely forgotten about the most important one.

“Oh,” Erwin grins, pulling a chocolate bar from his lunch bag and taunting you with it, “Sounds like a you problem.”

You snatch a piece from the top corner, stuffing part of it into your mouth to spite him; but you regret your choices as soon as it melts on your tongue.

“What the fuck—is this mint chocolate?” you complain, swallowing the rest of the sweet with disdain.

“Yes it is,” Erwin huffs, grabbing the remaining stolen bit from between your fingers and popping it into his mouth, “And it is delicious.”

“You’re an actual menace to society.”

Erwin crinkles his nose at you, “A menace to society with snacks for the next three hours.”

His comment makes you groan, albeit a little dramatically, and you slump back in your chair to debate your options. Class doesn’t start for another twelve minutes; you could try and run to the student center quickly to buy some last minute snacks, but the line was probably already lengthy with students of similar trains of thought, meaning you’d be late if you stuck it out, which would leave you violating rules one and three tonight. Erwin makes you sit in the front row with him, and you were not willing to take the late walk of shame with an armful of snacks in tow.

You could wait it out until the first hour break, but they’ll probably be sold out of anything good by then, not to mention the race to beat out the line again. If you played your cards right, you could order food during class and time it so that it was delivered during your break, but that was risky.

Alternatively, you could try and sprint to the concessions stand near the library, but going there and back was so much further away than the student center; you’d probably end up late, too.

“Hey,” you call to Erwin, refraining from rolling your eyes as he sets all six thousand and twenty eight of his colored pens on his desk for the evening, “Is Hange still on campus?”

“No, they have work today.”

You groan. Why did Hange have to be so responsible and good with their time-management skills. They was your last hope. Unless—

“Do you think Levi will bring me Starbucks?”

“Probably,” Erwin shrugs, humming to himself; but then he thinks it over, replying again with a knowing smirk on his face, “Actually, definitely. If he’s still here, but he probably is. You know him.”

You pout, the possibility of Levi being home is high, but so is that of him being cooped up in his favorite library. Either way, he would likely be studying right now, and you’d hate to disturb him, but desperate times call for desperate measures. 

[sent 6:47pm] you — leeevaaaaaaaaai are you still on campus

[received 6:47pm] leeevaaai — yes — why, what’s wrong

[sent 6:47pm] you — uwu — wanna bring me something from starbucks before class — i have my 3 hour lecture today and i forgot snacks :—( — and erwin won’t share his organic $1500 whole foods gummy bears with me

[received 6:48pm] leeevaaai — i told you i don’t like the smileys with the noses, they’re ugly — should you even be drinking coffee this late, you’ll be up until the ass crack of dawn

You scoff audibly, and Erwin takes this as an invitation to peep at your screen. Your comment about his snacks does not go unnoticed, as bitterly munches on his (yes, in fact, organic and gluten-free, as if it being mint flavored wasn’t criminal enough) chocolate bar.

[sent 6:48pm] you — that’s RICH coming from you mister

[received 6:48pm] leeevaaai — you’re being awfully rude to someone you expect to buy you a $7 drink

[sent 6:48pm] you — hehe sorry i loooove you leeevaaai — venti iced chai latte — light ice

[received 6:49pm] leeevaaai — do you think i don’t know your overpriced starbucks order by now

[sent 6:49pm] you — uwu :—)

[received 6:49pm] leeevaaai — but you’re getting a grande, i’m not made of money — and it’s punishment for sending another ugly nose smiley

[sent 6:49pm] you — un-uwu

“I don’t blame him,” Erwin chuckles, scrunching the wrapper from his now finished bar between his fingers.

You flick him away, ignoring the turning heads of your classmates as Erwin’s pens fall in the aftermath. It’s seven o’clock on the dot when your laptop pings loudly with an incoming message from Levi—and a subsequent groan from Erwin, who breeches your personal space once more to press the mute button on your keyboard.

[received 7:00pm] leeevaaai — where are you sitting

[sent 7:00pm] you — front row to the right — erwin’s idea not mine

Levi spots Erwin’s bright blonde hair before he sees you, scoffing to himself as he makes his way to the front of the room; a tray with three Starbucks cups, and a plastic bag in tow. Erwin sees him first, too, waving at him as he crosses from the left side to where the two of you are seated.

“Aw, Levi, you brought me one!” Erwin all but squeaks, reaching for one of the other drinks with grabby hands after you take your iced drink from the tray.

But Levi pulls one hot drink from the tray for himself, and pulls the remaining one out of arm’s reach. “As if,” he grumbles, bringing his own cup to his lips. 

“You’re the best, Levi,” you smile, sticking your tongue out at Erwin. Levi only offers you a small nod as acknowledgement. He extends his left hand now, the plastic bag sliding off his wrist and onto your desk, silently.

Confused, you lean forward, setting your drink down to open the contents of the bag. Inside, there are two granola bars, a bagel, cream cheese, some kind of sandwich, and a small Nutella to-go cup with mini breadsticks attached. When you look back up at Levi, he simply shrugs, sipping on his drink again while a light pink dusts over the tips of his ears. 

“You said you forgot your snacks,” he explains, “I knew you’d text me the whole time, bitching about how Erwin wouldn’t share his zero-calorie lemon rinds if you didn’t have your own.”

You take note that the chai he brought you was, in fact, a venti, and not a grande like he’d threatened, and that the granola bars in the bag are not only your favorite flavor, but from your favorite brand, too; and you find yourself smiling as you decipher the very clear message underneath Levi’s less than poetic words.

“What’s in the other cup?” Erwin asks, pointing at the remaining drink. Levi carefully lifts it from the tray, and sets it down on the other corner of your desk, a safe distance away from your laptop.

“Tea,” he says shortly, “So you don’t lose your mind after inhaling your coffee.”

“This is tea, too. Chai is tea, Levi.”

“Tea without milk or six kilograms of sugar,” Levi corrects you, “Or ice.”

“Iced tea is tea, you know.”

Levi doesn’t respond to that with anything but a glare. You smile at his stoicism. Erwin thinks the whole exchange is kind of weird, and wonders where you possibly get the gall to make fun of his taste in snacks when you can’t even realize you’re in love with a man who refuses to identify iced tea as a valid form of tea. 

“I better go before she starts,” Levi speaks, a single hand referencing to your professor behind him, who looks just about ready to begin class for the evening, “Call me when you’re done, I’ll drive you two home.”

“Oh, you don’t have to, Erwin and I usually take the b—”

“Brat,” Levi cuts your words short, “Call me when you’re finished. I’ll be in the library.”

You throw daggers at him with your eyes, but your resolve is waning, once again, as you closely read at the implications of Levi’s promise. You accept, and Erwin is more than happy for the free ride.

Levi hums. “And eat the bagel before the Nutella.”

“You’re annoying.”

“I’m a saint,” Levi deadpans, placing the palm of his hand on the top of your head affectionately, “Call me.”

He walks away before you can debate again, just as your professor speaks into the microphone to grab everyone’s attention. You scrunch your nose, hands flying to your hair to smooth out the aftermath of Levi’s playfulness, before opening your notes for the evening.

“You’re really dense aren’t you?” Erwin asks, one eyebrow raised, but the overall look on his face is more than fond, “It’s kind of cute.”

“Huh?” you question, cheeks stuffed with food as you bite into your bagel, “Dense about what?”

Erwin shakes his head, turning back to laptop with an exasperated expression, the fondness in his eyes fading quickly. “Hopeless,” he mumbles, “The both of you.”

#aot x reader #snk x reader #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #aot imagines #snk imagines #levi ackerman fluff #levi ackerman smut #levi fluff #levi smut #erwin x reader #eren x reader

[delldarling]

request | ruaidhrí

male unseelie fae x changeling!gender neutral reader 2040 words lemon | teasing, cockwarming, mild exhibitionism note: the full release of last year’s kinktober teaser! The old teaser will be edited with a link to this post 💖

༻ ————- ༻✦༺ ————- ༺

The table stretches across the room, an unsettling puzzle of mismatched bone and grey stained wood, laid over with strange but opulent dishware. Everything is well polished and expertly folded, from the gleaming black faceted plates, to the delicate lichen napkins. The ivory candelabras are placed strategically, carmine flames burning bright over ash colored candles. It’s a shame that they’ll all be broken or torn to bits. You’ve always mourned the mess, even though they’ll be mended again before breakfast. Fixed in a snap and taken away to wash by the servants of the manor. You shouldn’t let it bother you, not when you know what will happen, but it’s difficult, shaking off human customs. It still feels like a waste.

“I fear I’ve been forgotten,” Ruaidhrí says with a sigh. His voice is quiet but commanding, easily filling the emptiness of the room. Your eyes lift from the table, drawn immediately to the scarlet handprint curled around Ruaidhrí’s temple and cheekbone, the fingers of the mark vanishing beneath the heavy curtain of his black hair. The flicker of a smile blooms on his silvery lips, a quick flash of blade sharp teeth. “Ah, not entirely then?” He goads, not even bothering to straighten from his lounging pose. He flicks a lock of hair away from his face, knuckle brushing over the red handprint on his face—the mark of someone who has come far too close to lying for many Fae to trust.

“You called for me and I’ve come. When have I ever forgotten you?” You cross the room, trailing your fingertips over the tops of the elegant mismatched chairs. Your chair, you notice, cushioned with velvety, pale green moss, is missing from its normal place at Ruaidhrí’s side. He isn’t cross with you—he wouldn’t have sent for you at all if that were the case—but you can’t help but wonder where it vanished to.

He tips his head, the black iridescence of his eyes focusing on some distant point, considering your question. “In your dreams, perhaps,” he says, and though his tone hasn’t changed, his mouth twitches downward. He doesn’t like the thought.

“In my nightmares,” you correct, and he scoffs. You come to a stop, prepared to ask about your chair, but your jaw snaps shut when you see why exactly he’s called you down, well before the normal dinner hour.

Ruaidhrí’s breeches are mostly unlaced, thick cock straining against the last of the laces. He’s stroking a single hand languidly over his length, silvery skin growing flushed and warm. He pauses, thumb pressing over the pink head while you stare and then strokes down, squeezing himself tighter until your lips pop open. “I have a… request.” He waits, expectant, fiercely pleased for having captured your attention so thoroughly. He’s always been hungry for this level of focus. You know it has something to do with his parentage, with the dark iridescent eyes that mark him as the child of a changeling and Fae union, but you can barely imagine someone turning away from him. He’s terrifying some days, and achingly lovely others, and… He’s made his home yours. He’s an Unseelie Lord, overly fond of a newly made changeling, a nobody and... And you would never willingly entertain the thought of forgetting him.

“Spoiling the dining room?” You breathe, eyes darting momentarily to the servant’s door. It’s still closed. You’re still alone, for the moment. “Oh, Lord Ruaidhrí,” you whisper, as if you’re scandalized by his proposition.

He rolls his eyes, fond of your teasing, but he lifts his chin, any hint of amusement vanishing rapidly from his face. “Bend over my plate, or you’ll risk one of our visitors catching sight of you.”

Visitors? You’re tempted to ask, to pepper him with questions, but Ruaidhrí is impatient. He seizes the hem of your tabard, pulling you close. A clear command, even without speech. Properly hastened, your hands dart to your breeches, tugging at the laces until Ruaidhrí can yank them down around your thighs.

“Bend,” Ruaidhrí demands, pushing at the small of your back. You place your hands to either side of his empty plate, jostling the razor sharp cutlery. You half feel like you should be stripping, or spreading your legs, but your breeches are laced at the back of your calves as well and Ruaidhrí hasn’t bothered with those. One of his hands—you assume the other is still stroking his cock—drags over your ass and then slides down, nails a gentle pressure on your skin. He knows what you like, how to play, to tease, and even though he’s moving a bit fast he’s still reading the cues of your body.

“Your request?” You breathe, attention caught by your reflection in his dinner plate. The new, soft iridescence of your eyes looks like pale fire, ghostly on the dark surface.

Ruaidhrí hums, soft stroking fingers growing a little bolder, and then there’s a soft clink of a noise before his touch turns slick and warm.

A quiet little “Guh,” escapes you when Ruaidhrí leans close, nipping at the top of one cheek. He doesn’t break the skin, but you can still feel it, long after he leans back in his chair, mark pulsing faintly with warmth. Slow, even strokes that leave you aching turn to the gentle press of fingers. He curls one inside you, and then you can hear the messy, wet stroke of his own hand around his cock. The noise seems to rocket through your bloodstream, pleasure making you tighten around the second finger, followed quickly by a third.

“R-Ruaidhrí. The requ-oh,” your words fade into a low moan as he fucks his fingers into you. He seems content with letting you stand, letting your legs tremble, fingers curling into the lacy lichen of the tablecloth. He works you over until you’re sure that you’re knees are going to give out, until you’re panting out a quiet plea to give you more. He withdraws his hand, careful not to leave any fingerprints on your tabard and grasps your bare hip, yanking you back until the head of his cock is pushing into the mess he’s made of you. The noise you make then is too loud, too long and Ruaidhrí has to let you sink back on your own, his other wet hand clamping over your mouth to muffle the noise.

Ruaidhrí breathes in sharply through his teeth, keeping his hands on your face and hip until you’ve fully settled on his lap. The stretch of him makes you want to roll your hips, to move, but you stay still until his hand falls from your face, until your breath has reached a steady pace and you can see straight again. He sets your clothing to rights, and takes his artfully folded napkin, shaking it open to wipe his fingers free of slick fluid before he tilts your face towards him. He’s soft, almost sweet as he wipes your face, erasing his damp handprint from your skin. “My request,” he says, eyes focused on your parted lips. “Is that you keep me ready.”

You blink, not quite understanding, but Ruaidhrí sees the confusion. He grins, setting his napkin gently over your lap and then tugs sharply at your hips, cock pressing just a fraction deeper. “I want you to keep me hard and aching while I deal with the mess of the other gentry.” He leans in close, licks a stripe over the rapid pulse in your throat and makes such a filthy noise of contentment that you whimper in response. “Give me something to look forward to, to focus on, while the lot of them argue and throw tantrums. Will you?” He breathes, chin hooking over your shoulder, arm curling around your middle.

You know what you must look like now, settled so close on his lap. It’s a declaration to anyone coming to the manor that you’re his, and not a trifle to be shared—though with the table shading your thighs, with the napkin spread over your lap and your tabard carefully arranged, no one will immediately guess that you have his cock inside you. Not unless your face gives it away. “Yes,” you whisper, even knowing that you’ll have a hard time of it.

Ruaidhrí rewards you with a rough, messy kiss, leaning back in his seat with a satisfied sigh as soon as the echoing noise of approaching feet fills the air. Dinner has begun.

Some of the attendees greet you with nothing more than a glance, but it’s more than most of the others give you. You’re ignored by the beetle eyed and bloody lipped Fae thanking Ruaidhrí for their invitations, and all the while you have to keep from letting them know. You have to stay still, to warm his cock and clench your inner muscles to keep from rocking yourself in his lap and- it’s so much harder than you would have thought.

Ruaidhrí is served the choicest bits from his larder, food fast filling his plate, but he keeps reaching, pressing his cock deeper as he plucks berries from a bowl, so crusted with sugar that they look frozen. You clench your jaw when he jostles you with his thigh, trying to keep from bleating out that you want more, that you want friction, that you want him to fill-

“Will you support the exchange with Autumn?” A haggard looking Fae says, the brown leaves of his eyebrows rising when Ruaidhrí jostles you again and you gasp.

“I’ve little reason to refuse,” Ruaidhrí says, and you want to curse for the lack of emotion in his voice. He picks his goblet up from the table and then tips it to your mouth, expression stoic as he watches you lick your lips. His cock pulses inside you though, a silent reply to your tease.

The rest of dinner passes in such a lust fueled haze that all you can feel now is an ache in your abdomen. You wriggle when you can, letting Ruaidhrí hand feed you like a silent doll, trying to keep yourself quiet while he discusses matters of Court. You desperately want the dinner to end, for him to fuck you, for you to do anything more than warm his cock, but you know that time is coming. You just have to wait, and Ruaidhrí has never been fond of making things easy.

His hand finds your hip after he’s finished picking at his food, and he pinches every time he wants you to squeeze him. You clench, and breathe slowly, looking away when a spikey headed Fae with no eyes tilts their head your way, like they know. There’s a hitch in your breath the next time he shifts and then fear blossoms. The dinners rarely end until the host is the one leaving, and you just so happen to be sitting on the host’s cock.

“Soon,” Ruaidhrí breathes, reaching for his goblet again. His thigh tenses, moving you just enough for you to enjoy a second or two of friction before he’s sitting back.

It’s hardly soon enough. Time ticks away like slow dropping grains of sand, conversation and arguments nothing more than a haze in your brain—and then Ruaidhrí seizes his chance. A cackling Wisp and a Blackthorn Fae get into a fight, drawing three or four more into the fray before the whole room is drowning in noise. Ruaidhrí quirks a finger at his steward, waiting for her to approach. “Take care of the mess, will you, Raonaid? I’ve more important matters to attend to than soothing feelings.” The dining room vanishes in a snap, and then you’re face down on Ruaidhrí’s mattress, his hand between your shoulder blades, hips pressed flush against your ass.

“Important m-matters?” You rasp, eyes falling closed as he rolls his hips.

“Don’t you think this is important?” Ruaidhrí asks, pulling back and then snapping his hips forward again. Your legs shake, hanging over the edge of the bed. “Or shall we return, and gain ourselves an audience?”

“No.”

Ruaidhrí laughs, his next thrust making you gasp. “Then I suggest you cheer on my efforts, and please, be loud, or I might not hear you over the ruckus downstairs.”

You do your very best.

༻ ————- ༻✦༺ ————- ༺

#exophilia #fae boyfriend #monster boyfriend #male fae x reader #male unseelie fae x reader #d.darling writes

[hlizr50]

Leathers (NSFW)

I wanted to have this ready for Gwynriel week, but I haven't written smut in probably 10 years so I was on the struggle bus for a bit.

Read on AO3

Gwyneth Berdara was a devious creature. A true menace.

Everyone thought she was sweet and innocent. But Azriel knew better.

She was cruel and secretive and conniving.

He’d realized her scheme as soon as she entered the High Lord’s study with the other two Valkyrie leaders, all clad in the leathers that marked them as such. And he knew, he knew, that this had been her plan all along.

As he gritted his teeth and worked desperately to quell the heat churning in his gut, his own tightening leathers, and the scent of arousal, he saw her soft pink lips spread into a knowing, satisfied smirk.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

He had seen the leathers before. He remembered the day in the house when Nesta emerged into the dining room with them on, squealing to her mate. The shadowsinger recalled that he always thought white was a terrible color for fighting garments, but even he could admit that the Valkyrie leathers were exquisitely designed and painstakingly constructed. They weren’t so different than the Illyrian leathers, overlapping scales over most of the torso, but the gold accents over the trim and feather-stamped panels over the shoulders made them look less like warriors and more like angels. Angels of death and light.

Azriel had wondered in that instant what Gwyn would look like in hers. He’d fantasized about it, seeing her standing tall and confident, a warrior in all areas of life. But she had never let him see them. She never talked about them, barely acknowledged their existence. She didn’t even keep them in the bedroom they now shared. He’d never mentioned it, never pushed. Perhaps it had been a bit odd, but the female never did anything without a reason.

And now, with his jaw practically on the floor, the musky scent of his arousal filling his nose (luckily he could tell he wasn’t the only one), and shadows twisting and writhing around him, he knew exactly what that reason had been.

Gwyneth Berdara – cruel and calculating and tantalizing Gwyneth Berdara – had waited for this moment, so she could see the practiced calm of the spymaster unravel before her eyes. One of the most powerful males in all of Prythian, absolutely undone, for all the powers of the Night Court to see. Cobalt siphons flickered.

This challenge would not go unanswered.

Luckily for the shadowsinger, this meeting was nothing deeply serious and more of a discussion about expectations for the three as leaders and members of the High Lord and Lady’s inner circle. As if anyone there had any doubts about their capability or dedication. And it was a good thing that his attention wasn’t particularly important, because he could not remove his gaze from the former priestess standing with hands on her hips as she listened intently to Rhys.

He’d always admired her body in leathers, though in the beginning he’d found it a source of shame rather than pride. Gwyn had been through too much for him to be casting lustful glances in her direction. But things had changed quite dramatically since then, in regards to her body and their relationship. Where once stood a relatively scrawny girl, now was a strong woman. The leathers – Azriel thanked the Cauldron for how tailored they were to her – showed off the definition in her arms, the muscled thighs and powerful calves, and the swell of that perfect ass. Every inch of her was sculpted from hours upon hours of training, then extra training, then training to escape nightmares or to work through feelings.

And that process was how their relationship had developed as well. The more time they had spent together, the more the spymaster had craved it. It was always easy with her. She always made him smile and laugh, things he didn’t often let others see. His shadows had been quite taken with her, and she had never shied away from them.

Nor from his hands.

He couldn’t be sure when it had happened, but she had firmly planted herself in his heart. She was beautiful and kind, irreverent, bold, and relentless. He respected the hell out of her, and that only made him want her more. But he hadn’t wanted to make the move, concerned about his own demons, concerned about her comfort and choice.

The Blood Rite had changed everything.

He had been as confident as he could have been, under the circumstances. He’d had to lean into that, keeping Cassian from falling into a pit of despair or, even worse, from doing something incredibly reckless that would’ve resulted in a death warrant on both his and Nesta’s heads. But the storm had raged inside Azriel then, a stark reality settling heavily in his stomach that he may never have another minute with Gwyneth Berdara. And since then he’d never made it a secret what she meant to him.

So he didn’t care that his hazel eyes slowly roamed her body, clad in white leather painted with gold, over and over. Memorizing every rise and fall and curve of her. He didn’t care that it was obvious to everyone in the room that he was immensely distracted. He didn’t care that his eyes had nearly popped out of his head when she walked into the study on swaying hips. He didn’t hear the amused chuckles or see the raised eyebrows when he’d nearly dragged her out through the double doors when their meeting had concluded.

The only thing on his mind now was that she would pay for her scheming.

“You seemed a bit distracted, Shadowsinger,” Gwyn giggled breathlessly, trailing behind him, tethered by his hand on her wrist. He rounded on her, releasing her wrist only long enough to cradle the back of her head as he pushed her against the wall. His body pressed into her, they breathed the same breath, her eyes bore into him with intensity and desire.

“Seems I fell right into your trap,” he whispered gruffly, sliding his cheek down roughly against hers and letting his tongue dart out against her jaw. He felt her inhale against him and he smiled wickedly against her skin. “You’re a menace, Berdara.”

“I won’t forget that look on your face for a long while,” she breathed, her fingers crawling up his chest, around his neck, and planting in the thick dark locks at his nape. It wasn’t a full confession, but it wasn’t a denial. And it sure as hell wasn’t a damned apology.

“You don’t know what you’ve started, lovely Valkyrie. I think you need to be taught a thing or two about decorum.”

Her giggle was more like a shaky rasp. Azriel could feel her heart beating as he dragged his lips down the column of her throat, feel her chest heave as her breathing quickened at his touch. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe I was not the one gawking and distracted while the High Lord was speaking.”

A growl rumbled through his chest, and he knew she could feel it reverberate through her, as well. He let his hands slide down the leather scales over her sides and traced them around to her back, fingers trailing ever downward until they cupped the muscled swell of her ass. After a rough squeeze he reached just a little further down to lift her thighs. Gwyn didn’t require much prodding, crossing her ankles behind him and effectively holding herself up against him. The shadowsinger lifted his head from her neck, turning his attention to the roses blooming under those freckles. One might think they made her look innocent, but he was no fool. Those cheeks were flushed with desire and satisfaction, teal pools darkened lustfully. He captured her lips in a demanding kiss as he pulled her from the wall, their grip on each other firm and unyielding. He stalked toward the door, anxious to get outside the wards of the estate so he could winnow them home.

So he could show her exactly what she did to him.

“You’re going to pay for that, Berdara,” he whispered huskily, voice coated in want. He could barely see, barely focus on getting them out into the cobbled street. The only thing in the world was her, the maddening heat of her skin and her warm breath hitching against the shell of his ear. And then he stepped into the darkness, emerging just a few paces outside the door to their seaside home with the conniving Valkyrie and heavy shadows still wrapped around him. The locks and hinges on the door took care of themselves as he stalked into the foyer, finally in the privacy of their home.

And that was all he needed.

Azriel set her down – not as gently as he probably should have – on top of the cabinet in the foyer and crushed his mouth over her soft full lips, long fingers immediately working at the ties of her leather pants. He felt her laugh against his mouth and took the chance to push his tongue between her lips. Gwyn’s fingers curled into his hair, grasping at him desperately. He grinned against her mouth as he loosened her leathers enough to reach a hand down over the lower part of her toned stomach. His Valkyrie’s hands drifted down around his neck and over the front of him. But he knew that her aim was to loosen his now very tight breeches, and there would be none of that. He pulled away for just a moment, grabbing her hands and then forcing them above her head. He covered both of her alabaster, freckle-speckled hands with one of his, holding them against the wall as he looked straight into her eyes and traced his other scarred hand down her front.

“Did you enjoy the sight of me coming undone before your eyes, Gwyneth?” She moaned as his knuckles disappeared beneath the leather, into the heat between her legs. He pushed a finger into her, relishing the wetness that had already built there. Azriel chuckled darkly, leaning in so his lips brushed her jaw. “It appears that you did. Very much.” He dipped a second finger in, his palm rubbing against her clit and eliciting a gasp.

“Az!” Gwyn breathed. His tongue darted out right under her ear before nibbling on her soft skin. “Oh Gods, Azriel.” Her voice, usually strong, was breathy and labored.

“Yes, Love?” His mouth continued to move over her neck, nipping and sucking and licking, as he plunged his fingers into her core. Satisfaction rumbled through his chest as he rubbed the pad of his thumb over that bundle of nerves. Her hips bucked against him. “Tell me, Gwyneth, was it your intention to drive me mad with arousal? In front of the entirety of the High Lord and High Lady’s inner circle?” Her head tipped back, mouth open and gasping, giving him even greater access to that elegant neck of hers. His thumb kept rubbing, fingers pumping, her body writhing under the mastery of his powerful hands.

“Did you want them to scent my need? Even as they could see it plainly on my face? In my fucking pants, stretching and struggling to contain what the sight of you did to me?” He pushed his thumb down and she cried out.

“Gods, Az, please!”

“That’s not an answer, Love,” the shadowsinger crooned against her throat as she bucked and rolled against him. “Tell me, Gwyneth. Yes or no? Ride my fingers and tell me.” He curled the two fingers inside her and pulled them nearly out of her before plunging them back in, pressure ever present on her clit. Her moaning and keening were music to his ears. He loved that he was the one she trusted to give her pleasure, that she would let go for him.

“Y-y-yes! Yes, Azriel!” She was almost there. He could feel it, feel her clenching around his fingers and hear her impending release in the cracking of her voice.

“I’m going to unravel you, lovely Valkyrie. I will undo you with my touch, just as you undo me. Just as you unraveled me in that study. I told you that you had no idea what you started.” He lifted his head and grew impossibly harder as he studied Gwyn’s beautiful face, flushed with pleasure, expressive eyes lidded, strangled cries escaping through parted lips. “Look at me, Gwyn. Look at me when you cum for me.” The wicked smile that curved his lips could not be stopped, not when those clouded teal eyes found his. They were deep as the sea, dark as the night with ecstasy. He curled his fingers inside her again and ground his thumb into that sensitive bud, driving her over the edge. She howled her release, tense muscles firing through her legs and core, making her twitch and buck. His touch was relentless, extending her orgasm as her wetness soaked his hand.

“That’s it, Love,” he praised as he leaned in to press his lips to hers and pulled his hand out from between her legs. He pulled her hands away from the wall above her head and draped her arms over his shoulders. “Hold onto me,” he whispered, kissing her again. He grabbed her thighs, encouraging her to wrap her legs around him. Then he pulled her off the cabinet and carried her down the hall, navigating the corridors to their room. Her breathing had only just begun to calm as he stepped into the bedchamber. He released her legs and she allowed them to straighten as he lowered her toes to the ground.

When she looked up at him, arms still around his shoulders, her smile was languid and content. Azriel flashed a crooked grin. “How do you feel?”

“Hmmm,” she murmured. “I feel… very good.” She giggled at her lacking vocabulary. The shadowsinger let his hands slide over her, finding their way to her back – to the buckles of her leathers.

“I think we need to get these off.” He started fingering the buckles, pulling straps with an impatience that wasn’t typically his style. But when it came to Gwyneth Berdara he could never get enough, soon enough. “I am not nearly finished with you yet.”

#gwynriel #gwynriel fanfic #gwynriel fanfiction #gwynriel supremacy #gwyn is a bit of a tease #azriel won't let her get away with it #but he's also a big fan

[sherlokiness]

White, white, white, white, white but you know what's not white? Her blue eyes. Her dark honey hair. Her red cheeks.

They look as though they belong together. Val was clad all in white; white woolen breeches tucked into high boots of bleached white leather, white bearskin cloak pinned at the shoulder with a carved weirwood face, white tunic with bone fastenings. Her breath was white as well … but her eyes were blue, her long braid the color of dark honey, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. It had been a long while since Jon Snow had seen a sight so lovely.

This is a Sansa reference. And not foreshadowing for Val turning into a wight. One could argue he forgot the color of Val's eyes but it's undermined by the fact that he put three dots before it. GRRM made Jon elaborate on what's white on Val(There are 5)just so he could contrast it to a color that is finally not white- her eyes cause they are blue. If it's a mistake then GRRM failed epically with this passage. Using an ellipsis for emphasis but not bothering to double check?Even the hair color is wrong!

Beneath her coverlets she tossed and turned, dreaming that Hizdahr was kissing her … but his lips were blue and bruised, and when he thrust himself inside her, his manhood was cold as ice.

As you can see, GRRM later used the same trick with Dany. Person X is mentioned but then is later described with traits not belonging to them. I think we can conclude that both passages are talking about different people.(Sansa or Jon/Euron)

The light of the half-moon turned Val's honey-blond hair a pale silver and left her cheeks as white as snow. It had been a long while since Jon Snow had seen a sight so lovely.

Imagine if GRRM added that last line. I would be an Aegony rn. Gotta hand it to GRRM to make the moon do the impossible to have honey be turned into silver.

The last time he saw such a sight was this

Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself. 

Blue eyed, dark honey hair,belonging with a 'ghost' direwolf? Check.

He's so blown away he had to ask

"Have you been trying to steal my wolf?" he asked her.

Have you been trying to steal me? Jon and Ghost are one. "Ghost is a part of him..."

"You wrong me, ser. I am no thief!"

Ser Roland placed his hand over his heart. "Then how do you explain this hole in my chest, from where you stole my heart?"

Jon/Roland upon seeing Val/Sansa talks about stealing an important part of them.

The language used is "have been trying" meaning this is not the first time this has happened. When did she ever try to steal his wolf? It should be " Are you trying to steal my wolf?" I hope you can see my point.

It calls to mind this exchange

"You could dance with me, you know. It would be only courteous. You danced with me anon."

"Anon?" teased Jon.

"When we were children." She tore off a bit of bread and threw it at him. "As you know well."

Anon means soon or shortly and only used twice. GRRM must have known that it is an unusual use of the word soon since she was referring to a dance in the past.

A snowflake danced upon the air. Then another. Dance with me, Jon Snow, he thought. You'll dance with me anon.

The correct meaning of anon is used here and it also makes us remember Waymar(Jon Snow parallel and who also happened to be Sansa's first love 🤣)

Ser Waymar met him bravely. "Dance with me then."

We all know Jon will "dance" with the WW. But since anon is used, we harken back to Alys's words which Jon changed from the past (you danced) to the future ( you'll dance) with me.

So anon is not used correctly and this Jon response(he's about to betray the Wildlings) was also used incorrectly and it doesn't make sense unless he's foreshadowing a different event

The man kept staring at him, with eyes as big and black as wells. I will fall into those eyes and  drown. 

As I've explained here, there's no way GRRM used drowning in someone's eyes as a metaphor for falling in love multiple times(5 times) just to make the sixth one(Jon's) an exception. Let's look at this earlier Sansa chapter in the same book.

She could only imagine what it would be like to pull up his tunic and caress the smooth skin underneath, to stand on her toes and kiss him, to run her fingers through those thick brown curls and drown in his deep brown eyes. A flush crept up her neck.

Sansa is fantasizing about the Knight of Flowers.

"You have your mother's eyes. Honest eyes, and innocent. Blue as a sunlit sea. When you are a little older, many a man will drown in those eyes."

So "a man will drown in those eyes" while Jon said he "will fall into those eyes and drown." Such coincidental wording and both cases involve water (sea and wells).

It was Lemore who forced the water from your lungs after Griff had pulled you up. You were as cold as ice, and your lips were blue.

This is how Tyrion was described when he nearly drowned. Makes you think.

#jonsa #jonsa meta #ice and fire boy and nothing so sweet

[werewolfcave]

Okay so the implications of this image are driving me fucking insane. I know it's just from the Mobage game and it's like ha ha silly outfits but!

Sayaka is wearing a hunt coat (also known as a show coat). This implies that they are showing this horse or are one of those annoying rich people who pays people to groom their horse, either way they are specifically riding in the English Discipline.

If they are showing then why is their hunt coat that light of a color, the standard colors are black and navy. Their breeches are the correct color so why isn't their coat? Why does their coat have so many buttons? If its actually a hunt coat it's supposed to have 3 buttons, if it's a competition jacket it's supposed to have 4 buttons. Not even going to unpack the straight up ribbon bow on their neck, that isn't standard at all. Why is their hair not brushed nor pulled back? It should be pulled back in a bun with a net over it. Also why are their gloves so short? That's not about standard those just don't seem like proper riding gloves.

Then we have the horse itself, why does the horse have a bridle on but no saddle? Is Sayaka going to ride bareback? If so why aren't they wearing a helmet? If this IS meant to be showing then why is the horse's forelock and mane unbraided? It's forelock and mane are very messy what's up with that. Also why is it's nose the same color as the rest of it's face? That's mostly just nitpicking but y'know.

This image has me obsessed did they even look at the proper coats while making this? I am likely the only person deeply annoyed by this but

#pmmm #puella magi madoka magica #sayaka miki

[welcometotheballpit]

DATE! THAT! CLOWN

I, your host, approach the stage of your favorite dating game show. The audience honks appreciatively as the lights flicker on to reveal three booths and the title of the game show “DATE THAT CLOWN!” shines brilliantly to life.

“Hello dear ones!” I greet you, breaking the fourth wall unrepentantly. “As a very special valentine’s day treat I would like to play a game with you. Now, what is the game called?”

Despite the question being asked to you, the viewer, the audience takes initiative and answers, “DATE! THAT! CLOWN!”

“That is correct! I shall show you three lovely single clowns and I shall have you vote on who to go on a splendid date with! Now, let’s meet our contestants.”

The first booth is raised to the audience cheer, inside there is a scare-clown. The clown is well-over 9 feet tall, with their shoulders hunched slightly at the sound of the crowd. They have black shaggy hair falling in unruly waves covering most of their face and nearly touching the floor behind them, but from beyond the hairy veil you can see a pair of gleaming pure-black eyes, a sharp nose and a mouth full of needle-like teeth. They wave a hand shyly at the crowd, the fingers are highly elongated with dagger-like claws at the end.

I take out a card and adjust my microphone, “Now everyone here is our first contestant, Beetle! Beetle is a genderless scare clown and their hobbies, if I am reading their answers correctly, are flower arranging and watching rom-coms. Now Beetle, what are you hoping for should they pick you for a date?”

Beetle blushes and whispers something to the host.

“Ah!” I say cheerily, “They hope to hold hands!”

As Beetle covers their blushing face an electronic bull rolls onto the stage, bucking wildly, a rodeo clown on its back. The clown summersaults off the bull and takes my microphone before I can introduce him.

“And I’m contestant numero 2!” He yells into the mic. He is a rodeo clown wearing a flannel shirt, cowboy hat and leather breeches. He flips his golden hair and half off the clowns in the audience swoon at his manly jaw and brashness. “My name is Buck, and I wanna-”

The audience leans in as he lets the sentence linger, and just as I think I will have to remind him that this show has a G rating he leans back and yells.

“FORM AN EMOTIONAL CONNECTION!!!!!! YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!”

The audience cheers and I stiffly retrieve my microphone from him, the rodeo clown continuing to wink and shoot finger guns into the audience. I finally make it to the next contestant.

The box raises and within an elegant mime is seated, her long black hair like a waterfall down her back and her eyes glittering dangerously. She looks like a black and white film dame noir, color pallet included. She uses sign-language to communicate, but everyone hears her words in their heads nonetheless.

‘Hello. My name is Belladonna.’ She communicates, her lashes fluttering prettily by her cheeks like poisonous moths. ‘My hobbies include long walks on the beach and setting fires with my mind.’

With that one of my camera men catches fire and runs off screaming. Belladonna only smiles demurely.

“Ahem,” I turn back to the audience, “So do please tell me who you would like to pick for your date. Vote down below!”

A) Beetle

B) Buck

C) Belladonna

#clown #clowns #clown husbandry #clowncore #clownblr #valentines