#a servant completely and utterly devoted to her god and yet a god is nothing without its worshippers

[fraternum-momentum]

give me your complete and unwavering devotion.

[lovehotelreservation]

Formulaic

Summary: There was a process to every solution.

And while Cid was aware of one particular solution he so dearly wished to attain, the process was simply too formidable to even attempt:

To confess his feelings to Maria, the Warrior of Light.

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: WoL!OC/Cid

EVERY TIME I SEE CID I GET WHIPLASH THAT HE’S ONLY 34 HEWWO ??? MANS LOOKS LIKE HE’S GOT WERTHER’S ORIGINAL KISSES NOT LA CROIX MAKEOUT SESSIONS!!!

ANYWAY HFLKAFHAKL THANK YOU TO MY DEAREST COMMISSIONER FOR THIS OPPORTUNITY--ESP SINCE I PROGRESSED FURTHER ON THE OMEGA SERIES BECAUSE OF THIS!!!

---------------- Cid regretted ever fixing that damn kettle.

While doing so finally got the whinging pursed lips of Nero to finally hush up so he could hone his focus upon Garlond Ironworks’ current endeavor of seeking out Omega, the repair of the Mark XIV Thermocoil Boilmaster only served to give his lifelong rival all the opportunity to cozy up to the very person that Cid wanted him to stay the furthest away from.

Or attempt to at least.

A personality utterly kind and demure, eyes grey like rain clouds on a cozy morning, soft and silken locks of gold that cascaded to the middle of her back, a mind so brilliant and witty.

Eorzea’s Warrior of Light, but his own precious weakness.

She was Maria and oh how his heart yearned for her.

All while his eyes bore holes into the ground beneath which Nero stood every time he approached her with a mischievous glint in his eyes and an arrogant smirk on his face.

While Cid was more than overjoyed to see Maria fix herself a cup of tea during the lulls between endeavors in the Datascape, whenever she went to pour herself a drink, Nero was sure to be trailing after her, going on about superior blends in Garlemald and how he was more than ready to show her the breadth of his refined palate.

His intentions were clear.

And though Cid was ever prepared to step in as need be to keep Nero from pestering her further, the crux of the underlying issue in face of all this remained present in place:

His own feelings for Maria.

If the situation called for it, he could easily give a fully articulated lecture on the Allagans while inebriated to the point he was face planted on the floor in a drunken and naked slump right in the middle of Sapphire Avenue during peak Starlight shopping season.

But to confess how he genuinely felt about the woman who captivated him so dearly, who inspired him to go beyond any boundary?

The thought of risking the friendship that he treasured with her like nothing else was enough to push him to drink.

After all, with how often that the world relied on her strength to help defend it, he was protective of her--even lamenting that time he jokingly declared his need for her mainly due to her usefulness while he was guiding her through the tumultuous depths of The Praetorium.

Yet with the aftermath of that infamous night in Ul’dah and her subsequent escape to Ishgard, it was then that he began to realize that his fondness for her went beyond mere allies, mere friends.

This was made apparent the moment they were properly reunited after her far too close encounter with the Vundu at the Sea of Clouds, having successfully escaped pursuit by the Bismarck.

What with the way he could not hold himself back from taking her into his arms, hugging her close as all tension within his body was swiftly relieved as he took her in.

Her presence, her scent, her adorably surprised stammers as he embraced her right in front of Hauchefant and Emmanellain.

Along with Wedge and Biggs, with the former letting out a startled “Chief--!” while the other released the hearty chuckle of “Aye boss, demonstration of affection’s handled a whole lot differently in Ishgard, you know!”

For all his intentions to never let her go from the moment he feared the worst upon her disappearance, he was ever quick to relinquish her, a faint dust of pink spreading across his cheeks.

Cid was thankful that she didn’t seem to catch onto Biggs’s cheeky remark, looking so gorgeously flustered more so from his sudden embrace, despite her attempts to look composed in light of their reunion.

And it was from then on that he happily took his place within her journey, whether physically together during their attempts to thwart the return of Alexander, or when they were apart and remained joined together by way of letter or linkpearl.

To hear her say or see his name in her handwriting was a joy that could not ever be replicated by anything else.

As a pursuer of knowledge, he had to abide by what was factual.

There was no denying of his longing for Maria.

Not while he had Biggs, Wedge, and Jessie chiming in to ask if he had been talking to her whenever they handed her letters to him with knowing smiles on their faces.

And now, with Maria dedicating her time and effort to assist him and the rest of Garlond Ironworks with Omega’s ongoing trials, he could feel his heart welling with his increasingly overwhelming desire to express how he felt.

It was just only more irritating that Nero had stoked the flames by his pompous ways, of which left plenty on Cid’s mind, especially with the completion of the first gambit of battles under Omega’s watch and the return to Rhalgr’s Reach for some needed rest and recuperation.

Though, relaxation was in the furthest corner of his mind, whether by the mystery of Omega’s intentions or his current predicament of his feelings towards Maria.

With the hour late, rather than try to force himself back to sleep within the sleeping quarters set aside for Garlond Ironworks, he thought a walk around the now quiet compound would serve him better instead.

A change between sleeping clothes to a light shirt and a pair of pants--more suitable for the arid Ala Mhigan weather.

There was a small grin on his face as he emerged from the sleeping area.

Already he could hear Maria’s voice of exasperated curiosity with the inquiry of “How are you not evaporating?” whenever she saw his usual day to day attire.

Yet the voice that was in his head was heard by his very ears as he entered the common area that led out to the rest of Western Rhalgr’s Reach.

“Cid?”

Seated at one of the communal tables was none other than Maria, her expression curious and mug in her hands steaming, all while the Mark XIV Thermocoil Boilmaster presided by her on the tabletop.

The gods may toy but sometimes their mischief was simply too much.

His heart aflutter and his grin widening, Cid approached where Maria was sitting. “Well now, someone’s up late.”

The corners of her mouth quirked into a small smile as she proceeded to take a sip. “I see it as being up early.”

But though her tone was jovial and her expression relaxed, there was a distant look in her eye that signified a preoccupation.

He knew that look.

“I see--though, a warrior like yourself ought to get her rest, no?” Pulling out the chair beside her, he proceeded to take a seat, all while his grey eyes gazed towards her with concern. “Tell me, what keeps you up on this good night, Maria?”

While it was often joked that Cid was married to the pursuit of knowledge, he liked to think that his devotion to his studies made him especially perceptive of properly assessing emotion.

For surely, who else happily devoted one’s efforts to knowing so much of Maria such as he?

It was then that she set her mug down on the table.

Just before she turned towards him, her lips forming into a pout.

A pout he so dearly wished to kiss.

Huffing, she remarked as her arms folded over her chest, “Are we speaking about the general burden of being the go-to person for everyone’s dilemma, or that Nero is getting under my skin again? Take your pick.”

No words in modern and/or Allagan vernacular could fully describe the relief that washed over Cid’s body.

Still, always wishing for her to be at peace, he responded in turn with a sympathetic grin as he chuckled, “Ahh, one of those pesky reasons to stay up. What has our comrade in reluctant arms done this time?”

Maria turned her attention towards her mug on the table.

Her favorite one of the Garlond Ironworks’s collection, which Cid always made sure to have on hand whenever she was working alongside them.

Though many thoughts were swirling in her mind at this very moment--especially with Cid sitting right beside at an otherwise romantic hour--she continued as disdain intertwined itself with each word she spoke, “Earlier, Nero insisted that I try his cup of tea, and right when I did, he started gloating about an indirect kiss.”

If the thought of Maria’s voice energized his soul to go on a walk at such a late time, the mere utterance of Nero thinking himself to be so charming he could think to flirt in such a way made the inklings of a migraine begin to form within Cid’s head.

With her body visibly cringing at the recollection, the late hour had her lamenting out loud, “Is every brilliant mind from Galemand as big of a pompous know-it-all like him?”

“Well I like to think of myself as a humble servant to the majesty of study,” Cid teased with a shrug.

Setting her cheek against her palm while her elbow set upon the table, she remarked with a shake of her head, “You’re the exception.”

Cid had to wonder if he just gulped down a mug of tea himself with the rush of heat that suddenly surged through his chest. He let out another laugh, richer, deeper. “I take it that you’re not as keen to receive Nero’s odd attempts at courting?”

Maria’s eyes closed as she groaned at the thought, “I’d rather kiss the floor of the Gold Saucer during the summer season.”

“Then, would you prefer a kiss from elsewhere…?”

And then her eyelids fluttered open.

The lightheartedness in Cid’s tone had subsided into one of sincerity, as matched by the look in his eyes while he peered directly towards her.

Though unsure of how to feel or proceed, everything within her body encouraged her to step forward towards what she had yearned for so long.

And so, ever shyly but with her eyes gazing right into his, she murmured, “...If it must come from elsewhere, it can only come from one person.”

His breath caught in his throat. “‘One person…?’”

Her face grew warm from embarrassment. “I think you can figure it out, humble servant to the majesty of study.

Cid couldn’t resist from gasping with delight. “Gods Maria--”

His hands swiftly cupped her cheeks and their mouths met for a long awaited kiss, the warmth of the tea on her lips making them both melt further into their connection.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, bringing the two of them closer. 

It was yearning now fulfilled, a flood of long withheld affection bursting forth, a craving for one another looking to be satisfied, to be changed from midnight fantasy to joyful fruition.

Kisses once shy and careful turned earnest and heated, tongues stumbling against one another as hands groped with need.

Were it not knowing her penchant for reservation, he would have ravaged her right then and there at the commons table.

Instead, he opted to lift her up into a carry, her arms and legs hugging around his shoulders and waist as he hurriedly brought her back to his quarters, his walk and her tea forgotten.

Surely, this had to be a dream in some way, no?

But as her back fell upon his mattress, as their hands continued to undress and feel each other as physical confirmation that what was occurring was very much real, the joys of the present couldn’t have been more sweet.

And how Cid savored her moans like that of an addictive confection.

Even without trying to be mindful of others at this late hour, Maria stifled her moans out of shyness, all while her back arched into warmth of Cid’s lips as they kissed over her dribbling core, the bristles of his facial hair scratching against her quivering as he eagerly lapped his tongue along her slit with long and indulgent strokes.

Though, she couldn’t quite be as quiet when she was eventually seated on his lap, her face buried into his shoulder as she rode his cock, all while one of his big sturdy hands held onto her hip while the other fondled her ass, guiding her up and down the length of his thick dick at a brisk pace.

This provided an ample opportunity to plant his lips along the crook of her neck, gentle suckles leaving red marks in their wake.

While he knew that Maria would do everything in her power to understandably cover up, the thought of Nero thinking twice to pursue her while seeing the marks on her neck was satisfying.

But nowhere near as satisfying as feeling the muffled whimpers of his name from her lips against his skin, the hot and slippery confines of her slick walls squeezing around his cock, up until they reached their orgasms with her core clamping onto his dick and his seed flooding inside her in a lascivious, scorching burst.

Much like as they began, they ended with their lips on one another’s yet again as they fell back onto his mattress, joined together now by their arms embracing one another, fingers intertwining, his lips against her temple, her head nestling upon the sturdiness of his chest.

Though they would have much to fully confide and earnestly convey once their bodies were properly rested, both Cid and Maria were relieved, their hearts feeling warm.

Far warmer than any brewed cup of tea.

[neotrinitythinker]

prompt for dr whomst've'yain't've: ryan, yasmin, graham and 13 + late night dinners and bonding

Surprisingly, the cure for escaping the clutches of galactic evil on their own planet; a thousand glares from the embrace of their own time, Ryan finds, is rubbish, unhealthy amounts of fast food.

When he was younger; and back when his mum was still around, and his dad was more reliable, and his nan was... well... -

Whatever Nando's had was always good. Even when Nan had taken him in after everything, she always stopped somewhere for him when she was running errands.

Comfort food seemed to transcend countless timelines. And he wasn't sure what they were eating, but it had come from what looked to be the space version of a bad idea for food.

Compared to other trips with the woman, the day had been tame for them. Having traveled back to somewhere in the 19th century, by Graham's request, having a soft spot it seemed for Victorian England. Or; at least the clothing. Ryan took every chance to half heartedly restrain his chuckles at the ridiculous hat the older man had worn when they found the wardrobe of the TARDIS; taking the piss whenever he could - though, his outfit wasn't any better.

The Doctor hadn't been sure of the exact time they had gone to - Yaz had a few choice words to say to the box that apparently had a mind of its own, and for whatever reason the big blue time machine had, was angry at its - her? - Occupants. But the alien was sure that it was in, as she had called it, a "very cross, and unhelpful mood." With little more explanation.

Though, if he had to wager a guess for the reason behind it - he did drink something, and spill some of it (very small amounts!) onto the console. Ryan mused sheepishly.

But he had cleaned it up!

Wherever and whoever the thing was bought from, he thinks, should give her a refund for the moody machine. Even if The Doctor sometimes stared at it with some kind of timeless devotion.

It could think now. It thinks. It was annoyed. According to The Doctor, it always thought. How bonkers.

What he did know, was, that when each of them had left the (sentient, apparently. how wicked.) TARDIS, the four of them dressed to the nines in dark, period fitting clothing, it hadn't materialized somewhere discreet, not that it ever did, he reckoned.

It hadn't landed in some back alleyway; nor in grassy fields - nor empty plains.

It landed in bloody Kensington Palace.

As they stumbled out of the TARDIS, they also so happened to bump into a freckled, full mooned face girl with clothing that made Ryan think she was some kind of servant.

He's never been in a palace before.

Whoever the startled girl had been, they don't really find out, as she scatters away with urgency in her features. But Graham is already in shambles over their circumstance to begin with.

("Oh - I don't even think the TARDIS is worth as much as that painting - Doctor, will you look at that!")

Despite the worry that they might be considered trespassing - which Ryan hasn't properly expressed yet, mainly due to how in awe he is that he was in Kensington Palace in the 19th century to begin with, The Doctor had taken them on a stroll, avoiding any guards - there weren't that many to begin with; hardly any, and it had not been lost on her.

It had been odd - he certainly noticed her piqued interest over it - heard her think out loud over it, and asked a few wandering people about it in her cheery casualness. But it hadn't been cause for concern.

And then, had come trouble. Because of course, there was always that.

When they had turned the fourth consecutive hallway - the forth one that had zero people in it, (though Ryan had personally thought, that maybe - and this was perfectly reasonable to think when you were in the home of fancy privileged white people - that they were all off, somewhere, in a meeting or crowning or something to that degree) they had managed to finally be greeted by another soul.

More specifically; the soul in question had been Queen Bloody Victoria.

He thinks its her. He's definitely googled her before for enough school projects. Even if she looked older than what normally came up. Maybe a decade older than Graham.

Even more specifically; her full on sprinting form, careful to pick up her flowing silk dress, as she ran from something with green tentacles.

Naturally; even though this is definitely something to book it over - The Doctor springs headfirst into the fire.

The thing - he's never seen it before, he's seen plenty of aliens, plenty of monsters, and he's never seen this, was a creature in between a circular shape; and a square - if that was possible. It was an awkward, kind of horrifying, mix of shapes. It was green - snot kind of green, almost translucent - there was definitely an outline of a crumpled body in it.

Its eyes - entirely and completely plural - there were three dozen from its head (he thinks its a head?) down to its waist (again, probably one) dark, like unforgiving coal that had been broken into harsh bits to where all that it really was, was simply just... color. And like a terror beyond comprehension, it had tentacles screaming out and spread out on its body - it didn't have legs; it seemed to get by on them alone.

Its mouth - he was certain it was a mouth, was unhinged - near a trio of eyes on its now probable face. It looked... like a fog. A ghost of something. There was sharpness - pointy, very pointy - but it was almost hidden.

"Uh - Doc..." Graham had walked backwards - standing his ground but very clearly ready to hear the word "run" from anyone. There was apprehension on his face - like Ryan's and Yaz's, but masked by nervousness and wonder at whatever the hell they were looking at. His hat had inexplicably fallen off his head and sunk pathetically to the lavish spiral carpet.

"Doctor - what's the plan?!" Yasmin had bellowed through the inhuman noise - the thing was making noises now - darting her gaze to the sponge color haired traveler next to her - whose gaze was equally taken aback by the scene - but with an awe.

By now Victoria - should he call her something else? She was - is? in this moment - rich and a product of the 19th century, his morals say no - Victoria has gotten closer to them - enough to bolt past them with a survival instinct he didn't think he'd see from someone who seems to be quite old. The Doctor had instinctively made herself seem bigger; using the hand that didn't have her sonic in it, to shield the five against... the alien, (?) and stare down the creature.

"OI! Oh no you don't Flubber! Get back!" Yelled The Doctor, eyeing the thing. She had briefly glanced back at the four; who hadn't made any new reaction at her statement. She frowned.

"Oh come on fam!" She tried. "Flubber? I'm an alien, I can't be the only one who understands it."

From behind Yaz, Graham had hesitantly raised his hand. "I understood it." He admitted, still watching the steadily approaching creature.

The Doctor's face lit up. "Wasn't it a laugh then? Flubber?" It fell again. "Get it, cause it's green and..." She trailed off at their expressions. "You didn't laugh."

"God Almighty!" The Queen had made herself known again, hysterical in tone, but still firmly with them. "Cease your babbling, you failed jester! Destroy the monster! Get rid of it now!"

The Doctor turned back. "Right! No worries, just my wounded hearts - anyways -"

The Doctor once more lifted her sonic, the other alien having only gotten worrying closer - by now, its jaw had lowered, to where it obscured several of its facial eyes. It let out a screech - distorted, almost electrical, like a bad game in a console; and a pulsing noise filled the air as she pointed it in its direction.

For a second, it seemed like the result was nothing. The pulsing continued and continued. The thing crept closer.

And then it stopped - right in its tracks.

There was a noise; a scream, almost. But it was too distorted to really tell.

And then - whatever it was - had combusted. Totally - and utterly; a symphony of destruction, all at once showering the palace with waves of unknown emerald green goo - splattering against the pristine walls, the portraits and furniture. All of its eyes had not suffered the same fate; they simply vanished. A lone tentacle had landed at Ryan's feet, and he had jumped backwards in shocked disgust.

Despite this it didn't connect with them - all of them; that this had ended right then. Yaz still stared at nothingness - eyebrows furrowed and breaths heard and heavy. Graham was still backing away, and The Doctor still clutched firmly to her screwdriver - as if, waiting. And Ryan kept looking at the intact tentacle.

And, Then.

"Good Lord!" Victoria had stirred beside them. "What in the world was that... that... that thing?!"

This thawed the rest of them. The Doctor swirled on her feet - her bewildered - yet eager expression was present as she kneeled beside Ryan's left foot. Wordlessly, she grabbed the tentacle, keeping it distant as she used her sonic and waved it around every inch of it. She brought it back to her face, and had observed whatever the sonic had said. Afterwards, she retraced her steps, bending down to stuff a finger into one of the piles of goo.

And then she... she licked it.

"Ugh! Doctor!" He groaned, eyes squinting. "That's going to get you the alien equivalent of food poisoning."

"Alien?!" Victoria squealed.

"Huh. Can't tell what this is - or was." The Doctor rose again, the goo still on her finger, dripping. "It's not anything i've seen before. Doesn't taste familiar." Mused The Doctor.

"Lick a lot of aliens then, have you Doc?" Remarked Graham, tired.

"Would someone please tell me what is happening - who are you people - where are my guards, and what is that thing!" Yelled Victoria, again.

The Doctor glanced at her, suddenly beaming as she walked over. "Hi! It beats me!" She said cheerfully. "But you're safe now - I think that thing got to your men, and was looking at you for a nice appetizer. Also, hello! You can't recognize me, but we've met! I think? Depends on what year it is. I don't want to assume, you have just been chased down fearing for your saftey. Are you a werewolf yet?" She finished, not stopping for breath as she smiled pleasantly, stretching her hand out for a shake.

Victoria looked like she swallowed a toad.

"A... wolf..." She began. Her eyes looked to the screwdriver. "Did you say your name... was The Doctor?" Victoria finished slowly.

"Nope! But my friends did." Said The Doctor, who looked suddenly sheepish. "I know I look a bit different since we last met; I got an upgrade! But..."

It all felt surreal after that, Although he couldn't understand why, and even though they had just saved her life, Victoria had threatened, with some bad blood directed mysteriously towards the blonde, to get whatever remaining guards she could find and had, and send the four of them to the Tower of London permanently.

It was after this, that, with Graham staring at her with his mouth open, that The Doctor felt it was best to leave. Quickly. Surprisingly; it was only then that they ran.

[coeurvrai]

Okay I’m back with a bowl of crunched up Yum Yum noodles and a nearly full glass of water. Let’s get back into the saddle.

You can’t talk your way out of this. Her blood is on your hands, not mine.” She leaned closer to him.

“I can live with that. You’re trying to paint it as something it’s not.”

“It was murder.”

“She was a slavhka, raised from birth to slaughter Kalyazi, and as necessary, other Tranavians.”

“That doesn’t make her a monster!”

“We’re all monsters, Nadya,” Malachiasz said, his voice gaining a few tangled chords of chaos. “Some of us just hide it better than others.

Not to beat a dead horse, but still, what in the actual fuck? Nadya, you have murdered people before and in fact, they were all Tranavians. The book tells us that you are supposed to be fine with murdering people.

“That doesn’t make her a monster!” Nadya, you are out here calling any and all Tranavians “heretics” and “abominations” and unworthy existing or living as is because their mere existence is an insult to you and the Gods because they rejected the gods and turned to blood magic instead. Pot calling the kettle black.

Also I still have the energy to roll my eyes at that quote, and at the phrase “a few tangled chords of chaos”. What the fuck does that mean, ED?

Now she was aware of just how close they were, her hand still clutching his arm. His gaze strayed to her lips. She managed to keep from blushing as she let go and stepped away—she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he could still fluster her while she was angry.

She closed her eyes. Heard him step away. When she opened her eyes again he was sitting on the chaise, elbow resting against the armrest, chin in his hand.

I am literally willing them to not have a Moment at this very moment. I cannot be fucked dealing with their stupid relationship bullshit. Also, despite getting mad at him for killing Felicíja, she still finds the time to get all blushy blushy at their proximity and him looking at her mouth.

God, Nadya, you just suck.

Malachiasz changes topics and mentions that at dinner, she’ll be sitting close to the king since she’ll be sitting with Serefin, and that she should be prepared to strike when they get the opportunity to.

The door opened. Nadya whirled, but relaxed when it was only Rashid. He grinned.

“Well, that was fun.” His face fell as he picked up on the energy in the room. “Maybe not fun?”

Rashid returns! Obviously his supposed relevancy to this story has come into play again, because he’s here. Also, “fun” would be the last word I would use to describe what I’ve just had to experience.

Nadya sighed, finally collapsing into a chair. Malachiasz watched her carefully, like one watched a dog that had just bitten them. Had he assumed her harmless? That she would simply comply with any decision he made? They were still—at their core—enemies in this war. She hadn’t forgotten, not even while she found herself worrying about his safety and wanting him by her side.

Well considering the utter fact that by all rights, you were pretty easy to convince to come on this journey and to participate in this plan when you shouldn’t be, I’m not surprised if Malachiasz views you this way. Also bullshit, you being enemies in this war means absolutely nothing when you’ve literally defended your choice to show mercy to Felicíja, a blood mage, who is also your enemy! Because she’s Tranavian, and you’re supposed to hate any and all Tranavians, and kill them as is your holy and god-given mission!

Malachaisz gives her a handkerchief to clean herself up with.

He was a nightmare—the echoes she still felt of his power were troubling—but he was gentle. Anxious and strange, a boy caught up in a world that had broken him, all while trying to do something good for once. She wondered if her anger that was so quick to spark was just her fighting against the pull she felt. Was Nher fascination merely because she had been sheltered her whole life and never known someone so drastically different from herself? Or was it more? Was it because he was dangerous and exciting, all while being completely infuriating yet thoughtful?

Nadya, I am so utterly disinterested in your constant fabricated bullshit push and pull with Malachiasz right now. You’re an idiot. That’s all I really have to say. This isn’t good writing for enemies-to-lovers because the whole pretense of being enemies is to just to fabricate some angst and then will be thrown away so ED can jump into the lovers part of the trope. And you’re a fucking idiot.

Nadya can’t reach the gods atm because the reception isn’t that great.

Rashid states that next they have dinner and Nadya comments that he doesn’t look right being dressed in servants’ clothes.

“I’ve already failed the first etiquette test,” Nadya said. “That bodes well for the next one.”

Malachiasz stretched out towards her before thinking better of it and setting his hand on the arm of her chair instead. She found her eyes drawn to the tattoos on his long, elegant fingers. They were simple, straight lines: two on either side of each finger and one down the back that started at the bed of each fingernail and ended at his wrist in a single black bar.

Knowing Nadya, someone will say something at dinner and she will stab that person across the dinner table. Also, those tattoos sound fucking dumb. At least make his tattoos tell a story like Russian criminals’ tattoos do when they get them in prison or whatever. His tattoos just sound stupid, they’re all lines.

“Everything is a game,” he said. “It’s all a play for power. We didn’t want it, but you’ve caught the attention of the elite, so you may as well keep it.”

She swallowed hard. “I can handle myself.”

“I know, Nadya.”

I do not need this right now, shut up. Also that’s a lie and we all know it, Nadya.

Malachiasz asks Rashid about the gossip he’s gotten from the servants around the palace and he recaps everything we basically already know: about the queen, about Serefin and his father, about the Rawalyk, and about Pelageya.

Apparently, this is news to Nadya and I still don’t understand how it isn’t common knowledge already that Pelageya, a Kalyazi witch, is around and alive and is a companion to the Tranavian queen.

Like, apparently the people of Kalyazi, but especially the devoted and the Gods, hate the witches almost as much as they hate the Tranavians, so much so they committed a witch hunt and glorify their supposed purging from their country.

Nadya and Malachiasz exchanged a glance, their fight momentarily forgotten.

*long, drawn out sigh*

Rashid also mentions the meeting that Serefin had with the Crimson Vulture, and the salt mines.

“That’s not good,” he murmured.

“Wait, which one is Crimson?” Nadya asked. The rankings didn’t make any sense.

“Żywia is the second in command.”

Nadya didn’t like that he knew and used their names when no one else did. She didn’t need to be constantly reminded of what he was.

Just because you’re being meta and poking fun at your own worldbuilding doesn’t mean that you get off for not fixing it and not making the rankings make more sense. It’s not a get out free jail card, ED.

Also shut up, Nadya. You keep saying that but then nothing of real substance comes out of it, so just shut up about it.

“Perhaps the king’s visits to the Salt Mines means he’s working with the Black Vulture and the prince is attempting to undermine that?” Rashid said.

“I’d always thought a schism among the Vultures would be impossible,” Malachiasz said. “But I think we’ve stepped into something bigger than just a silly pageant for a queen. If the Salt Mines are involved, definitely so.”

The Rawalyk‘s relevance to the plot is what, again?

Also what do you mean you thought a schism would be impossible? I know you’re Evil McEvil, but you’ve claimed to have broken away from them for good. Like, you’re proof there’s a fucking schism. Like fucking what lmao

“Still,” Rashid said, “the king seems to have forsaken his usual retainer of guards in favor of the Vultures.”

“They’re not guards,” Malachiasz said.

“What are they, then, Malachiasz?” Nadya asked. He was becoming increasingly agitated. Nadya wasn’t going to ignore the tremors of doubt she had when he appeared to falter.

He waved a hand. “It would be like your Kalyazi tsar having clerics act as guards. It’s not their purpose, they’re not supposed to be so deeply connected to the secular throne.”

Nadya sighed. “Except religion is interwoven into our government. It’s not a thing to be shoved aside.” She didn’t like comparing monsters with her religion, but it was an apt enough example.

What? I get what secular means - that it’s separated from religious matters, as in the phrase “separation of church and state”, but that makes no sense. Is he supposed to be referring to just Kalyazin here? I would kind of assume so, because that’s the only way this would make sense. But then Nadya corrects him the next paragraph!

Because the whole nation of Tranavia is secular. Their society is based upon rejecting the Gods and being non-religious. Like that phrasing is so fucking weird. Like I get the gist, Vultures and the Court are usually separate because Vultures don’t even recognise the Tranavian king as their ruler because they have their own king, the Black Vulture. But wtf with “secular throne”.

[arlome]

Taste

Ok, so @dismiss-your-fearsx and yours truly had this conversation about the dialogue prompts a few days ago. This no’ (44) came up, and Megan said I should write it, so...

Here it is. Be warned, be VERY warned. This is extra smutty- more than my usual style. 

I hope you like it:)

 Her nimble fingers untie his neckcloth slowly, the pads of her digits brushing against the freshly shaven skin of his neck.

"Shall we pretend this is our wedding night?" she asks almost shyly and the silken cloth slips off her palms.

Her husband –finally, she can call him so in public!- looks at her with eyes afire, a promise of a devoted life together burning brightly in them, and the corners of his lips arch upwards just a bit.

"No pretense needed." He says with a small shake of his head, "Every night is our wedding night to me."

He kisses her then, and though his eyes are soft with love, there is nothing soft about the way he presses up against her and picks her off her feet, or about the way he nudges her towards their joined bed.

They meet in flames, each burning brighter than the other, and Caroline thinks that the covers on the giant bed might get scorched by the heat. The candles cast a faint, warm glow about the room, the shadows dancing on the floors. Caroline sighs into her husband's mouth and thinks of a different night, in a different room, where darkness reigned. That bed creaked and groaned, and the feeling of his body was unknown to her as he settled above her, his waistcoat buttons pressed against her frock. That was their wedding night, but this-this is the first night of the rest of their life.

Dwight lies between her thighs, the fabric of his breeches smooth and pleasant on her heated flesh; one of his hands pushes the edges of her nightgown up her body, dragging the material as he seeks to touch her skin. He kisses her fervently, with so much passion that she can scarcely breathe, while his other hand fumbles with the ribbon that holds her stocking in its place.

Caroline's own hands glide down Dwight's back to his sides and from there, to the fastenings of his breeches. He lifts up his hips upwards, eager to assist her in her task, his lips never leaving hers.

The discarded clothes lie orphaned on the wooden floor, while their masters blatantly betray them and seek each other for warmth. The covers of the bed are trampled and wrinkled beneath them as they move, hands and mouths and skin engaged in dance.

Dwight leaves Caroline's lips and bends to kiss her neck, but his journey does not end there. He moves to worship the collarbone, then to sing praise to one pink nipple, and just when Caroline thinks she will go utterly mad, he proceeds to lick and nibble on her stomach. She furrows her eyebrows in perplexity at Dwight's intentions, unsure of where he set his destination, but then she feels his hot breath on that place that no husband, not even of the medical persuasion, should ever encounter face-to-in lack of another word, face.

"Dwight!" she jumps and squeaks, mortification dyeing her face scarlet.

Her husband raises his angelic face from between her thighs to look at her innocently.

"Yes, my dear?" he asks innocuously as it is the weather they are discussing, instead of his proximity to her lady parts.

"W-what are you doing?" she squeals and attempts to press her legs together, but his hand on her inner thigh blocks her efforts.

"Well, scientifically speaking, I am about to stimulate your clitoris orally in order to induce climax," Dwight replies cheekily and grins, "but if you prefer the more endearing version, then I am about to give you your most intimate kiss yet."

"Where is this coming from?" she asks, blushing fiercely, more in need of stalling for time than in actually receiving answers, "And what is a clitoris?"

To her utter mortification, Dwight doesn't sit up or moves at all. Instead, he leans his cheek against her inner thigh and brushes his fingers through the golden curls before his face.

"I will answer your second question first, " he says as his fingers slide down a bit, "the clitoris is this little button in the female anatomy – right here – that, when stimulated, brings women pleasure." The feeling of his hand there- between her thighs- is a familiar one, and the sudden tension in her lower abdomen that settles in her pelvis at the touch of his fingers is a dear old friend. Caroline moans and bites her lower lip, one her feet sliding down the bed. Dwight seems to take pride in her reaction because he smiles and kisses her inner thigh, making her shudder.

"Now, for your second question," he says, and his fingers slip away, wet and cool, to rest on her hipbone; Caroline resists the urge to whimper at the loss of his touch, "as you must know, sailors gossip more than old wives and…" here he seems to hesitate a little, biting his lip as a faint blush comes into his cheeks, "well, a surgeon often hears more confessions than a vicar, and I have heard some bawdy talk on my voyage that I could never repeat for fear of appearing ungentlemanly, but there was this one thing…"

Dwight kisses her inner thigh again, only now the kiss lands a little higher, and Caroline can feel the wet tip of his tongue against her feverish skin. Her breath catches in her throat, and her fingers bury deep into the covers.

"I confess, this is something I thought of doing to you, of wanting to do to you, ever since I first heard of it, and now that we are finally here, together…" he trails off, but his eyes stay fixed on hers and Caroline can feel herself being slowly burned from the inside. His face half in darkness, the gleam of his eyes and the proximity of his lips to her center, all make her almost ache with need. Dwight bends down and places a soft kiss on the golden curls.

"Please, Caroline," he almost begs, and the way he asks sends a thrill through her body, "Allow me to do this; if there is no pleasure in it for you, I will desist immediately and never speak of this again."

If she is completely honest with herself, Caroline's interest is piqued. What harm can it possibly do to let him try this new method on her? She has always trusted him before, never had any complaints about anything regarding their intimacy, so why start questioning him now?

Caroline nods slowly in resignation.

"Alright," she agrees and settles back against the pillows; Dwight smiles widely and with a quick wink bends to his task with eagerness.

In two minutes he has her moaning so loudly, that she has to push her face into a pillow to prevent the footman from barging in and inquiring after her safety. He uses his tongue as he uses his fingers, in circles and swirls, only the strokes are more languid; more pronounced. She sighs and squirms and bucks against her husband's devilishly skilled mouth; her thighs clenching and unclenching about his head.

"D-Dwight," she cries as the tightening comes upon her, "Oh Dwight! A-ah!"

She descends from the heavens slowly, writhing against the lazy strokes of his tongue and pushes at his shoulders. Dwight lifts his head and gazes at her, enamored and grinning like a fool.

"Well?" he asks and kisses her inner thigh for the third time this evening.

"God save the Navy," Caroline gasps into her arm, and Dwight laughs so hard, she fears he might choke.

He moves up her body slowly, with an almost feline grace, and when he settles back between her thighs, Caroline wraps her legs around him firmly and waves her fingers into the hair at his nape.

"So, more of this in the future, then?" he asks, smiling, and bends to nuzzle the spot below her ear.

"Yes, Oh God; yes!" she cries eagerly and kisses his shoulder and the sound of his chuckle lights a fire in her stomach.

They spend the rest of the night above the covers, twirled and entwined in each other, as the candles slowly die out in a thin line of smoke.

                                                                            ***

Breakfast is a peaceful affair for the tired lovers, full of shy smiles and blushing cheeks, as is expected from all newlyweds.The servants are clearing away empty plates, smiling to each other at their masters' sudden spike in appetite, and hurrying out of the room, eager to give the couple more privacy.

Dwight sits at the head of the table, engrossed in a letter that came this morning from London by post, while Caroline, who sits to his right, stares at him openly, her chin in her palm.

"What has you so engaged, dear husband?" she finally asks when the silence proves to be too much. Dwight folds the paper in half and places it back on the tray on which it was brought in.

"Oh, nothing," he says and smiles at her brilliantly, "just some medical news that my school friend, Dr. Adams, sent me. I may need to go to London in a few weeks time, but it is not yet-"

Before he has the chance to finish his sentence, a footman walks in and apologizes for the intrusion.

"A man to see you, sir," he explains, "he says it is urgent, someone had a bad fall."

Dwight leaps from his chair, letter and breakfast and London forgotten.

"Yes, of course; Thank you, Tom. Tell him I shall be with him directly, please."

The footman bows and leaves the room; Dwight turns to Caroline and smiles apologetically.

"I am sorry, my dear; I am afraid that duty calls."

Caroline frowns at him and pouts.

"And what about duty to your wife?" she asks petulantly, thoroughly disgruntled at the impending lack of a husband.

"I will make it up to you," he says and bends down to kiss the crown of her head as she reaches for her tea.  

He doesn't move for a second, and Caroline basks in his close proximity as she sips on the warm liquid; then, she can suddenly feel his nose in her hair, and then his lips against her ear.

"I still remember the way you taste," he whispers sweetly- diabolically – and turns to leave her.

Caroline sprays tea all over the breakfast table.

[tiriusrowan]

visxionaries​:

♠

The Ruling Lord of Goldengrove spoke of war as though it were nothing but a mere game of chess, two frames sat over a game that had little consequence in real life, as though the choices and the plays at hand were something that could be made with nothing but a few silent moments of observing the foe sat across from you. But what if it were impossible to be able to gage the truth on your opponent, despite them being so close but so far from you; the scripture of the Old Way spoke of how the Gods were closer to their creation than one’s own jugular vein, and yet, it was in times like this Cedric found himself silently contemplating on their nature completely.

“Brightwater itself remains loyal to Omer at heart.” His words were flat, for to speak of Brightwater and their love of the Florent spirit only reminded him of ghosts he had loved and he had lost, ghosts he had utterly failed time and time again until it was all too late. “The people think of his mother, which is only further fuelled by their hate  for the mistress who calls Brightwater her keep. They think of my own mother.” It was entirely possible to destabilise Alaric’s hold on Brightwater merely by igniting a fire within it, but at what cost? At what cost?

Blue orbs flickered over to the man’s silhouette sat across from him as he offered to write up correspondence to the Prince of Dorne, noting his own willingness to intervene and get the job done; such was the way of this court, where the King and his closest were at the centre of a great spiral, which only seemed to extend. To remain within that inner circle was to remain within the pinnacle of power, and as much as Cedric understood that Tirius Rowan was a man who took his vows and his oaths incredibly seriously, he also understood that nothing came out of pureness of heart. “You may, my Lord.” 

“House Chester will fall - Lady Redwyne has been given instructions to hold back on giving relief. That will be first blood.” How little did the two men know that the first blood to be shed would be far, far more personal than the likes of Lord Chester and the Shield Islands.

The Rowans wished to cement themselves within the new age, perhaps move to become a power that would threaten even the mighty security of the Hightower itself, a shadow of black and green remaining whether they knew it or not. There was nothing wrong with ambition, nothing wrong with wishing to leave the world with more to your name than it had when you took your first breath - it was something he would encourage to thrive within those families who understood that with loyalty came power. Genuine loyalty.

Never outwardly; his skepticism and his cold heart toward those who had once showered him in love and light was never something he used as a tool for philosophical discussions or lengthy debates, for he knew it was far too important a tool to be utilised to allow for any sway to come over him. Tirius Rowan himself was known to be a godly man, humble in his devotion to the Gods and remembered them, or at least tried to, with each activity he took upon himself each day; he strove to be a servant of the Gods, and to ensure his family name were remembered to be servants of the Gods too. Fulfilling the wishes and messages of the Gods was their duty, and it was through the Gods did many believe Cedric found himself upon the throne.

Loyalty was rewarded, was it not? With further strength, further power, further lands and holds that would only increase the influence of Goldengrove even more? “If I were to tell you, a marital prospect between House Farman and House Rowan has been communicated by the Westerlands, how willing would you be to consider it?”

t.

Brightwater. A problem for the King and his Commander. One Tirius wouldn't concern himself with unless it called for move action to be taken. House Chester would fall because they would not leave their lands to be ravaged and those who survived, took the chances given would rise from those ashes but they would fall. First blood would come and they would begin. Pieces would be moved. Everything would be tactical. They would move swiftly and once they salted the soil of Alaric's rose, they could continue on with the reign of Cedric Tyrell. Preferably one to happen in peace. Peace is a child's dream.

Tirius looks up at the mention of a marriage between his house and that of the Lion. The Prince was it? Tirius heard things about the man. About his rage. About the time he spent in septs and the rumors about his closeness to his sister. But, Lannisters did not seem to have Targaryen designs. He looked at Cedric and wondered why the man would make the offer but then repeated the phrasing. It has been communicated between Kings. He nods once.

"It's an offer I will consider. I've heard many things about the Westerlands. Fair Isle shares many ways with my people."

He would speak with his sister. She would meet the man and from there they would decide what she wanted to know. To him it's very important to secure a legacy. They were building a dynasty and house Rowan is one that will last through the many ages of history. And while Rowans could only hold to maintain their positions where they sit the King's council and said appoints them.  Marriages were important. And his sister's security was even more important. Men died in wars and sisters were left to their own devices. Not his.

"I do intend on monitoring their interactions and should they find themselves betrothed, my guards will be present but they will know no moments alone until they are married. Of course."

And he would need to make sure everything is updated for the children. For his sisters. War is dangerous and their King would soon need to marry for the next war and the one after while they waited for his heirs to be born. Tirius looked at the young King. This boy he used to see on the Arbor. For all the years he's known the others brother he never considered this would be the arrangement.

“Is there anything else I can do for his gracious majesty?” 

[firstumcschenectady]

“Sheer Silence” based on 1 Kings 19:1-15a

Elijah had it rough.  In his time, the people were uncertain about their loyalties.  Their shared story of being led out of bondage in Egypt and to freedom in their own land by a God who cared about them and how they treated each other... wasn't primary anymore.  Their current king was worshiping another gods.  Elijah was a prophet for YHWH, called to speak out for justice, and for YHWH-God's vision of people treating each other well and creating a society where everyone could survive AND thrive.

The other gods weren't into creating fair and equitable societies.  They were into power, and control, hierarchy, and wealth – and most of all they were into themselves.  They were easier to worship because there felt like a direct correlation between sacrifices to those gods and personal success.  (Aka, the prosperity gospel isn't new.)

Worshiping the God of our tradition isn't always easy, and Elijah was proof of that.  He was a prophet when neither the power structure nor the people tended to want to hear him.  He was asked to bring bad news, time and time again, and it was NOT appreciated.  For most of his life he is presented as a very lonely creature.  He is said to have a servant, but he seems to be on his own for the most part.  In the preceding story he claimed a great victory for God over the other gods  -  in a way I find utterly horrific – and gained the attention of some of the people in doing so. He also upset the king and queen, and was running away, certain of his impending death for what he'd done, on the basis that the queen said she was going to have him killed.

He ran, by himself, into the desert.  It seems to me that he decided it was better to control his own death than be tortured and shamed as he died.  Running into the desert was claiming the right to at least die alone.  The Bible, remember, thinks of the desert wilderness as a place where there is not enough to survive without God's help.

I mention this, because I think there are a lot of deserts out there –we have deserts of loneliness, we have deserts of grief, and deserts of exhaustion, deserts of confusion, and deserts of hopelessness, deserts of meaning, and deserts of beauty.  Research says 45% of people in the US don't have enough money for rent and food1, so there are a lot of people dealing with exactly the kind of deserts that the Bible is talking about, no metaphor needed.  However, the rest of the deserts also exist, both for people with enough money for food and rent, and for those without.  For those of us who believe that ALL people are beloved children of God, and who thus want to work for a world where justice rolls down like waters, and mercy like an every flowing stream, our country can feel like one big desert of injustice and mercilessness.

Elijah goes off into the desert by himself, too exhausted and scared and run down to do anything but find a broom tree to lie under.  A broom tree is a little desert shrub.  A devotional about broom trees says “Its deep roots draw in the moisture of land that is otherwise barren. ...In the desert, water is invisible. It lies hidden beneath the surface and is often too deep to reach on our own. But water is there and the roots of a broom tree prove its existence. In the same way, hope can be discovered even in the deepest moments of human suffering.”2 Hagar also lay down under a broom tree to await oncoming death. Hagar, too, was taken care of by God.  It seems that in the Bible utter despair and hopelessness happen in the desert – and because the desert is so HOT and the sun is so unyielding, the little shade that the broom tree offers ends up being the place that people lie down to give up their fight and let the despair win.

And, in the Bible, that means that the broom tree, like the desert, is where God steps in.  For Hagar, that meant helping her see the well that was going to sustain her life.  For Elijah, it is a bit more complicated.  He lies down under the broom tree to give up, and the first thing that happens is … he falls asleep.  He stops fighting. He lets the exhaustion win.

And then, a messenger of God (I'd lean towards assuming a human one, but that's just me), delivers food and water – good food and water from what I can tell – and wakes him up to eat it.  And then get gets to go back to sleep.

I like this part.  I may like this part best.

I like that Elijah doesn't have to do anything more.  He sleeps, he eats and drinks, and he goes immediately back to sleep.  Sometimes, friends, that's all we have left when we've given our all to the work of kindom building, and we have NOTHING left.  Sometimes finding food and drink is too much, and someone has to help us, and even when they do, all we can do afterwards is go back to sleep.  This is also lovely encouragement for the people who tend to be messengers of God who show up with food and drink.  The prophet may get a lot of glory, but the prophet wouldn't make it without those others who prop them up.

Even Elijah, even the one known for standing alone in his generation, even he didn't do it himself.  The food and water to sustain his life came from outside his capacities.  They were gifts to support him.  The work of building the kindom takes many people doing their part, never just one standing alone.  In this church, we do some of those “messenger under a broom tree” type ministries.  We support the people of God by making the journey a touch easier, by seeing what is needed and offering it.  Our breakfast is food and drink in some people's desert.  Sustain is too.  

This passage is good to remember and see the valuable work of those who are “messengers of God” with hidden, quiet support.    I think is also honest about the times when life has drained EVERYTHING we have from us, and that sometimes in life we sit under a broom tree without any intention to ever get up again.  At those times, we don't even have a choice.  We can't do any more.

And, friends, I think that's OK.  I think we're allowed to be exhausted, drained, horrified, and in despair.  Elijah is a pretty deal in the Bible, and he gets just sleep under a broom tree!  I don't want to rush out from under this broom tree.  In the stories of the Bible, sitting under them in despair is honest, and real.  It is a reflection of what has happened, and what is happening, and that there is no where else to turn.

AND YET, God is the one who makes a way out of no-way.  God lets Elijah sleep under the broom tree, BUT God also makes sure that Elijah gets the sustenance he needs for the next part of the journey.  I guess that means we get to sit under broom trees, we get to recover, we get to be aimless, we get to rest and rebuild strength, but … it is always a stop along the journey and never the journey's end. However, before anyone feels rushed out of their broom tree offering shade in the desert, let's note that he got to sleep, eat, drink, and sleep again and eat again and drink again.  He got rebuilt before he had to leave.  If you aren't rebuilt yet, I'm not sure you have to leave yet.

But, leave the liminal space of the broom tree of hopelessness, we will. God lets us be there, but not stay there.  Elijah gets awoken a second time by a messenger, who has left food and drink again, and then he gets kicked out from under the broom tree.  

It seems to work for him.  On that rest, recovery, and sustenance, he is able to complete his journey.  His journey is to Mount Sinai, where Moses got the commandments from God.  Like Moses before him, Elijah has the chance to know God more deeply there.  The story makes space for Elijah to name his grievance and be heard, "I have been very zealous for the LORD, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away." (verse 10).  And then and there, from a cave on mountain far from home, Elijah experiences God.

The story takes the time to clarify who God is and is not.  God is not in the destruction, or the fear, or even the awe.  God is not in the loud and extraordinary.  Instead, God is in the regular, the every day, the silence.  There was probably silence under the broom tree, but it seems Elijah needed the journey before he could hear its significance.  So, Elijah emerges from the cave to stand in the midst of sheer silence.  Teachers of Centering Prayer call silence “God's first language.”  In the midst of the presence of the Divine, Elijah is again given the space to name his grievance and his grief. God, who is in the silence, LISTENS to the one who has been exhausted.

Now, God's response at first glance does not appear to be the very empathetic.   Elijah repeats his claim that "I have been very zealous for the LORD, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away,"  and God replies, “Go to Damascus.” Which, by the way, is like 500 miles away – through the desert.

See? Isn't it good there was some time under that broom tree before we got to the cave?  I think it is because of the time to be, without trying to do, that Elijah was able to hear God again.  And be ready for the next steps of his journey.  By the way, Elijah was sent to Damascus to anoint two new Kings (one for Aram and one for Israel) AND to anoint his successor.  And, for a while, Elijah and Elisha got to work together for justice, and Elijah didn't have any more work he did on his own.  After the broom tree, things got easier, and there was more support.

Thank God for broom trees, and prophets, and messengers (with food and water), and rest, and restoration, and sustenance, and silence, and companionship, and hope, and a God who cares for all people even when we're too exhausted to care for ourselves.  Amen

1https://money.cnn.com/2018/05/17/news/economy/us-middle-class-basics-study/index.html

2https://fivetalents.org/blog/2017/8/21/beneath-the-broom-tree-discovering-hope-in-the-deepest-moments-of-suffering

--

Rev. Sara E. Baron First United Methodist Church of Schenectady 603 State St. Schenectady, NY 12305 Pronouns: she/her/hers http://fumcschenectady.org/ 
https://www.facebook.com/FUMCSchenectady

June 23, 2019

[sh1n0issapphic]

Repent and preach the gospel that’s all you need, everything else is just additional fun. He loves all.

give me your complete and unwavering devotion.