#basically threshing

[violentdelightshavevioletends]

Xaden: *screams*

Violet: *screams louder to establish dominance*

Tairn: Should we do something?

Sgaeyl: No, I want to see who wins.

[loartacc]

Drops a rare cat oc onto the ground. Thresh revamp

[lixbf]

so apparently the purpose of this book is just to make me emotional about basically everything the ppl from district 11 do

[arlechinav-blog]

What is Trancework?

Trancework is the majestic art that I like to refer to as Magic Floppy Time. Trance naturally happens when you set your body to a simple repetetive task with some kind of rhythm either built in or in the background. It is not a religious experience by itself. It happens when driving in the rain with the windshield wipers going. It can happen while reading or doing the dishes for an extended period of time. These things happen on accident which means that this is something our bodies and minds were built to do and it does not require training to get the basics. But if you want to do it on purpose and learn to do some really neat things with it, that would take some skill development. And that is what trancework is--trancing on purpose. What does it feel like? Trancing is rather like sleepwalking. If you slip into it without realizing it then you will really only become aware of it once you start to wake. At that point you somewhat suddenly come back to your senses with absolutely no idea how much time has elapsed since you were last fully conscious. You may just feel a little disoriented and possibly a little groggy. However, if you slip into a trance while fully conscious of it, you will likely feel a few effects. There is a spectrum of normal at play in trancework--which is to say that there are a good number of sensations that can be experienced. For some it may feel like a narrowing of the field of vision, for others it may feel like your consciousness is pulled into either your stomach or right above your head. Still others may just feel a bit woozy or they may feel like their bodies are locked into a particular motion and that they cannot make themselves stop doing it.

Hold out your hands and spin in a field for about 20-30 seconds and then either stop or just try to stop. That's what it feels like. And the reason that is what it feels like is because that is actually a method of getting yourself into a trance on purpose. While any simple repetetive motion can get you into an altered state, the heavy hitters are movements that disrupt the body's equillibrium--that sense of balance in your inner ear. This is why dancing is so strongly linked to trancework and it is why I refer to trancework as Magic Floppy Time. It is because the movements of the body become more and more relaxed as you get into an altered state. You largely surrender your spine for a while and get... well... floppy.

(Playing with the big drum, aka Making Magic Boom-Boom)

Why does this happen?

I have my theories. I personally think that our bodies do this to conserve energy. If you are going to be doing the same activity for a while and utilizing just a select group of muscles to do it, your body will eventually just relax the ones it doesn't really need. Same with the mind. If you don't need it to make decisions or take in the sensory environment, it starts to relax everything that it doesn't need. The unused parts of your brain and body start going night-night.

Is trancework religious or not?

It can be if your religion has a purpose for it. Trancework can have a profound impact on the psyche and it is strongly associated with meditation, chanting, and prayer recitation. So, either we started doing this as a means of reaching towards the spiritworld OR we started praying and noticed this happened as a byproduct. It doesn't have to be an either / or really. The end result is that trancework is and has been used by a lot of religions.

It is also something that just naturally happens during repetetive physical labor. Like mining, weaving, spinning thread, rowing a boat, threshing, kneading, etc. Most pre-industrial occupations involve trancework at some point in the process so it has been a useful tool in the workplace. Think of the musical traditions associated with things like fulling/ wauking, seafaring, and chain gangs. These are secular examples of people using trancework on purpose to coordinate their labor together with others.

Trancework can be secular or religious, it just depends on what you are trying to do and how you go about it.

How do I do it on purpose?

Put on some music with a good beat, give your body permission to relax into it deeper every few bars, close your eyes a little or all the way, sway your shoulders in a figure 8 and let that whole body just go with it. Imagine your body moving like water and let it happen. Say bye-bye to your thoughts. They do not matter. Picture a flowing image--a river flowing around the base of a mountain, a gust of wind carrying a little bird on an adventure, a serpent eating its tail... whatever floats your boat. After about 10-20 minutes of this, allow yourself to slump over, give away all excess energy, and just flop somewhere comfy. Let yourself return to consciousness gradually. When you do, have a snack and drink some water. Do something relaxing like taking a shower or a nap. That's pretty much it.

What if I want to use trancework to do something magical or religious?

Trancing is a skill. You can be good at it and you can be bad at it. It is something that you can improve at over time and with experience. Once you can get into an altered state on purpose reliably and get yourself back out again safely every time, you can then start exploring the other things trancework can be used for. Things associated with magic like: Divination Bilocation Shapeshifting

Or things associated with spirit-based religion like: Possession Mediumship

Or things associated with religion like: Deity Bridalwork Presence Ceremonies

Each of these things have unique structures to the rituals that will get you through them successfully. Think of them like recipes. Because there is a physical and neurological component to trancework, this is not a matter of making up whatever you want or doing what you think makes sense. You can absolutely do that but you will not get the same outcome as what someone who uses a traditional method of doing so would get. If you smoke bacon but call it bread, you're only really fooling yourself. The tried and true recipe gets you the predictable result. (I have to mention this because there are A LOT of modern trancework practices out there that are not based in anything traditional--they're just something someone made up because they moved around it made them feel tingly and they assumed it was the same thing as what the traditional folks were doing. It really isn't. No matter where you go on this planet, traditional trancework functions in the same spectrum of ways. It really is an exact recipe and you can't make changes to the load bearing aspects of it and expect to get the same results. Technique matters.)

If you look around on this blog you will find loads of posts on how to get into the more complicated forms of trancework and what exactly those are used to do. So, I recommend starting there or reaching out to someone who has ties to traditional forms of trancework who can walk you through the exact kind of thing you want to do.

What other beginner questions do you have? Did I miss any? Let me know how I can help!

[theseinfernalangels]

Push My Luck - Sawyer Henrick

Synopsis: Before Threshing, you make a promise to Sawyer that he doesn’t really believe. With a little encouragement from your newly-bonded dragon, you work up the nerve to make do.

A/N: Also self-indulgent, and I’m really just trying to clear out my drafts of my many Sawyer WIPs. This one actually has a plot, though, so that’s an upgrade.

Includes: Flight after Threshing, slight angst, Cridhe basically being a surrogate dad/therapist, first kisses for my favorite couple, Ridoc being a menace (affectionate). Takes place during Fourth Wing.

“When we get to Threshing and you bond, which I know you will, I’m marching right over to you and kissing you straight on the mouth, Henrick.”

Spit through gritted teeth in the alcove where you liked to meet. A promise. A threat? Maybe both. You weren’t one for threats, but in the heat of the moment, an argument that had been a long time coming, you couldn’t stop the words from leaving your mouth.

Now, you’ve got two options: Completely forget about what you said and keep pining after Sawyer (unfavorable but easier), or make due and drag his lips down to yours (favorable but difficult).

“Ah, to have the problems of a hatchling.” The deep, rumbling voice of your dragon, Cridhe, echoes through your mind. “To debate between pursuing a mate and watching them from the shadows. You’ve brought me back decades, child.”

“I’m not a hatchling,” you retort quietly, brushing your hands along his sage green scales whilst he sailed through the sky. “And he’s not my mate.”

“But you wish he was, correct?” Cridhe prods. “There’s no reason to be ashamed of it. I find it refreshing that you have this issue at all. Better than, say, a murder plot.” 

You snort, shaking your head as his invisible bands of magic tighten against your form. “I’m the wrong cadet to search for if you’re looking for murderousness,” you reply. “The fact that this is your first impression of me is a little embarrassing, is all.”

“Firstly, you are a rider now. Wrong rider,” he corrects you as he makes a sharp left turn. “Secondly, my first impression of you was you saving that injured girl from a slow, painful death. I am not looking for murderousness, child. I was looking for your compassion.”

The dragon’s words are reassuring enough to quell your underlying doubts of yourself — a small, small part of you still thought that no dragon would want you when you could barely speak to people without your heart beating out of your chest — but do nothing for the more pressing matter.

“I would argue that your flickering self-esteem is a more dire issue than that of romance, but this also seems to weigh heavily on your mind. Why is that?”

You sigh, closing your eyes against the raging wind Cridhe darts through. “We…had an argument yesterday.”

“Enchanting,” he responds. “And?”

You fight a smile. “Why do you want to know? Isn’t dumb human drama the least of your concerns?”

He snorts out a laugh. “Dumb human drama, perhaps. But you, child, are now my first priority, and this is wounding you more than you’re admitting to me. I’d like to know the reason.”

So, your dragon likes to eavesdrop on people. Good to know.

“Well…” You struggle to come up with a good answer. In retrospect, this must seem so stupid to the majestic green being who’s carrying you through the air.

“We both have…issues,” you finally say slowly. “He deals with a lot of self-doubt because he’s a repeat, and I think he thinks I wouldn’t want him because of it.”

“I see his point.” Cridhe nods sagely. “Perhaps it is a male thing, to want to be impressive to someone he’s interested in.”

“But that’s the thing,” you huff. “I like him, and he likes me, and we both know it, but he won’t let anything happen because he doesn’t think he’s good enough. This is the one thing I’ve been able to control entirely, for the first time in my life. Gods, why is he so stubborn?”

“Another male thing,” Cridhe chuffs dryly. “And what did you say to that?”

You think of the argument and flush a little when you recall your words, emboldened with passion and pure frustration.

“I, uh…” You hesitate. “I told him that when we both bonded after Threshing, I’d find him and kiss him. And then walked away. I haven’t talked to him since.”

“Smooth,” your dragon deadpans, beginning to tuck his wings a little. “Hold on a little tighter. First landings can make you dizzy.”

You obey, leaning closer to Cridhe’s spine and pressing your forehead to his pretty scales. You quietly thank whichever god decided to bless you with a gentler dragon, one who actually cared for your feelings and listened to the things that weighed on you. Cridhe was probably the only dragon who’d ever have the patience for you — even amongst the well-tempered greens.

“Not that you asked for my input,” he continues carefully, “but I say go for it. If you do not follow through with your words, I can only imagine that the two of you will be hovering awkwardly until something catastrophic happens. Believe me, it happens every year.”

You can’t help but laugh, raising your head back up. “Do dragons eavesdrop on human relationship problems this often?”

Cridhe swings his head around to look at you, his giant blue eyes meeting yours and gleaming with something teasing. 

“Sometimes,” he replies, winking. “When you are unbonded, there is not much else to do.”

Well, you have a male wine-aunt that gives solid relationship advice for a bonded dragon. Not that you’re complaining.

Cridhe settles the two of you in a little patch of land away from all the other riders and dragons (Amari bless his heart) and extends a long leg for you to climb down from. You shoot him a small smile of appreciation as your boots hit the grass, and you stumble a little as he lightly nudges you with his snout. You turn, staring at his unblinking eyes questioningly.

“Go on,” he prods. “Go to your mate, and then the roll keeper.” He tilts his head. “Cridheteòm, with a slight accent on the r. Just Cridhe, for convenience.” 

With shaking hands, you nod and take a deep breath in, trying to calm your racing heart. “Thank you.” You exhale. “Okay. Okay. I…Fuck, I hate this. This is literally the worst. Okay. I’ve got this…I think—“

Cridhe huffs and nudges you again. A scowl stretches your lips, but it doesn’t meet your eyes as you search the field for that familiar head of strawberry blond. You have absolutely no idea what kind of dragon he could attract, and for a second, you have a mini heart attack when you don’t see him. Just as you’re about to turn back to Cridhe in disappointment, you see a ruby-red dragon across the grounds shift to the side, and your breath catches a little when you see a familiar figure stride out from behind it: Sawyer, with his head held high and eyes glinting with that confidence you so rarely get to see. With a nod of encouragement from Cridhe, you take off sprinting across the grass, dodging and weaving through the throng of riders.

A shout of his name has him pausing in his tracks, and his eyes widen and then go soft when you all but throw yourself into him, clinging onto him tightly.

“I fucking knew it!” You exclaim, pulling him into you. “I told you, Henrick.”

He winds his arms around your waist and lets out a slightly shocked laugh, burying his face into your hair.

“That, you did,” he concedes quietly, squeezing you lightly. “And I told you that you’d be fine. We’re even now, I believe.”

You bite your lip, Cridhe’s words echoing through your brain. I say go for it.

You take a deep, calming breath and tilt your head up, meeting Sawyer’s eyes daringly. “You do remember what happens next, right?”

His brow furrows a little in confusion, and his mouth parts as if to ask what you could be meaning. You don’t give him the chance to speak, though — not now that you have some newfound confidence. You balance yourself on your toes and tug on his neck, sealing your mouth to his in one fell swoop.

Sawyer’s breath catches a little, his eyelashes fluttering as if he didn’t expect this, as if you didn’t tell him you would do this, but his lips twitching against yours in a smirk tells you that he’s finally remembered your parting words from the night prior. His lips are cool, slightly chapped from his unconscious biting habit, but they move against your own softly, maybe even methodically. His tongue swipes carefully against your mouth, but the both of you are broken apart when you hear a familiar voice whoop.

“Fuck yeah, Sawyer! Make your move!”

The two of you jerk away from each other. Sawyer shoots a sharp glare at Ridoc’s gleeful form, his freckled cheeks flushed pink. He pulls both middle fingers up and yells back to him, “Can you shut the hell up, man? I’m kind of busy here, if you couldn’t fucking tell.”

Ridoc’s signature grin spreads wider as he gives the older boy a mock salute. “Aye, O Romancing One!” He flounces off in the direction of a lean brown dragon, who’s staring at the two of you with a twinkle in his eye similar to that of Ridoc’s. The two of them will probably be a pair of troublemakers, you can already tell.

You giggle and press your forehead to Sawyer’s. He beats you to your words. “I know, I know. You told me so, again. Funnily enough, I didn’t think you’d actually kiss me.” He dips his head and presses a chaste peck to your cheeks.

You shyly glance back at Cridhe, who still lingers across the field with a prideful little gleam in his eye as he watches the two of you. “Yeah? Well…You could say I had some encouragement.”

His eyes follow yours to your dragon, who lifts his head to stare directly at Sawyer. His eyes narrow into slits, as if he was speaking to Sawyer directly. Whatever he silently communicated, the boy seemed to catch on, his grip on you tightening as he nods back firmly.

You poke him in the shoulder. “What’s that about?”

His eyes flit back to yours, his mouth parting in a sheepish smile. “It’s kind of a guy thing.”

He bursts into laughter as you groan dramatically, burying your face in your hands. “Of fucking course it is.”

[hockeyspiral23]

OKAY.

Went and saw Rebecca Yarros speak at the Paramount Theater in Denver. First of all, thanks to the Paramount, the Tattered Cover, RY herself, and the Fantasy Fangirls Podcast for a great afternoon.

I didn't take video, but I did take notes. There were some vague-ish Onyx Storm spoilers with it being the last stop on the tour, so all notes will be below the cut!

What did she love the most about writing Violet in OS? - she's more confident in this book and more determined in what she has to do - they can't silence her.

Hints of Colonel Aetos's signet? - no, and no song that represents it/him, either.

Any other second signets to share? - no

Any signets we haven't seen yet? - No ... she's not going to steal our theorizing fun. Obviously there are signets we haven't seen yet because Violet hasn't seen them yet.

Question about interpersonal drama between the First Six besides just Lyra and Warrick disagreeing? - will not mention ... possibly because we *may* get more about that at another point.

Why did JFB know so much about feathertails? (basically, was he venin prior/did someone fill him in about it?) - everything JFB mentioned was a known fact about feathertails and was not let in on some vast venin conspiracy before crossing the parapet.

Signets show up when they do because nature wants its balance - which is why we're getting all the powerful signets again.

Is there magic elsewhere? (*wink wink*)(this is referencing the Isles without referencing the Isles)

Can she share Ridoc and Aotrom's Threshing story? - She actually IS considering a bonus scene about this but it's also a lot of "hey" "hey" "hey" "hey" and "did we just become best friends?" between them.

Most satisfying kill of the first two books? - Varrish.

Can she confirm a character BESIDES JESINIA who is safe in the series? - She will not confirm ... except for Broccoli. Broccoli is safe (won't kill pets).

Is there a specific epigraph to pay attention to? - All of them. But speaking of epigraphs ... they may not always directly tie into their respective chapter, but they do have some sort of connection somehow.

Was asked to comment on any of the Zihnal gifts specifically ... and chose not to.

About that new family member/brother ... what might she wish us to pay attention to? - Who is missing; someone who thinks is not enough (... basically, who has a reason to reach for power?).

Insight on how Kaori's records are so incorrect? - Remember, it's the riders that give the name of the dragon for the records. So ... do we trust that people are giving the correct names? Are the dragons?

She's not entirely discounting crazy grandma (Riorson, presumably) ideas ...

Aaric's signet did not manifest in IF.

In terms of percentage of full capacity, what is Violet's second signet at? - 10% (because she has no idea how to train it and there's one person alive that can train her); Xaden's probably at 50% with his; Violet's probably at 85% with her first signet (which yes, is pure power just in the form of lightning).

It is NOT the first time that venin have infiltrated the Basgiath scribes ... but Nasya? Is just narcoleptic (so it's not him).

No comment about seeing a venin scribe on the page prior to OS.

What Taylor Swift song would best describe Violet at the beginning of book four? - Look What You Made Me Do

Can she expand on the song she chose for Bodhi? - He's raised to be in Xaden's shadow; he's the spare.

What prompted her to write Broccoli? - She wanted to scare the crap out of us and then haha just kidding ... and also because it's so much fun to write because of where they are and what it symbolizes.

What does she think it is about the Empyrean world that appeals to everyone? - She wishes she knew ... but said possibly the inclusivity, the dragons, the hot men ...

What would Taylor Swift's signet be? - "I do not tell the queen her business." (... might not be direct direct quote, but close enough)

Tell us about the ring and how long it had been in existence. - We see the stone on the blade at a time and then we don't ...

Who is her favorite god/goddess and why? - Malek because you meet him and you're done; everyone fears him.

What about Onyx Storm makes it her favorite? - Her feet are firmly planted in the world and she loves to go places and do things and she had fun with the politics in the places (read: Isles) and has known the ending since FW and loved working toward it and just had fun. IF was a rough, rough time and writing Variation got her back on track and she just genuinely enjoyed writing OS.

If Ridoc had modern technology, what would be the first thing he would do? - You know that boy downloads Tinder ... doesn't wait for WiFi or anything ... also first photo on the app is of him and the Quest Squad or a selfie with Aotrom (that only has like one of Aotrom's eyes in it).

Speaking of Quest Squad ... describe the patch? - Might see it later! (but probably a map)

There was a question about which of her contemporaries she'd recommend and it depended on if you wanted to cry or not (if you do: Last Letter/Things We Leave Unfinished; if you don't: Variation, In the Likely Event).

Is there a character she was writing and knew they'd be a fan favorite and were or thought they would be and weren't? - Knew Ridoc would; didn't necessarily answer the other half, but reiterated that she had no idea that Broccoli would be an instant fan favorite (and was a late night/early am idea that she kept).

What has been her favorite part of the tour? - Right now because of being on stage at the Paramount, in a venue where she's seen so many shows. And the people who bring their service dogs with the service dragon vests.

MIL was gifted FW; advice for when she gets to the spicy and doesn't know that (audience member) reads them? - Run the other direction ... and then hand her Haunting Adeline so then it'll look tame.

Who does she think is the most underrated character? - Sawyer; also expanding on his relationship with Silseag, Sawyer is worried he's dishonoring him because of needing potential accommodations (like Violet), but Silseag's just waiting for him to come around.

Regarding where she came up with the analogy for the chilled pond/ice for mental health: - Her kids play hockey and she always wonders what's beneath the ice - we can swim through our emotions or glide right over them.

What are her desert island books? - East of Eden (Steinbeck) is her favorite; I missed one series but I did hear the Children of Blood and Bone (iirc) ... but basically she's like can I cheat and bring my kindle?

How has writing her books changed her life? - Still has to take her head up to look around ... but the core of her life - family - hasn't changed; the rest of the world around that core just spins a lot faster and there's a lot more people now to watch her succeed or watch her fail.

Thanks to Broccoli ... what pets exist in the world? - We've already known that domesticated animals exist, so it does open it up to pets, but it's not like they're going to be running around Basgiath.

A character she loves to hate: - She doesn't hate anybody, because everybody has a reason for what they're doing. Except Varrish; she hated Varrish because he was a two dimensional character (read: straight evil).

Advice for a spouse going through her first deployment? - it sucks; everyone does it differently; find a way to escape to keep the spiraling thoughts from coming (she read, personally).

Favorite Onyx Storm vibes playlist song? - Agreed with the audience member's mention of Halsey's Nightmare ... and also thinks that the end of book three is optimistic.

If she could tell readers to reread one specific scene for hidden meaning ... - The last 100 pages.

Can she expand on what it means to be dedicated? - I'm pretty sure she alluded to us getting a bit more info about this in book four, but it's basically that you're given in service to a god.

Did she use parts of Colorado Springs for inspiration for the Gauntlet and Parapet? - Not necessarily those specifically, but CO does play into inspiration for geography, particularly with the mountains (and Aretia).

Weather report for the Continent? - Southern gets warmer (closer to the equator), weather patterns with the mountain ranges, there's more magic in areas of more geologic change (tectonic plates).

Sooo there's mention of pirates and kraken and y'know, Heaton breathes underwater ... - She hasn't written books four and five, but she might use or might not use things she mentions in the series ...

What else can we do to support her as an author? - Read other people's books (and be patient).

Her son asked which is her favorite child (or which son is her favorite and why is it him - it wasn't entirely clear) ... to which she said that it's like she always says - whichever kid is sleeping.

About the TV series: the lines we love are there, a lot of the dialogue is there, it's in good hands with Moira and that she knows what's important (has talked to readers) and is capturing the essence ... and to stop sending Theo James her way for Xaden because he's 40 and white.

Any specific IF Xaden POV scenes she'd love to write? - She would love to write the time in between when Xaden learns Vi is captured and he rescues her (... but it sounds like given secrets boy, we probably won't actually get it).

Final bomb: First three songs on the book four playlist are (all TS): Down Bad, But Daddy I Love Him, I Can Fix Him

... and more Xaden POVs in book four depend on what he's doing.

[puakaba]

Kingdon Regency AU

Find it on AO3!

Although Melissa King’s father was of notable fortune, the King sisters lived by humble means. This contradiction shone through in every aspect of their life. Their home, for example, was a grand country manor of several rooms, however the two sisters shared one room between them. The rest of the estate was largely taken up by the eldest sister’s clinic, which occupied her life in every physical and spiritual sense of the word.

Winter 1810

In December of that year, following the death of their mother, Mel’s father sent notice of the sisters’ financial station within two weeks. The only sympathies expressed at their loss came from the courier who handed over the note. The letter itself made no mention of their mother. This was no surprise to either King daughter. According to the letter, the monthly allowance that had been previously allotted to their mother would now be placed into Mel’s name. This put the King girls in a precariously unique situation of independence. Where most men of their father’s status would be reluctant to let their daughters live freely and without a male presence to govern over them, the King girls were largely left to their own devices.

This suited them, Mel felt. The few times their mother had ventured to introduce them to society, Mel seemed to melt beneath the limelight of courtly affairs. So much of proper society consisted of acting at the judgment of others, and Mel had always struggled with sensing the truth in their perfumed words. Rebecca was largely unbothered by their opinions, but that was wrong too.

So the spacious confines of their country manor suited them fine. If Mel ever sought the genuine company of society outside of her sister, she was rarely unoccupied enough to feel it.

The boarding house that their mother ran closed only briefly in the period following her death. Several boarders attended her funeral. One of them, a professor of histories at Cambridge, actually drove in for the funeral, and helped lower her casket into the ground. It was a small, private ceremony, but by the time Mel and Becca had returned home, their kitchen overflowed with bushels of prepared food and goods from last season’s harvest.

Two weeks later, the boarding house reopened its doors to new guests. By February of the next year, the King country manor had been fully transformed into a bustling medical clinic.

Spring 1811

On the occasion that a boarder or nearby tenant farmer fell ill or injured, the Kings’ boarding house had been well known to treat the needing. After the house fell into the sole ownership of the eldest Miss King, its reputation as the impromptu source of medical attention became an official position.

The chaise lounges and sofas of the foyer and drawing room became sickbeds for the townspeople of Mercy. The younger Miss King was a lively nurse, tending to their basic needs, cleaning wounds, delivering cold compresses, and doling out medicines. The older Miss King served as doctor. She was well known in the town for her patient demeanor— suturing up the rugged bites of threshing machine wounds in neat stitches and extracting careful diagnoses from the most reticent, choleric infants.

When the King women first moved to the country, their father had established a library in their new home— obviously optimistic that he might someday take permanent residence with them. That hope was long abandoned now, but his collection of medical journals and textbooks remained in the house. At the age of four, Rebecca suffered her first fit of convulsions. Mel had watched her younger sister fall to the floor of the kitchen and sat helplessly by her side, desperately pinning down her flailing tiny hands. Their mother wrote to their father, who sent a fellow physician down. The doctor hadn’t been able to identify anything particularly concerning with Rebecca to have caused it, but he carried an unspoken air of indifference, as if he had already diagnosed her with something benign and incurable. As a young woman, Mel resolved that the young doctor had been informed of Becca’s history by her father before ever coming to observe her. Following that encounter, Mel had taken to the study, engrossing herself in the other things her father had abandoned.

Her efforts over the next nearly two decades placed Mel in a particular position as a young woman. She had never been to any of the women’s colleges or finishing school, but the combined focus of her studies and the clinical practice amongst her sister and neighbors gave Miss King as near to a doctor’s station with none of the degrees or qualification. Had she been educated in a manner traditional of young, noble born women, her degree of learning would have fallen far short of what she had achieved of her own ambition. In a way, Mel felt grateful that her father had neglected her education.

The clinic had seemed like a natural step, following their mother’s death. Her mother had been soft and charming in a way fitting of a boardinghouse keeper. Although Mel and Becca tried their best to maintain it, a sweeping fit of hay fever that befell the town brought a litany of patients to her house that early spring. Within the next few weeks, their country manor slid naturally into a clinic for the sick. Even after the fits of fever had passed, Mel found it too easy to keep their practice running. By March, the clinic had blossomed.

The work came naturally to her, and Becca took to the demands of serving as a nurse. Her early fascination with botany came in handy regularly, as the King sisters often relied on foraging when an apothecarist was not easily accessible. Their reputation grew quickly, and it was soon well established in the town that, should anyone fall sick or injured, the Kings were at their disposal.

It was rewarding work. Mel had never felt more confident in her own abilities as she did now. She’d also never been so well connected with the people of Mercy. In addition to a boarding house and clinic, the King home was a nursery for town gossip.

It was in this way that Mel first heard of the young doctor who had taken up the Parkhurst estate just outside of town. According to her sources— a milkmaid whose old case of cowpox occasionally caused swelling in the larynx— the doctor was a well-bred young man who had fallen deeply ill and was bed bound for weeks now. The milkmaid whispered to her that the doctor was gravely ill, and expected to die within the week. This dark piece of irony captivated the town deeply. Mel was admittedly more confused than entertained. If the man was indeed a successful doctor from London, why would he come out here, away from the resources of the city? Surely he would’ve had a much greater chance of treatment. Mel expressed these concerns, and the milkmaid grinned wryly. “Perhaps you ought to see him, Miss King,” she said.

Mel nodded. “At the very least I should like to take a look, I might be able to make a diagnosis. Perhaps bring him something for the pain.”

Her patient nodded sagely, and added, “Not to mention, I’ve heard he’s handsome.”

The doctor’s only servant opened the door cautiously.

“Are you Miss King?” the young man asked. “Lonnie at the pub told me I could expect to see you in the next few days.”

Mel nodded. Word traveled quickly, even if she failed to see how it was word at all.

Mr. Whittaker, Mel learned, had been hired as Mr. Langdon’s valet upon his move to Parkhurst. He spoke of his master’s symptoms with a deftness that Mel suspected meant he had been educated in medicine. He had introduced himself as valet, though, and not a nurse. Mel made note of this, but followed him silently to the master chambers. The rooms were dark, with velvet curtains drawn tight to block out any daylight from the large sash windows. A four poster bed stood in the center of the room, its beddings tossed messily about. Tucked into it, a sullen figure turned restlessly.

She approached the bed. The man was pale, his dark hair wet with sweat and plastered across his pallid forehead. She turned to Mr. Whittaker to ask about the symptoms presented.

“He’s been in a state for a fortnight. Nervous fits for the first week, then nausea, headaches, fever. I’ve had him on a regiment of regular hydration and purging, but the pain…”

“Do you have any notion on what it might be?”

Whittaker paused, and conflict was clear in his anxious eyes.

“No ma’am. I only work as Mr. Langdon’s valet, you see.” Mel was confused as to why Mr. Whittaker was intent on hiding his clear medical experience, but for the sake of politeness. Furthermore, she made note of the fact that he had referred to his employer as “Mister”, rather than “Doctor”. In either case, it was none of Mel’s concern. She turned her attention back to the troubled Mr. Langdon. He shuddered slightly, his dark eyebrows were pinched tight at the center, and he let out a low moan as he shifted.

“Has he been in pain?”

Mr. Whittaker nodded. “He complains of it often.”

“And have you already treated him with Lanadum?” she asked, reaching for the small pouch she had brought along.

“No!” Mr. Whittaker barked, suddenly. He caught himself, and he readjusted his tone. “No, Miss King. No Lanadum for the sir.”

Mel took this into account, a new point of information along with his jolting shivers and pallid skin. “I see,” she said, leadingly. Mr. Whittaker gazed at her solemnly, neither confirming nor denying.

“Willow bark, then. It should ease his pain without aggravating his recovery.” Mr. Whittaker nodded, smiling slightly in relief. “I have some in my apothecary back at the clinic. If you’ll wait, I can bring it during lunch.”

“I couldn’t trouble you to travel all this way twice, Miss King. I can fetch it myself, if you’ll have my company.” For the first time since she had met Mr. Whittaker, the nervousness seemed to lift from his eyes. “I was told just to look over him during his illness and keep him from…coming into any harm on his own. But the pain he was in, I wanted to help him.”

Mel nodded. “I’m pleased you thought to call for me.” She looked to Mr. Langdon once more. His pained expression twisted, and his undershirt was translucent with sweat. He was a handsome man, Mel finally thought. She reached out and pressed her palm against his forehead. Her hand felt cool against the heat of his skin. Withdrawing, she paused to brush her fingers against his hair, pushing the wet locks away from his face. He groaned lightly and seemed to lean into her touch, his eyelashes fluttering. Mel pulled her hand away quickly, tucking it into her shirt pocket. She glanced nervously at Mr. Whittaker, who looked away with a valet’s expert discretion. Mel chastised herself for chasing whatever stray urge had pushed her to touch him. Very unprofessional, even as a non-professional doctor. She bid Mr. Whittaker goodbye and told him she’d expect him anytime that afternoon. She was on the road back to town before he could offer to pay her for her time.

——

Before taking residence at Parkhurst, Francis Langdon was a surefire candidate to be Oxford’s most prominent graduate of the medical degree. First of his class, Dr. Langdon graduated into a healthy practice and was the most highly requested physician within London’s noble houses. Months after accepting his doctoral robes, Langdon was wed to the eldest daughter of the Clifford house— a noble line whose name peppered the seats of various ministries and aristocratic houses. Dr. Langdon was the successful head of a flourishing practice, the happy husband to a wealthy young woman, and the proud father to two healthy children. He had married into wealth, in every sense of the word.

So solid was Frank Langdon’s grasp on his good luck, when he suffered a minor injury during a riding incident, it felt unlikely that this brief lapse would have any real impact on his fortune.

The sharp twinge in his back proved difficult to shake in his recovery; but upon seeing a senior doctor from his program, Frank was prescribed a schedule of heavy dose Lanadum that easily washed away the pain. Until it didn’t. When he scraped the last spoonful of powder from the bottle, it was too easy to find another helping in his medicinal cabinet. And he needed it.

Eventually, his apothecarist bill became too steep a financial burden, and like everything else, a replacement came easily. Opium was by no means unheard of or scandalous in his circles, but it flowed quietly in smoky parlor rooms and the velvety dens of London. Visits with school mates to the odd opium den in the evenings gave Frank a welcome supplement to balance out his own supplies. Life was the same— better, even. Work in the daytime, society in the evenings. But when Frank’s father-in-law and his hunting party found him collapsed in the morning room, Lanadum powder still thick on his fingers and in his throat, the unspoken opium habit became too public-- too scandalous. Within the week, word had spread around the town that Francis Langdon-- the ambitious young doctor from Oxford-- had been dipping into his own medicines. A luxurious pastime for most, a scathing habit for him.

An unassuming estate was purchased for him in the country, in a town fittingly named Mercy. A young man was hired as Langdon’s nurse, given the costume of a valet, and sworn to secrecy. He was a mousey boy who rode out to the countryside with Langdon, mopping at his forehead as he labored through withdrawals the entire carriage ride out. A small tin of opium powder burned a whole in Frank’s waistcoat pocket. They had failed to check his person before shipping him away.

He had been given the barest few hours in the small hours, just before dawn, to bid goodbye to his children. They had been distressingly calm, Langdon reflected. Even within their short lives, it was hardly a rare occasion that Langdon would be pulled away for weeks at a time for some various work or research calling. He wished he could have imparted some amount of urgency onto them— some understanding that this was a strange and wrong thing, that their father was leaving in a more consequential way. Instead, he had kissed them goodbye, and into their soft, messy hair, he whispered an apology that would only settle in once they noticed he was really gone.

His wife stood a few paces back, blinking hard at the marble floor. Langdon stepped to her, taking her hand softly. She allowed him to hold it, but the without weight or purpose. When he leaned down to kiss her, she placed a hand against his chest, stopping him. She gazed up into his eyes. She seemed to be searching for something, an indication that he was unaffected. With a sinking heart, Langdon recognized that he could not be sure. He left his family with the heavy feeling that they were only losing a great burden.

It rained the night Langdon drove into Mercy, though he hadn’t noticed until the carriage wheel bumped heavily into a pit in the country road. The carriage had careened through the mud, just far enough to strike a passing wagon. The young boy driving the wagon had been bucked from the coach box, landing in the road. The collision had jostled Langdon inside the carriage, slamming his head into the wall hard enough to startle him from his stupor, but not enough to incapacitate him. Langdon felt this was a great misfortune. His head pounded from the impact. He shoved his hand into his pocket, fingering at the metal tin. He was not necessarily opposed to recovering his sobriety, but why should he suffer?

The young man from the wagon was wailing outside, sitting brokenly in the mud. The valet— Mr. Whittaker, Frank later learned— had already leapt out. He was straightening the boy out, sloughing mud off the lad’s body to identify what injury had taken him. Langdon pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to resist what he already knew would happen. He had lost his medical license. He had broken his oath. He was under no obligation to step foot out of this carriage.

The mud came up past his shins as he leapt down to the road.

“Valet, in my case— fetch me a roll of dressing and antiseptic fluid.” Whittaker snapped to, his nursing training clear in the urgency and efficiency with which he moved.

He knelt over the collapsed driver. The boy seemed young, perhaps four or five years older than his own. “Son, my name is Doctor- Mister Langdon. I can be of some assistance. Can you tell me your name?”

The boy continued to wail, clutching at his left leg. Langdon sighed. Sweeping more mud out of the way, he pressed gently against the leg that the boy was guarding. His wailing grew with the pressure. Running his fingers along the line of his leg, Langdon felt a discrepancy in the skeleton of the boy’s shin— just below the knee.

The valet arrived at his side. “I have the dressings, sir.”

Langdon nodded. “Set them on the wagon, then come help me lift him into our carriage. We cannot treat him in the mud.”

Whittaker did as he was told, then awaited further direction. At Langdon’s instructions, the two men lifted the boy up, mindful to keep his leg extended. He was set up in the floor of the carriage, and Whittaker set about making him comfortable. Langdon turned back to the wagon that the boy had been tossed from and felt along the edges of the wagon itself. The undercarriage of the wagon consisted of long, thin planks of wood. As Langdon had hoped, a few were loose and easy to pull away. Langdon tugged at these slats, coming away with two straight splints of wood.

He set about working on the boy’s leg, Whittaker handing him supplies as he worked. Taking the vial of antiseptic material, Langdon washed away mud from the leg, squinting in the darkness to identify any open wounds. To the best of his ability, the majority of the outer damage were merely scrapes. After cleaning the area, Langdon wrapped the leg with the bandages and loose cotton.

“Alright man,” Langdon indicated to his valet, “hold these pieces straight.” Whittaker placed his hands on either side of the leg. The rain was picking up, the horses nickering with anxiety, and the boy continued to bawl. Langdon’s head screamed with pain. “Hold it steady, now. It needs to be straight.”

Langdon took hold of his shirt hem and ripped the bottom inch off, tearing it into several thin strips.

With Whittaker holding the wooden slats tight, Langdon set about binding the splint with his makeshift cloth ties.

The boy’s leg was set and splinted within the next few minutes. Whittaker let out his breath, turning to Langdon in shaky relief. The two men stood like wet dogs in the pouring rain. Langdon ordered Whittaker to ride in the carriage with the boy and mind that he kept the leg straight. He would ride with the driver in the coach box. Although they had set the leg to heal properly, the boy continued to sob. Langdon took in a heavy breath. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the tiny tin. Whittaker eyed him as he did.

“Lanadum,” Langdon said, “Allow him half the tin now. We’ll leave it with him when we go.” He pressed it into Whittaker’s hand, feeling glass shards in his spine.

“Excellently done, sir,” Whittaker said.

“Obviously.” Langdon settled into the coach box and promptly passed out.

Upon arriving at the country house in Mercy, Langdon was tucked into a waiting bed, where he ailed for weeks on end under the nervous, watchful eye of Mr. Whittaker. Despite his being bedridden for the greater part of the Spring season, the entirety of Mercy knew that a handsome young doctor had arrived from the city and chosen to make his home in their humble country town.

[wingedshadowfan]

anyone else feel super gaslit and pissed tf off during onyx storm when the irids were basically blaming violet for exploiting feathertail andarna (even though they admitted to using andarna as a test subject, a criterion of whether humans would achieve peace) and causing her to become an "abomination" and a weapon (aka develop w/ a disability as a direct result of having to grow up too fast due to the war and danger she'd had to face, the circumstances where they abandoned her, which violet consistently tried to shield andarna from but humans can't tell dragons what to do, and neither could tairn/the empyrean bcuz andarna is the oldest of her den bcuz the irids left her alone) and basically saying the war is the humans' own problem navarrian mindset despite venin being an issue for all of the magic everywhere and the hatching grounds of the dragons themselves, which is why dragons chose to start bonding over 600 years ago in the first place??

when andarna told them they were privileged that they'd never had to experience war and instability ?? that was real as FUCK. peak clapback and from a teenager too, they should've been embarrassed (i get that xaden didn't help their case at all but they were already leaving and had spewed sm bs)

and even later on, when leothan did come to help "get" andarna and basically tell her he'll teach her their ways and she'll find her truth (manipulative much), etc and even violet in her guilt thought to herself "he's the only one of her kind willing to accept her" HE'S THE ONLY ONE OF HER KIND WILLING TO CHANGE HER

idk i hated them, their arguments were all so stupid and perhaps it is bcuz their culture is so much different than that of the empyrean and so disconnected from anything happening at the continent bcuz we know andarna waited hundreds of years to hatch until she heard abt a scrawny to-be scribe girl with the heart of a rider, like a prophecy almost, and she knew she had to pick her like violet literally risked her life saving her at threshing ??

[celianity]

Movie Night 2.0

Jordan Li x Reader

Prompt: having finished the movie, you and Jordan take care of all that pent-up energy

Warnings: cursing, basically just a whole lot of smut

Word count: 1.332

Author's note: thanks for all the love on Movie Night - here is part 2, I hope you enjoy :) ________________________________________

„Where’s your shit talking mouth now, huh?” Jordan’s voice echoes through the quiet of the hall, drawing you in like a hypnotic spell.

There is still a bit of distance between the two of you because they got a head start, excusing themselves to the bathroom five minutes before the movie credits rolled.

Their absence put you more on edge then you cared to admit.

When Andre and Cate finally left and Marie started cleaning up the aftermath of the watch party, you could feel the tension in your body building.

After the lights went out in your dorm room and you counted to a hundred for good measure, your feet hit the floor again. Marie’s breath was steady, but Emma watched you in the dark with eagle eyes as you tiptoed to the door.

“No glove, no love,” she whispered, scaring you half to death.

You held up your middle finger before disappearing into the hallway, where you’re greeted by a small figure at the end of it.

The exit sign above Jordan’s head illuminates their chin length hair and tints their fitted tank top light green.

Your gaze drinks them in, every alluring curve and dip. Even from the distance you can feel their eyes burning as they watch you approach.

Slowly, they pull their hands out of the pockets of their sweatpants, reaching automatically for your waist as you halt to a stop in front of them.

You dip your head slightly to even out the height difference, breathing in, brushing your noses teasingly. An intoxicating mixture of perfume, adrenalin and foolishness sends your mind spiraling. “Right here, all yours.”

Jordan doesn’t wait a second longer to take you up on that offer, stealing that hitching breath right off your lips. You suppress a moan in the back of your throat at the unexpectedly hard impact.

Their hand snakes up the front of your torso and sweeps along your collarbone until it rests firmly at the side of your neck, splayed fingers applying reassuring pressure. Their thump at the front of your throat makes you fear for your dear innocence. The other hand on your ass doesn’t help either.

Time to turn the tables, then.

You deepen the kiss, letting the pent-up tension roll off your tongue right through their parted lips. Tasting the peppermint tinge of their toothpaste and pressing closer, you wedge one knee in between their legs. Craving more friction, Jordan grinds against the clothing of your silken pajama bottoms and you’re happy to oblige.

Your hands split up.

One brushing along the underside of their left boob before cupping it fully. A sigh escapes Jordan’s lips as you both come up for air and you pinch their nipple between your fingers. The fabric of their tank top is so thin, making it basically invisible to your touch.

Your other hand is stroking up their thigh, playfully undoing the cords of their sweatpants, before slipping past the elastic band of their underwear.

This time, you don’t even try to subdue the groan. “Holy fuck.” Jordan swallows every syllable greedily as their desire wets your fingertips.

Maliciously slow, you push two fingers inside them, curl, retreat, repeat. They arch further into you, intensifying every penetrating movement by practically riding your hand.

The tiny voice in the back of your head reminds you to slow down if you don’t wish to end this soon. However, pushing them over the brink with just your fingers, still fully clothed, is an ego boost you can’t deny.

The assurance of holding their body in the palms of your hands threshes yourself dangerously close to the brink of coming undone right then and there in this fucking hallway.

“Don’t slow down,” they rasp as if hearing your thoughts, biting down on your bottom lip to hold your attention. The grip on your ass tightens.

“We’re just getting started.” You close your mouth around your fingers, savoring their taste on your tongue. “We should move this to your bedroom though because I need you to get naked right about fucking now.”

“You’re so goddamn hot, it makes me hate you sometimes,” Jordan bites out, nodding in agreement.

After planting one last peck on your swollen lips, they guide you by the hand to the nearest door.

Darkness surrounds you, sharpening your senses, highlighting your own desperate needs.

You hear a lock turn before two larger hands grab your waist, pulling you flush against a defined chest. Head turned upwards now; the new flaring up force of the kiss spurring you on. You feel like fighting the current of an ocean all of a sudden.

Those damn sweatpants are doing a terrible job at disguising Jordan’s hard-on, and it drives you crazy.

You clasp one hand around their cutting jaw, deepening the kiss, wanting them to swallow you whole.

The other one glides from their right shoulder over their chest and stomach, picking right up where you left off, enjoying every muscle twitch under your definite touch.

Right before reaching the elastic waistband again, certain fingers wrap around your wrist.

Hot breath fans against your ear, as Jordan whispers, “Your turn, get on the bed.”

The confidence in their tone sends a shiver down your spine, settling right between your legs which are now being pushed apart.

Scattered streaks of moonlight streaming in through the window paint their figure above you in pale light. With a catching breath, you freeze to admire them for a moment.

A smug smile tucks at the corners of their mouth, coming down on yours again after being parted for what feels like an eternity.

Eagerness is pulling the strings now.

You wrap your legs around their waist, guiding them nearer to where you need them the most. Tracing fingers and venturing lips won’t do the trick any longer.

You free them from their tank top to toss it somewhere onto the floor, ruffling their hair in the process, and finally loosen the cords of their sweatpants.

Physically restraining from letting your hand travel farther to encompass their bulge, you sit up instead to get rid of your own clothing, never breaking eye contact.

Jordan takes a quick dive into their bedside table to find a condom before settling onto their side, impatiently waiting to get a hold of your body again.

Briefly, you toy with the idea of putting on a little strip show just to tease them but the hungry glint in their dark eyes teaches you better.

“I want you on all fours,” they say, already moving behind you, warm hands grabbing your hips to pull you back in position. The tip of their hard cock at your soaking entrance turns your mouth into a desert.

“If you wait one second longer, I’m going to kill you,” you pant.

They grant your wish immediately, slamming into you with a force that nearly sends you face-first into the mattress if their splayed hands hadn’t held your torso upright.

These raw groans in the back of their throat zinging right through you, as you move in sync, pushing you over the edge a lot faster than you would have hoped.

Jordan can’t help falling apart at the same time, the view of your moonlit backside and the feel of your body around them being too goddamn much.

You flop down on your belly, content in the silence that follows, not caring about the mess right now. Jordan’s arms wind around your naked form, wrapping you in a full body hug. Their lips on the crown of your head are making you smile into their rising and falling chest.

“Are you staying over?” they ask almost hesitant, voice low and quiet in the dark of the advanced hour.

In response, you press a series of kisses onto their heated skin.

“You won’t get much sleep tonight if you keep on doing that.”

Your open-mouthed grin is a dagger in the diffuse light of the room. “I’m counting on it.”

[starriestarlight]

Liam Mairi Headcanon

After a really really long time of debating on what to write for my blog. I'm finally putting out this short Liam Mairi HC. This is the first time I'm putting something out there, so I'm a little nervous even though it's just a small HC. I have a few actual pieces in the works, but for now hopeful you guys on the Fourth Wing side of this site enjoy this.

Disclaimer: This was thrown together super fast. I just wanted to put something out there to get past the hump of being scared to publish something. I apologize for any mistakes in lore and any grammatical errors.

xo starrie

Liam and you had met on Conscription Day, a similar meeting to Violet and Rhiannon’s. Like Violet, you had been forced by your parents to enter the Riders Quadrant to continue the family’s long line of riders. To say you were scared shitless was an understatement.

He had been behind you in line and had noticed your shaking hands as the two of you neared the Parapet. Being that golden retriever boy, he reached out and comforted you, and the rest was history.

Liam was grateful when you had been placed under Xaden and Garrick’s leadership. The two of you were inseparable, but due to the difference in sections he had asked his friends to keep an eye over you when he couldn’t be there.

And keep an eye over you they did. Xaden was the first to notice the way your cheeks rivaled the red scales of Deigh. Bodhi and Garrick loved to ruffle Liam’s feathers by placing their arms around your shoulders. Even Imogen had grown fond of you and took you under her wing during training. Liam was their family, and it was clear to them that Liam saw you more than just a friend.

The Marked Ones weren’t the only ones to notice either; your squad mates were just as bad with the teasing. Ridoc and Sawyer loved to tease Liam about you during lectures. Their favorite way of making him jealous, was squeezing to sit between the two of you during lectures or taking the extra time to train with you during sparring lessons.

For some reason everyone found it extremely amusing when Liam’s puppy like expressions turned murderous due to the jealously that formed when it came to you.

Violet and Rhiannon often shared knowing looks whenever a carved wooden figurine appeared on your pillow. Liam gifted everyone wooden trinkets, but everyone knew that you received the most. The carvings ranged from your childhood pet to your dragon.

While your bunk had become a menagerie of wooden figures, Liam’s had turned into a mini garden. Basgiath didn’t have gardens, but you had spotted a few patches of wildflowers during flight training. For every figurine that Liam had carved, you had picked a small bunch of flowers to happily reciprocate the gift.

The teasing you got from your dragon was the worst. Ever since Threshing, she had picked up on the forming bond between you and Liam. Her comments ranged from innocent observations to absolute filth that made your whole body blush. Oh look Liam left you another gift. Your Liam is staring at you again. Stop staring at him and kiss him already. For fucks sake human shove him in a room and fuck him already.

You weren’t sure if Deigh had been teasing Liam like your dragon had been teasing you, but after an intense sparring session which felt like some sort of foreplay you actually listened and grabbed his shirt and kissed him. Right on the sparring mats, with everyone in the Fourth Wing grinning like fools.

Before you started dating the two of you were inseparable, but now the two of you were basically melded at the hip. If your bunk was empty during the night, everyone knew to check Liam’s to find you, vice versa. The sight of you and Liam holding hands and making out had become a regular thing to see in the Riders Quadrant.

No one even questioned it when the two of you came out from behind an empty classroom door or closet with tousled hair and flushed expressions.

At least you didn’t wake everyone up with thunderstorms in the middle of the night.

[zileans-big-cl0ck]

✦–Dirty talk with League men (how do they call you and how do they want to be called in bed).✦ (NSFW)

✦Basically praise kink.

✧ prompt: ✧ I had this laying in my drafts for, like, eternity, so I’m not quite sure how did I come up with this. Prob my voice kink kicked in.

✧ champions: ✧ Zed, the Master of Shadows; Thresh, the Chain Warden; Kayn, the Shadow Reaper; Talon the Blade’s Shadow; Shen, the Eye of Twilight.

✧ reader: ✧ female.

✧ warnings: ✧ obvi NSFW; dirty talk; praise kink; sub!Kayn because I love him being submissive; degradation; bondage; Thresh is a sadistic brat.

✧ author’s note: ✧ ignore any mistakes since I'm too tired to read this for the third time or smth. And please don't eat me alive for Kayn's part, I have like two other drafts with sub!Kayn headcanons for the appreciation of a dom!reader, which we need more‼️

masterlist

✦Zed, the Master of Shadows.

Zed can do both: if you enjoy degrading, he will call you a slut or a bitch, but if you prefer soft petnames, something more subtle and fragile, he can call you his little shadow.

He isn’t really talkative, especially in bed. The Master of Shadows usually keeps on his mask of a stoic, ruthless person, silent and deadly. He lets out some heavy grunts of frustration thought.

But your apperance makes him feel different. Complitely different.

He can be a real dirt talker when desired. Whispering in your ear sweet promises of the things he is going to do to you, when you sit obediently on his lap.

You are going to melt in his hands from his voice only anyway.

As for him, he doesn't need you speaking to him during sex. Zed enjoys your cries and moans, there is no need for rushed words.

But he has one weakness, that he would never admit outloudly.

Call him Master, as his official title states, from time to time. And watch him tensing from your subtle tease.

Moan Master Zed and he will be yours for a while. Hopeless and lost in your innocent being that admits his supremacy, so alluring.

✦Thresh, the Chain Warden.

This sadistic demon would probably call you something simillar to his own property. It is a well known fact how controlling he is, as he treats the petty souls of those who lost them to him like pathetic objects.

Therefore, a pathetic little soul would work too.

But on the other hand, Thresh doesn’t want you to adress him at all.

He wants you to be all chained up in a convoluted position, with something in your mouth so you can't mutter a single word.

The only sounds he demands are the cries of yours, either of pleasure or from pain that is caused by his tortures.

So no talking back. No calling him. Only painful screams and your chained body under him, fetching and gorgeous, yet moving away from the touch of his cold claws.

His plaything.

✦Kayn, the Shadow Reaper.

Starting with what he would love to hear from you pretty mouth…

Please, call him a good boy.

Call him handsome. Call him yours and yours only.

But call him a good boy. And he will become a hopeless mess under your body.

It makes him feel appreciated and adored by you, the person his soul crawls for. When you take care of him, when you are so gentle…

Oh, it is impossible for him to not call you mommy. If you enjoy it, of course.

He would mutter the sweet name out of his breath, while you ride him.

✦Talon, the Blade’s Shadow.

Some would call him eternal silent, maybe even grumpy. But he is just not used to a genuine company of a caring human being.

Every segment of his body was made for killing, his devotion - the job of an assassin.

But he is capable of love - the fire kind, full of sacred desire that ends his continency that had been made to prevent him from wandering off from the path of a killer. Greedy and possessive, where he wants your body under his own to claim you whole, mark as his, force you to stay by his side.

Under the cover of a private room, he becomes a tease. Talon finds your whimpers adorable whenever he whisper a husky good girl into your ear.

On the other side, you hear him saying ’my name doesn’t matter’ in different situations, official or not, definitely too many times. So you make sure to moan his name in the moments of pleasure, when you bury your face in the pillow of your bed, feeling the sensation building up in your core, hearing the obscene sounds of melting bodies.

And it touches his weak spot. To have his name on your lips, cherished, adored.

✦Shen, the Eye of Twilight.

He is a gentleman, a sweetheart and the most respectful man you know - he would never dare to degrade you in any possible situation.

Therefore Shen is more eager to call you ma’am or love, or with the relationship ongoing - just a simple my gorgeous wife.

When it comes to petnames, he is a simple man - he desires a sweet and adoring confession, like handsome or just his own name. It always sounds heavenly when it comes as a hot whisper of pleasure from your mouth.

[arlechinav-blog]

Types of Trancework & The Mysteries

(Pictured: Kore & Demeter with initiate.) This is going to be a long one.

Being a dance ethnologist, I have focused a lot on the practical techniques for trancework utilized by Mediterranean peoples past and present. If I had come from a classics background first and did not have a solid background in dance history and methodology I think the outcome of my work would be expressed very differently. A lot of the folks who read this blog do have some kind of background in classical Hellenic studies and are also interested in how to utilize this stuff in the context of the Mystery Religions of the ancient Med. If you are one of those people, this post is for you. Happy reading, friends, and feel free to ask questions if you have them. A Quick Overview of the Types of Trancework I break the different types of trancework used in the Med down into 4 categories based on the methods used and the purpose of the trance. This is specifically something you would get from looking at it from a practical perspective--How do we do it? What does it take? What is it for? 1. Basic Trance--For joy, celebration, experimentation, work, sleep, pain management, and things that are not specifically spiritual. 2. Catalyst Trance--Shapeshifting, heroic embodiment, bilocation, and things that might be described as magical workings. A lot of the things this is used for relate directly to archaic folk religion. 3. Spiritwork--Any type of trance that involves interacting with spirits other than your own but are not gods. Death spirits, nature spirits, and wind spirits being the big 3. 4. Euphoric Trance--Deity bridalwork, prophecy, coming into the presence of divinity. Each type of trance builds on the skills and cognitive developments supported by the previous category. I have done a full blog post on some of these categories so if you would like to explore deeper definitions for those, follow the links.

*Also check out: Training for Trancework

(There are a lot of ways to break down trancework--which is helpful if you want to puzzle out the different methods in use and what they are used to do. You could have a completely separate category for every purpose if you wanted to. It really only affects how you think about trancework. I use these 4 to give us some common understanding so we can build from there but if it helps to think of it differently then go for it.)

(Image: Sailor pulling rope. Sea shanties are excellent examples of basic trance in action.)

Understanding Basic Trancework

Just about everyone in the ancient world would have understood and participated in basic trancework from infancy until death. It would have been something they were very familiar with even if they didn't put words to it. This is because trance is and was everywhere in daily life. Lullabies are trance. Work songs that are used to time things and coordinate movements are also trance. Prior to industrialization it was just how things got done. -Sing a song that lasts X length of time while kneading dough to make bread. It is and was a popular method for detemining how long it takes to complete a task. -Songs are used to keep a working rhythm for weaving, especially works that take multiple people like weaving cords of rope. -Threshing and harvesting songs keep people working long hours under hard conditions to reduce exhaustion. -Rope handling and rowing songs are used by sailors to coordinate feats of strength that have periods of muscular rest and tension.

Humans are musical creatures. We have done a lot with those skills. Bluring the lines between secular and sacred in daily life.

(Image: Kallikantzeroi. Boogeties associated with winter mischief. These roles were actually played by people as shapeshifted humans terrorizing anyone who went out at night.)

Understanding Catalyst Trancework

Catalyst trancework involves utilizing a fuel source to power the trance effects. This allows the trance to go on longer without being laced to a type of labor. Without having a job to repeatedly perform and get lost in, entheogens and powerful emotions can be used to keep it going for long periods of time. There is also a fuzziness to the mind that occurs during catalyst trance that does not feel the same as the wandering mind more commonly found in basic trance. You are more likely to have an active imagining mind while engaging in basic trancework and a bit more of an empty head caught in current sensory experiences with a catalyst trance. (More likely but this is not a hard and fast rule--humans come in a lot of varieties so it is hard to generalize about experiences.)

In the context of the Mystery religions, catalyst trancework is not done by everybody. Anybody can get drunk and trance but that is an entirely different thing than the coordinated and specific efforts that go into a mystery tradition. Catalyst trancework is used in Mysteries that involve heroic embodiment--becoming a hero and engaging with a ritual play that involves what some might describe as sympathetic magic. All of the traditions described in my blog post titled, "Ancient Agricultural Rites Hiding in Plain Sight" are examples of heroic embodiment and catalyst trance. Catalyst trancework is strongly tied to heroic carnival traditions like Anthesteria and Quirinalia. Anything that involves an appearance from the entourage/ thiasos.

Regalia for this often involves masks and dressing up as named characters (every region has their own names). And the whole thing is fueled by whatever the local favored alcohol is--and there is a lot of variety. The fact that it is local is important to carnival traditions. It isn't just a matter of opening any ol' bottle of something, it is opening the locally produced something that honors the spirits of the area you are in.

The difference between heroic embodiment and shapeshifting is rather skin deep. Shapeshifting is the embodiment of animals and wild spirits while heroic embodiment involves taking on the mantle of hero, being the hero. Shapeshifters are frequently (but not always) cast as boogeties, monsters, and spirits of death. Heroes are the ones that ritually fight them in dance battles that may or may not involve trading actual blows. Their objective is to battle it out in rituals of sympathetic magic where life triumphs over death.

Catalyst trancework can also describe the act of drunken trancing without any purpose. So, it does not refer strictly to any Mystery religion but it is one technique among many that was and is utilized in some mystery traditions. More on that later.

(Image: A wind spirit. The personification of passion (in the illness sense, not in merely feeling an emotion). These bodiless beings like to take possession of human bodies so that they can experience their preferred physical sensations but the byproduct of that is a troubled mind for the human host--aka the Bride.)

Understanding Spiritwork

This is a category that has the least amount of written material out there about it but it is the one I have studied in living traditions most extensively. Spiritwork can be divided into possession or communication based. To an outside eye, possession and heroic embodiment look very similar. Both involve the use of regalia and can involve the entranced interacting with named spirits. The differences appear on closer examination. For one thing, it is usually done without mind altering substances. No alcohol or emphasis on emotional connection to the music to kick things off. And secondly, possession is thought of as a spirit marriage between a human and their possessing spirit. There can also be more than one possessing spirit at any given time hovering over the Bride. For heroic embodiment and shapeshifting, there is only one role per person at a time. Also a Bridal relationship is permanent while heroic embodiement and shapeshifting are often temporary--usually lasting a period of about 9 years (unless it is a hereditary tradition, this can change from region to region).

Possession is always permanent from a reconstructionist standpoint. Exorcism (as a ritual and thoughtform) did not enter the equation until somewhere around the 1st century CE. So, there are living traditions of exorcism in the Med but they tend to relate to monotheistic concepts about the hierarchy of the spiritworld. Excorcism is being defined here as a removal of a spirit who has attempted to form a Bridal relationship with a human. Spiritwork can encompass rituals of exorcism, I just don't do it because the recitivism rate makes the point nearly moot. (It is ridiculous, something like 97% of exorcisms relapse within the first year.) Ancient peoples knew this and understood it but a lot of people really, really wanted a quick and easy fix to this problem so there was a ripe market for anyone offering exorcism services.

Possession is tied to two categories of spirit--nature/wild spirits & wind spirits. Nature spirits are tied to romance and intimacy while wind spirits are tied to mental health. At their core, these traditions are ancient methods for dealing with anxiety, intrusive thougts, obsessions, addictions, and things that make life difficult. That is what these spirits are and the rituals we do with them are methods of keeping them in check. This is why it is expressed as a marriage. By externalizing these things, they can then be isolated and managed where otherwise living with them would be debilitating. It doesn't affect everyone but the harder a life has been, the better the odds of requiring these kinds of rituals to keep life in balance and allow a person to be more functional while also keeping the onus of the blame somewhere else. Because a person will have a harder time healing if they cannot separate these things from the whole of themselves. It is a kindness.

The other kind of spiritwork relates to what we might think of as mediumship. Essentially communicating with spirits, including the spirits of the dead. This is also not considered voluntary as far as I know. The ability to do this is passed down in families, though not genetically. It can ricochet off your aunt who married into the family and land on you. Usually there is some kind of story or reason for this ability to spontaneously appear, it afflicts widows more than anyone else. And I say affliction because this is not exactly thought of as a purely positive thing. Not everything can be defined as good or bad and this is one of those mixed blessing, grey area, cursed with awesome sort of things.

Spiritwork features prominently in the customs associated with Summer Dionysos as well as the goddess Kybele. Dionysos as a god of madness (there is that mental/emotional health connection) and Kybele as a mother of monsters (winds). More on that later.

(Image: Persephone and Demeter in iconic regalia.)

Understanding Euphoric Trancework

Euphoric trancework is a big deal. It takes the most dedication, the most preparation, and the most formality to successfully pull it off. It utilizes skills acquired from all the other categories of trance as well, which means to my eyes that this is not something to rush into before exploring at least some of the other forms of trance first. However, this seems to be the one that a lot of folks make a beeline towards when starting out. Which can really shoot you in the foot if you actually want to experience everything that it can do.

Trancework has physiological and neurological components to it. It is not something that you can just believe whatever you want about and expect to get the same results as someone who picks and follows a specific known path to get there. All trancework makes you feel funny. If you want to feel a little giddy while dancing around and dedicate that to a deity, that's wonderful but it is not what I am talking about here. Euphoric trancework is something very specific and difficult to do on accident.

I break it down into deity Bridalwork, prophetic Bridalwork, and coming into the presence of divinity--just being in close proximity to a deity. It cannot be treated casually if you want to experience these things in a similar way to how these things were experienced in the ancient Med. Deity Bridalwork and Prophetic Bridalwork are extremely similar to each other but they have different ritual objectives.

Deity Bridalwork is essentially making yourself into a horse for a deity. This is a culturally encoded concept that means "your body gets possessed by a god." Pay close attention whenever a sacred legend talks about a deity or daemon being strongly associated with horses, that is often a pretty big clue that they are frequently associated with these types of rituals. Bride is a gender neutral term in this context.

This is done in ecstatic rituals where the deity is expected to be present and presiding. Non ecstatic rituals where the deity is expected to be present and presiding will involve a statue as a substitute for this. Ecstatic rituals are occasions where miracles take place and people get to interact with an embodied deity in the limited ways that would be appropriate--engaging with their prefered rituals tools, foods, colors, scents, drinks, and anything relevant to the current place in the calendar cycle.

Prophetic Bridalwork involves all of that plus the added bonus of receiving a truthful statement about matters beyond human perception. That phrasing is important. If a prophecy is truthful and useful then it is divine. If it is untruthful or not useful (or just gibberish) then it comes from some other source--most likely a daemon. The ability to do this accurately and to be able to spontaneously compose it in verse on the spot provides proof of state. In other words, the proof is in the prophetic pudding.

Coming into the presence of a deity is done without any kind of embodiment. It is merely a matter of singing the right songs and doing the right kind of dances. These are (usually) stately and highly formal. Most of the gods are dignified in their conduct but there are a few yahoos in the pantheon that prefer a bit more crash and chaos. (Looking at the entourage of Dionysos and Kybele here.) This can be done without a lot of messing around with other forms of trance but you should at least be able to reliably get yourself in and out of a basic trance before giving it a go. The goal of this one is just unity, oneness, feeling close to divinity. It has a positive impact on the mind, body, and spirit of the participant and that is enough of a reason to do it.

How this Applies to the Mysteries

I would love to give an overview of each Mystery Religion and be able to say, "X trance category is used in Y Mystery tradition," but (alas) things are a wee bit more complicated than that. The complicating factor is that in some of the more involved Mysteries, like the Eleusinian Mysteries, there are multiple kinds of trance utilized by different people at different times depending on the role being performed--the initiate experience is going to be very different from that of someone who is embodying a deity or a hero. So, it isn't as simple as saying "X category of trance is used for Y Mystery."

Also, the Mysteries are strongly associated with trancework in popular imagination but they are not the only place where it can be found. Trancework is involved to some degree in just about every avenue of traditional worship. Any religious occasion that features music and dancing will feature trancing as a byproduct. It can be fancy stately well-coordinated trancing in a large circle dance that goes on for a long time. Or it can be goofy drunken reveling that goes on for a long time. Holy is holy. We don't discriminate in this house. Both of those examples are of basic trancework done in a religious context because the goal is just to dance with the community, the trancing is a happy byproduct. The trance produced by it is not used to do anything beyond keep that dance going. Context is everyting.

The other thing to keep in mind is that different types of trance would be used in the same type of mystery in different places. As an example here, in the wider pattern of Grain Mysteries, the fellahin of Letopolis would basically all practice ritual heroic embodiment instead of it being just a limited number. Whereas the Arkadian methods would have called for a separation between the duties of pilgrim first timers and old-hat locals, with limited numbers of people performing heroic embodiment with a whole separate ritual selection for who gets to do it/has to do it.

I try to simplify things and show you what to look for so that you can apply those concepts to whatever Mystery or tradition you happen to be studying. It is easier to take a look at a known ritual occasion and just ask yourself, "What kind of trance experience is being described here?" That being said, I'll get into some of the low hanging fruit to give you some examples to start working from on your own.

Dionysian Trancework

Dionysian cults do it ALL. They do not pick a lane. Each method is utilized for something different in the context of Dionysian trancework. Basic trance is utilized during harvesting and in the process of pressing fruits to make wine. Spiritwork is heavily involved in the trancework done for Dionysos in the summer months (like Tarantella). In the cold months (during carnival season) it is almost entirely about heroic embodiment--which is Catalyst trancework and that makes sense because it is when the new booze becomes available. And then there are the Orphic hymns which, to my eyes, are primarily intended for euphoric trancework.

So, if you want to engage with Dionysian trancework, you really can't go wrong. Any category you want will engage with some aspect of it. But if you are looking at your calendar and trying to plan out what kind of ritual you want to participate in: Harvest = Basic Trance Summer = Spiritwork Winter = Catalyst Trance Whenever = Euphoric Trance

If you read in between the lines here you can also imply that the Orphic hymns are suitable for Euphoric trancework--which can be done at any time or at specific points on the calendar that hold some meaning for you or the tradition that you are engaging with. Shapeshifting rituals are most likely to take place during the colder months. Possession rituals happen in the warm months. It helps to structure and pace things a bit. There is a cycle to it.

Grain Mysteries

The Grain Mysteries are not confined to the rites of Eleusis but those are probably the most well known. The Grain Mysteries rely quite heavily on heroic embodiment. It is a major aspect of the ritual process and one of those neat little details that does not get discussed much in classical texts about it. It is extremely prominent in living traditions and folk religion though, so that is where I am coming from with this. There are 4 dates of importance for those who participate in the heroic embodiment dance battles. In the Christian world, they map onto the four embertides--Ash Wednesday, Pentecost, The Exaltation of the Holy Cross, & St. Lucy's Day. These correspond to 4 Grain Cycle festivals of the ancient world (I'm going to pick on Rome for this since their dates are fixed and easier to chart):

Quirinalia on February 17th Robigalia on April 25th Consualia Aestiva on August 21st Larentalia on December 23rd

(Not everybody has calculated their calendars in the exact same way over the last 3,000 years so be aware that dates will not line up exactly, which is why I generalize it a little bit.) These are the days when those who have been chosen for a role as a hero or as a boogety will get dressed up and beat the stuffing out of each other in dance battles that go bonk. Those are all catalyst trance rituals.

Drinking kykeon as an initiate would not be catalyst trance unless it is done in such a volume (or recipe) as to produce intoxication. Intoxication is not required to produce a trance but a lot of modern folks with no background in trancework sure like to emphasize it. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. I don't know. To my eyes, it sounds like it was used as deiknumena (a hypnotic trigger that produces an expected dromena/responses). In this case, it sounds like the initiate drinks the kykeon and the mere act of drinking a single sip of it is holy enough to induce feelings of euphoria. Given that the purpose here is to come into the presence of a deity, I would categorize it as a type of Euphoric trance that happens to involve a sip of something (alcoholic or not).

Deity Bridalwork could also be involved here with the Lesser Mysteries in Anthesteria (February-ish) and the Greater Mysteries in Bodromion (Sepember-ish). They function like book ends for Death Season.

I'll have to make a Part II to include some of the fun ones like the rites of Mithras and those of Aset/Isis. This should give you plenty to chew on for a while though. As always, let me know if you have questions.

[theseinfernalangels]

Sweeter — Sawyer Henrick

Synopsis: In which Sawyer comes back from an assignment and you can’t keep your hands off each other.

A/N: Entirely too self-indulgent, contributes nothing to the plot. Literally just making out, not even beta read. Sorry not sorry, guys.

Includes: Straight up just making out, clingy Sawyer, no beta we die like men. Takes place in between Fourth Wing and Iron Flame.

You were always pretty fast. You’d been subject to impressed murmurs for how quickly you’d glided across the Parapet; you came in third place for the Gauntlet, and in the mornings, you almost always outran anyone who dared to run with you. Never in your life, however, had you gained so much speed as you do while running to your door when a tentative knock reaches your ears, whipping the door open, yanking your returning lover inside, and promptly slamming the door.

Sawyer, on his part, is not at all surprised. He’s been subject to your notorious speed for quite some time now, but it never fails to give him a little whiplash — especially right now. He opens his mouth, probably to tease you a little, but his words are choked back once you seal your plush lips over his firmly.

It’s a little shocking to the both of you; usually, you’re quite shy when it comes to affection — sans that one time after Threshing. However, when your boyfriend was away from you for that long — two weeks, to be exact — you couldn’t help but throw yourself onto him to keep yourself from climbing him. It was pure cruelty to be deprived of someone’s touch for so long, especially when that someone was Sawyer.

A strong pair of arms wrap around your waist to draw you into his warm embrace, while your hands grip his jaw, swiping over his stubble easily. Your kiss is rough, bruising even, but it’s nothing short of what he’s been dreaming about while he’s been away.

He breaks off a little, his chest heaving from the lack of air. He doesn’t let go of you, though. He never does. “Darling,” he murmurs through a gasp. “I guess you really missed me, huh?”

You scowl, running your hands down the sides of his neck before smoothing them over his shoulders. “Of course I did,” you retort, tugging his face back down to yours. “Less talking, more kissing.”

Sawyer flashes you a sweet little smile before a backing away again, although it does nothing to quell your grip on him. “At least let me take off my flight jacket first. I just got back.”

You are much less than willing to let go of him, but you reluctantly relent, allowing him to pull his worn jacket from his shoulders…Now, when the hell did he get broader? Your eyes rake over his black-clad form, particularly over his shoulders and arms that strain against his tunic. You were a complete sucker for him, there was no doubting that, but to say he looked downright delectable was an understatement for you.

He tosses his jacket on a nearby chair, settles himself on your bed with a soft plop, and wastes no time in dragging you forward by the hips to stand in between his legs. Grasping your chin between two fingers, he holds you back a little, gently preventing you from moving back in.

“You’re certainly eager,” he notes, another smile tugging at the corner of his lips at the little whine that sounds from your mouth. “Did you really miss me so bad?”

Your fingers curl delicately over his wrists, tugging his hand away from your face lightly. “You were gone—“ You lean forward, placing a peck on his lips, “— for two weeks, dammit.” Another peck. “That’s basically forever, in me time. Admit it. You missed me, too.” Yet another peck.

He groans, squeezing your hips gently. “…Gods, yeah,” he admits, turning his eyes to yours. There’s something sparking in the depths of his fern green irises…Something like fondness, plus another hundred degrees. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you. You’re a real menace when you’re not around, you know that?”

He drags you a little closer and presses his lips back to yours, one calloused hand coming up to run up the back of your neck and into your hair. “Dreamt about you every night,” he mutters into your mouth. “Couldn’t stop thinking about your mouth, your voice, your taste…”

He trails off before dipping his head into the crook of your neck and ghosting his lips across the expanse of your throat, sending chills down your spine and warmth through your cheeks. Was that even possible? You didn’t know; then again, it was hard to think of just about anything when Sawyer was basically making out with the skin of your neck, taking his time to run his mouth over every inch, every freckle, every little divot in your skin. The heat of his breath combined with the slight scratch of his stubble was enough to make you weak in the knees.

“Fuck,” he whines, skimming his teeth over your pulse point. “Missed you, okay? Wanted you so bad. I’m taking you with me next time, darling, because two weeks was hell. You’re too fucking sweet for me to leave you here.”

You grit your teeth a little, running your fingers through his russet curls like it’s your day job. Maybe it was because of the stretch of time, or maybe you were just pathetic, but you were suddenly a little more sensitive than usual — like not seeing your lover for an extended amount of time had almost made you forget what he felt like on you.

He didn’t forget, though. He told you that himself…didn’t he? You’re not even sure, with how your eyes are fluttering and you’re seeing stars just from how good he sucks on your sweet spot, the little motion sending storms of sensation through you. You slam your mental shields up so as not to disturb your dragon, but in this moment, you wouldn’t even care if your own mother walked in on the both of you.

“Sawyer,” you huff, squirming a little in his iron grip. “Baby. Love of my life. You gotta — Shit. You gotta—“

Your voice is cut off as he slams his lips back on to yours messily. This is a far cry from a normal I missed you kiss. This was a kiss that said, I cannot be apart from you for more than two hours without my lips itching. Now come kiss me like you mean it, sweet girl.

You oblige. You always oblige. Sliding your hands to cup the back of his neck, you curl your fingers through his hair and tug gently, forcing his head to tilt up with a barely-suppressed moan. Maybe Sawyer takes that as you declaring war, because it doesn’t take long for you to feel his hands…Well, everywhere. In your hair, smoothing down your back, squeezing your hips, your thighs — anywhere available for his clingy hands to grab softly. You could never complain; you welcomed the attention your boyfriend lavished you in, especially when he was usually reserved in his physical affection.

For how rough his lips are locked with yours, for how swollen and wet and red your mouths are, nothing feels better than when his teeth meet the skin of your plush bottom lip, sinking into the flesh and pulling at it gently. A small gasp is forced out of you, followed by a muffled whine when his tongue lightly circles your mouth.

“Gods, darling,” he all but whispers into your mouth. “I swear, you do crazy things to me. What have you been doing to make yourself taste sweeter, hm?”

Goosebumps trail down your skin at his words. Your vision is a little hazy, but you’re able to speak once he lowers his head back down to your collarbones.

“Nothin’,” you hum lazily, digging your hands into his shoulders. “I’ve just been waiting for you. Maybe absence does make the heart grow fonder, or somethin’ like that.”

He huffs before swiping his tongue across your clavicle. “Fuck that,” he mutters. “I’m not waiting for this, if I can help it.”

His head perks back up a little, his eyes blown a little wider as if he took himself aback.

“I mean, I’ll always wait for you,” he corrects himself sheepishly. “Always and forever. But this? If I have to wait to get this close to you again, I think I’ll die.”

His words make a fond little smile grace your face. “Well, good thing you don’t have to wait,” you tell him in a low whisper. “I’m all yours right now.”

His eyes turn half a shade darker at that. “You’re always mine,” he murmurs against your skin. “Even if I’m hundreds of miles away.”

“Same goes to you,” you shoot back, tilting your head as his thumbs press into your hipbones and his teeth meet your jaw. “Don’t you ever forget that.”

“Don’t worry, sweet girl,” he soothes, pressing a small kiss onto your flushed cheeks. “I couldn’t forget it if I tried.”

[artandthebible]

Naomi and Ruth

Artist: Evelyn De Morgan (English, 1855–1919)

Date: 1887

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Property from a Distinguished Private Collection

Description

The story of Naomi appears in the Bible in the book of Ruth. Naomi lived during the time of the judges. She was the wife of a man named Elimelech, and they lived in Bethlehem with their two sons, Mahlon and Kilion. Naomi’s life illustrates the power of God to bring something good out of bitter circumstances.

When a famine hits Judea, Elimelech and Naomi and their two boys relocate to Moab (Ruth 1:1). There, Mahlon and Kilion marry two Moabite women, Orpah and Ruth. After about ten years, tragedy strikes. Elimelech dies, and both of Naomi’s sons also die, leaving Naomi, Ruth, and Orpah widows (Ruth 1:3–5). Naomi, hearing that the famine in Judea was over, decides to return home (Ruth 1:6). Orpah stays in Moab, but Ruth chooses to move to the land of Israel with Naomi. The book of Ruth is the story of Naomi and Ruth returning to Bethlehem and how Ruth married a man named Boaz and bore a son, Obed, who became the grandfather of David and the ancestor of Jesus Christ.

The name Naomi means “sweet, pleasant,” which gives us an idea of Naomi’s basic character. We see her giving her blessing to Ruth and Orpah when she tells them to return to their mothers’ homes so that they might find new husbands: she kisses them and asks that the Lord deal kindly with them (Ruth 1:8–14). But her heartache in Moab was more than Naomi could bear. When she and Ruth arrive in Bethlehem, the women of the town greet Naomi by name, but she cries, “Don’t call me Naomi... Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter. I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty. Why call me Naomi? The Lord has afflicted me; the Almighty has brought misfortune upon me” (Ruth 1:20–21). The name Mara means “bitter.” The cup of affliction is a bitter cup, but Naomi understood that the affliction came from the God who is sovereign in all things. Little did she know that from this bitter sorrow great blessings would come to her, her descendants, and the world through Jesus Christ.

Ruth meets a local landowner, Boaz, who is very kind to her. Naomi again recognizes the providence of God in providing a kinsman-redeemer for Ruth. Naomi declares that the Lord “has not stopped showing his kindness to the living and the dead" (Ruth 2:20) Seeing God’s hand in these events, Naomi encourages Ruth to go to Boaz as he slept in the threshing floor in order to request that he redeem her and her property. Naomi’s concern was for Ruth’s future, that Ruth would gain a husband and provider.

Naomi’s bitterness is turned to joy. In the end, she gains a son-in-law who would provide for both her and Ruth. She also becomes a grandmother to Ruth’s son, Obed. Then the women of Bethlehem say to Naomi, “Praise be to the Lord, who this day has not left you without a guardian-redeemer. May he become famous throughout Israel! He will renew your life and sustain you in your old age. For your daughter-in-law, who loves you and who is better to you than seven sons, has given him birth” (Ruth 4:14–15). Naomi was no longer Mara. Her life again became sweet and pleasant, blessed by God.

[littlemarianah]

These cast announcements make me freak out, honestly.

It seems that the moment America became Panem all racial struggles absolutely disappeared. THG is a dystopia about American society, but it seems like no one gives a damn.

Are you really going to cast a Black boy as a D1 district that has systemic advantages in the games, is portrayed as aggressive and stupid and will bully the other tributes? Seriously? I mean, D1 is a district that is close to the Capitol. It's basically the image of the Capitol.

And then you're going to make the little girl from D11, which is a district that suffers much more than the others and has much more peacekeepers who are more violent than anywhere else in Panem, a white girl? Why? 😭

It doesn't make sense. It takes away from the depth of the story and the nuance. I swear to god.

I'll leave you with the recommendation of this video about race and especially about Thresh's role in the Hunger Games. How simply ignoring an character's skin tone doesn't work.

[skyfallscotland]

Tairn & Sgaeyl: PLEASE don’t bond with anyone during Threshing, you basically just hatched

Andarna, already knowing she’s going to hunt down that one scribe girl: