#fatespin

[remaimed]

@fatespins // cont.

Cassian didn't believe him. He could tell the wound was deep, just by the way the other was acting. He should have a potion or two in his pack.

He took over when the other pulled away, keeping pressure on the wound. A stupid smile was on the fighters face. "Am I at least hot covered in blood?" He asked, trying to comply with others' requests.

"I think my pack has some potions and bandages. Though if you wanted to just get it and help me out of my armor." A cough came from him trying to hold himself together and not die here.

[remaimed]

That comment pulled a chuckled from the large tiefling "I do. When I have the time. Doesn't usually help making allies though." He followed behind him hands on the back of his head as he kept pace. humming to himself in between their conversation.

"Sure you can. I think I wont push my luck since this is probably the last debt I have. I don't want to have to deal with this mess again."

"YEAH, YOU SEEM the type to do a lot of talking in your spare time." They're playing with fire a little bit here, maybe more than they should, but what's life without a little risk of being burned? Hands slide into pockets in a further show of faith as they start walking in the direction of the tavern, kicking a rock down the cobbled street as they do.

"I THINK YOUR luck might be better than you give it credit for, Cass - can I call you Cass? This particular situation is quite lucky in your favor. Not to imply you should pick up gambling again, since apparently you've already pissed someone off enough to try to hire a mediator, just something to think about."

[crimesought]

📏 + 5'10 (but ras calls himself like 5'6 sometimes just to try to make cassian feel shorter when he's bored)

(I cant believe he lies to him! cassians gonna use a reduce spell on himself to be smaller.)

[silksworn]

cont from here

The red of their hair a sanguine spill, garish as a wound in the searing daylight. Their skin sun-browned, the long length of leg — objectively, she finds that she tells the truth. Her newly found traveling companion is not unappealing to lay eyes upon.

Yet she speaks and thinks of beauty idly, as a thing to be admired in a painting for a time and then forgotten. It has no merit beyond the physical. Just because something is lovely does not mean it may feed or clothe or protect you. Nothing is to be learned after the emotion has been felt.

“Tolerance only extends so far. I am still untrustworthy the moment I am seen, at best an exotic attraction,” she sneers in remembrance. “Though, I suppose you are not without a point. It can be a tool to soften before the inevitable blow, or distraction.” Iraestra watches them preen critically, eyes not leaving their person. The comment has landed at least a little, as she had intended. “Coloring such as yours would be quite uncommon in my homeland; it would make you a coveted bauble of a slave. You might be spared the worst of the lash,” she muses.

@fatespins

[fairytaletold]

@fatespins // [ FEEL ] sender feels up receiver's abs

He’s going to die from this. Forget battlefields, forget the glory in a valiant charge on horseback into the churning fray — it will be this, the taut cord of desire being wrapped around his neck.

Muscles flex and strain. A well earned and well won physique carved out from bearing the weight of armor, the momentum of a sword. A tendon in his forearm pops as fingers clench against his palm, curling in against the forbidden desire to reach out and touch. He knows this game by now. Touch her, and they begin again. Reach, and she draws fully back, and he would rather languish in the torment than be without her completely.

Delicate, tapered fingertips claw down the ripples of his ribs. Across the indentations of his abs, leaving a pleasurable sting. She may on her knees before him, but it’s impossible to mistake which one of them is in control and which is merely existing, an instrument to be used. Palms are pressed to his hips, now. For one blessed, tormented moment, he almost thinks she's taking pity. Can imagine the phantom press of her hands around his length, of the way her lips part and head bows to take him in —

❛ You look tense, beloved. ❜ Unaware, his head has tipped back, the arched column of his throat bobbing as he swallows down. He's a bow, drawn taut in a hunter's hands, and held too long instead of fired. Somehow, he finds some reserve of strength to raise his head and meet her gaze. Ruby dances in the light. Her hands have shifted up again, and now they’re so far away from the aching place he desperately needs them. They draw over his midsection again, and he realizes this for what it is: all that he would get this evening. With a devious smile, she’s on her feet, and he knows better than to beseech her for a slip of mercy.

❛ I’ll go make tea. ❜ And then she’s gone. The perfumed air left in her wake serves only to tease him. He falls heavily to the bed. Drags a hand over his eyes.

Battle may be bloodier, but sometimes he thinks he may prefer the surety of deaths’s release.

[peacedomain]

✧  @fatespins  —  riley  —  said:

a kiss shared while holding your dying lover .

𝐒𝐇𝐄  𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐒  𝐒𝐎  𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘  𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐄𝐄𝐃  𝐖𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃  𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒  𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄.

she  knows  ceremonies  preceding  funerals;  she  knows  prayers  and  what  herbs  mix  into  incense.

she  knows  how  to  preach,  she  knows  the  notes  for  interments'  pieces  by  heart.  she  knows  goodbyes  for  those  who  are  no  longer  walking  amongst  the  living.

she  knows  𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌  will  guide  riley's  soul  to  heavens.

for  the  first  time,  she  prays  and  not  talks  to  the  𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍  𝐎𝐅  𝐋𝐀𝐖;  speaks  memorized  invocations,  begs  for  sparing  her  loved  one  —  weeps  for  the  𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐅  𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐘  𝐀𝐍𝐃  𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄  to  break  divine  orders  and  decrees  and  codes,  not  yet  disgusted  by  her  selfish  desires;  promises  all  the  𝐃𝐄𝐈𝐓𝐘  could  ever  want,  offers  everything  she  can  give.

a  priestess  exceeding  all  clerics  and  paladins  of  the  𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑  𝐎𝐅  𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇  begs  into  her  lover's  lips,  letting  salt  mix  with  metal  —  tears  with  blood,  hands  desperately  clutching  at  the  source  of  all  pain  and  misery,  light  no  longer  spilling  from  beneath  her  palms,  all  her  power  long  gone, used  soothe  the  suffering,  even  if just  a  little.

she  rocks  the  lifeless  body,  tight  in  her  embrace,  letting  their  lips  brush  for  the  last  time  —  as  for  the  first,  she  tastes  the  bitterness  of  her  faith.

[underdarken]

@fatespins // continued

" Yeah, they really know how to tickle the old ivories - oh! " It's all Arkezet can do to reel backward, giving room to the lively number suddenly put on. By furniture. The previously very docile, very much unpossessed furniture. They recognize the pull of the weave, of course, when it blossoms and unfurls around them, but it still takes a few moments ( right around the time Jay joins in ) for their senses to catch up to their observations. " Life-threatening in the way these things usually are. I wouldn't worry too much about it; you're a bit sturdier than I am. By all means, carry on with the show. "

[ospraey]

꒰ა @fatespins ; cont.

truth be told, he doesn’t mean to stare. maverick is usually better at being inconspicuous about such behavior ; subtlety is key in his line of work, but these are extenuating circumstances. he’s never actually encountered another aasimar before, but he recognizes celestial heritage the moment he lays eyes on the man. it’s more than just the feathers in the other’s hair — although those are damning evidence on their own — it’s merely something about his demeanor. the way he carries himself even while seated, the way his armor glints in the firelight ... maybe someone else, someone who lacks the perspective mav has, wouldn’t pick up on it quite as easily, but it’s as plain as day to him.

and then, belatedly, he realizes he’s spent too long staring. warm brown eyes meet his, and mav jolts — eyes widening, jaw clenching with a sudden tension. to his credit, he doesn’t back down from their impromptu staring contest, either. even if his heart is pounding. the stranger’s reaction is another surprise, offering maverick a smile ( of all things ) and inclining his head to invite him over. it’s entirely unexpected, and maverick has to take a moment to process the silent request before he can actually respond to it.

it is with no small amount of trepidation that he rises from his corner table, leaving the comfort of the shadows and making his way across the crowded tavern to drop into the seat across from riley. a small, dark bird, coming to roost. the look in his eyes is one of distrust, of wariness. this one keeps his defenses high at all times.

and — here is where maverick falters. what the hell is he supposed to say?

❝ who are you?  ❞ eloquent, mav. the flat, quiet rasp of his voice carries just far enough to reach the other’s ears.

[countercharmda]

Oh, how he wished he'd had some grasp on time. He remembers, faintly, stories of mages attempting to step back into the past and rectify things. All ending in tragedy, naturally, but Serendipity finds himself longing for a time that is not now. Not here, with dirt still on his hands from where he'd buried his troupe leader. He doesn't have the heart to rejoin the party, not yet; sitting on the edge of camp, he's almost brought to tears -- until he hears the sound of someone else nearby.

" We don’t need to talk unless you want to, " says @fatespins , as Akordia. She sits beside him, just as he straightens and swipes a hand at his face. " I’m happy to just sit with you for a while. "

Serendipity's mouth opens, but he can think of nothing to say. No witty banter, no inspiring speech like the one he'd given to the rag-tag family of his that had gathered mere hours ago. Instead, he's ever aware of the ache in his chest.

" Sorry, " he finally says, after a moment. " I fear I'm terrible company, at the moment. "

[herspawn]

"Be not afraid, little one. I will not hurt you." ( from biblically-accurate aasimar-mode riley 👼🤔 )

There was a startle, something she wasn't expecting nor would've expected from the other. She did take ample space back, a little out of the fear BUT to also get a better look of the full picture. " Holy shit. " She wasn't expecting full celestial horror but was almost impressed. Not even almost, she was. " Of all the things, I wasn't expecting this... "

[ prompt / not accepting ]

[cxldblxxded]

ok i’m gonna piddle around with more stuff tomorrow and maybe tn, like this post if i want memes from me. specify who from and if u want anyone on any of the sideblogs (fatespins / striigon / smcrtcss) or if u want shit from nicky too (yxkanna). this is a catch all for now lol

[fairytaletold]

@fatespins // tasteful smut // [ MOUTH ]:  sender  puts  their  fingers  into  receiver's  mouth. ( from akordia @ cris for. normal reasons )

Spring has come and gone, and with it, his arduous trip back to the Duke to give a report on what he's found. No black magic to be found, he ensures, but the moment he's back in her presence, he's no longer entirely sure. Surely she has bewitched him. How else can he negotiate away the ease in his chest upon laying eyes on her, healthy and whole? The momentary bloom of hope as she allows him through the door?

He's no young squire, finding his legs, but he feels the newness of the chase again: how coy words and subtle glances interject their conversation, how trepidation heavies his tongue. What confidence he has garnered beneath the hands of numerous women both aides him and fails him, with her. She is different. There is no one entirely like her, and he knows instinctively that he will never find her equal again.

They're in her kitchen, the hearth crackling merrily at his back, the considerable weight of his armor discarded in favor of simple linens. The fragrant smoke of his tea rises in the air just above his face, mildly hesitant; the arched brow he gives her is met with exasperation. It's not drugged. And it isn't, but it also isn't sweetened. ( He did warn her about his sweet tooth, after all. ) She procures the honey for him with the slight irritation he expects of all requests, but it redoubles as the spoon he holds drips a languid smear of honey down his mug, onto her table.

The scoff is audible. He's chastened, for the brief moment he has the wit to think at all. Because now she's leaned across the space that had been separating them, a single, delicate finger dragging up the side of his mug, coated with honey. Glistening. He makes no move to stop her as she takes that same digit and parts his lips; the syrupy sweetness dissolves on his tongue as he laves it against her finger, a hint of suction. A hint of teeth. The gaze he's kept held on hers grows darker, heated -- promise laden in those warm, mercurial depths, if only she asks for it.

She doesn't. Simply removes her finger, inscrutable as she's ever been, and whispers the admonishment. Don't make a mess. As if she can read his thoughts, transparent as they might be.

( Because making a mess is all that he wants to do right now. )

[peacedomain]

✧  @fatespins  —  riley  —  said:

a kiss that leaves behind lipstick marks.

𝒕𝒉𝒆  𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕  𝒊𝒔  𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍  𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒈.

barrels  of  the  finest  of  meads  were  cranked  open  as  the  patrons  sing  to  the  lively  tunes  played  by  skilful  minstrels  and  bards.

with  her  wings  hidden  underneath  the  flesh  of  her  back,  elsie  dances  and  sings  too;  amongst  sockless  maidens  and  local  wenches  she  is  the  center  of  attention.  most  eyes  turn  her  way  as  she  jumps  atop  the  table  to  the  dynamic  rhythm,  shouting  her  throat  raw  to  the  song.

wine,  beer  and  mead  are  poured  into  the  telepath's  cup  without  care  for  payment  —  on  the  house,  they  said,  for  her  and  her  companion  —  and  she  accepts  the  offerings  with  a  drunken  smile  on  her  lips.  for  the  first  time  in  𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐒  know  how  long,  both  the  aasimars  can  take  a  breather.  this  night,  they're  not  on  the  run,  they're  not  serving  their  gods;  they're  merely  mortals  whomst  struggles  are  washed  with  alcohol.

elsie  cups  𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲'𝐬  face  in  her  hands,  placing  a  kiss  on  his  cheek.  it's  a  rare  sight  for  her  to  wear  make  up,  but  as  she  did,  a  stain  of  the  shape  of  her  lips  was  left  on  the  man's  skin.  she's  beaming,  cheeks  flushed,  words  slurred  when  she  speaks;  a  thin  layer  of  sweat  covers  her  skin,  some  hair  glued  to  her  face.  she  hasn't  smiled  like  this  in  weeks  of  their  journey.

❝ thank  you,  my  dearest, ❞   she  yells  through  the  clamor.  ❝ for  letting  us  stay  here! ❞

[underdarken]

@fatespins // starter

" Psst. Hey. "

Admittedly, they do look a little suspicious like this: among the outcrops and just off the inclining path, obscuring themself in most ways. But not all! And they are calling attention to themself on purpose.

" I'm not hiding from you. I thought you were with - well, whatever is going on up ahead. I didn't get a good look, but I figured it was best to avoid. "

[xiakha]

FFXIVWrite 2024 Prompt #19 - Taken

Themis knocked briefly on Azem's front door before trying the handle. Of course it was unlocked.

The idea of petty theft or burglary in Amaurot was practically unthinkable, but most citizens still locked and sometimes warded their doors for the sake of privacy. In the case of the Convocation, it was also that they could get at least a sense of secure respite against the onslaught of the demands placed upon them by their ceaseless work. No wonder so many of their number chose to return to the Star so immediately after handing off their seat.

But the current Azem... she was different in a somewhat disconcerting manner.

Themis found her at the loom again, after letting himself in. Ah, that would be it. Her other work. Outside of her Convocation duties, she also kept this loom busy and clacking well into the night until her two lovers dragged her to bed. Or at least, that was what was once said. Nowadays, with the other ascended to the Seat of Emet-Selch, it was said that Hythlodaeus mostly slept alone.

The spinning wheel was also in the room, slowly turning and twisting the raw aetheric matter. In another time, Azem might have been three: one to gather, one to spin, one to weave. But with the advances made with aetheric manipulation, the only bit that needed actual work was the weaving part. The gathering part was even so lost to time, it never attained a modern term. There was no equivalent to "Fategathering" as there were for Fatespinning and Fateweaving.

But of course, anyone who knew, anyone who cared, anyone who had any reason to doubt Azem's disposition, anyone who did not believe wholeheartedly that Azem would have the best intentions for them, would be guarded at best. There were many things that Azem could not influence, there was no way she could break causality over her knee. But the placement of events, the bend of the narrative, the incidents between, these were her domain.

He first learned of her abilities when he became Elidibus, and it occurred to him that no one took pains to hide what Azem could do from him, nor did anyone really seek to influence him to pursue the Seat of Elidibus as far as he could tell.

And yet, once he knew of what Azem did on the side, he was sure that she had, in a very literal way, pulled the strings. He was sure that the other candidates, some of whom that he had considered his betters, were aware of what Azem could do, and thus were in a sense disadvantaged by their knowledge. Perhaps more importantly, Azem was aware that they were aware.

As Emissary, he was naturally the Azem-botherer, the one that would keep her in line with the Convocation even as her role was to be the loyal opposition. Of course she was quite invested in who the next Elidibus would be. And Themis could not bring himself to be fully wary of her. He knew her well as the firebrand and the champion of the smallfolk. He could not help but admire the selfless way that she went about her duties. Not once at any meetings of the Convocation did he find her to be in the wrong. Reckless? Often. Out of line? Sometimes. Unreasonable? Here and there. But wrong? Never.

But perhaps that was why, after all considerations were done, he was the one chosen to assume the Seat. Azem needed someone like-minded, or perhaps someone easily susceptible to her machinations. After all, the less she needed to fight with the warp and weft, the more elaborate the schemes she could weave.

So there was this matter of a fallen star, this "familiar" of Azem's. Why did she keep her a surprise? Why was it necessary to make such cryptic statements? For what it was worth, there was nothing about the familiar that seemed strange to Themis's eye. Oh she was clad in the most outlandish of outfits of a brilliant red, and a foppish hat that would have looked silly upon his head but was rather fetching on hers. He even recognized that she had an eye of the same tint as Azem's.

Why the feline features though? And why dress her so... provocatively? Themis's proclivities aside, the familiar seemed all too fond of unbuttoned shirts and loosened belts that hung on the hips just so. It lent her an androgynous, nay, masculine air that, when viewed from behind, would easily mistaken her for a man, especially with the wide shoulders and pinched waist of her overcoat. And the way she leaped and bounded as she spellcasted and thrust with her rapier, why, were she better endowed, the physical activity would leave her quite exposed! But she wasn't.

He didn't dwell on the sexualities or preferences of his colleagues but this familiar left him absolutely puzzled. Azem's relationship with the Chief of the Bureau of the Architect and Emet-Selch was, if not public knowledge, an unspoken axiom. Yet neither really held himself with the same kind of masculinity. Oh, they had their masculine sides of course, but Emet-Selch was just much more formal and prim while Hythlodaeus was much more pretty and sophisticated. Neither gave the sort of rugged, unrefined individualism that the familiar had. Was it something that Azem wished for or found wanting in her partners?

And why was the familiar such a miserable spellcaster? This "red magery" was a poor approximation of the spellweaving that was the basis for much of Azem's magicks. It was recognizably akin to Azem's own weavings but done with the articulation and mastery of a child. It would seem the familiar was much more comfortable with the sword aspect of her magery than the actual spellcraft. Was it just a half finished experiment of Azem's? Was the lack of refinement in the familiar's attitude and presence a reflection of her work-in-progress state? But then why let it roam?

And if that was a work-in-progress, what kind of power would the finished product wield? As unimpressed as Themis was with the actual spellwork, the familiar still had deadly efficacy. Was the round about way that Azem brought up the familiar a matter of trying to get Themis's unbiased opinion on the work-in-progress? Was she trying to get a rise out of him by making the familiar so... unconventionally attractive? No, no, she had been so obviously of Azem's upon first meeting that he was almost sure Azem was able to peer through the familiar's scarred eye. There must have been another reason...

It suddenly struck Themis that Azem never mentioned the familiar, only a chance encounter.

With the autonomy that the familiar worked, with the way that she also did little to identify herself as related to Azem, almost as if she didn't know or didn't care for the connection, she might very really have been something that wasn't Azem's. Suddenly a lot of things made more sense. The dress, the lack of refinement, the piss poor spellweaving, all of it. Azem wasn't aware of the familiar. It wasn't her work. There was a strange kind of relief involved.

But how? How could something that was so clearly wrought by her be so unknown to her? How could something that clearly took many sleepless nights to get into the rough state it was in, and would require many more sleepless nights to continue to hone and polish be something that Azem was so unaware of, she needed Themis to go and incidentally investigate while uncovering the strange circumstances revolving around Pandæmonium.

So Themis decided to do his job as Elidibus, and put a check to Azem's shenanigans until he could understand the shape of the scheme better. Had Azem split herself as some were rumored to have done in order to be able to do more at once, and this was something a rogue portion of Azem had done without the core being's knowledge? Was the "familiar" actually a portion of Azem that was split from the whole that manifested in quite the queer way?

Whatever the case, Elidibus would take the time to regale the incident at Pandæmonium so Azem could take note of it properly for her weave, and then report the overall incident to the Convocation for their judgement.

In neither instance would he mention the "familiar." That would remain a secret between he and Erichthonios, at least until he could figure out what Azem was plotting.

[delrcy]

* PINNED.

indie portrayal of JACK DELROY from LATE NIGHT WITH THE DEVIL (2023). conjured by moop (25+, she/they). semi-selective, low activity, and iconless. thanks for reading :)

* INDEFINITE SEMI-HIATUS until (hopefully) mid-july or so; working on sets + submitting my films to festivals + prepping to move in august means i will be slow for a bit!

carrd

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blogroll: @cxldblxxded (reptilian oc multimuse) / @fatespins (d&d / bg3 multimuse sideblog) / @striigon (vampire oc sideblog) / @yxkanna (single-muse oc)