#Bangle That Binds

[forgeofthenine]

OKAY, I was thinking about tiefling weddings and like, I thought a cute little tradition before the wedding would be like, the husband helping his wife put on her jewelry. Brides where a lot of jewelry, passed down from their mother and grandmother's so like ankles, tail bangles, bracelets, necklaces, earrings and horn hoops and I was inspired by that one line from Ride the cyclone (Werid I know stick with me) where one of the characters says "I lay down my masculinity at the alter of your womanhood", I thought it'd be like a cute tradition, as a way to show that the husband will always help his bride, even with the most Mundane or simple tasks like putting on jewelry to help his bride in the future bc of all she will do for him in the future (like making the home, baring and caring for children). A sort of wat of putting aside a man's pride and masculinity, a meeting of femininity and masculinity to bind one life together, if any of this makes sense lol

I honestly love tiefling weddings so much. I feel like different tiefling communities would do different things, seeing as tieflings are generally quite spread out as a race and don't have a true 'home' per say like other races would. I could definitely see some having grooms helping their brides get all dolled up in jewellery and pretty ribbons, especially in a ceremonial context. Similarly to how handfasting works, this could definitely be like a public commitment from the groom to always care for his new wife in all ways. I feel like both Dammon and Zevlor would be partial to these particular traditions.

I feel like alternatively other communities would refuse to let any men near the brides chambers as she and the women getting ready. Tear filled moments of mothers and sisters and aunts caring for the bride and spoiling her with attention one last time before she starts her life as a married woman with her husband (and likely prepares to start a family of her own) I definitely feel like this suits Rolan better, and Lia would love joining the other women in dressing up his wife to be and sharing embarrassing stories of him.

Either way, tiefling weddings would be an absolute joy to attend. We already know the refugees throw a decent party and this would be even better lmao

[chaos-and-sparkles]

Presenting:

Prowler Pavitr <3<3

Here's Pavitr's design in my Prowler Pavitr au akjdskjdskjkskdsk! It's my au where Pavitr is a fallen hero who used to be Spider-Man and becomes the Prowler, fueled by rage against a world and a system that forced him to pretend at perfection and then only hurt him and the people he loves.

I love him so much,, I have so much stuff in progress about him rn (working on the fics too). Gonna have chaipunk front and center, and like four separate plot arcs, I'm so insane about this au actually -

Anyway here's some infodump about his design inspirations and symbolism I put in it, I loveeeee talking abt him:

Hair -

Okay so this is after some time, like a couple months since Pav became the Prowler, and he's grown his hair out a bit now. It's kind of a mix of rejection of the "masculine" standard of short cropped hair by flaunting his longer curls that he's always been proud of and even had to grow to love He also dyes his hair purple! Bc he didn't wanna cut his hair but he wanted to do something to set himself apart from his old identity and also he's literally an impulsive 17-18 year old and wanted to do something that felt like owning his own self and asserting autonomy over his body etc etc

Something Borrowed -

The tie that he's using to tie back his hair is his original blue headband!! It doesn't go with his outfit at all but It's the original blue headband that Maya Aunty got for him all those years ago that he's been wearing forever and it snapped and broke in the battle that preceded what happened to her, and he still keeps it and ties his hair back with it instead The nosering (nath) used to be Gayatri's, they used to try out her jewelry on him and he loved that one so much she gifted it to him, and since he's basically left his old life and gone no contact with her it's all he has left of Gaya too

Main Outfit -

His jacket is loosely based on Krrish's leather jacket from the Bollywood movie series that's about a superhero named Krrish. I just think it has the dramatique and vibe Pav would like He binds his chest bc he still hadn't had top surgery but he's way more open about it, with the binding showing through the neck of the jacket now where he would have never dared to hint at it before,,, another thing about how he doesn't care about people's opinions and perceptions and standards anymore, he wants to say fuck you as much to everything in the system as he can and also piss people off while he's at it and a trans antihero/villain is a surefire way to do that. His dhoti is basically a dhoti pant, modified a bit bc i liked it

He has payals on his feet that make a faint chhan chhan noise when he approaches which has creepiness and cuteness potential imo I basically turned the prowler logo into his dhoti belt buckle askjdsjk

It's also slightly modified to mimic a trishul or even a diya shape, up for interpretation either way, bc trishuls are a symbol of Shiva, god of destruction, and diyas are a symbol of light in the darkness and the need to find it Also the chain around the dhoti at his hips is both a reference to decorative dhoti chain accessories and the lil things on it are his modified grenades that he uses for arson, bc Prowler Pav is big on arson and murder ajajsjsj

Prowler Claws -

His bangles/claws were hands down my favourite part to design!!

So his claws are of course his original spiderman bangles modified into the prowler claws But i based them on three weapons, each of which means something interesting for Pavitr

The first is bagh nakh. Literally translates to "tiger claws", famously used in a legend of Shivaji Maharaj They usually curl into the palm instead of going between the fingers like they do for Pav, but they're basically metal claws wound secretly around your hand for a sneak attack It's associated with bravery and righteous rage bc of Shivaji Maharaj but it's also really associated with stealth and an attack from unexpected quarters, being stabbed from a side no one saw coming. Which. Pavitr. The perfect hero, becoming the Prowler. Come on

Second is the trishul, aka trident That's the reason there are three prongs to his claw Trishul is the symbol of the god Shiva, and as i mentioned he's the god of destruction, as in he's part of the main triumvirate of gods who focus on creation preservation and destruction He also is really really associated with rage, especially destructive rage; he has a whole dance called the tandava for his rage which is a Huge Deal I can't stress this enough And because Prowler Pav is a being fuelled by rage against a system that has hurt so many including him that he wants to destroy and see burned, it is perfect for him The trishul is also seen as a symbol of goddess Kali, who's similar in the destruction goddess aspect and also is literally an embodiment of rage and violence that cannot be controlled which is more the theme I started out with, but whichever you notice first, it works either way. There's a whole myth in fact where Shiva had to lie beneath her feet to stop her destructive rampage before it ended the world.

And lastly, the urumi, aka the whip sword from Kerala Basically each of Prowler Pav's claws extend into whip swords when he does the swing/slash/whip motion This is really interesting at least to me, bc it means 2 things: 1) Pav still remembers and is actively using some of his skillset from swinging around as Spiderman. He does use the urumis to curl around distant objects and swing too, and they are very lethal weapons when used right, and that use requires a lot of skill, huge parts of which he built up by his experience 2) This is a weapon which requires an unimaginable amount of control, precision and strength And Pav is doing all that So all of his actions, every movement, is very deliberate and thought out. He's not doing any of this - turning away from heroism, becoming the Prowler, using these lethal weapons - on a whim. They are all very very deliberate.

Also one more thing - the blades of his claws are all retractable ofc But they are not protected or anything They slice up his palms and the in-betweens of his fingers whenever he uses them,, especially when he uses them as urumis And it would be so easy to fix the design or make gloves or smth so they don't do that But he doesn't ever do it He could make it so his hands don't bleed on using his claws But he doesn't want to

He is an angsty boyo...

Mask -

The eyes are ofc like the prowler mask design except I made them more curved and curled at the end bc that's a kind of shape often seen in traditional art of the headdress of Kali, goddess of uncontrollable violence as I've said before Then the part between them is meant to be based off a third eye, which is something both Shiva and Kali have. It opens at the height of their rage, it's meant to symbolise destructive fury for them both Although it's also used in an all seeing context otherwise but a lot of whitewashed bullshit is also there that dilutes sources to find connotations His theyyam-based tusks from his Spider-Man mask, I wanted to keep

The shape below the eyes is based off the noses in masks in various regional Indian tribal and traditional masks,,, a lot of them tend to have a very distinctive curly nose shape that I wanted to keep, a lot of these masks also depict rage or are intimidating and are very emotive And then ofc you have the bottom of the mask, I made the curved-ish cut based on the peacock-feather-y shape i was using but it's also based on the general shape of Kali's lips in traditional art where she has her tongue out, it's a big symbol of her rage and rampage I tried to put the tongue too but it looked awkward and honestly i thought it would be cooler to jsut leave the bottom half of the mask open and you can see Pav's mouth and his expressions through it a bit instead, in the spirit of that And also it's based a little bit off Krrish's mask, you can never escape the Krrish design Also there's the lil teeth. Those are often used in art for demons and animals,, and Prowler Pav is very cat coded in his behaviour in general tbh. He's like if an orange cat's fur got burned to black.

Anyway, so yeah, that's him!

[kscosplaycatalog]

No. 3 - 2008

Character: Yazoo Series: Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children by Square Enix

Cosplayer Credits: - Kadaj : Kat - Reno : Jaiden

Photo Credits: - ChibiPa's nope - FSC's TigerFist - Morataya Photography - Our friend, Chris - Our friend, Kirky

==========

I definitely can't wear this costume anymore. We actually made them in such a way that we didn't need to bind or anything for them because they sort of acted like a corset/binder all on their own. They were also so form-fitting up top that I couldn't lift my arms up beyond a certain point; I could barely touch my own face. And living in FL, we did almost die of heat stroke a few times taking pics outside... so yeah, don't do that! 😂

==========

We finished everything in time for MetroCon '08 except for the weapons which we completed at the end of October.

All of the leather material aspects are made of car leather which is a lot thicker than most other fabrics because it had, not only a leather top, but a cloth underside. We made the coat first, but used the wrong needles and broke about 4-6 of them. We made our own pattern from a form-fitting jacket we had and extended it to the appropriate length. Each piece of the side design was separately sewn into place on a piece of organza. Once it was a whole piece, we sewed the whole thing on the coat. We purchased the custom zippers from ZipperSource.com. The wrists were crafted with wooden bangles purchased at Michael's and hot glued into place. The boots were made from on-sale Keds and a cover. We made a pattern to get the leather to be form-fitting and hot glued the covers in place. We already had costume gloves and the pants were merely tights. We made the big shoulder armor pieces out of cardboard, polyfil and a bit of furniture foam. The little ones were just stuffed. We hand sewed the little ones to the big ones. The straps were also hand sewed to the armor and the snaps were stomped in place (literally). The wigs were purchased from eBay seller CosplayWig.

Kadaj's weapon was made out of Balsa wood and my father, a carpenter, crafted it. Kat finished it off by wrapping the hilt and adding the black and white ribbons. Yazoo's weapon was made out of spruce wood and bits of metal for the trigger, trigger guard, hammer, and site. I used a hot glue gun to make the designs.

==========

Cost: $185 Time: ~900 hrs

[rossellini-tyrell]

Nothing’s Gonna Change My World

Ch. 1 - Pools of Sorrow, Waves of Joy Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Word Count: 3,095

Warnings: Attemped SA/kidnapping, Pavitr beats up the bad guy, panic attacks, discussion of SA (this fic is potentially really triggering for some, please stay safe!)

Pairing: Pavitr x F!Reader Posted here on tumblr for the first time, also found on AO3 and Wattpad. This is being posted a second time for people who do not wish to leave tumblr to read the fic ---------- Preface: This story takes place several years after the events of Across the Spiderverse, Pavitr and the reader are somewhere in their 20s at this point in time. This story involves a reader who survives an attempted SA, there will be brief description of the rescue from the event, and extensive discussion of the emotional impact of the event on the reader. There will be no graphic descriptions of the event itself. The contents of this story may be triggering for some to read, for that reason. ------------ Being Spider-Man is not so easy. Pavitr doesn't like to admit it, but not even he can fix everything. Sure, Spider-Man thinks it's pretty entertaining to knock down the outlandish supervillains he's encountered trolling around the city, but Pavitr knows that the property damage left behind might take years to recover from, if ever. Businesses, homes, dreams crumbling to the Earth in billowing columns of dust. Pavitr had to watch one of his best childhood friends move away because they had nowhere else to go after his home was destroyed in a fight. Unfortunately, that wasn't the hardest lesson. The hardest realization Pavitr had to make was the one that regular people were the worst villains of all, capable of cruelty no magical creature nor mutated abomination could match. He'd thought he knew what evil was from Saturday morning cartoons: garish getups, twisted features, convoluted plans for world domination. He learned differently the first time he had to punch out a creep who refused to keep his hands to himself. No, it was not easy at all. Exhibit A: This asshat ruining his otherwise pleasant Friday evening eating his dinner in peace. Bitten-off cries tickle Pavitr's finely attuned ear, his Spider sense an itch, a prickling whine that beckons him walk this way. Pavitr doesn't bother to wipe the crumbs from his face, he yanks his mask around his chin and darts to peek into the alley below. There's a man down there, he's attempting to frog-march someone to his waiting car. It's not going that well as he's only got one hand free to do so, he's trying to muffle his captive's protests with the other, and it's clear she isn't interested in whatever he's offering. Spider-Man has had it with this shit. A younger him might have fought first with words, a puffed chest, the chance to walk away unscathed. Not anymore. His sense is keening now, its sharp talons scraping along his skin. The bangle is whipped off his wrist, the web follows behind it as vortexes in the air, the low whir intensifying as Pavitr picks up speed, the weapon spinning faster and faster overhead. He aims for the ankle and casts out his line with incredible ease. The bangle is now an impromptu bola, it swiftly winds its way around the assailant one, two, three times before Pavitr delivers a sharp tug, and the assailant stumbles. He waits for you to step out of reach, and you do so quickly. In a few graceful wall jumps, he's there, recalling his bangle only to fling it down with a mighty crack on the man's head. Pavitr pins the sputtering main to the ground and lands a jab in his gut, there's cheap vodka on his breath and his eyes are bleary, unfocused. He makes quick work of binding him up with web, leaving a note behind as to what landed him in this predicament. He wants everyone to know what he did. Nostrils flaring, he turns now to you, hiding behind the front of the man's car. Pavitir nimbly tumbles over the car's sleek hood to get to where you're crouched, hands over your ears. He lowers himself down to your level. "Miss, are you alright? Are you hurt?" he gently asks. He gets no response but a gasping sob, red-rimmed eyes meeting his through his mask as you turn to acknowledge your rescuer for the first time. Pavitr gives you a once-over for any obvious injuries and oh his heart aches. Tiny bruises are blooming on your jaw, the rivulets from your tears trailing along them. Your chest is heaving as your breathing comes quick and hoarse, and he notices one wrist wears an angry purple blotch from being restrained. Nothing looks broken and he doesn't see any open wounds, but it doesn't stop his sense's painfully sharp hold on him. The shrill wail pitches in and out, not unlike a radio being tuned to the right frequency. He can hear shuffling in the building you must have come out of - a local nightclub - and he knows he needs to make his exit. "Hey, I have to get you out of here," he explains. "Can you walk?" On shaky legs, you stand, pulling yourself up on the car's rear view mirror. Pavitr immediately offers his own hand to help you up the rest of the way, but is met with a sharp twinge from his sense as you recoil from the gesture, and winces himself. She's so frightened of me. Pavitr exhales and steels himself for what he has to do next. "We're out of time, I'm sorry, but I have to swing us out of here before people come out and see.  I need to you grab on around my neck and I'll do the rest, I promise I'll make it quick and I won't drop you, okay?" he instructs. He waits for your nod of assent, even though his sense is screaming that you don't like this. Pavitr guides your hands around him and takes firm hold of your waist, his breath hitches and his pulse stutters when he feels you hide your face against his shoulder. "There you go, good job," he praises, attempting to defuse your anxiety. "Ready?" he prompts. He feels your nod and tosses out a web, finding purchase on a nearby rooftop and up, up, up he goes. Pavitr truly does try to not swing too fast, he feels awful enough seeing your eyes screwed shut, face firmly jammed against him, but you still feel the cold breeze sailing past your legs as you swing. Just as promised, he sets you down shortly after. He's found a quiet rooftop a few blocks away, you open your eyes to find your vision swimming and blurry at the edges. You stumble out of Pavitr's hold, eyes blown wide and breathing still at breakneck pace. "H-he was gonna- I didn't want to-" you whimper. "Woah, hey now, you're okay-" Pavitr starts. "I t-told him n-n-no and he just, he just grabbed m-me and- my friends are gonna-" "Hey there-" he tries to gently interrupt. "Why did he do that?" your cry is so quiet from running out of breath, you're wheezing now and it's getting hard to stand, so you don't. Pavitr's heart sinks because you look so crushed, his sense has set his nervous system on fire, the burning arcs from spine to fingers. "Hey, hey, darling, hey, shhhhh..." he coos, moving to sit across from you. "Hey, can I borrow one of your hands for a bit?" You oblige him, and he takes your hand in his. They're warm, with long, elegant fingers, and your eyes are drawn to the dried blood staining the knuckles of his suit. "Can you tell me your name, darling?" "(You)" you stammer out between labored breaths. Pavitr's lips give the tiniest quirk of a smile through his mask. "Okay (You), if you keep breathing like that, you're gonna pass out. So I'm gonna put your hand right here-" he splays your hand across his chest, over his heart, and he holds it there. "And you and I are gonna take some deep breaths together, yeah? Can you try for me?" You nodded again. "Good, deep breath in -"  he inhales, and you follow, shaky and shallow. "- and out," he releases slowly. You try to mimic him, but end up coughing instead, your throat feels raw and parched. "Good job, (You)!" cheers Pavitr. He links your free hands together and gives yours a small squeeze. His mask crinkles a little around the eyes, from the smile he must be giving you. You imagine it's probably brilliant to see and thinking about it feels nice. "Let's try some more." You follow his deep breathing for a few more minutes. It gets easier to keep pace, the panic starts to retract its claws from around your throat, your ribcage expands and contracts. Periodically, he rewards you with a "You're doing so good", his voice warm and honey-sweet, his heart a hummingbird's wings fluttering against the palm of your hand. It's cold outside at this time of night, but you can't help but feel heat at the apples of your cheeks. Eventually, you're able to match him. On the final exhale, Pavitr takes hold of the hand on his chest and laces his fingers through it, bringing your joined hands between you. His sense has dulled to no more than a soft hum at the base of his skull. "There you are, darling," he purrs. You manage a wisp of a grin for his efforts, the tear tracks drying over your cheeks are uncomfortably sticky as you do. "I'm - " you begin. "I'm beyond sorry for how I freaked out at you-" "Absolutely do not apologize apologize for that. Do not," Pavitr emphatically cuts you off. "There's nothing unnatural about being upset when someone is endangering you." "But none of that's your responsibility, Spider-Man," you explain. "You saved me. And for that, I'm so grateful, truly. You have entirely more important shit to do than sit with some girl and her feelings." "The point of being Spider-Man is keeping people safe. That does extend to helping people feel safe too, 'yanno," says Pavitr, who takes a moment to brush his long hair from his eyes. "I would think ensuring you feel safe is included in the job description." "I - thank you," you say. "Everyone always talks about how cool it is to get saved by Spider-Man. That we should consider ourselves lucky if it happens, say thank you, and off you go to your next adventure," you swallow. "I don't feel lucky right now, I feel...hurt. Scared. Angry." "Could anyone blame you, though?" Pavitr muses. "I mean, for a lot of people from an outside perspective, it is cool to see Spider-Man up close, I'm pretty handsome, 'yanno?" he waggles his eyebrows. That one does get a giggle out of you, and oh he loves the sound. He wants to let the memory etch grooves into his mind, and trace them with his finger when the days are too long. "Jokes aside, people assume that I'm infallible. When I save people, that doesn't make whatever happened, not have happened. If I were in your position, I'd feel the same as you do. I think that should be honored, not pushed aside." "That's really nice, Spider-Man, thank you," you sniffle. "I'm just...nervous. About tomorrow. He..." Pavitr doesn't miss the delicate wobble of your lower lip, nor the shine of the fresh tears in your eyes. A comforting hand finds a perch on your shoulder. "He is- he was my friend. I've known him for years. In what world would have thought this is something he'd do? I don't get it, truly, I don't. I don't know what signs I missed, or if I was giving mixed signals, maybe my outfit was-" "Darling, don't finish that sentence," Pavitr stops you. "It was not your fault. It's never your fault, you get me?" he takes your hand again, and waits pointedly for you to nod your agreement. "I wanna see a 'yes'." You nod in reply, although your hesitance shows in the way you worry your lip on a canine. Pavitr guides you to face him with a gentle hand on your cheek. "Listen to me, (You). It does not fucking matter what you were wearing, what you were doing, whatever bullshit happened over the course of your relationship with him, or how the Delhi Capitals fared at the auction this year, I don't care. There is no world, no universe where it is okay to do that to someone. He does not have that right, and I need you to understand this." You couldn't see his face, but the mask he wore did nothing to obscure the cold fury in his expression. "But what if nobody believes me?" "I believe you," Pavitr replied, without a hint of hesitation. "Wholeheartedly, I believe you. I'd hope that me tying him up with web and leaving a note about what I saw would help on that end, but if for some reason it isn't enough, know that I believe you, okay?" The relief you felt was palpable. The pain isn't completely gone, and your emotions are still a tangled ball of yarn, knots twisting in your stomach, but having something meant so much in this moment. Not only did he save you, even better, he heard you. You reach up to wipe at your misty eyes, reddened and tired from crying. "This is kind of a weird ask but...can I hug you?" you shyly inquire. Pavitr recoils, his eyebrows raising in surprise at the question. For a moment, you'd though you'd offended him when- "Of course you can," he affirms. And then he does. He's firm, strong, jacked even, but he's not suffocating as he holds you. Inky wisps from his fringe tickle your cheek as you start sobbing all over again into his shoulder. Pavitr says nothing, only moves to support the back of your head with his hand as you let everything out, finally. You sit in silence for a while, the pain slowly dissipating like a sluggish drain into the fabric of his suit. Night air's tiny fangs nip at your ears, but neither of you care. It's quiet, no monsters to fight, no villains to thwart, no crime to bust. It's nice out here, and for now, that's all that matters. After a few minutes, you run out of energy to keep going. Your head feels full of cotton, fatigue pulls at you like the whine of a dying light bulb. You pull back from Pavitr with a whispered "thank you", who wipes off the last of your tears with a swipe of a second knuckle and a "don't mention it". "You look like you could fall asleep standing up," he observes. "Any chance I can swing you back home?" "At this point, I'm too exhausted to care. Why not," you grumble, rubbing at your sore eyes. Pavitr guides your arms around him once more, a dance he's performed hundreds of times over. A strong arm winds around your waist, pulling you closer, close enough to hear the tattoo of his heart against his chest wall. But it's when he asks "Where to, miss?" in dulcet tones that you shiver, letting it ripple from the neck down. Pavitr hopes you didn't hear his heart screeching to a sudden stop when you gave him your reply. He hadn't realized that he'd rescued his upstairs neighbor tonight. "Oh, I know exactly where that is! That's where I- my friend lives! Downstairs! In that building! Haha that's so funny, what a small world..." he prattles, and hopes you didn't catch his near-miss. He imagines that if he pulled off his mask right now, he'd be redder than the suit is. "Yeah, small world," you yawn. Oh she's precious like this. "Alright, sleepyhead, you ready to go home?" jokes Pavitr. Your only response is a high grunt, too tired for words. "I'll take that as a yes, then," and off he goes. This go around, he takes the chance to put some zip in his step, taking bigger arcs and wider corners. The sensation of your stomach dropping wakes you up a bit, and you take the chance to peek over Spider-Man's shoulder. You couldn't be more glad you did. Lights in the windows glitter on the accents of Spider-Man's suit, a golden shimmer flitting across the skyline. The silver shine of the moon ripples in his hair as it whips in his own breeze. Despite the circumstances, the night is beautiful (he's beautiful), and he's given you the gift of the wind. You start to feel somewhat sad when he decelerates to a stop against the roof ledge of your building. Carefully, he rappels you down to your fire escape, setting you down so gently, as if you might break. "Lucky me, I left my window unlocked before I left. I probably should stop doing that..." you opined. "Nah, I think you're good. I think I whooped his ass so hard his grandchildren will feel it. If he even gets to have any after this," said Pavitr, in his attempt to not let you leave on a sad note. "You're right. He probably has enough brain matter left to realize leaving me alone is the smart choice." It's when you have one foot back into your apartment he calls your name, his voice wrapping around it like silkworm threads. "Whatever you decide to do to move forward from this, that's up to you entirely, I support whatever you choose. But if you do want to pursue this officially...I'll help you," Pavitr offers. "You'd really do that?" you ask incredulously. "I really would. I want to, if that's what you want," he says. "Besides, my friend does live here. Chances are you might see me around again," (he hopes he does). "Well, thank you for offering. I'll have to think about it...process all this. I'm sure you'll hear about it if I do go to the police?" you say. "I would. And like I said earlier, it's just part of my job. Don't worry about it," assures Pavitr. You notice he shifts his weight towards his back foot, about to turn to leave, to disappear into the glimmer of the skyline. "Oh, and Spider-Man, before you go?" you call for him, hand outstretched. He pauses a moment before approaching you. Once he's in reach, you decide "to Hell with it", and pull him in closer. Pavitr freezes in place when you plant a kiss on his masked cheek. He hopes you can't feel his face burning through the fabric, or the hitching of his breath when you replace your lips with your hand. "Thank you, for everything. I really do appreciate it. And I'm sorry if I-" you're interrupted when Pavitr's hand covers yours. "Hey, don't finish that sentence, darling." He shoots you a wink through his mask the best he can. "You have a good night. You need it." Reluctantly, you part, and he waits for you to slip back into your apartment, lock the window, and draw the curtains before turning to take the fire escape down a level. Pavitr leaps through his own bathroom window soundlessly, peeling off his mask to look at himself in the mirror. Yep, redder than the suit, just as he thought. Being Spider-Man is not easy.

[bebemoon]

2o23;

first and foremost: dignity and respect for all

as well as safety and health.

secondarily: more amourous gatherings, more petals flooding the floors, more hibiscus wine in gold-ringed hands- in arms stacked with golden bangles- with hair stuck with precious combs and embroidered veils

mata hari-inspired looks (see: bella hadid in dilara findikoglu @ met gala after party) 

but also embrace knighthood- gleam silveryly in moonlight; obsess over blades, towers, maidens, lilies, gauntlets and chainmail, etc. 

protect, protect, protect- others and yourself

porcelain basins of warm water and rose petals, steam rising in a delicate dance through the chill of winter 

gold thread for tying/binding (i’m always saying this- it’s still true)

indulging only- hedonism- aphrodite’s acolyte- consuming- to delicious exhaustion

practice spiritual ~whatever, whatever lessens the burdens on your heart 

listen (not only to people but places), observe more often

mount etna errupted in 1923, and i’m not saying anything here but that’s just something to keep in your pocket

find community in nature- and, again, protect where possible

experiment 

get the pretty ribbon, the perfumed soap, the teddy bear, the piercing, the tattoo- life is short

sing, hum, buzz- unabashedly make noise to settle your bones

make appreciation part of the daily routine

give back where possible (not necessarily monetarily either, a gesture can be just as impactful when done with a pure heart- “pure heart rule”) 

[the-lonelybarricade]

As the River Flows - (7/8)

Summary: As Feyre lamented quietly over the misfortune of her life, there, in the marketplace, she heard a merchant instruct to its patron: Place a butterfly wing under your tongue before you sleep, and you will dream of your true love.

A gift for @sideralwriting 💕

Read on AO3・Previous Chapter・Series Masterlist

-

Magic always comes at a cost.

Feyre couldn’t count how many times she had heard that warning from her governess. From Nesta. Sometimes, even from Elain.

She supposed the evidence of their warnings now laid on her skin in permanent ink, binding her to the man who stood just over her shoulder. Magic did come at a cost. And that cost, apparently, was three copper coins.

“What does it do?” She asked the shopkeeper, staring at the glossy surface of a translucent sphere. It shaped perfectly to her palm, small enough that she could close both hands around it. No larger than a ripe apple.

“It allows you to share memories,” the shopkeeper answered.

Feyre raised the orb higher, watching it catch and twist the sunlight, throwing a multitude of colors against the cloth drapes of the stall. When Feyre turned, she could see the reflection cast on Rhysand’s cheek. Red and blue and green. And sparkling violet, staring at her with open delight.

She quickly flitted her attention back to the shopkeep and the velvet-clad table of magical wares. On one end, there was a jar with several thin sticks of wood, wafting a thick, fragrant smoke. Smoke—but no fire. She wanted to ask if that was magic, too, but held her tongue. It was enough to take a deep breath, inhale the scent of rose and jasmine that she wished she could bottle and take with her when they left.

Oh, how she never wanted to leave.

“How does it work?”

The shopkeeper shared a grin over Feyre’s shoulder, at Rhysand, who was undoubtedly preening at Feyre’s enthusiasm. The elderly woman held out a wrinkled hand, adorned with rings and bangles and sharp plum painted nails.

Feyre placed the orb delicately into the shopkeeper's palm, watching with fascination as the glass emitted a soft, misty glow. Like a deep fog was trapped beneath the surface, and someone had lit a lantern from within its center. She swore smoke lifted from the orb and as she stared, images began taking shape. A man and a woman, undetailed at first, but then she could make out the blue-black hair and winning smile of her husband. And spinning in his arms, eyes sparkling with unfettered joy, was… herself.

“You made quite the handsome pair, on that stage,” the shopkeeper said.

Had she really looked that… happy? Feyre blinked, staring at that laughing girl, hardly recognizing herself. The image faded, drifting back into shapeless clouded glass. And the orb was just an orb again.

“Focus on a memory,” the woman said, handing the sphere back to Feyre. “The veritas will show it to you.”

“Does it have a cost?”

“Three copper pieces.”

“No,” Feyre said, a bit bashful. “I mean the magic. Is there a consequence to using it?”

The shopkeeper shrugged. “Some memories are better left unvisited. You would be surprised how many people become trapped in their pasts.”

An arm stretched over her shoulder, and the proximity of Rhysand’s body warmed Feyre’s back, making her feel again as breathless as she had felt dancing on the stage. Perhaps she still had yet to recover from the exertion.

He dropped three copper pieces into the shopkeeper's hand, murmuring behind her, “We’ll take the veritas.”

Rhysand had been doing that all day. Indulging every whim, whether Feyre asked him to or not. It was how she’d earned herself a sugar covered apple and a cup of spiced rum and now, a magical orb that could revisit any memory.

As they wandered out of the women's draped stall, Feyre wondered how many times she’d revisit this one. Her cheeks bloomed from the contrast of the sudden cold. It had been warm in the shop—through magic, Feyre was certain, since aside from the thick fabric of the tent, there was nothing in the shop that could have fought off the winter air.

“Is it time to go?” She asked, solemnly.

Rhysand had been making passing glances at the sun, and at the carriage parked on the other end of the market. She supposed they had wasted most of the morning; the sun was at its peak.

“We could stay here another night,” he suggested.

Delaying their arrival to the Northern Kingdom was a tempting offer. But it also added another day to their journey—another night at an inn, a far more intimate setting than a palace where she imagined they would stay in separate rooms.

She mulled that over, before shaking her head. “We can go.”

“There are plenty of markets like this in the North,” he said, reaching for her hand. She let him take it, surprisingly compliant in allowing him to raise her gloved fingers to his lips. That was becoming a habit of his.

Their eyes met. She again seized the opportunity to relish the sight of him in the daylight. There was more blue in his eyes. They were so much darker at night.

“I’ll take you to all of them,” he promised.

Feyre couldn’t imagine a prince and princess roaming around the street markets in a place they would be recognized. His words were simply a condolence, a means of coaxing her back into the carriage. She was tempted to tell him her older sisters used to play the same trick on her. But perhaps it was to her benefit that he thought her naive.

And maybe the little girl who climbed to the treetops, risking injury and more importantly, her smart clothes, just so she could peer over the manor walls to see what laid beyond—maybe that girl wanted to believe he was telling the truth, despite every rational reason she had to believe otherwise.

Feyre breathed, “Are they all like this?”

She thought she could see the memory behind his smile. The veritas hummed in her hand like it could sense it, like it wanted her to place it in his palm so it could shape the images in his mind. Feyre was tempted, if only for the opportunity to reveal what he kept beneath his mask. She wanted to measure the light and darkness that warred inside of him, to know which side won, and how closely it mirrored her own.

“In essence,” Rhysand said, elbow looping through her own to guide Feyre through the crowd of bellowing merchants. He murmured at her ear, “Though you’ll find some are more exceptional than others. Ones that are held in jeweled caverns, obscured beneath waterfalls. Some, even, are held at the bottom of lakes.”

Feyre scowled at him, “Don’t make fun.”

“I’m not.”

He said it off-handedly, more concerned with turning to pluck a flower from a passing wagon piled with red and purple asters. The merchant’s back was to the prince, calling to the market that he was selling the flowers for one copper a bunch.

“And I’m supposed to trust a thief?” Feyre asked, raising a brow at her husband. Rhysand ignored the accusation in favor of sliding the aster stem into a notch of her braid.

“Hold on to that,” he said. “Asters are a key ingredient for most love potions.”

“And praytell, what use do I have for a love potion?”

“As you said, there aren’t many butterflies in the North.”

It was remarkable to Feyre how easy it was to suddenly lose her footing on the ice, especially when Rhysand said things that made her chest feel little more than a wooden cupboard he’d pried open, exposing her heart to the cold elements and his careful scrutiny.

Did he know, then? That her true love had visited in her sleep? The stone wall around her mind was still in place, but he could have simply guessed. In all of his charm and sweet whisperings, she’d nearly forgotten how he’d attempted to deceive her at the ball by pretending he was her true love.

The rumours are true, that you have eyes like stars. They are the most beautiful color I have ever seen.

He’d known about it then, and even in their argument that morning he’d attempted to assume his identity.

You presume I’m not your true love?

He wasn’t. He had known the phrase because he’d plucked it from her mind. Tamlin had known without magic, though Tamlin had also arrived empty handed, where Rhysand had brought a necklace laden with blue gemstones, just as her true love had promised.

Feyre’s head spun. What on earth was she thinking? She had met her true love just last night and he had been utterly distraught at their circumstances. Why would Rhysand have reacted that way? He’d gotten what he wanted.

It was evident by the curve of his mouth as he caught a stray strand of her hair and twirled it around his finger, whispering, “Perhaps if you get tired of longing for your true love, you can learn to love your husband instead.”

And there—confirmation from the liar himself. His violet eyes flickered to the flower in her hair and Feyre resisted the urge to pull out its stem and throw it to the ground.

A stolen aster for a stolen bride.

“Let’s get in the carriage,” she said, mood now soured despite the lovely time she’d had at the market.

Rhsyand sighed, clearing sensing the shift. He led her away regardless, the two of them dodging shouting vendors and aimless shoppers.

Molten chocolate—two for a copper.

Come see the spectacular Koschei juggle six daggers!

Newlyweds, having trouble sleeping? I can brew a special potion—

—break any spell or bargain.

Feyre grinded to a halt, cocking her head towards the hunched man sitting at an empty table. There were no trinkets, or any signs, but he grinned when he saw Feyre. A serpent's smile.

“Bound by bargain or law?” He asked. “I can only assist with one.”

“You can break a bargain?” Feyre asked.

They were just on the outskirts of the market, within seeing distance of the carriage. Rhysand pulled at her arm, urging. “You can’t. He’s trying to swindle you.”

“An interesting accusation, given you have just lied, and I have yet to make a single promise—false or otherwise.” The man’s beady eyes turned to Feyre. He crooned, “Yes, madam. Bargains can be broken. But doing so requires powerful magic.”

“Feyre,” Rhsyand said. Not a warning, but a plea.

“What kind of magic?”

The man leaned forward, eyes sparkling in a way that caused the hairs on her arms to stand on edge. He turned his head like an owl, before licking his lips and answering, “That will depend on the bargain in question. A small debt is more easily broken. How has this man bound you?”

Feyre glanced over her shoulder at Rhysand, studying the way he held himself still. He was staring at her, not the man, his expression so guarded she couldn’t say if it was anger or fear that held the tension in his back.

She held his gaze as she answered the man, “an eternity of obedience.”

The vendor laughed, an awful wheezing sound that stretched long enough to transcend into mockery. “What a foolish thing to promise.”

Her cheeks burned. Rhsyand touched her arm like he was intending to comfort her, but his jaw was clenched tight, and the anger burning his eyes was far from consoling.

Feyre forced her pride to heel, turning herself to the man still laughing at her expense.

“Can it be broken?”

“Not by any spell I can offer you.”

“But it can be broken?”

The man gazed over her shoulder, at Rhysand, and smirked. “Yes.”

It was clear he wasn’t going to provide any more information. Not for free, and clearly nothing that he believed would be helpful to her. Feyre huffed, pulling her arm out of Rhysand’s grasp to shuffle the rest of the way to the carriage. She would have stomped, if she wasn’t afraid of slipping on the ice. Rhysand trailed after her, maintaining the quiet in what she suspected was his own ire—but was it directed at her, or the shopkeeper?

He opened the carriage door for her, regardless, and she climbed in without looking at him, arms crossed over her chest. Rhysand said something to the footman before stepping in across from her, and the carriage jolted forward. Onwards to the North, once again.

She could feel him staring. But Feyre was still sifting through all her thoughts, trying to reconcile these different, confusing fractals of her husband. A liar and a thief and a prince who was gentle and cruel and manipulative and devoted. Which pieces were real? They couldn’t all be, could they?

“Feyre—“

“Do you know how to break the bargain?”

Rhysand slumped forward, running his hands through his thick, frost-dampened hair.

“As one of the five questions—“

“Feyre.”

“—do you know how to break the bargain?”

“You only have two questions left.”

She gritted her teeth. “Answer it.”

“Yes.”

Feyre exhaled, waiting for more. But that was all Rhysand would say. His lips were pressed tight, his brows bunched together.

“Tell me how,” she demanded hotly.

His golden brown skin had been flushed from the cold, but now she watched it drain of color. “That would be another question.”

Feyre shrieked, wanting to throw something at him and, having nothing besides the veritas, she lobbed it at his head.

He caught it between two hands, lips twitching to hide a smile that only kindled more of her rage. “This would be your final question, do you still want me to answer?”

“Tell me every possible way,” she amended, learning her lesson. “I want to know precisely what I must do to break the bargain.”

Rhysand sighed, staring at the veritas like he hoped it might transport him away from the carriage, towards a memory that did not involve angry wives who shouted and threw things in his direction. She quietly felt smug that the veritas could do nothing more than show Rhysand his own dastardly reflection.

“There are two ways,” he said, finally. “The first is to see the bargain through to its terms. Since each of our bargains is a lifelong commitment, I’m afraid you would need to see it through to your death. The second way is to break the bargain’s spell by using a more powerful magic. The only thing more powerful than a lifelong bargain is…”

Rhysand swallowed like he was trying to push down the truth as it rose in his throat, but the magic forced it to his lips, until he practically spat the words: “A kiss from your true love.”

Feyre’s heart sunk into her stomach.

It’s rumored that true love’s kiss is the most powerful magic in existence.

Her true love had said that, hadn’t he? But… he had kissed her last night, and the bargain remained. Did they need to kiss with the intention of breaking the spell? Perhaps it had not worked because they had kissed inside a dream.

“I don’t need to be in your mind to see what you’re thinking,” Rhysand said. “And I’ll remind you that regardless of bargains, you are my wife. No magic will change that.”

Feyre stared out the window, not wanting to let him see how much that thought deflated her. She knew he was right. He had already told her that if she ran, he would stop at nothing to find her again. Knowing the bargain could be broken changed very little, especially if true love’s kiss didn’t work in her dreams.

The silence between them stretched, becoming a heavy, tangible thing. She could hear Rhysand shift, felt his legs—so much longer and more constrained in the small space—bump hers. He was trying to get her to look, and Feyre refused.

Until she saw something shining in the window’s reflection. Then, she turned to find Rhysand cupping the veritas in his large hands. He was looking at her, and she wished she didn’t notice the way his face lit up at her attention. The soft glow of the veritas left two silver disks shining around his pupils, and the contrast with the violet made his eyes look impossibly wider, more childlike than she’d ever seen him, but still filled with mischief.

“Can I show you something?”

Feyre hesitated. He was leaning toward her conspiratorially, and the smile he wore offered no hint of the man who had warned her, just a mere moment ago, that she was to be his reluctant bride for life. Was this his attempt at smoothing things over?

He leaned his broad shoulders forward to extend the orb into the space between them. It was humming—no, roaring. Feyre jumped as a spray of white mist burst out of its surface, crashing over her.

“It won’t hurt you,” he said, gently. “It’s just a memory.”

Indeed, the mist was intangible and brushed straight through her, then retreated, folding back into a pool of rock and water just beneath the vantage point. Then, a dark wave rose in the distance, curling at the top before it, too, crashed against the rocks, its momentum more violent, causing the white-tipped water to shoot towards the sky.

Feyre reached out a hand, trying to feel it. “What is this?”

She recognized the soft call of birds, nearly drowned out by the sound of the powerful push and pull of water. She could guess what it was.

“The ocean,” Rhys said, his eyes shining.

“It’s…” she frowned. “It seems so dangerous.”

And it was louder than she imagined.

“It can be,” he murmured. “But it can be gentle, too.”

The vision shifted, and Feyre could see a smooth, beige beach where foamy water rushed to the shore like a playful lover, clinging to the blushing sand, reluctant to return to the sea, but always rushing back. She could see the low light of sundown, reflected not just against the water, but on the wet, polished sand, gilding everything in sight in bright orange and gold. And if she shut her eyes, she swore she could feel a warm breeze tangling in her hair.

“It can be warm in the North,” he said. “I used to take my little sister to the beach in the summers. The water stays cool, even with the sun shining against it all day long.”

Feyre studied the surface of the glistening water, awed and fascinated that something so majestic could truly be real. “What’s it like?” she whispered. “Swimming in the ocean?”

“It’s wonderful,” Rhysand said.

And then the image rippled, like they’d dived beneath the surface. The sound of the lapping tide immediately muted, replaced with the soft, lulling sound of bubbling air, rushing to the shining surface above. But below… Below was deep, beautiful blue water, crowded with schools of colorful fish and the most curious rocks Feyre had ever seen. She hadn’t known there were plants that could live underwater, but she could see their long vines swaying leisurely to-and-fro as striped fish darted by. The backs of her eyes stung. Feyre raised a hand to cover her mouth, uncertain why she was crying, just—that it was so beautiful. So tranquil and vibrant, flush with a diversity of life that Feyre had never even imagined, could never fully describe, it was so outside of her exposure to the world.

“I’ll take you there,” Rhysand promised softly. He offered her one of those rare, sweet smiles. Devoid of any mockery or pride. He said, “You’d need to let me teach you how to swim, first.”

Feyre fought a sob, but it came anyway, bursting out at her first attempt at speaking when she asked, “Is it hard?”

“No,” he soothed. “You’ll love it.”

Bashful, Feyre sniffed and brushed away her tears. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying.”

Rhysand shifted the orb to one hand so he could reach forward to cup her face, chasing away the tears he could reach with his thumb. “There is a great, beautiful world that has been waiting for you, Feyre, and I intend to show you all of it.”

She should have pulled away. She was angry at him, wasn’t she? Feyre grabbed his wrist and instead of pushing, she tugged him across the carriage until he was seated beside her.

“Show me more,” she said. “Show me the North.”

He made a quiet noise, something she interpreted as compliance though it sounded more as though he’d been punched in the stomach. But when Feyre turned her head to gauge his expression, he was wearing his usual sideways smile, nothing more than pleased she’d taken an interest in his kingdom.

Feyre nearly asked for him to forget it, not wanting to offer him the satisfaction, before the image changed again and she could see a city nestled between ocean and mountain and sprawling river. They flew past boats and piers, past homes and streets and theaters. Past a colorful plaza teaming with stalls and restaurants and artwork. People wandered about, happy and thoughtful, kind and welcoming, and they waved to the memory’s observer—to Rhysand, their Prince. Waved, not bowed.

“This is Velaris,” Rhysand said. A note of warmth in his voice, one that wasn’t entirely foreign. “This is the heart of the North, the city that you will call home.”

Moment after moment, images of marketplaces and townhomes and the glistening river that ran through it all. And though Feyre could not explain how, she could have sworn there was love in the images. She did not understand how the veritas conveyed it, but the colors, the light… They were rooted in something deeper, something linked to Rhysand and his memories.

“It’s beautiful,” she admitted, still waiting for the sight of the castle and walls that would contain her.

But they never came. Instead he showed her a townhouse and a palace carved into a mountain and he walked her through each section of the city, and she realized, with every passing citizen who greeted him by name, that the walls wouldn’t come. Her eyes began to sting again. And even though she fought the tears, Rhysand must have noticed, because he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and she didn’t stop him. He was warm, and he smelled like she imagined the ocean might. Salt and danger and freedom.

“Do you want me to keep going?” He asked.

She would never admit it, but she tilted her head to move closer, so she could let his scent soothe and steady her. When she nodded, Rhysand swept his cape over her shoulder, settling into a position they both knew they would stay in for the indefinite remainder of the carriage ride. Her head fell against his shoulder, and she could feel the quiet exhale of his breath at her temple. She could hear his pulse, and she nearly joked that she was surprised he had one at all. But somehow, through the combination of his warmth and his scent and that ever-beating metronome, Feyre drifted to sleep in her husband’s arms, while his memories of their kingdom continued playing.

-

She woke to darkness.

Feyre sat up in bed, waiting for the sound of strolling footsteps.

They didn’t come, and slowly she pushed through the disorienting haze of sleep to realize a hearth was crackling in the corner of the room, and she could still see its light.

She wasn’t dreaming, then.

The lighting was dim, but slowly her eyes adjusted until she could make out the details of the inn’s bedroom. She didn’t remember leaving the carriage, which surely meant her husband must have carried her in. Thankfully, she was still wearing the elegant navy dress she had put on that morning.

Slipping quietly out of bed, Feyre measured each footstep against the old wooden floorboards, unaware if Rhysand was a light or heavy sleeper. He again had chosen to occupy an armchair in front of the hearth.

Feyre reminded herself, sternly, that it was not charming he’d decided not to share a bed with her when she was not awake to protest otherwise. But… it’s what other men would have done. He was a prince, and it was the second night in a row he’d claimed the armchair without complaint, without her asking. It was a little charming.

It was the least she could do not to wake him up now as she searched for a nightgown. He’d placed their trunks in the window bay across the room, and Feyre was able to easily find a silken negligee at the top of the folded clothes—short and delicate and pink and certainly not one that she had packed for herself. With a sigh, Feyre threw the fabric aside and began digging for something more suitable. She pushed past the heavy cloaks and dresses, searching for the unmistakable feeling of silk.

While she searched, her hand brushed against something thin and solid, which made a crinkling sound beneath her fingers. Parchment. She froze, head swiveling over her shoulder to see if Rhysand had overheard, but he remained still. Holding her breath, Feyre carefully pulled the parchment from beneath the heavy piles of clothes—buried so deep he had clearly been trying to hide it.

Thinking perhaps she had finally unburied one of his secrets, Feyre eagerly held the paper to the moonlight. The moonlight, which was always honest with her. It was hard to read the black ink in the dim lighting, but as Feyre pulled the crumpled parchment close to her face, she immediately recognized her own handwriting.

My dear rake,

At first, her mind couldn’t truly make sense of what she was reading. Had he found the letters she had kept from her true love? But—no. This letter hadn’t received a reply.

Perhaps this will be the last letter I ever send you.

Feyre dropped the parchment back into the trunk, trying to make sense of this. Had he… had he been intercepting their letters? Is that how he’d known about the identifying phrase, and the gift, and—and when to intercept her, before she made it to the Archeron gate? Had any letter ever reached her true love? Did her true love exist at all? Or was he… was he…

She scrambled to rearrange the trunk to its original state, burying the letter and her fears beneath the heavy piles of cloth. With shaking hands, she tore at the eyelets on her back, leaving her bodice and skirts as a heap on the floor before shrugging into the indecent nightgown.

Rhysand stirred as she walked past, but he didn’t wake. Which was just as well, because Feyre had no intention of letting him see her in the nightgown—ever. She crawled back into the large bed, still reeling at what she had discovered. At what it could mean.

Feyre only knew one thing for certain: she needed to trap a butterfly.

[tc-doherty]

The Hildspel of Athelhyrst | Chapter One

I don't know what else I would do with this if not share it here, so here is Chapter 1, the culmination of an entire year's worth of work!

I don't know how easy it will be to read both because, well, it's a language that doesn't exist and also because I can't exactly do footnotes. But you're more than welcome to try! I did put notes for things that may not have needed them because some of them are still words we have but either we use them very rarely or use them in a different way than they would have been. And some things were executive decisions or me explaining world building I can't get to yet. I figured it was better safe than sorry.

I'm genuinely very proud of not only the fact that I wrote this whole chapter, but of some of the sentences in particular. I think it still manages to have a little flair! Also before you say "but isn't this familiar…" yes, it is sort of me filing the serial numbers off of my Binding Blade fanfiction. But only kind of. I am going to be taking the plot and story in a very different direction, because in the end my fanfiction didn't really resemble the original plot that much anymore anyway.

Edit: I'm in the process of updating this to have a glossary instead so my notes will be disappearing. I will link the glossary below.

Tagging the people I know or think are interested, even if you just want to look at it.

@almedha @thegoddesswater @emilyoracle @magefaery @outpost51 @sam-glade @did-i-do-this-write

2,226 words.

Anglish Wordbook

Cynefrith stood next to her father, gazing out over the heathfield. Under the bright sun she could wellsee the witherwin heer, their swords gleaming with witting evil. The sight chilled her, although she knew that to them, her own shire's heer must look the same.

"Why would they set here?" She asked him.

The witherwin's motherland, Hyllworth Rich, was all highlands - full of barrows and firrows. Their heer fought afoot, horses not being behooveful in such a land, and so a flat lowland field was far from a wise kir. A gouth like this could only be won with fullbore work and hardship. Cynefrith may be young and seldom acosted, but she knew that their king was said to be cunning, and this was not.

Lord Wulfric, frea of Lindingham and highfrea of all the Weared Shires, laughed. "My beloved daughter," he said, "they know we would never bestir our heer to meet a foe cowering amongst the barrows of their motherland."

"But-"

He held up a hand to forestall her. "Yet just as true, such mistrust is the burden of a highfrea. Sunngifu!"

At his call, a harwickner hied to his side from a gathering of ferdmen standing afar. Sunngifu was a tall woman of middling years, a stern demeanor, and seldom seen skill with spear and bow. She dropped to one knee in front of them. "Yea, my lord?"

Lord Wulfric kept looking at the field in front of them. "This land should have been well sifted, is this true?"

"Down to every blade of grass, my lord. High harwickne Osgar saw to it."

"And is aught amiss?"

"Nothing, 'tis but a field."

"Mayhaps King Lanzo is not so clever as he thinks. That is as it is with most men." He ruffled Cynefrith's hair, as he had been wont to do all her life. "Still my lass, keep your wit about you. Lo! Sunngifu, I entrust you, also, to keep my daughter hearty and hale."

“As you say, my lord.”

"Father!" Cynefrith said. "Don't bid such a needless thing! Who will wield Sunngifu's horse?"

It was needless indeed to her. Sunngifu belonged where all of the harwickners belonged - on the heathfield. Cynefrith on the other hand was a dry, and her stead was to be afar, helping the ferdmen with her drycraft. There was little plee to her life, nor was she so frough as to need unyielding warding. To bangle away Sunngifu's time with such a behest was truly hyeless.

But in this she and her father were unthwear.

"As erfward to the highseld of highfrea, you are always a worthwhile target. Any ferdman would be happy to put a witherwin harfrea to the sword. Never forget this. And your anlet, my daughter, is well known to them."

Indeed she could not withsake this soothquid. More than being Lady of Lindingham, more than being the next highfrea of the Weared Shires, she was known because of her mother. The wedlock of a frea to a sellsword would alone be tidings. But that sellsword also happened to be from the eastern eltheed of Skulata. Cynefrith shared some of her mother's outlander looks, being smaller of build and lighter of skin and hair than oftseen. Yea, she was known everywhere. Anyone who saw a girl of Skulatan look outfitted in high Lindingham godweb would know it was her.

Sunngifu broke in. "My underwickner will stand-in to wield my horse for me. There is no hitch in this."

"Yea, I understand."

Wulfric laughed again. "My clever daughter! But look there, they begin to stir. It is time for me to speak to the men." He strode away back to the main body of the heer, leaving Cynefrith and Sunngifu alone.

Lord Wulfric spoke to his men from atop his horse, cutting a truly helethish ansen outfitted as he was in thick gouthhedden fratowed with markings in hues of dark hewn and whelkred, bright iron cloth peeking from beneath, a hackle slung about his shoulders, his great poleaxe at his side.

She did not stop to listen to his speech but went to stand with the other dry who stood aside from the main body of the heer. Drycraft needed clear sightlines, it would not do for them to be fanged by the dwolm of a gouth in full swing. Sunngifu followed after her.

She would not be the only ward standing by the dry that day, indeed not, for dry were often main targets. Why not, when they fought so well from afar, full farlen of even the strongest, swiftest arrows. Some dry were also arade in healcraft and could undo even the most dreadful of heathglembs.

She was not one of them. Indeed, how could she be? Cynefrith was the child of gouthrink on both sides of her blood. Her drycraft was never that of frith, but that of the dwolm of the heathfield.

There were not many dry, only some few handfuls. Many of them were known to her, if only by anlet. She nipped her head to them the barest whit – she was, after all, the daughter of a frea. Those who saw byed in anqueath.

Cynefrith watched her father and looked over the heer. It was not small. She knew that over half the heer of the Weared Shires came from Lindingham alone. Lord Wulfric wielded five high harwickners, each of whom wielded three harwickners.

She misliked it, this happening. She asked of Sunngifu, "King Lanzo's heer was sifted, yea?"

"Yea, my lady."

"How many men does he wield?"

"To my knowledge, nigh on twelve thousand."

Twelve thousand, to abide a witherwin of nigh on fifteen thousand. Cynefrith misliked it. King Lanzo was wise, and sarecrafty, of this he was namecouth. But his deeds now were hyeless. To strike a bigger heer, on land they well knew, in weather which could only give them the upperhand? It must have shown on her anlet, because Sunngifu spoke.

"Lord Wulfric is oft accosted on the heathfield."

"Of this I am aware. But to my kin, overmood is no comeling. It fells great men and lackwits alike. Indeed, more of the latter, as all men are lackwits under its yoke."

"Shall you speak to your father again?"

Her hands clenched the woof of her rooc, rimpling it, but she shook her head. "Much may it misqueme me, I have spoken and he has not heeded. To do more is not yet my bailiwick."

Her father had stopped speaking, and now shied his horse to stand forward from his men. She could see him watching the foe, seemingly at eath. He was hewed in fire and iron, the winner of a thousand heathfields alike to this one.

Overmood, Cynefrith thought to herself sourly. She could not wile the days to come, nor could anyone. But there was a trap here, she knew it. Something was wrong, and there was nothing that she could do about it.

The lift wended then, in the way it does before a storm breaks. It was neither leven nor thunder but the long, low call of a horn. Both heer bestirred, alike nothing so much as two great wilders from the folktales, roaring to seethe their alderdom.

It was not her father who stirred first, but when the men of Hyllworth overflowed from their barrows thwarst the plain like so many ants, his own horn sang out sweet the call to take up weaponing.

The horses' great hooves shook the ground as they raced forward, making Cynefrith's heart bever in her chest. She did her best not to heed, her craft needed as much mindfulness as that of any swordsman, mayhap more. A swordsman may see his weapon as a stitch of himself, and wield it as such. A dry could call upon all the might of the earth and sky, but it was ever itself - its true hearsomeness never was to man.

Of all the world's many showings, leven most eathfully came to her hand, and it was this she now called. On a day with a hoder sky, leven seemed made wholly for this end.

It came willingly this day, prancing about her in the wary wise of all half-tame wild things – throwing off sparks from her hands as it did so. It would not bide long, nor would she ask it to.

She set her sights on a seemingly worthwhile man – one with a loth of bright goldbloom about his shoulders, a great sword at his hip, and a rooc of iron cloth. The leven saw him too and flew to his side, sword and iron cloth both made an outstanding roost for it to land upon.

She could not hear him scream, but she saw him jerk and fall, bringing about a fit of groor in his horse. That would spread, as would the leven – leaping from copper to iron to brass, anything that would hold it. It may hit fere as well as foe were they near, but such was a plee of drycraft. At least she could say leven did not outlast its welcome as did some. Leven would soon tire of this game she set and flee, unlike hungry fire, who could always find more to eat.

She went to her wicken with a willing heart, but it was not long before she once again felt something was amiss.

On the heathfield beneath her the heers were stirring – both wending towards the barrows afar. As they did, her father and his men drew further and further from their starting set – far enough that her drycraft could no longer reach.

When first her spell did not land, she felt a hard lump of dread make in her a home, though she could not give steven to why. But then she heard once more the mournful call of a horn which seemed to her a roop from death itself, so unalike was it to the horns up until that brightomwhile.

At first nothing happened.

But then, from behind those sharp fangs of the earth they rose – drakes in sere score, with riders weaponed for gouth.

"Nay!" She did not underyet her reard until it throughwent her lips, but she knew – lo, how well she knew – that her father's heer was not reacon of withstanding drakes.

How had Hyllworth Rich gotten them? They did not live there, they were from – as her mother had been – far eastern Skulata.

In truth it did not dow. The drakes were here, and making for her father and his heer at speed.

"My lady." It was Sunngifu, who grabbed her arm and fanded for her to heed.

Cynefrith shook her off.

"We must leave."

"I cannot! My father-" Cynefrith took a few steps and fanded to raise a strong wind. Wind did not care for her ofttimes, but to-day it came, to no freem. They were too far. They were too far, and she was not strong enough. Was she or was she not the daughter of Lord Wulfric, of the namecouth sellsword Arite? Was she or was she not the afterbear of a hundred or more gouthrink?

She fanded anew, to the same outcome.

"My lady," Sunngifu said again. Her reard was frithful, but her grip was not as she hent once again Cynefrith's arm and began to pull her away.

"I cannot, I beseech you, let go!"

Sunngifu was stronger by far, and drycraft was not behooveful so near lest she wish to hit also herself. Cynefrith had naught but her words – which fell on deaf ears.

"Your father may yet live, but you cannot fall here, my lady. It was his behest of me. We must eftcome to Lindingham Borough."

Arrows and spells flew and the drakes swooped low as Sunngifu both pulled and shoved Cynefrith to where their horses stood.

"Unhand me at once!" Cynefrith yelled as Sunngifu lifted her into the saddle.

"Nay, my lady. For now I still must follow your father's hests."

She swung with eath into the saddle and, upon grabbing the leads of both horses, gave hers a mighty kick which sent them both leaping away in the bearing of home.

Cynefrith could only watch as the drakes – now quickly growing small – began to land.

[ramayantika]

~ The one deceived

»»————> ◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐<————««

O lovers, enchanters of your sweet maidens, must you keep in mind to never displease the queen of your hearts.

'She who adorns herself in fine silks and jewels, awaits you at night hiding from the entire town in the heart of the forest where fierce beasts lay, she must never be kept await for long and certainly must not be left alone if ever your eyes droop for a night. Who knows someone else might snatch the beauty away?

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐣𝐞𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫

With dark eyes not blue lotus

she fashions a welcome garland.

Petals she strews—

not various species of jasmine

but smiles.

Water she offers from ripe

moistened breasts

rather than ceremonial jars.

With only her own body

she makes for her

lover an

auspicious welcome.

~ Erotic Love Poems from India

A tightly knotted braid pinned by jewelled pins moves like a serpent by her waist. She carefully arranges flowers in her hair, just the way he likes. She spent months apart from him, and now is the time to bring long lost romance back into their lives -- of sweet nothings, stolen kisses, teasing words and the bliss of just being around your lover.

The morning was spent in perfuming the hair and the body. His favourite scent: the rain perfused soil. It always enchanted him when she passed by the busy market place in front of him. She usually preferred a light scent of roses, but today she has to make him heady as soon as he catches a whiff of air around him.

A necklace decked with moonstones sits on her making her look dazzling. Her wrists are adorned with glass bangles, and a shy smile teases her lips when her friends tease her on the various ways glass bangles can be broken tonight.

"Quiet. You must not speak like this. He's a gentle lover," she admonishes them with a stern look that soon melts into a beautiful blush and her friends once again start teasing her.

"You look perfect now. If you decorate yourself anymore, your dazzling form shall blind him as soon as he enters the house," says a friend, dabbing a kohl dot behind the jewelled maiden's ear to ward off the evil eye.

»»——⍟——«« ♧♧ »»——⍟——««

The letter in betel leaves 🥀

Handmaiden bears a large plate on her tender hands.

Soft silks from lands far and wide,

jewels crafted in nothing but perfection,

perfume extracted from only exotic flowers and oils,

But what pleases the bejewelled beauty?

A silver box revealing a richly stuffed Kaushal paan.

'In separation I have burned for several moons, and my heart wailed in agony. Where do I carry this ocean of love when you are the shore that binds me to you? Oh, my dearest, my lovely moon, it is you I desire. Come meet my by the riverside near the sweet-smelling jasmine bower.'

.・。.・゜✭・»»——⍟——««.・✫・゜・。.

झांझर झमके सुन झमके आधी रात को

उसको तोको न रोको तोको न रोको

आधी रात को।

𝐎𝐡, 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐬.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭,

𝐌𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐡𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬,

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈 𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭.

𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞,

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬...

'We sipped on moon-gleam at midnight.

And the moon rose in our eyes, at midnight.'

-- Delicate as the moonstone, bangle laden wrists

alert the love god who stands ever ready with love arrows.

She traverses down the narrow forest path,

Her feet leave behind fresh red footprints on earth,

And jingling anklets make the serpents steer off her way.

-- The jasmine bower fresh and fragrant as ever,

Fireflies adorn the bushes like earthen lamps in a house's courtyard.

The moon unveiled shines on the resplendent maiden

And like the chakora, she fills her eyes with the moonbeams,

In each, a vision of the man prisoned in heart.

-- The forest grows still.

Doe eyes search for him in every corner of the forest.

Is he playing games today? Must I walk and search for him now?

The love god too has dozed off, his bow and arrows discarded beside.

The garland around her neck now frail,

Tiny buds fall down and mingle with the earth...

»»————>○○○○○○○○○○○○<————««

And, rasikas, here we behold a man who did not keep his promise. Sends the extravagant betel leaf and promises of giving a beautiful night, but gives in to the sweet embrace of slumber while the beauty awaits in the forest, her once radiant face now pale in fear and annoyance.

Oh, the pain of shattered dreams filled of love, sweet words, passionate touches and long nights. How can one scorn a woman this way after long nights of loneliness?

Chuckle in mirth my friends, for the man dreams of kissing her lips in his sleep. Who shall tell him about his lover's wrath at dawn break tomorrow?

*******

Breathing hard into the lotus calyx

Annoyed at his care less actions,

She wipes an angry tear from her soft cheek.

Tosses away the wretched droopy garland,

Flings the silver anklet far across the room.

Red lips that should have been kissed curse the sun.

Arms that should have been curled around his neck

Lay bare bereft of bangles on the silken sheets.

Her bosom that should have carried drops of perspiration from a sweet night of love

That should have been kissed tenderly, Adorned with a chain of bites

Now heave in anger, wanting a respite.

The love god scoffs at the man yet deep in sleep

Who makes love the scorned woman in waking.

The love goddess pitifully caresses the heart broken girl,

And winces when the moon-like beauty sends

A silver box encasing an empty betel leaf and a lone anklet

»»——⍟——««

Tags: @ratna-the-furball @swayamev @inexhaustible-sources-of-magic @pulihora @arachneofthoughts @krishna-priyatama @yehsahihai @reallythoughtfulwizard @ketchup-jar-ka @manujanolavu @morally-gayy @celestesinsight @desi-cleopatra

I used a lot of references from kamasutra for this and probably this is one of my in a way most explicit lol

[axilog14]

(Generation Girl Barbie) Dance Party Lara

Been taking some childhood toys out of storage, and I dug out my old Generation Girl Lara doll!

My sister and I had several other dolls from this line (Barbie, Tori and Mari) but unfortunately Lara was the only one I managed to hold on to over the years.

I need to figure out how to fix the bangs eventually. A bit annoyed her choker and hair beads are sewn on.

Standard snap knees. Managed to hold on to Lara's original bangles, though the elastic on the bead bracelet is old and worn out. (Also, the skirt print is really pretty.)

Lara's stand and accessories. I lost the original paint pot and rubber band that came with the sketchbook.

My favorite pieces are probably the little candles and trinket box.

The little magazine that came with the Dance Party dolls. Would've liked taking photos of the pages, but the glue binding is starting to give.

Bonus: the Barbie chocolate tin I kept the accessories in for years.

[kiigan]

❝Life is just like the flowing of a river.❞

⇾ final fantasy VII verse ⇾ tag: land of the free; and blood splatters for applause ⇾ status: cross-over; open to interactions

Based on the original ff7 + Crisis Core + the Remake trilogy.

The Uchiha clan is one of the proudest and most respected of Wutai. Their most defining characteristic, the sharingan, is a form of ninjutsu dating from an ancient bloodline and said to have been a gift from Leviathan as reward for their devotion and worship. Among other duties, the clan is responsible for keeping the flames in certain caves lodged in the mountain where the statue of Da-chao was later carved, for the sake of safely storing Wutai's prized items and treasure.

As per a long-standing tradition, the clan head serves as personal guard to the nation's ruler. With Fugaku, therefore, appointed as guard to Godo, Itachi and Sasuke spent their childhood as close friends to Yuffie. From a very young age, Itachi showed great skill in the ninja arts, both in combat and espionage, and eventually joined the Crescent Unit, being assigned the codename Rubrum.

During the period of the Wutai war, Itachi made a name for himself in a similar fashion to Sephiroth, only on the opposite side of the conflict. Around this time, he met and developed a friendship with Sonon, although sadly was just as helpless to prevent Melphie's death. During the battle of Fort Tamblin, Itachi also had the opportunity to briefly exchange words and ideas with Zack, growing to respect his personality and kindness despite crossing paths as enemies.

With the war lost and Fugaku, Mikoto, and Shisui killed in action, Itachi and Sasuke were taken under Godo's personal care. To prove himself worthy despite his still young age, Itachi challenged and successfully overcame the trials of the Pagoda of the Five Mighty Gods - being then allowed to take Fugaku's former position as Godo's guard and also being entrusted with the Leviathan materia.

Whereas not completely in accordance with Godo's newly found passivity and the gradual transformation of Wutai into a tourist resort, Itachi remained loyal in his service for a few years. With Yuffie and Sonon eventually leaving for Midgar to join forces with Avalanche, however, Itachi decided to ask Godo for permission to leave as well - not necessarily for the sake of revenge, even though he does plan on bringing the Shinra Electric Power Company to justice, but to try and find a peaceful resolution for the long-standing tension between Wutai and Midgar.

⇾ Abilities

Shared with Yuffie: elemental ninjutsu, brumal form, doppelgänger

Unique abilities: Amaterasu (single casting of a black-colored, unblockable equivalent of a firaja spell), Tsukuyomi (single casting of a status-altering form of ninjutsu that inflicts confusion, berserk, sleep, poison, darkness, and silence), Susanoo (single casting of a defensive form of ninjutsu that makes the party impervious to both physical and magic attacks for a limited period of time)

⇾ Equipment and Materia

Weapon: katana; fire + magnify, revival, cleansing, chakra

Armor: chain bangle; binding + warding, enemy skill + mime

Enemy skills: magic hammer, death force, trine

Summon materia: Leviathan

Accessory: aureate pinion

⇾ Random little bits

Big fan of Da-chao beans, chocobos, moogles, and tonberries.

Definitely spends a lot of his free time hanging out in the cat house.

Collects Turtle Paradise/Happy Turtle flyers for fun.

The one time he borrowed Yuffie's Steal materia, he actually grabbed an adaman bangle from an Adamantaimai on first try.

Codename Rubrum, unsurprisingly, comes from his sharingan.

The voice of reason whenever Shisui, Sasuke, and Yuffie would gather together to suggest adventures. Imagine that level of chaos.

Before leaving Wutai, Yuffie offered him a moogle cloak just like her own, which Itachi is actually very fond of.

When once exploring the nearby islands with Shisui, they chanced to find an ancient orb of Mime materia, which the two then would share and take turns at using in battle.

Very interested in the study of Planetology and, if possible, would love to visit Cosmo Canyon one day.

Even though he specializes in wielding his katana, he's also very talented with shuriken and staves.

Will demolish you at both Fort Condor and Queen's Blood

Once stared a Malboro in the eye and the Malboro actually felt intimidated and fled the battle.

Chadley, I love you but Leviathan belongs to Wutai, thank you.

[ethepearl]

Julius The Dressmaker & Killian Lynch Redesigns

(Not my character; og creator is @sanityisforlosers | Killian’s outfit redesign by my frien (thanks baddie))

[Btw; the body & profiles are technically traced? If u wanna see the speed paints i will provide them, so u can understand what i mean💀]

Julius’ Physical Changes;

~He now has a two toned purple dress with a brown chained corset and belt (Dress; he makes dresses so like why not wear them? Corset; It’s iconic, he need it expeditiously. Chains; Represent the original chains that bind him to hell </3.)

~Short brown booties😩 (Why?; Cause I said so. Chains; still represent the chains binding him to hell.)

~Golden bangle with engraved heart (i changed the bracelet cause I felt like the original beaded bracelet was ugly, sorry Sanity 💀)

~Piercings; lobe, vertical eyebrow. (I thought they looked pretty.)

~DIMPLES😩 (why?; I dont know js felt like it)

~Bigger lips (Dawg, his original lips looked like he couldn’t even the gulp gulp 3000, again sorry Sanity💀)

~More of an arched nose (Its pretty, that’s the only reason 😻😻)

~Darker skin (It was a mistake but he looks way better with darker skin than white rice skin color)

~in this redesign he gets shot in the cheek and his temple (Lets be so fr rn, your not gonna die from a shot in the cheek💀)

~Not physical but no more necrophila😻😻 that’s fucking disgusting man

Killian’s Physical Changes;

~Fishnet undershirt, Maroon long sleeved shirt, Brown corset with gold details, Dark gray baggy pants, Brown boots with gold details. (I didn’t make the outfit, friend tagged at beginning did 😩. But the corset has the design of his vest)

~Piercings; Industrial, Gauges, Dimples, Labret, Nostril (Cause I said so😩)

~Accurate stitching in his neck (I think it’s accurate at least?)

~Skin gets cooler and lighter in true form (it makes sense since he’s dead)

~Bigger lips (Dawg, his original lips looked like he gets no pussy, again sorry Sanity💀)

~W33D😩 (Necessary)

~Again not physical but no more rapie rapie, necrophilia, and misogyny (Yes he’s still an incubus, but a consensual incubus 😻)

[fritextramole]

under the scrutiny of their persistent gaze

part 2 of a Vanessa Abrams playlist - best heard in order

tracklist and quotes under the cut

Mr. Big Stuff ~ Jean Knight

Now because you wear all those fancy clothes And have a big fine car, oh yes, you do now Do you think I can afford to give you my love You think you're higher than every star above

When I Come Around ~ Green Day

Well, don't get lonely now, and dry your whining eyes I'm just roaming for the moment Sleazin' my back yard so don't get So uptight you been thinking about ditching me No time to search the world around 'Cause you know where I'll be found

Wasn’t Tomorrow Wonderful? ~ The Waitresses

Nice things, nice things Oh oh oh, so many nice things Don't mean nothing, if they're dumping Things that sting on you! Don't take that, honey!

Body Language ~ Helena Deland

Fool to think I'd leave with all I need to know and free to go All I need to know and free to go At last Who do you want to be?

I Second That Emotion ~ Smokey Robinson & The Miracles

And maybe you'll go away and never call And a taste of honey is worse that none at all

Untouchable Face ~ Ani DiFranco

I could make you happy, you know If you weren't already I could do a lot of things And I do

Love Like You And Me ~ Gary Glitter

There's a place for you and me Love can come so easily I'll reach out and take your hand Believe in me, you'll understand

I Believe in a Thing Called Love ~ The Darkness

I believe in a thing called love Just listen to the rhythm of my heart There's a chance we could make it now

Girls Go Wild ~ LP

It's all in the name of the Wild Wild West I really love you You know I really do Whatever happens, I hope you're happy too

Wild Ride ~ MOTHXR

The night was always long I see it We're aching from the fall

Sunlight ~ Hozier

I would shun the light, share in evening's cool and quiet Who would trade that hum of night For sunlight, sunlight, sunlight?

Got to Be Real ~ Cheryl Lynn

You know that your love is my love My love is your love Our love is here to stay

You’ve Got to Go Down and Join the Union ~ Pete Seeger, The Song Swappers

Well though the road be rough and rocky And the hills be steep and high We will sing as we go marching

Santa Monica ~ Everclear

We could live beside the ocean Leave the fire behind Swim out past the breakers Watch the world die

Complicated ~ Olivia O’Brien

Take off all your preppy clothes You know, you're not foolin' Anyone when you become Somebody else 'round everyone else

Say It Again ~ Matt Berry

I'm feeling ashamed but I don't know why Like I've seen myself from a recent life The weather feels hot for this time of year Though suddenly seems so cold

The Trial ~ Dead Can Dance

I stand accused of a thousand and one crimes A witness to events that led to this present time These traditions which bind our hands and keep us tied Will never survive the greatest test of time

High and Dry ~ Radiohead

The best thing you've had has gone away

Changes ~ David Bowie

And these children that you spit on As they try to change their worlds Are immune to your consultations They're quite aware of what they're going through

I Don’t Want Your Millions, Mister (All I Want) ~ The Almanac Singers

I don't want your millions, Mister I don't want your diamond ring

Think ~ Aretha Franklin

Let's go way on to way back when I didn't even know you

Hero Takes a Fall ~ The Bangles

Emotion is a virtue For you it is the one fatal flaw Sitting on your throne and drinking Thinking she'll return your call Every story's got an ending Look out, here it comes, here it comes And I won't feel bad at all When the hero takes a fall

I Can’t Wait ~ The White Stripes

First you said I was blind And it's gonna be different this time I thought you made up your mind

Somebody Told Me ~ The Killers

Ready, let's roll onto somethin' new Takin' its toll then I'm leaving without you

I Caught Myself ~ Paramore

Hypnotic, hypnotic You're leaving me breathless I hate this, I hate this You're not the one I believe in

Get Thee Behind Me, Satan ~ The Almanac Singers

Boss comes up to me with a five-dollar bill Says, “Get you some whiskey, boy, and drink your fill” Get thee behind me, Satan, travel on down the line

I Won’t Back Down ~ Tom Petty

Well I know what's right I got just one life In a world that keeps on pushin' me around

[ramcharantitties]

Chot

Kala Bhairava from magadheera x reader

Req by @yehsahihai

Bhairava breathed in as he pushed the cloth on his wound harder. Why won't it stop bleeding? He bathed and cleaned all his wounds, but that one particular arrow that pierced his metal alloy shield and tore his skin was hard to heal. He could get used to the pain, but the continuos seeping of blood on the yellow cloth made him dizzy.

The war began about a month ago and he was finally home now. Finally in his room, in the palace. He thought about visiting the royal healer, three corridors away from his room, but decided against it. What if it was something minor and he would disturb her as the night has begun setting in? Bhairava shook his head pressing on the wound.

He didn't want to have the adrenaline rush on her sight to intensify his bleeding. If that's how it worked. A small blush and hammering in his chest made it's way as a small smile on his face on the thought of her. The royal healer, y/n.

A guard came in soon, alerting the arrival of the king. Bhairava stood up to greet him.

"Oh Bhairava, you fought so well!" The king announced as soon as he entered the room. "I don't understand what would happen to our soldiers and the kingdom without you, son. I hope you know you can ask anything from me, from this kingdom. You've saved it countless times after all!" Bhairava smiled and nodded.

"I don't want anything majesty, besides, it's my job and honour to be of service for th- ah" before he could finish, the pain from the same wound he had been pressing on his rib ached through. The king was visibly worried. He looked down to see Bhairava bleeding.

"Go to the healer, now." The king ordered.

"It's late, besides, the wound isn't-" "I said now."

_____

"Y/n! Bhairava is coming" your assistant and a close friend, vedika, announced from the door. You sat up from your previous resting position, and started grinding a paste of some healing herbs. To appear busy. Vedika sat near you, reading the rope binded book.

Bhairava slowly peaked inside. You were working, he knew he was troubling you. He cursed mentally and knocked, standing by the door. You knew who it was, yet you carried on your play. Bhairava finally called out your name.

"Y/n?" You turned your head and looked at him, smiling. "How long have you been here?" You stood up and greeted him. "10 minutes" he said and you smiled. "I've been busy" you said and looked down at his wound. Your face expression changed in a split second, pulling him in and on the bed.

You removed the cloth from the wound and hissed at the sight of frozen blood. It looked messy. On closer inspection, you realized that it might have some infection. "Was it an arrow?" You asked a fazed Bhairava, still in pain. "Does it hurt?" He nodded, and you looked up to realize that he has been softly smiling at you the whole time.

The moonlight seeping like his blood tainted your skin silver, and the soft wind blew your loose locks that escaped your bun. Your saree pallu was taken around your shoulder, your glass bangles jingling. He couldn't help but stare at you, but on the other hand, you were sure it was from rising fever of his infection.

"Bhairava, I'm going to make you drink something, okay?" You asked and he nodded, again. You sighed and kept a hand on his forehead and cheek. They were hot, like yours. But for different reason- or maybe same? You gestured vedika to leave the room. She nodded, smiled and left with a bow.

You opened the bottle of a stored pain killer, made from various grasses and herbs. The only downfall of this painkiller was that it makes the patient go in a subconscious state as if drunk. You really weren't ready for confessions Bhairava would make but you cared more about his wellbeing.

He made a disgusted face at how much the painkiller sucked. You were even surprised that despite the medicine and the wound, he was able to hold himself up. "Bhairava?" You wanted to take off the cloth he wore on top for better access to his other wounds as the pain killer made it's work. "Hm?" He opened his half lidded eyes and you swore you fell in love again. "Can we take this off?" You asked him, and he nodded. Again.

The scars and injuries weren't as deep as the one on his chest. You silently applied a paste you made earlier, and he sat there, still staring at you. "Y/n?" He called for you, as you touched his forehead. The fever was the same but maybe the pain was lessening. "I am here" you said, and he nodded again. "You're too quiet" you muttered, ready to heal his wound on chest.

"Its normal to get tounge tied when nervous" you chuckled at his statement. "And why are you nervous?" You asked, opening a drawer and taking out a knife. "I'm always nervous around you" he muttered and you lit up the candle. "Bhairava?" You called his name. "Yes?" He replied, turning to you. "I don't know what you're gonna do with the knife but you look pretty holding it" he said and you gasped at his statement. You weren't expecting this from a drunk Bhairava.

"Well, do you trust me?" You asked, and his eyebrows furrowed. "Did you give me poison?" He asked. You chuckled, taking out a clean cloth. "No, would you drink if I gave you poison?" You walked to where he was seated. "Yeah" he said and you looked at him, gaping. Did he keep all that hidden in his mind?

"Uh, well, I'm gonna do something. It won't hurt that much but I want you to trust me, okay?" You turned his body around as you stood behind him. "You can lean on me if-" he didn't even let you finish, slumping against your chest. His head was leaning on slope of your breast, his shoulders below your chest. You bent down by his shoulder, your face beside his.

When you finally touched the hot knife to his wound, he yelped, digging his body further in yours. Bhairava's hand found your non occupied one and you held it, your thumb soothing back of his hand. It wasn't long when the process was done and you dabbed the mark with the cloth. You turned to look at him when his head leaned forward, attaching his lips to yours.

You were taken by surprise, but nevertheless kissed Bhairava back. The bitter and basic painkiller was evident on his tongue, and you could sense his dizziness in his lazy slopping of lips against yours. You pulled away and he couldn't even keep his eyes open, ready to fall asleep. "Can you stay still for a few minutes?" You asked and he nodded.

You hurried to get bandage and wrapped it around his muscular torso, right before he could fall on bed. You giggled, pulling him in a rather comfortable position, pulling the sheet on him. "Y/n?" You looked at him, expecting him to slur out a thank- "I love you" Bhairava said. You were frozen on spot at his sudden confession. Well, its not gonna be like he will remember this but you got to know his true feelings. "I love you too" you muttered. He smiled in his sleep, drifting away.

--

Tagging- idk who to tag thisnt rrr or other work it's just Ramcharan so tagging my besties @thewinchestergirl1208 @rambheemlove @chaanv @dumdaradumdaradum @aasthuu @infusedchaos @budugu

[deletarius1893]

random OC ask: what would your OC wear on an average day? what would they wear to a special event?

[feel free to include reference images, if you'd like!]

Solus would wear something comfortable, probably baggy yet tapered around the calves and high top crafted toe shoes for something a bit casual. Depending on the weather and environment he'd have something appropriate enough for the occasion. Solus likes to where loose clothing, not much hugging against the skin, but also doesn't restrict proper mobility in case he were to get into a bind.

As for more special events it'd be something more stylish with intricate embroidery, he's still a bit Baldurian in that regard. Nothing too fancy but still eye catching and simple, maybe a rugged but fashionably elegant shoulder robe. The pants would have some design along the sides down the legs, probably more elvish designs, a small inkling to his High Elven heritage, though for him it's more of an appreciation of the style rather than representation. The shoes would have elaborate designs on them as well though slightly worn-out and comfy.

I provided a few images of most the pants I had in mind, more of the shape and design, excluding the obvious modern-day look of them, he'd wear something akin to these as well as a similar more fantasized version of the fourth pic ft. Jason Momoa. I can see Solus wearing a few provisional bangles and necklaces due to his short arc as a barbarian. A little reminder of the friends and bonds he's made at that time before moving into his recent and last Arc as a monk.

The outfit below is more a reference for special occasions, especially the shoulder cloak. This style is more-so the Baldrurian influence I mentioned above, during his beginning arcs as a formidable young teen soldier and gaurdman of the small village he grew up in near Baldur's Gate. The pants a little less baggy than his more comfortable attire.

That's about it on that for now, I'm actually writing more about him both as I answer these and his origins. Thank you for askin' more about em.☺️💚💙 @inaconstantstateofchange

[1016anon]

Title: Thinking About Crashing Author: 1016anon Fandom: Bridgerton Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Kathani Sharma

Come true

Their mating ceremony went like this:

He stood, waiting by the circle, the red mating cord wound in loose coils held in hand.  It had been her mother's, she said.  One of the very few things she had left, in addition to two bangles: one for her and the other for her mate.  The cord was soft and bore the marks of renewal bindings, but most importantly had been dusted with tumeric; it was a tradition, Lady Mary had said.  What the tradition signified, she would not say.

Anthony had not been allowed to see Kathani the day before their mating; he had no idea what to expect.  When she appeared, it surpassed his wildest imagination: Kathani was wearing the most beautiful, bright red dress (he guessed from India), covered in ornate patterns of gold thread.  What was truly astounding, however, were the delicate scents she was wearing, some of which Anthony had never smelled before.

As she approached, he was hit with the light, airy scents of spring flowers: ephemeral, fleeting traces of crocus, pear blossoms, shy bursts of sprouted barley; followed by more substantial notes of the middle bodied scents: azalea, peony, cold river water on a summer day.  The full, round scents of jasmine, orange blossoms, sun-warmed fields of olive trees, reached him like a long wave breaking on the shore, each one perfectly layered against the other, some scents disappearing, others lingering, new scents rising as they blended with his own profile so that each pull of air he took was a new and unique fragrance.

When she finally reached him, he was hit with an incredible mixture of spices; omegas and betas in England tended to go with lighter scents, a particular blend of pink tea roses, white climbing roses, and plumeria being the most popular at the moment.  At the very base of Kathani's scent, however, was a mixture he never would have thought could go together: lily, amber, balsam (those spices, he realized), agarwood.  Somehow the stinging sweetness of the lily had been separated from the core to harmonize with everything.

To say Anthony was stunned by the time she stood before him was an understatement.  He dearly hoped that whatever concoction of perfumes it was which created the fragrance today could be recreated in the future; he'd never smelled a person more enchanting.  Anthony must have relayed the feeling through their bond because she had tilted an eyebrow at him, amused.

When he took her hands to prepare for the bond-tying, he saw her palms were covered in henna; his own palms felt naked against hers.  There was some tumeric from holding the cord; that was all.  In fact, his entire ensemble felt plain to the point of severity compared to her, and the only scent he'd come with was himself.  The orange-yellow was getting all over his stark black wedding jacket, the cuffs of his sleeves were already stained orange.  Yet he was grateful for it-- when the braiding of the cord was completed, it would leave intricate lines of golden yellow on his sleeve.

Kathani was deft and efficient in her ties; as the omega who'd claimed him as alpha, she placed her pattern of knots first, from elbow to wrist.  English tradition dictated that Anthony only place his tie in a thick band about her wrist; he was careful to ensure her bangles did not get caught in his part of the weaving.

He was aware that there must have been some words spoken, but he heard none of them-- legend had it that the bond-tie was not only symbolic; it really did strengthen a nascent bond or created the foundations for one.  With each knot she'd placed on him, each twist and curl of rope, he'd felt them drawn closer together.  And though his part of the band was shorter on her arm, it used the same length of cord, weaving layers one on top of the other.

It felt like there was something inevitable about their joining, the way everything opened so easily and flowed so freely between them.  For a moment, they were suspended, neither breathing.

Then it all came crashing down when she widened her eyes and slammed the connection shut as far as it would go; it was a miracle that Anthony managed not to make a sound.  Some inner creature in him was clawing at the gate she'd closed, growling at the forest of thorns and trying to find the best way to cross the moat of fire which surrounded her fortress of marble.  The inner creature was howling with rage, frustration, but more than that, grief.  A profound heartsickness as the forest of thorns only seemed to grow thicker and the moat became wider.

He understood, in theory, why she did it.  It was frightening to have one's thoughts peeled open and left bare for a virtual stranger.  They had known each other for a mere six weeks, three of which were spent trying to sever the bond, and the other three spent trying to keep the bond locked against each other as tightly as possible.

But this was their mating ceremony.  Biology might have prevented them from leaving each other, but there was undeniable chemistry and compatibility between them.  Conversation came easily.  Surely they could give each other a chance to at least be friends.  They couldn't avoid each other forever; they couldn't struggle against this connection for the rest of their lives.  It was exhausting, and Anthony was already tired.

He had felt her excitement, her anticipation for their mating ceremony.  She had been looking forward to this; with trepidation and worry, but also with hope and wonder.  Anthony admitted he had not been guiltless in this either; when she reached out, he was licking his wounds and slammed the door on her.  When he reached out, she was cold and unreceptive.  The only time they were unguarded was during and after sex; once the afterglow disappeared, he or she would inevitably say something cutting and the cycle would repeat itself.

They didn't have to be what everyone claimed they were; they could at the very least be friends.  If this bond had not forced a biological connection between them, Anthony knew he would have flirted with her, perhaps even sought to court her.  Didn't that count for anything?  They were going to start a life together and it was clear that life would be better for them both if they allowed the bond to fully form.  There were ways, later, that they could learn to restrict each other.  At least this way, neither of them would be struggling with noseblindness, near total loss of appetite, and insomnia.

If she had been dreading this so much-- if she did not want to go through with it, why was she going through with it?  Why was she punishing him for a bond that they neither chose?  She said herself that they could not have predicted this.  Did she think it was a matter of sheer willpower and that he hadn't been holding up his end of the bargain?

It hit him with devastating clarity that yes-- she blamed him.  She blamed them both: herself for being unable to stay away from him at the races, for seething with anger and jealousy when she heard of all the does he had been courting after she'd released their bond.  She'd hated him for going about life as though nothing had happened when she had been nursing a broken heart; it was proof that his feelings were manufactured by this thing he never wanted.  Even now, he was not arguing to complete the bond for the sake of love-- he was arguing for the sake of convenience.

She had never wanted to be bonded to an alpha who considered her an inconvenience, something to be remedied and put aside so that he could go on with life as though nothing had changed.  The bond was supposed to change everything.  Every aspect of every moment of every day, Lady Mary and Appa had shared with joy and love.  The only connection he could stand was a physical, carnal one.

He had never considered her a nuisance!  He had never thought her an inconvenience!  He'd kept his distance, remained aloof because that was what she had wanted, and he followed her lead.  She had already bond released him once and made clear that she had entered into the second accidentally; she told him every opportunity she could that she had remained despite her better judgment and perhaps even despite her own desires.  She had instructed him to court others; she had followed him and kissed him at the races; she had said, over and over and over again, that she'd wished she was free of him.  How else could he take her meaning except at face value?

Anthony sought a physical, carnal connection between it was the only thing she was willing to give.  He didn't break their engagement when he discovered she had no nesting dowry because of the reputational damage it would do to her sister-- if anyone was marrying anyone for convenience and utility, it was her.  How many times had she told him that she was only mating him for the sake of Edwina, and if it had been her choice, she would have gone back to India?

That was rich coming from him, given that his mother was so obsessed with matings and how his sisters' chances at a good match would be reduced if he married instead.  If the bond hadn't forced them together, she would never have wanted to be with him because he wasn't capable of loving anyone for the sake of himself, he could only love someone for the sake of his family.  Kathani did not want to be loved because of an involuntary biological reaction.  She did not want to be loved because their bodies made it inevitable.  And he did not love her that way, so here they both were, doing the expedient and expected thing, giving into the ton's whispers and the pressures of Lady Whistledown.

All of this while they stood, handfasted, with frozen expressions on their faces; as the magistrate droned on about the sacred traditions of mating.  Anthony and Kathani should have litigated this before the mating ceremony, but here they were in the Queen's own gardens, being mated before half the ton, thoughts and feelings exchanged at the speed of light.  The bond had opened unbeknownst to them both; the great irony was: it was only through the bond that they were allowed to understand each other so perfectly.

Then, right when he was supposed to make his vows as an alpha to his omega as a bonded, mated pair, her mother's bangle fell off.

Kathani rushed to pick it up without thinking-- in so doing, she jerked on the handfasting cord and like some terrible omen, broke it.  There was no loud rip; no one had noticed anything fray or come undone.  But it was undeniable that the cord was now severed; several in the audience gasped at the sight.  The magistrate, who was not a stranger to such things (he was old and had officiated many matings-- this was nowhere near the worst incident he had witnessed, which involved the beta bride and beta best man, who had never met each other, going into spontaneous heat and rut and consummating their bond right there).

Before the cooler head of the magistrate could prevail and reassure everyone that a broken cord did not mean a broken bond-- in fact, he had witnessed traditions in other countries where the culmination of the mating was to break the rope as a symbol of their independent vows to their mates-- Anthony and Kathani looked at the cord, looked at each other.

In hindsight, no one was truly surprised when they both ran away.

--

The 'bungled nuptials,' as Colin so wonderfully called it, of 'the Right Honorable the Viscount Anthony Bridgerton and Miss Kathani Sharma' was the only thing the ton could speak of in the following days.  His mother tried to put some sort of reputation mitigation plan in place to demonstrate... something... but Anthony refused to play any part of it.  It required he and Kathani appear together publicly, the entire family trailing after them like some sort of army of chaperones or traveling circus; with the breaking of the cord and their mutual flight from the altar, the very thought of seeing her made him sick.

He had other pressing matters he had to attend to; his rut was nearly upon him.  Anthony decided the only option was for him to go to Kent and lock himself in a heat chamber/rut room.  It was one of the oldest buildings on the estate-- apparently the need to contain raging alphas, rabid betas, and violent omegas during their cycles was something which well predated the modern era.  He'd decided that it was too much to be in London, where there was significant risk that he would try to find Kathani or she would be drawn to him.  The best solution was to remove himself from Town altogether.

Benedict and Simon were both doubtful of the wisdom of this idea, but they could not come up with anything better.  When they asked him about the state of the bond, he told the truth:  He didn't know.

The bond wasn't silent, but it wasn't as strong as it had been.  It wasn't completely severed, nor was it whole.  It felt muffled, buried underground.  He didn't know if he was totally unaffected, or if the energy from his pre-rut hormones were allowing him to function normally (Benedict and Simon were of the opinion the latter was, indeed, the case.  Anthony pre-rut was usually far more energetic and active).  He wasn't willing to poke or prod the bond because in truth, this blunted feeling of living underwater was preferable to being too present, too vigilant, too aware of reality.

She had rejected him.  Or rather, they had rejected each other in a poisonous outpouring right before they were supposed to be forever mated.  Kathani had gotten what she wanted, and Anthony didn't know what he wanted at all, so it was a moot point.

He supposed that everything turned out for the best.

[samaya11]

The Godess Awakens

In my room

For my Grandmother Deviben born 1923-2001

As Amba Patel in Limbe, Malawi

4 am - London

In my room

The Goddess awakens

me with Her singing

I have been holding her hand as I sleep

Her thin long bony fingers

The only protection I need from

the shifting shadows on the wall

The monsters under the bed

At 6am

The six year old me watches

from under thick tartan blankets

as she performs her holy ablutions

After her own morning rituals

Combing silver strands into

Thin tight helix braid

Fraying at the ends

Mimicking the DNA strands

That bind us

Decontaminating

Is her holy ritual

She is elbows

She is force

Carving at the decay

And grime the world brings

Shakti

There is Dettol and Vicks and incense

To cleanse the body and the spirit according to her methods

Dressed in white head to toe

Mostly white hair in a bun

Pure sari on an impossibly long thin frame whit

Thick white wooly socks that once wore toe rings

She is not delicate

Never that

She is firm and flattens us all smooth like a hot iron with nothing but her sharp tongue

And expectations

Pressing out all the creases

I inherited from my mother

with their unforgiving steam

She is brittle and hard like iron

Yet even kyphosis is elegant on her

If you can make her laugh and smile

You can rewind the years to see

Her warm joy before it was stolen

By customs, tragedy, migration

She is a misplaced bird

With wings she can never use

locked away in this cage of duty

Within invisible parameters

Society calls love

From under the bed covers I watch

as she bathes her murtis by dawn light

Then proceeds to greet them and divide the entire universe evenly into 18 sacred sections

Gita Ganga Gayatri

Sita Satya Sarasvati

Brahmavidya …

20 years later

Long after the clearest memories of her gold bangles are gone

The sweet fragrance of Vibhuti, Bhasma, Chandan and kumkum fade

I search for the Hindu Gods In the periodic table

Particularly Shani

Nilanjan Samabhasam

Ravi Putra Yama Ganjam…

As my way of communion with her spirit of intellectual curiosity mixed with childlike wonder and faith. My attempt of reaching back through time to bridge the ionic bonds

That tore her family apart

If she had been born in any other era she would have manifested her true power

And ruled the world firmly but compassionately and changed it for the better.

Now

As I study my microbiology notes and antiseptic techniques

There She is again

Her teachings her blessings

Acting as the phospholipids

In my spiritual membrane

Her Hygiene OCDs justified

Open tap

Wash hands

Wash taps

Wash hands again

In scalding soapy water

Open cabinet door

Wash hands

Her methodology

For reverence

Godliness next to

Cleanliness

If only if I could have told her about Lister & Louis Pasteur

I’m sure she would have smiled and agreed

They were worthy of Murtis too

But I am done collecting old Gods & New

Decades later I realise

While I was searching for the wrong God in all the cliched places

All I need to remember

Is DeviMa of my youth

X /18= 108

4am - Houston

In My room

The Goddess awakens

Within Me.

Priya Ramesh Desai, 2023 @Samaya11