#Rib Lath

[anpingdongmingwiremesh]

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[practicalsolutions]

About time I did some rework on my 3D printable clamp.

[hazbinshusk]

husk x afab!reader. husk loves every part of your body, every sinful, sexy inch of it. but sometimes he fixates on singular parts of you and you're more than happy to let him. or, husk fucks your tits. anon request. 1.2k featuring: tit-fucking, oral sex (husk receiving), a needy kitty.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Too good to me, darlin’,” Husk rumbles against your skin, his heated breath tickling against your flesh as his lips trail down from your mouth to the underside of your jaw. His eyes close as you slide your fingers down over his torso, the muscles of his stomach twitching under your touch. You let your fingers linger above his waistband, nails carding through the downy fur there to tease the skin beneath. Husk huffs a pleased sound against the spot below your ear, teeth grazing over the sensitive skin until you let out a hissing breath of excitement. “Feel so damn good…”

Husk’s hands are on your hips, holding you against him. He tugs you closer and you straddle his lap obediently, eagerly, wrapping one arm around his neck. The other continues down his front to smooth over the bulge in the front of his pants, and he groans roughly.

You squeeze him, stroking him through his clothes, and Husk’s breathing grows heavier, needier. His paws slide up over your waist and your ribs, making you shiver as they reach your breasts. He’d had you topless as soon as he’d had the door locked behind you, and the warmth of his paw pads through the thin lace of your bra was intoxicating.

He kneads hungrily at the flesh of your breasts and you moan as your nipples harden under his touch. You release his cock to catch hold of his chin and bring his mouth back to yours.

You kiss the bartender sloppily, all tongue and teeth and Husk growls into your mouth, the fluttering of his wings sending a shudder through you as they sweep cool air over you.

Pulling away from him long enough to unclip your bra and toss it aside, your breath hitches as Husk immediately ducks his head down to bring his mouth to your breast. His tongue lathes over your nipple and you arch under the touch. Your fingers curl in the fur of his cheeks, tease over his ears, Husk’s claws digging into the small of your back as he held you against him.

“Holy shit, Husk…” you whimper raggedly, and he groans against your breast, suckling harder at your nipple. A fang catches the hardened point and you gasp, eyes fluttering as they roll back for a moment. “Fuck…”

“Tasty little thing,” he murmurs deliriously, already far drunker on you than he’s ever been on cheap whiskey. He can barely bring himself to move away from your chest, dragging his cold nose along your skin as he moves to your other breast. He’s exalting in the flavor of your sweat-touched skin and the soft, soft flesh of your tits, and he’s lost in the feeling of you. “Christ, you’re perfect.”

You flush, rewarding the compliment by scratching your fingers through the fur behind his ears. He leans into the touch as best he can without breaking away from your nipple, and you let out a broken giggle at his neediness.

“Such a good boy,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Husk finally shifts his attention away from your breasts to tilt his head back and meet your lips with his, letting you slide your tongue into his mouth. He whines needily as you slide off of his lap without breaking the kiss, his claws clutching at your waist blindly in an attempt to keep you close. “Uh-uh,” you tell him softly, kissing him again. “You’ll keep being good for me, won’t you baby? You’ll let me treat you nice?”

He’s not used to being the one without control, the one at another’s mercy, but for you… God, he’ll do anything you ask of him. How could he do anything else when you feel so good, taste so good… when you’re looking at him with eyes like that.

So, Husk nods eagerly, boyishly even. “Please, baby…”

You lower yourself to your knees between his thighs, smiling as Husk reaches out to touch a paw to his cheek. His claws tuck strands of hair behind your ear and you actually hear him swallow as you unfasten his pants and press a kiss to his inside of his knee.

Husk growls quietly as you nuzzle against his stiffening cock, the sound growing in the back of his throat as you run your tongue from the base of it to the tip and take him deep into your mouth.

“Fuck…” he mutters as you meet his eye with a full mouth, his claws curling in the sheets on either side of him. You hold his gaze as you bob your head slowly, bringing him to full mast, humming as you feel him swell and harden against your tongue. “Fuck, baby… so sweet…  shiiiiit….”

The last word is drawn out in a hiss as you release him from your mouth only to lean up on your knees and press the soft flesh of your breasts around the length of him.

Husk groans, eyes rolling back and fluttering closed, and your smile widens in satisfaction as you feel him thrust up between your breasts. His claws curl around your shoulder, holding you in place as he fucks himself up into your chest, his eyes half-lidded and pupils blown. It isn’t necessary – there’s no way that you’d willingly move away from him, not when he’s so eager and needy and pretty.

The bartender murmurs a string of breathy curses as he loses himself to the addictively soft touch of your breasts around him, watching with hungry fascination at the way the head of his cock kisses the bruise he’d sucked into the top of your sternum with every thrust.

His head falls back as you lower your mouth to let your tongue catch the tip of his cock each time he slides it upward. “Christ, doll… feel so fucking good…”

Your breath catches as his claws scratch over your nipple, his hips quickening their thrusts. You can taste his precum on your tongue and you suckle at the head of his cock. He groans, claws tightening on your shoulder until they draw blood. You hiss at the sensation and at the way the barbs of his cock tease and tug against your skin.

“Baby, baby, baby…” Husk says it like a prayer, and when he cums against your chest he curses aloud, the word gruff and throaty. You giggle as Husk rubs a paw down over his face with a long exhale, and he gives you a small, affectionate smile at the sound before falling back against the mattress with a quiet thump. “Holy shit, you’re gonna kill me.”

You chuckle again, standing and stripping out of the remainder of your clothes. You climb on top of him, straddling his lap and stretching out over him. Husk hums his approval, hands coming up to take hold of your hips. He moans brokenly as you adjust your hips to slide your cunt over his still half-hard cock.

“’m gonna need a minute, sweetness,” he tells you, despite the hand he trails down to squeeze the curve of your ass.

You smile, pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw. “Pretty sure we’ve got time.”

He stretches his neck up to meet your lips with his, the kiss long and lingering. You squeak against his lips as you feel his hand slip up between your thighs to tease your clit.

“Mmm…” he rumbles, nose bumping against yours as he grins up at you. “Any ideas on what we can do in the meantime?”

[vilebird]

BOTH TOO MUCH AND NOT ENOUGH

1) "I have been found wanting, Natalie thought; I have made myself unacceptable and am not worthy." - hangsaman, by shirley jackson

2) text: "meat must be beaten brutal into tenderness, that any body softens with violence, she grinds salt into the carcass, like a wound, a memory". image: a carcass of beef, cleaned, with the ribs on prominent display, painted in oils and rendered in thick strokes of red, orange, tan and white, on a plain dark red background. the text is cutouts on top, dark red text on light tan. - Family Portrait as Unfinished Meal, by Torrin A. Greathouse and Le Bœuf by Chaim Soutine. collage put together by @invisiblemonstrosity

3) a pale hand crushing ripe red strawberries, green leaves still attached, on a plain white background. - apparently by ouiloved on flickr, but they seem to have deleted.

4) bust photo of a tan person with a spotlight on them outside in the dark, head turned down, shoulder length messy wet black hair obscuring their face. their hand is raised to their chest and they are wearing a white tank top. fake blood is splattered and wiped around their chest and mouth. - i can't actually find this one all my attempts lead back to unsourced tumblr posts if you know where its from. help me

5: "You have no one who has any sort of consideration for you. You have had patience and endurance, and what have they done for you? Half-killed you." - carlyle’s house and other sketches, by virginia woolf

6: "try your whole life to be righteous and be good, wind up on your own floor, choking on blood" - sept 15th 1983, by the mountain goats

7: "such a waste of a girl, such rumination. i am obsessive. i contain nothing but the replay. i am blood and blood and replay. i am please don't go." - i put the coffin out to sea, by lisa marie basile

8: an image of a partially bald baby bird begging for food, drawn in the desaturated greens and black of a trailcam, on top, the text reads "i am asking you for something i need", on bottom, the text reads "why is it so hard to give it to me?" - trailcam baby, by @quezify

9: "was i raised without love? / or was i born unloveable?" - @psychwarded

10: "I, in my corner, with my monstrous needs." - As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh, susan sontag

11: "oh, i know that i'm not whole, and sometimes feel the flies swarming, like much of me is rotten." - roadkill ode, chad abushanab

12: a photo of a cut tree where much of the centre is rotted from fungus, accompanied by the text: "heart rot in pine. heart rot is the softening of a pine trees resinous heartwood, caused by an in-dwelling fungus. not all pines have it, but those that do make the excavation of a tree-hole next cavity easier for the red-cockaded woodpecker."

13: "rot made a home inside my body." - i know it's from "bloat" but cant find the authors name again. i think it starts with a c?

14: photo of an abandoned house in shades of brown and beige and orange, the walls are wet and scuffed and the drywall has been torn open in places, exposing the old lath. - abandoned, by @jaggedplains

15: photo of a mouldy strawberry, fading from bright red to grey-green fluff - Strawberry Gray Mold disease stock photo, by MediaProduction on gettyimages

16: "you ever feel like you were born with something rotten inside you and if people get close enough they're gonna find out" - tumblr post by @twoheadedfawnn

17: "we are meat, we are potential carcasses,' he once said. 'if i go into a butcher's shop i always think it is surprising that i wasn't there instead of the animal." - francis bacon

18: "you dangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth." - speeches for dr frankenstein, by margaret atwood

19: photo of a python hanging off a roof coiled around a black and white bird, poised to eat it - i heard some noise on the roof this morning, by candycane7 on reddit

20: "all that matters is that you want to hurt me. all that matters is that you want me." - when rome falls, by yves olade

21: "god told me i was forgiven and then he split me open" - god is made of hunger and i am made of dreams, by katie maria

22: "but this is not about love. once a pig is hung and cut straight, cut from rectum to neck, step inside her death like it is a room: that is how to touch her now. the lord said, you must not eat their meat or touch their carcasses. then came the end of the rib." - oh let's just be hogs, by gregory emilio

23: photo of a strawberry cut in half with its leaves attached. it is bright red, steel knife wet. the background is bright white and plain. - cut strawberry by liz west on flickr

24: photo of a handmade cloth sculpture of a dead autopsied pigeon, red zipper like an incision opening to its empty red interior, small cloth and thread organs arranged around it. - pandora: city pigeon, by jessica bartram

25: '"u need a therapist" actually i need to be euthanized' - tumblr post by deactivated user @122mg

[sailtomarina]

We need to practise

cw: smut and language

It wasn’t the best weather to be practising outside, but Hermione had insisted they could use the fresh air. They were deep into winter with spring still two months away. All of the students could honestly do with more natural light and less gloomy castle walls.

So, outside it was.

The two of them sat atop a thick blanket Hermione had snagged from the Gryffindor Common Room and charmed to both resist moisture and radiate warmth. Their belongings were scattered across the fuzzy red-and-gold plaid where they sat cross legged in front of each other, a white, marble chess piece between them. She couldn’t help her snort when Malfoy’s attempt sprouted feathers on the still-visible figurine.

“Oi! Let’s see you do it, then,” he said snarkily, reminding her of another wizard and another sort of feather. 

Better to not think of that failed endeavour.

Concentrating intently on her wand, Hermione traced the tip downwards in exact movements, successfully transfiguring the king into a large black bird. It fixed her with beady eyes before transforming back with her counterspell.

“There you have it, Malfoy. Your turn now.”

To be fair, she did have the poor manners to gloat at her practice partner with a smile reminiscent of Crookshanks delivering a particularly lively mouse. She squeaked not unlike one of those unfortunate rodents when he knocked aside the king to lean into her instead.

“Draco!”

“Oh, ‘Draco’ now, is it?” he asked, brow arched and eyes darkening as he pushed Hermione onto her back.

“What do you think you’re doing? We’re meant to be using this time to practise–”

“And I intend to do just that,” he interrupted.

She opened her mouth to protest, reasons already on the tip of her tongue. He silenced them with his own mouth, lips coaxing with a gentle caress. She felt his fingers card into the curls at the nape of her neck and moaned at the ensuing tug. Hermione loved it when he pulled her hair, using just the right amount of pressure to direct her movements as he desired. She obliged him now, arching her head back so he could run hot kisses across her jaw, down the curve of her neck, then lathing his tongue against the sensitive spot right above her collar bone.

“Nnnn, Draco…” Plans forgotten, thoughts fading like they rarely ever did except with him, Hermione gave herself over to the sensations he was intent on inducing.

“Yes?” He pulled back to look at her, loosening his grip on her hair so she could meet his gaze.

She frowned at the pause in her pleasure. “Why did you stop?”

He chuckled in amusement and resumed playing with her hair, pulling up one long coil to watch it bounce back into form. He braced his upper torso over her with only one elbow taking the bulk of his weight. He didn’t seem to mind. 

“You said my name, so I thought you might need something.” As if agreeing with his sentiment, he trailed his hand down from her curls between her breasts, his pinky tantalisingly close to a sensitive peak, down her ribs, then slipped beneath the waistband of her skirt where he stilled all movement. “Do you need something, Hermione?”

They’d maintained eye contact through his pathing, Hermione entranced by how the closer he got to her apex, the darker his eyes became. The light clouds of his irises now looked stormy grey, nearly crackling with intensity. He waited for her response, each puff of breath from his lips teasing her own.

“More. I need more, please.”

The wicked grin that crossed his features sent an immediate jolt between her legs, an ache that deepened and spread.

“You do ask so nicely,” he said. He rewarded her with another heated kiss as the broad expanse of his palm slid down, down, until his long fingers ran the length of her drenched knickers. He grunted against her lips, and this time it was her turn to smile. 

She broke away from their kiss only to nudge his face to the side so she could whisper her demands against the curve of his ear.

“Make me come, Draco. Pretty please?”

He groaned.

“Fuck. How many do you want? Tell me.”

Always the eager one. Always ready to please. At the start of their explorations, he’d wanted to prove himself better than anyone else, a self-proclaimed quest to bring her pleasure that trumped any and everyone before him. 

He now only raced his own personal best, a competition Hermione was more than happy to encourage.

“What are you up to now?” She nibbled at the lobe of his ear, causing his hips to jerk against her.

“Three.”

“Then four.” 

“Fuck. Yeah. Should I…?” He brought his hand up just far enough to flip it back around and thumb the clasp at her waist.

“No, leave it on. Just flip the skirt up.”

She reached for her wand and cast her strongest notice-me-not. If they were doing this, then she wanted absolute privacy. Hermione wasn’t above a vengeful confringo on any unfortunate soul who might interrupt them.

The spell sent her lover into an excited frenzy now that he knew they were likely safe to do as they pleased. He shifted around to kneel between her legs, flipping up her skirt just as suggested. Two firm hands grasped the meat of her thighs and bent them into an upward v.

“Aren’t you going to remove–”

“Shhh, after the first one, maybe.”

She yelped as he mouthed her through the thin fabric of her knickers.

“I want to ruin these before I take them off. I might even leave them on when I fuck you. You’re going to come on my cock.”

Well, things had certainly escalated. Sex with Malfoy hadn’t been on her agenda for the afternoon, and not even after when he’d first coaxed her legs open. She thought she’d take her pleasure, return the favour in kind, then proceed with transfiguration practice as planned.

“On second thought, maybe we don’t have time right now. You still haven’t successfully cast–”

She choked on her words when he pulled aside the gusset of her knickers to swipe up the seam of her cunt with his tongue before pressing the entire length of it inside. He’d let go of her thighs to wrap his arms around them from underneath instead. Her instinct to squeeze them shut at the unexpected contact failed as he used his hands to yank her thighs open.

He pulled out of her with an obscene slurp to give his rebuke. “You need to practise keeping these spread.”

Another yelp escaped her at the sting of his slap against her skin. 

She couldn’t even hide how much the slap turned her on as a gush of liquid sprang forth. He paused just long enough to send her a smug smirk, his chin slick and coated with her, before he returned to her apex with increased vigour.

Circe. 

He was abso-fucking-lutely right. They could both use this version of practice. Who cared about kings and rooks with Draco Malfoy between her legs? Nothing else could be more important. Not even close.

“Five, m-make it five!”

WC 1202

Cross-posted to Tumblr and AO3 (eventually)

Twitter DramionePrompts 2/8/24 prompt “We need to practice”

Glum weather and February prompted my description of their environment. We had a brief “spring” in late January that almost had me believing winter was over. Fake out! We’re back to the typical rainy, grey skies. Can you blame me for fantasising about a different type of wet day?

[tokiwarcube]

Hello!! I've been DROWNING in how good you write but I noticed you don't write Murderface a lot (my poor man😔😔)

I was wondering if you could do some ns/fw hcs with a fem!reader? No k1nks in particular, I'll leave you free choice 👀 (If you don't do fem, I'll settle for a GN!)

Thank you and have a great continuation of your day/night❤

Wowee, thank you so much my love! I will say that the influx of Murderface lovers in my inbox has opened my eyes to this man's lovability -- hopefully that's been reflected in the wave of MF content that's followed your initial message! (: I had quite a bit of fun with this one, so do enjoy!

Some harder kinks mentioned: Knife play, light asphyxiation, pegging, mild bondage, light degradation, voyeurism, edging, overstimulation, and more. I will admit that I was in a Fun mood when I wrote this, so this is a bit more sub-face leaning -- feel free to prod me a bit if you want a bit more of his dominant side! <3 AFAB reader, all below the cut. Enjoy!

Despite the constant ribbing from the guys — and the scathing words of the media — Murderface is just about the farthest thing from a virgin. Fame of his magnitude comes with a certain… privilege… in that regard. But that doesn’t mean that his extensive experience in bed has left any sort of lasting impression on what he actually wants. Sure, he’s getting off, but there’s not a whole ‘lot of room to experiment in a quick fuck with a groupie that frankly, he doesn’t trust.

This is to say — he has very grand ideas about what he likes, but he’s hardly had the chance to properly explore those thoughts. Which is very, very fun when you get into a proper relationship with him.

He too has very rigid ideas about what he’s supposed to enjoy as a — “very schtraight, not gay at all” — man. When you first start talking about sex, he’s all about the hard kinks. Real rough, machismo. But the second you tell him how pretty he is, how good he makes you feel, he’s rolling over like a puppy.

Don’t get me wrong — he’s still a switch… he just leans a little bit more towards submission. The man very much wants to be loved, and while the trust and adoration in your eyes as you let him trace his favorite knife down your sternum makes his heart swell beyond anything he ever thought possible… sometimes it’s just nice to hear it, too.

He loves being tied down, completely at your mercy. A pleasurable torture, left bound and panting, unable to pull away from your will. Edge him and make him beg for release, or overstimulate him and revel in the pitching of his voice as he falls into incoherence — or stride from one into the other, if you’re feeling a bit wicked.

That being said, he has a thing for cruelty slathered in affection — lathe over his wounds with love, and he’s putty in your hands. Dip your biting degradation in a bit of praise, however condescending it might be, and you’ll have your pretty little slut’s eyes rolling back in his head.

He loves the view that comes with being ridden, especially when he’s tied down on his back. He’d be your personal toy all day, with a view like that.

And while it takes a lot of trust and conversation… the day you get him to bottom is the day he becomes a certified strapslut. He didn’t realize what a fucking treat it is to bottom, and while he would never admit it in front of anyone else, he fucking lives for it.

He has a propensity to ramble in bed — he is delightfully sensitive, and the barest of touches makes his brain fuzzy and lips loose. And the things that fall from his mouth are positively filthy. In the heat of the moment, he is the best fucking dirty talker by pure virtue of the fact that his filter is just gone.

But don’t forget, he is indeed a switch, and nearly everything done unto him will end up coming straight back unto you.

Knife play, asphyxiation, mild bondage (he prefers heavier material like rope, on both parties), degradation, edging, overstimulation… the list goes on! He struggles to give praise himself, but he absolutely eats it up like nobody’s business.

And while he doesn’t indulge in it too often, he has quite the penchant for mutual masturbation. It’s less about the “mutual” part, and more about watching you get yourself off — one of his biggest fantasies is to watch you in secret. Maybe one day he’ll ask about it, but until then he’s more than happy to watch you work yourself to the precipice, just inches away from him. He’s always tempted to cum first, just so he can watch you spread his cum against your glistening pussy before cumming yourself.

This being said — his favorite places to cum are 1.) On your face, or 2.) Against your spread pussy. Both sights are enough to get him hard again immediately.

He has full body orgasms, lurching forward and arching with a strangled cry. And oh, his cock twitches like no other in the aftermath, wracked with little aftershocks that leave him shaking and panting, redfaced and slack jawed. He’s very pretty, and I highly encourage you to tell him such.

[wegotisms]

Sweet Panacea (Solavellan Fic)

Another one from forever ago I can't find on my blog anymore. Super fluffy fluff for the dragon age feelies.

AO3 here

---

The cold of the stone floor seeps through the soles of her bare feet, but it is not why she shivers. She feels the weight of the purple bags under her eyes, the slump of her shoulders, the heaviness of her head; her body aches for sleep, and yet she pads silently towards the rotunda, one hand gripping at the fabric of her tunic, the other worrying at a lock of long, blonde hair.

Dalla pauses in the doorway, watching the elf hunched over a wooden table, his head in his hands as he digs through some ancient tome. She shifts her weight from foot to foot and wraps both arms around her waist. She should go. She should turn around and drag herself back up to her quarters and close her eyes and try to forget it. He has better things to worry about than her nightmares.

And yet his name slips from her lips, so quiet she hopes he doesn’t hear.

“Solas?”

He looks up at her and his face falls, concern etched across his features. “Vhenan,” he says, pushing away from his desk to stand, “what’s wrong?”

Dalla whimpers, the words caught in her throat. Tears sting at her eyes and she shifts her gaze to the floor. He deserves better than to see her facade of strength and confidence crumble. She really shouldn’t bother him with this. She should go. But her legs are so heavy and then his arms are around her, and she sags against his chest and the tears come. In one swift movement Solas bends and hooks an arm behind her knees, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her over to the white couch on the far side of the room.

He sits and cradles her against him, his cheek resting on her head, a hand tangled in her hair and massaging her scalp. His chest rumbles as he begins to hum for her, a melody slow and sweet. It is an old elvhen lullabye, she knows. She had sung it for him once, asked what the words meant, but she can’t remember them now, as her tears soak into his shirt, as she clings desperately to him, shoulders heaving. He holds her tighter and she loses herself in him, in his strength, his warmth, the soft scent of elfroot and ozone.

He feels like home.

He’s still humming by the time her tears stop. Her eyes are puffy and red and she buries her face in the soft wool of his shirt, sighs against his chest.

“Ir abelas,” she mutters, pulling away from him. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Vhenan,” he says, hooking his finger under her chin and tilting her head up to look at him. “Ar lath ma.” He kisses her nose and then rests his forehead against hers. “Dirth ma, what troubles you?”

“Mmhmm?” He runs his fingers lightly over her arm, tracing the crimson lines of her vallaslin.

She can’t say no to those dusty blue eyes. “Mnh.” She rests her head against his shoulder and nuzzles into the crook of his neck, her lips brushing against his skin. “I had a nightmare.”

Dalla sucks her teeth, searching for the words. They stick to her ribs, but Solas’ gentle touch coaxes them from her. She wrings her hands in his shirt as the words spill from her lips, barely a whisper. “I dreamt I couldn’t remember her face.” She sniffs. “My mamae.”

His hand moves to her cheek, his thumb brushing across her tattoos. “Can you remember her now?”

She nods.

“Tell me about her.”

Dalla closes her eyes. “She… her hair was the color of the moon. And long.” She brushes her hands down her chest. “She always wore it down and loved to have me braid it.

“Her skin was the color of the earth, like mine. She chose Mythal for her vallaslin, green like the forest, like her eyes. I would trace them and she would tell me old elvhen stories….” She takes Solas’s hand from her cheek and clutches it in her own. “Babae always said I took after her, but her nose was smaller and she had… these big lips and round cheeks.” She relaxes against him. “She was soft and warm.”

“She sounds beautiful.”

“She was. She was the most beautiful thing in my world.”

“As you are in mine.”

Dalla smiles and spreads his fingers, kissing each one before clutching his hand against her chest and lifting her head to press her lips against his. He kisses her back, gently, his mouth demanding nothing, allowing her to melt into him with a soft sigh.

“You will not forget her, vhenan,” Solas says, breaking from the kiss and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, “I promise.”

“‘Ma serranas.” She pecks him on the nose and settles back against his chest, curling up against him. “Do you mind if we stay like this for a while?”

 Dalla awakens to sunlight trickling into her quarters and she stretches across her bed, yawning and running her fingers through her hair. She doesn’t remember coming to her quarters -- though Solas is stronger than he looks. The thought of him carrying her to bed makes her heart beat quickly in her chest and she smiles. She feels like a lovestruck teenager, but, she thinks as she stands and walks over to her wardrobe, she can allow herself this indulgence.

“Of course, my heart,” he says, planting a kiss atop her head and humming, his arms strong and warm around her, the melody soft and sweet on her ears.

--

She hums an elvhen lullabye as she begins pulling her tunic over her head, but pauses when she notices something leaning against the wall near her desk.

Her hands fly to her mouth. Did he really…? How could he have known? Had he walked the Fade for this? For her? Tears sting at her eyes. She had known he painted, but had never known he could create something as beautiful as this.

The canvas is stretched in an oaken frame and she bends to touch it, recoiling her hand slightly before ghosting her fingers over the paint. The colors, the shapes -- it’s just as she remembered. Dalla is a child again, gazing at her mamae in wonder as she pulls back the string of her bow, as she bends to scrape bark from a tree, as stories spill from her lips.

It’s almost like her mamae was never gone.

Dalla runs from her room, sprints down the stairs and bursts into the rotunda, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. Solas is standing towards the wall, paintbrush in hand, and he barely has time to turn toward the rapidly approaching footsteps before she crashes into him, throwing her arms around him and nearly sending both of them toppling to the floor.

“Thank-you,” she mutters against his skin.

He smiles and wraps his arms around her, smearing paint down the back of her tunic and planting a kiss on the top of her head.

[vacantgodling]

i have. an oc question. my brain is a bit of a pile of mush right now so i'm gonna leave this as an open question, but for whichever oc ship you have on the brain most right now, i'd love to hear about how they express affection for each other. which one is more open about their affection? which one is perhaps more reserved? do they have any specific ways of showing affection to each other?

you 🤝 me brain being mush

honestly i’ve had lath & ensio on the brain for a bit so i’ll do this about them—HOWEVER—i do want to preface that the two of them aren’t really a “traditional” romantic relationship as how we think of it. tl;dr there’s a long explanation of how love and relationships work in terrae — it’s split into 3 categories: bonds-kinship-pleasure. lath and ensio have a Bond which is essentially the all encompassing spectrum between friendship/romance, and is actually separate from sex (pleasure) or like traditional friendship/marriage etc as we think of it. bonds and all kinds of relationships do overlap (pleasure is a common one but it is wholly separate).

ALL OF THIS TO SAY lath and ensio aren’t romantic in a traditional sense but they are Absolutely bonded—to the point that when lath was made immortal, ensio was made immortal with him to be the literal sword he wields (though he does have a human form he can become). basically. do not separate. tm.

SO WITHOUT FURTHER ADO:

EXPRESSING AFFECTION->

the two of them are extremely teasing towards one another and have friendly ribs and goes at each other all the time. one of lath’s favorite things to tease ensio about is the “sorry” state of his beard (it’s not sorry at all; it’s very well taken care of and usually has braids and beads in it) and how it drives away potential sexual partners (ensio loves to pretend he’s more into pleasure than he actually is. he likes to deflect his real feelings by being like ah what i wouldn’t give to have my face buried in some tits rn and like honestly same. BUT he will always choose lath over anything like that bc. do not separate lmao). meanwhile, en’s favorite insult is regarding how lath hardly blinks (he literally doesn’t. he is seriously 👁️👁️ at all times LMAOOOO. lath does also generally forget to blink it’s wild. he is v much an eagle boy and his guardian wings don’t help). however at the same time, because they also have a kinship relationship (tldr lath’s parents died when he was extremely young and ensio/his family took him in) they also take care of each other as a form of affection. doing things for each other, protecting each other (physically especially; they’re both eventually scouts for the king and apart of the king’s guard before argos fell) but also just existing in the same space. the two of them don’t really have to use words with each other that’s how close they are.

i also have a few quotes to provide u of their relationship tm:

“I don’t see what you’re saving me from then.” Lath said, flatly but not unkindly. “Unless you mean boredom. If that’s the case, see yourself back down and fetch me a jester.”

“Oh ha ha.” Ensio rolled his eyes.

-

Ensio was quick to jump up, taking both the spoon and the jar of stew away from him.

“Stars and hills, Lath, be fucking careful!” He hissed, but the irritation in his voice was sharp contrast to way his hands gently came up to cup Lath’s cheeks.

-

(after kissing lath to help his burning lips)

“Must you always be so difficult?” Ensio murmured, but his voice was low in the back of his throat, low like the way his eyes were almost partially lidded. Lath stared at him, as he was prone to, until Ensio complained and Lath let out a bark of a laughter.

“I’m difficult because it’s you.” He declared.

“Lucky me.” Ensio groaned. He sat himself back in the chair, holding open one arm. “Get over here before you catch a cold.” 

-

“Don’t let it go to your head.” Lath said evenly. “Your beard is still awful.”

“And when’s the last time you blinked this week, owlet?” Lath thought a moment. “If you have to think then that’s the issue!”

-

(in talking about how they never really had sex before they’re about to uhhhh DIE lmao)

“It’s not as though either of us would ever know.” Ensio mused, but not unkindly. “Your horrible habit of unblinking deterred so many.”

“Yet your horrible beard drove off more.” Lath quipped back and the rumble of a chuckle that left Ensio, even as he continued to bleed, made a quirk of a smirk tug at Lath’s lips. 

“I would offer to let you experience it on my own chest, as a parting gift,” Ensio started. “But I’m afraid this armor is too hard to remove one handed.”

(that excerpt is actually really bittersweet but y’all get the picture lemme chill)

-

(after they’re finally reunited after death and lath is a guardian)

After a long moment, Lath pushed back. “It would be too much luck to have you taken off my hands for good.” He said finally and he cackled when Ensio snorted and grabbed him in a headlock, the two of them devolving into wrestling, just like old friends do.

OPENNESS ->

ensio is 100% more open about expressing affection. he’s the initiator in most things; bringing lath soup, kissing his lips to stop them from burning, intimating hugs or friendly arm-over-shoulders. it more has to do with being well adjusted, growing up with his family and many siblings. though lath grew up around them, he’s always been standoffish — which is funny when i think about how his legend has morphed in later terranean history; because basically it merged ensio and lath’s personalities (lath: uncompromising, fierce warrior + ensio: charming and honorable). so it’s really funny when people actually MEET lath in book two and find oh wait he’s weird as shit. it’s not that lath isn’t open about caring for ensio, he’s the most open with ensio IN GENERAL, but when it comes to initiating affection that’s all en lol.

i think in a weird winded way i also answered your other questions but it’s always a good day to talk about lath and ensio they make me INSANE.

[handeaux]

While The Wright Brothers Toiled, Cincinnati’s Flying Machine Fanatics Tanked

Ohio license plates proclaim the Buckeye State as the “Birthplace of Aviation.” Had fate turned out differently, that sobriquet could have applied to Cincinnati. Over the years, several Cincinnati tinkerers tried unsuccessfully to loft a heavier-than-air craft.

As far back as 1834, a Cincinnati resident named Albert Masson constructed a vehicle he described as an “aerial steam boat.” According to a writer signed only as “J.L.” (possibly John Laughlin, secretary of the Ohio Mechanics Institute), in the Liberty Hall and Cincinnati Gazette newspaper [3 July 1834]:

“The boat is about ten feet long; the ribs being covered in silk, in order to render it very light. – The engine, of two horse power, is placed in the middle, and turns four vertical shafts projecting over the bow and stern, into each of which are fixed 4 spiral silken wings, which are made to revolve with a sufficient velocity to cause the vessel to rise.”

According to “J.L.”, the entire apparatus weighed about 60 pounds and Mr. Masson intended to fly the contraption on July 4 – the very next day. At the time of publication, the aerial steam boat was on display “on Race street, nearly opposite the old Lath Factory, below Third street.”

Mr. Masson did not go airborne on Independence Day and, in August, his flying machine was on earthbound display at the Commercial Exchange. The Daily Cincinnati Republican reported, “There is nothing of the balloon principle connected to the apparatus.” and that it was “a beautiful and ingenious piece of mechanism.”

As beautiful and ingenious as it was, the aerial steam boat appears not to have ever achieved flight and all references to it cease after 1834. Tom D. Crouch, curator of aeronautics at the National Air and Space Museum and a former chief of education for the Ohio Historical Society, has researched Masson’s invention extensively, publishing his findings in the Journal of the American Aviation Historical Society [Spring 1974]. According to Mr. Crouch:

“If we are to believe the articles published in the Cincinnati papers, and there seems no reason to doubt them, then Albert Masson was the first person in history to produce a heavier-than-air craft, powered by a prime mover, that was actually intended to fly.”

Although Mr. Masson vanished into the mists of history, between 1840 and 1902, Cincinnati newspapers printed at least 404 articles with the phrase "flying machine." Some of these reports featured home-grown Cincinnati aeronauts.

Cincinnatians awoke on 27 Oct 1889 to learn that a local man, one Ferdinand W. Randall of Main Street, had built a flying machine. In fact, this inventor had quite a surprise for the scientific community. As related by the Cincinnati Enquirer:

"He not only has a flying machine, but claims to have discovered perpetual motion."

The newspaper goes on to relate that Mr. Randall's inventions have "something lacking." That "something" was, of course, money.

Mr. Randall, approximately 35 years in age at the time, was a photographer. His workshop was on Main Street. His flying machine was described as a "peculiar-looking sail-boat" suspended by a wire from the ceiling. It was basically a boat hull, with a screw propeller and rudder at the rear, four wheels and an "intricate mass of fans and wire cables." Two black wings, wider and longer than the boat, were suspended above. According to the Enquirer,

"The beauty about Mr. Randall's machine is that it can move on land, in the water, or in the air."

Randall told the Enquirer he had read every book available on aeronautics and is "undoubtedly well posted on the subject." Well posted or not, Mr. Randall joined the roster of inventors whose aircraft never left the ground.

Curiously, just 18 months later, the Cincinnati newspapers found yet another potential flying machine. This one was created by a mechanic named John Randall, of 322 Vine Street, who had built a flying machine remarkably similar to the airship unveiled by Ferdinand Randall - a boat 18 feet long with a mass of wires attached.

Similar flying machines and identical names? Not a coincidence. The Randalls were brothers who had operated Randall Brothers Outdoor Photographers for several years. The younger brother struck out on his own and got work as a mechanic and electrician.

Ferdinand apparently gave the flying machine to his brother because the machine described in 1891 is almost identical to the 1889 machine with one exception. John replaced the two black wings atop Ferdinand’s machine with a large canvas balloon. In other words, it was no longer a heavier-than-air machine, but only a mechanically propelled lighter-than-air craft. Not the same thing at all.

Had another local man succeeded, Kennedy Heights or Norwood might be known as the birthplace of manned flight. Alas, Charles M. Mallory did not succeed. In fact, he failed again and again and again. Sometimes spectacularly.

In August 1902, the 40-year-old Mallory, a pattern maker with the Bullock Electric Manufacturing Company, announced that he would launch a new flying machine into the air from a vacant lot in Kennedy Heights. With a large crowd observing, he rolled out a contraption described by the Cincinnati Enquirer:

"It was as if two monster Mexican hats had been inverted and joined together by a framework that had wings on either side. At one end was a rudder."

With a squad of volunteers tugging away, Mallory's monstrosity "scudded along the scaffolding for a few feet and then toppled over on one side."

Mallory tried again in November 1902 at the grounds of the old Norwood Inn. This time, instead of human volunteers, Colonel James E. Fennessy, a local theatrical impresario, volunteered to tow the contraption aloft with his automobile. Col. Fennessy got bored waiting for Mallory to prepare his flying machine and drove home. Fennessy sent a chauffeur out to Norwood with another automobile, but he, too, lost patience.

When Mallory was finally ready, no automobiles could be found, despite messengers and phone calls. While waiting in vain for another runabout, Mallory agreed to pose for photographs in his machine, hoisted to the top of a derrick. The wind caught the contraption and dashed it to the ground from a height of 25 feet. Although Mallory was unhurt, his flying machine was in tatters.

Mallory attempted another flight in August 1903 off Lookout Mountain in Tennessee but, again, the wind dashed his contraction to flinders. Interestingly, Mallory told the Cincinnati Post at that time that he had achieved an 80-foot flight in Norwood, a feat suspiciously unseen by any other witness.

Four months later, the Wright boys grabbed the prize.

[iviarellereads]

The Great Hunt, Chapter 1 - The Flame of Tar Valon(1)

(THIS PROJECT IS SPOILER FREE! No spoilers past the chapter you click on. Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For the link index and a primer on The Wheel of Time, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(Wheel icon) In which we use procrastination as predestination.

PERSPECTIVE: Rand:

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass leaving memories that become legend, then fade to myth, and are long forgot when that Age comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Dhoom.(2) The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.(3)

The wind blows south across the Blight, picking up then losing the scent of death as it moves into Shienar, where spring is holding on late since it was late in coming. It should be summer already, but at least winter eventually broke. The wind reaches Fal Dara, and Rand and Lan stripped to the waist, sword training.(4) Rand smells something on the wind, something that evokes the image of a grave, but hardly notices. At one point when Lan switches from slashes to a thrust, the wind catches Rand and freezes him in place. Rand can only watch as, in slow motion to his perception, the bundled lathes of Lan's practice sword hit him right in the ribs, then shatter, and seem almost to be drawn to his heart as they break apart.

Lan asks what the fuck and Rand says the wind froze him. Lan takes a moment and explains, troubled, that sometimes strange things happen this close to the Blight, especially to ta'veren. Anyway, what happened to leaving, it's been a month and Lan expected Rand to be long since gone. Rand thinks about how Tam gave him the sword, and says he wanted to learn how to use it, so he wouldn't need to bluff and get in trouble when bluffing failed. Lan says it's rare even for heron-mark swords, it'd fetch a high price at sale. Rand thought any heron blade was rare, and Lan gives him a sidelong look. Tam didn't tell him? Maybe he didn't believe.

Lan explains that during the War of the Shadow, in the Age of Legends, some weapons were made with the One Power. Aes Sedai drew metal from the earth, and forged them into swords, all with the Power. Some of them have become legendary swords, that seemed to have a power all their own, tales for gleemen. The reality is plenty good, though: blades that won't shatter or break, and never need sharpening. The making of them was lost, and there will never be more, not least because the Aes Sedai swore never to make them again, every one of them swears it to this day. Not all the Aes Sedai blades are heron-marked, and not all heron-marked blades are Aes Sedai work. Rand refuses to think about how Tam came by a three thousand year old sword.(5)

Lan asks again why Rand is still there. He gives excuses, that he wants to spend more time with his friends, he might not see them again for years, at least, anyway, and he wishes so much… Lan asks if he wants things to be as they were, for Egwene to go with him on his travels. He acknowledges that she might, if Rand found the right way to ask her. Wearily, Lan adds that love’s a funny thing that way. Rand says no, he wouldn’t want anyone with him as he goes mad.

“And that is all the reason? You want to spend as much time as you can with your friends from home before they go? That’s why you’re dragging your feet? You know what’s sniffing at your heels.” Rand surged angrily to his feet. “All right, it’s Moiraine! I wouldn’t even be here if not for her, and she won’t as much as talk to me.” “You’d be dead if not for her, sheepherder,” Lan said flatly, but Rand rushed on. “She tells me . . . tells me horrible things about myself”—his knuckles whitened on the sword. That I’m going to go mad and die!—“and then suddenly she won’t even say two words to me. She acts as if I’m no different than the day she found me, and that smells wrong, too.”(6)

Rand doesn't know what he means by that, but surely she can tell him something to help him, and she won't even acknowledge him.

Lan says Rand isn't learning anything standing still, and tells him to go through some fancy sword movements, starting with the Heron Wading in the Rushes.

"Remember that that Heron form is only for practicing balance. Anywhere but doing forms, it leaves you wide open; you can strike home from it, if you wait for the other man to move first, but you’ll never avoid his blade."(7)

Suddenly, they hear drums. A rolling fanfare, growing louder. From the tower, Rand has a clear view of the area around the city. Ranks and ranks of men in armour emerge from the forest, with women on horseback, and a palanquin. Soon Rand can make out the shape on the banner: a white teardrop.

Lan remarks that Ingtar is with them, back from hunting at last. Rand asks why there are so many Aes Sedai, and why the banner and drums? The Amyrlin Seat came in person and Rand's lessons are done, Lan says, looking sympathetic.(8) He adds, better for Rand if he were a week gone.

The Amyrlin Seat, who ordered the Aes Sedai. She’s come because of me. He could think of no other reason. They knew things, had knowledge that could help him, he was sure. And he did not dare ask any of them. He was afraid they had come to gentle him. And afraid they haven’t, too, he admitted reluctantly. Light, I don’t know which scares me more. “I didn’t mean to channel the Power,” he whispered. “It was an accident! Light, I don’t want anything to do with it. I swear I’ll never touch it again! I swear it!” With a start, he realized that the Aes Sedai party was entering the city gates. The wind swirled up fiercely, chilling his sweat like droplets of ice, making the trumpets sound like sly laughter; he thought he could smell an opened grave, strong in the air. My grave, if I keep standing here. Grabbing his shirt, he scrambled down the ladder and began to run.

=====

(1) Hey, wasn't that the name of that one chapter icon? (2) Bob, adding an H to an existing name does not inherently qualify it as legally distinct. (3) I may or may not quote every one of these. It's just so evocative. (4) Is that what they call it these days? (5) Recall Tam's description. "I paid entirely too much; two coppers is too much for one of these. Your mother didn’t approve, but she was always wiser than I. I was young then, and it seemed worth the price at the time." Do you get the feeling he didn't mean he paid for it in cash? Still, we finally find out why Rand's sword is so special and didn't dull in the slightest after chopping up the cart wood in Emond's Field. Everyone loves a magic sword. Lan's sword is too, though I didn't put that in my summary explicitly. (6) So, for all Rand's big talk about leaving at the end of the Eye of the World, he sure took his sweet time about it. It's kind of understandable that he wants some answers, something to help him stay safe, not go mad or hurt anyone. But, kiddo, you had to know there was a reason Moiraine didn't just take off with the girls to Tar Valon herself or something. (7) The line about the Heron position is a little awkwardly placed. It feels clear Jordan wanted to set that up for something, and refused to let it be edited out. (Obviously I know what it's setting up, it's one of the things I remember, but I can't say anything more than that) (8) This is the first time we see someone other than Nynaeve really processing Lan's facial expressions, and he's acting… downright paternal. He's teaching Rand what he can, in the time given him, about the sword and the world. He's sympathetic about what's about to happen to Rand now that the Aes Sedai are here, knowing how Rand feels about them, knowing what Rand is even as Rand doesn't want to believe.

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[butmakeitgayblog]

Can you tease us with a short smutty snippet from the last chapter of demon au?

Lexa smirked and rocked her hips, felt bold at the sound of Clarke's groan as she licked a strip up her chin just to nibble at her lips. It was hard not to feel drunk with the way Clarke chased her kiss, harder still to ignore the way her heart raced at the answering pout.

Brushing a knuckle along Clarke's cheek, Lexa traced her finger over the seam of pink lips, nodding with a quiet, "Good girl," when Clarke obediently opened for her. Dipping inside just enough to wet the tips of her fingers, Lexa hummed at the feel of Clarke's tongue lapping against her skin.

"Gorgeous?" Lexa whispered and dropped her hand down to pinch a stiff nipple between the slick of her fingers. "Always assume I'm talking to your tits."

Lexa kissed her just to taste the sinister new spice of Clarke's laugh. Her lips trailed over the dip of Clarke's chin and teeth dragged down the length of her neck. She bit rose colored offerings of her devotion, of her anger, of her adoration, along the flex of Clarke's ribs. Her tongue traced the line of Clarke's stomach and swirled the delicate belly button below as thighs fell open and welcomed her to settle against wet heat. 

Lexa didn't think she'd ever get over the feeling of being this intimate with Clarke. 

Her eyes followed the path of her fingers as she rubbed over the dark pink of glistening folds. It still amazed her how wet Clarke got from something as trivial as her touch. Always so warm and deliciously swollen, the scent of her arousal was enough to make Lexa's mouth water. 

She spread Clarke open and watched her clench in anticipation, nearly moaning as she took in the reddened tip of her clit that poked out from beneath its hood. It was beautiful. Clarke was beautiful laid out for her like this, and Lexa could barely stop her hips from grinding into the mattress when she leaned in.

Lexa licked the sides of Clarke's slit, gathering the wetness as Clarke prayed to be touched and worshipped and lathed over with the fullness of Lexa's tongue. She kissed along the folds and let her mouth fall open to the welcoming taste, pressing the flat of her tongue along the length of Clarke's heat and rubbed in a filthy swipe.

She sucked the tender folds between her lips and released them with a pop, only to push in and start the process all over again when Clarke's hips jumped at the loss. A purr drummed from deep in her chest and mixed with the throaty sounds of Clarke's moans and her sighs, and the sweet sound of her—

Lexa pulled away and sat up on her elbows as her face dipped into a frown.

"... Are you laughing right now?"

[lyriumlullaby-ao3]

Last Line Game 🩵✨

goooood morning world! i was tagged by @alistairsprayerwarrior to post the last line of fic i wrote, then tag others if i want to!

so i went spelunking through my (obscenely massive) google folder where i keep all my wips, and bc i would have been SO SAD giving you just one or the other, you folks get both sides of the Miri/Solas and Miri/Cullen nonmonogamy relationship deal 💖

is this more than the prompt asked for?? yes, but i live to exceed expectations 😌✨

the working title of this fic is A Sword to Pierce the Sun, and this first bit is technically only the second most recent line i wrote, going by separate wips. it comes from what will likely be chapter 16 there, during the “ar lath, ma vhenan” scene in the Solas romance that i have… extended 😏 (this bit isn’t that spicy tho, don’t worry):

Taking a shaky breath, Miri nodded and let her hands fall away from her chest, reaching instead for Solas’ fingers against her face, his strong shoulder where he held himself up over her. His eyes darted immediately to the parts of her chest she’d been concealing, something flickering in his wide eyes as they traced the arc of twisted flesh from the end of her collarbone and down, curving above her left breast to where it ended at her sternum. For an instant, his brow furrowed and his lip curled into a snarl as his eyes flashed dangerously, but then it was gone again, so quickly Miri wondered if she’d really seen it at all. Solas leaned forward and brushed a slow series of tender kisses over the scar as his hands fell to her ribs once more, tugging her up against his mouth as he hummed in approval. Miri gasped, arching her back as the little growl he released sent sparks racing down her spine, making her belly clench pleasantly.

“You are perfect, vhenan. Scars and all,” he breathed, lips dancing over her skin and eliciting a pleasured gasp from Miri as she gripped more tightly at his shoulders.

(forgive me for giving y’all an entire small passage, but. i’m ~300k deep in this sucker and still not posting bc i am one of Those Writers that has to finish before i post a longfic and i am dying to share some of it lol)

okay, and then THIS one is the same longfic, but about twenty chapters later… i must be stopped lmao 😂 Cullen and Miri are in Ferelden, they have stopped at an inn for the night, and Miri woke with a nightmare. When requesting a somewhat unusual (read: spicy) means of comfort afterwards, she and Cullen talk about their trauma and difficulty with deciding what’s real, then some super fluffy smut ensues, ending with:

“Are you sure you’re not a Desire demon?” Cullen chuckled lightly, brushing Miri’s sleep- and sex-mussed hair from her flushed face.

“Hmmm,” Miri pretended to consider, biting her lip and forcing down a giggle at the heat that flashed through Cullen’s eyes as they fell to her mouth. “You tell me—you’re the one who was bitten by a wolf a week ago. Does that seem like something a Desire demon would conjure?”

Cullen hummed thoughtfully in response. “You make a good point… but perhaps that was all a ploy to get me out of my trousers?” He smirked at her, and Miri’s laughter turned to a little groan at the way his scar pulled as he did. Mythal ash suledin, she loved that scar.

“Perhaps,” she giggled, pressing another kiss to the silvery mark of the troubled past he’d left behind him.

“Well, I suppose we’ll simply have to find some way to be certain then,” Cullen rumbled, hands tightening on her hips again as a playful glint flashed through his eyes.

“You have something in mind?” Miri grinned, carding her fingers through his tousled curls.

With a little growl, he pulled Miri tighter to his chest once more and rolled over on top of her, making Miri squeal with laughter as his lips fell to her throat, rubbing his stubble over her sensitive skin and sucking a mark into her neck. “I’m sure we’ll think of something,” he grinned.

yes. these are both longer than a line. technically one of them wasn’t last. i don’t care. i love my daughterrrr she deserves these kisses and you reading these bits where she gets them 😂💖✨

i taggggg uhhh?? @broodwolf221 @kcwriter-blog @ruthvelyan (yeah i know you were already tagged but. tag me in your response if you do it bc i wanna seeeee 💖💖) andddd anybody else who wants an excuse to post a bit of their wip! i love reading about ppl’s ocs and their stories!! i just don’t know off the top of my head who’s a writer and who’s not 😅

(no pressure to do this unless you want to!)

[oialeamante]

Enyalië

“I promised to reveal your memories if you ever asked. I will unlock repressed memories Alarderei. Your warning to yourself if this moment ever arrived was, ‘Mala’” (Pain). Her father said as he braced himself.

She readied herself with a shaky breath into her knotted stomach. 

Her father placed his hand on her forehead, a warm buzz in his fingers tickling her skin as he cast a spell to unlock her repressed memories.

A young elf, radiating in the sun as he laughs. She’s standing directly in front of him.

She is mid waltz in a ballroom, her and the elf are trying to keep up with the music.

She’s in the lower city by the park. The young elf walks with her, he looks nervous and makes a high pitched laugh.

The elf is holding her hand as tears roll down her face over something he said. She is overwhelmed with joy.

Her ribs ache as she makes a strained and exasperated cry. She remembers everything. 

Her legs cannot move fast enough down the steps, every step feels like sinking into mud as she blazes down the path back to her home. Her body is shaking, every breath she takes hurts more than the last. She is light-headed as she reaches towards the front door.

The door flings open as she uses every ounce of strength in her body. Her knees buckle and she collapses on the the floor. Every movement is slow and painful but her mind only has one thought. She crawls towards her bedroom.

Astarion sits alarmed and upright the moment they make eye contact. 

Before she could even process the weight of gravity she’ll need to force through to stand back up on her legs, she’s already standing in front of a wardrobe in her room.

The doors fly open and she lifts the lid on a hidden compartment. She pulls out an intricate white and silver gown covered in brocade and turns to face Astarion.

Astarion stares at the gown, his eyes shifting as he processes a faint memory of the garment in front of him.

Emma Lath.(My Love) she gasps to him.

Astarion remembers the girl under the tree with white hair.

A young elf is concentrating on casting a spell, he is watching her. He’s impressed.

The elf is smiling at him on a balcony in the upper city. She is the center of his universe.

His chest is burning with sorrow as he cries in the kennel.

Astarion stares down at his pallid hands as humiliation impales his chest. 

He disgraced her. He deliberately sought to manipulate her without a regard to her life. He calculated moves to fornicate her body. He is a fucking worm. Disgusting. Worthless.

Emma Lath. (My Love) She pleads to Astarion again.

She gently raises Astarion’s face to meet hers. They can barely see each other through their tears.

Ceno Nin. (Look at me) She trembles at the shame in Astarion’s eyes. Emma Lath. (My Love)

Va. (No) Astarion utters in dread.

Astarion’s shame is petrifying. He remembers her. They were in love and planning the next chapter of their lives together. He died. He couldn’t leave Cazador’s palace. He cried in devastation until his throat was gnawed and throbbing from weeks of overuse. He was chained for years in the kennel. The first time he left Cazador’s palace he fought his control over him to try to escape. All he wanted was to run back to Alarderei. Cazador broke every bone in his body when he returned home from his hunt empty handed.

He pressed her memory deep down along with everything else from his previous life. He had become a pathetic slave that would never leave the grasp of Cazador. Her memory faded with his will to live. He wanted to die but couldn’t. He left everything behind in the grave, but doesn’t remember when. 

whime emma lath. (Why my love)

nányë úlaitima (I am a disgrace)

tye coile (You’re alive). She pushes Astarion desperately into her arms. She mourned him for so long. She begged her father to help her forget. Her father complied because he did not know how else to soothe her unending misery. He is alive and in her arms. Exactly where she dreamed Astarion to return for so long.

Mime mel. (My Love) Astarion crumbles in her arms. Lightning crashes into every nerve in his body as he recalls the love for each other back then.

Astarion kisses her, lips quivering as he forces cries back down his throat. He feels everything. Happiness. Sorrow. Anger. Relief.

After centuries apart, he is back in the arms of his one true love. Alarderei. 

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Great Hunt! Chapter 1: The Flame of Tar Valon

Welcome to another spoiler-filled chapter of my horrifyingly long reread of The Wheel of Time. Every secret will be revealed, some blatantly, some only by reading between the lines and going all Bible Code on my precisely and perfectly placed letters and punctuatio.n

It should have been summer by now, but spring had been late in coming, and the land had run wild to catch up. New-come pale green bristled on every bush, and red new growth tipped every tree branch.

Nice of the Wheel to schedule them a mild summer in between the two supernaturally dominated seasons they're going to be suffering from. I'll have to try and remember to pay attention to the late books and see if they get a similarly mild season after the Bowl is used.

Stripped to the waist, Rand al’Thor shivered at the wind’s cold caress, and his fingers flexed on the long hilt of the practice sword he held. The hot sun had slicked his chest, and his dark, reddish hair clung to his head in a sweat-curled mat.

My inability to find fan art of shirtless Rand practicing swordplay with Lan is going to haunt me for the rest of time, or at least this sentence.

With a bundle of thin, loosely bound staves in place of a blade, the practice sword would make a loud clack when it struck anything, and leave a welt where it hit flesh. Rand knew all too well. Three thin red lines stung on his ribs, and another burned his shoulder. It had taken all his efforts not to wear more decorations. Lan bore not a mark.

While the books still have Rand take to swords remarkably quickly for real life training (and frankly even for in-world justifications, since LTT should be comparatively shit at the sword what with being one of its pioneers), they should get points for having given him multiple months of training with the world's most intense teacher.

The wind howled across the tower . . . and trapped him. It was as if the air had suddenly jelled, holding him in a cocoon. Pushing him forward. Time and motion slowed; horrified, he watched Lan’s practice sword drift toward his chest. There was nothing slow or soft about the impact. His ribs creaked as if he had been struck with a hammer. He grunted, but the wind would not allow him to give way; it still carried him forward, instead. The lathes of Lan’s practice sword flexed and bent—ever so slowly, it seemed to Rand—then shattered, sharp points oozing toward his heart, jagged lathes piercing his skin. Pain lanced through his body; his whole skin felt slashed. He burned as though the sun had flared to crisp him like bacon in a pan.

Our first bubble of evil, maybe! With one of the seals on the Dark One's prison broken, the influence he has over reality is definitely growing either way. There's also something interesting in the fact that the winds of the first two books are winds of evil from the mountains: the unnatural winter wind of the Mountains of Mist and now this from Dhoom. Rand is their symbolic opposite, according to Loial anyway.

“And what was that fool move, sheepherder?” Lan grated. “You know better by now, or should unless you have forgotten everything I’ve tried to teach you. How badly are you—?” He cut off as Rand looked up at him.

Lan goes from jackass high school football coach to "How dare the weather hurt my precious baby?" in about five milliseconds and Rand thinks he's an unemotional rock.

“For someone like you. . . .” Lan shrugged as if that explained everything. “How long before you leave, sheepherder? A month since you said you were going, and I thought you’d be two weeks gone by now.”

Sure, on the one hand Lan is changing the subject on a dime, but on the other hand these two topics are very connected because they're all about the well-being of his special boy. Especially since the Amyrlin is coming to town.

Again Lan seemed to read his mind. “In the Borderlands, sheepherder, if a man has the raising of a child, that child is his, and none can say different.”

Was this policy established because letting people get butthurt about infidelity hurt with the constant war against the Shadow or because the sheer number of orphans meant they needed to firmly integrate families together or both? You decide!

It was an idea he had thought of more than once, but he rejected it now for the same reason he always had, and more fiercely for coming from someone else. As long as I keep it, I have the right to call Tam father. He gave it to me, and it gives me the right.

On the one hand, it's good that Rand's emotional traumas don't just disappear between books, but on the other hand, this particular bit of uncomfortable denial is exhausting. Rand is so obviously Tam's son in so many ways that his inability to internalize it despite Nynaeve and Lan's best efforts is... well, it's a big explanation for the emotional problems he's gonna start having later on.

Some weapons used the One Power, things that could destroy an entire city at one blow, lay waste to the land for leagues. Just as well those were all lost in the Breaking; just as well no one remembers the making of them.

Sorry Lan, but one such weapon is very much accounted for (Callandor) while two more aren't as lost as we might hope.

When it was done, war and Age ended together, with the world shattered, with more dead unburied than there were alive and those alive fleeing, trying to find some place, any place, of safety, with every second woman weeping because she’d never see husband or sons again; when it was done, the Aes Sedai who still lived swore they would never again make a weapon for one man to kill another.

Amusingly for an infodump where Lan notes that mythology is replacing fact... Lan's reciting mythology here, not fact. The anti-weapon Oath wasn't adopted for another thousand years after the Breaking, at least not universally.

“Mat and Perrin are still here,” Rand mumbled. “I don’t want to leave before they do. I won’t ever—I might not see them again for—for years, maybe.”

Rand probably looks back and assumes that his hesitation this past month out of loyalty to his friends was a weakness (hence his increasing willingness to use and even throw away his associates as he gets darker and darker). Really though, the fact that he can't just up and disappear from the people he loves like this is a strength.

“You wish everything could be the way it was, sheepherder? Or you wish the girl would go with you instead of to Tar Valon? You think she’ll give up becoming an Aes Sedai for a life of wandering? With you? If you put it to her in the right way, she might. Love is an odd thing.” Lan sounded suddenly weary. “As odd a thing as there is.”

Is there a way that Nynaeve could put it to Lan that he would go with her to Tar Valon instead of with Moiraine? Maybe but... I don't think so. And I don't think Egwene would ditch Tar Valon for anything Rand could offer her; if he tried he'd probably end up agreeing to go and be her Warder despite the obvious stupidity of such a course of action.

Rand surged angrily to his feet. “All right, it’s Moiraine! I wouldn’t even be here if not for her, and she won’t as much as talk to me.” “You’d be dead if not for her, sheepherder,” Lan said flatly, but Rand rushed on.

He'd be dead if not for you too, Lan, but you aren't using that as an excuse not to talk to him. Lan is super loyal to Moiraine at this point, but I have to wonder exactly what he thinks of all this. He's clearly undermining her a little by training Rand the way that he does.

“I told you she needs to be alone sometimes. It isn’t for you, or anyone else, to question her actions.”

And stuff like this. How much of it is Lan 100% believing what he's saying, and how much of it is him saying it to himself now that they're almost at the finish line and she's gone erratic while leaving handling the DR entirely to him (or is his interacting with Rand at all a kind of defiance)? He says Rand's learned all he can from her, but that of course is BS because there's a lot Moiraine could be teaching him about politics and diplomacy but she's not, unless this is a month-long lesson in making people wait.

Go through Parting the Silk, beginning from Heron Wading in the Rushes. Remember that that Heron form is only for practicing balance.

We finally get some sword forms. They're beautiful and these two are super self-explanatory, especially how Heron is obviously only for training. Yay sword forms!

Mounted men in armor rode out of the trees, and women ahorseback, too. Then a palanquin borne by horses, one before and one behind, its curtains down, and more men on horseback. Ranks of men afoot, pikes rising above them like a bristle of long thorns, and archers with their bows held slanted across their chests, all stepping to the drums. The trumpets cried again. Like a singing serpent the column wound its way toward Fal Dara.

Again I wonder if comparing the mass movement of troops to serpents is meant to be evocative of the Light and time itself.

“Ingtar’s with them.” Lan sounded as if his thoughts were elsewhere. “Back from his hunting at last. Been gone long enough. I wonder if he had any luck?”

So Ingtar went hunting to cover up his attending the meeting, right.? It would probably be very suspicious if someone needed him but couldn't find him because he'd gone off into T'A'R. (Are ancient memories of Darkfriend Socials in the Age of Legends the reason that the Wise Ones think going to T'A'R in the flesh is evil?)

Aes Sedai were respected in Shienar, at least by most people, and the rest respectfully feared them, but Rand had been in places where it was different, where there was only the fear, and often hate. Where he had grown up, some men, at least, spoke of “Tar Valon witches” as they would speak of the Dark One.

Who can blame the TR guys, considering how shitty the Aes Sedai were to their ancestors? The White Tower's PR problems are so hilariously self-inflicted that it's surprising any part of the Borderlands still likes them at this point.

“The Amyrlin Seat’s come in person.” Lan looked at him, his expression as hard and unreadable as a rock. “Your lessons are done, sheepherder.” He paused then, and Rand almost thought there was sympathy on his face. That could not be, of course. “Better for you if you were a week gone.”

Lan: I don't envy you kid. Sorry that everything's about to suck even more than you think it already does. By the way, you were always my favorite, even before Mat got cursed and Perrin became a werewolf.

Rand: Lan's a cool dude who can kill anything! I wish he cared about me, but he can't do that because real men don't care about anyone but their weapons!

“I didn’t mean to channel the Power,” he whispered. “It was an accident! Light, I don’t want anything to do with it. I swear I’ll never touch it again! I swear it!”

And I swear I'll never read another chapter of this book again! I swear it just as hard as you Rand!

(See you all tomorrow with the next chapter ;) )

[vacantgodling]

find the word tag!

thanks again @mjjune these are always fun but always make me wanna write more so i have more luck lol

i wasn’t able to find trickle unfortunately. but i had a variety of everything else somewhere! as usual wips will be listed next to the word & this is an open tag so take a gander at: lolly, duck, pace, sing, and carpet!

shirt — jenna the reaper

The last time Jenna had done a verbal spell she practically blew up the pot of stew Kashmira was cooking right in front of their faces, and while Carlos was less than thrilled with having curry over his best work shirt for the next two weeks, her mother found great amusement in it and offered to buy him a new one; giving Jenna a pat on the head.

tug — vampires don’t take roadtrips

“I was surprised when Vlad told me you lived there.” Gabe met my eyes again. The smile he gave me this time was softer, more genuine. He really was going to make my heart beat out from behind my ribs. “You don’t really have much of an accent.”

“Really? I’ve been told I sound like a New Yawker.” I beamed when I saw the hints of a smile tug at his lips again.

trickle

grace — tcol (historical)

“Your grace…” Lath started.

“Hush.” Zenith, ever true to her king’s word, snapped and begrudged, Lath fell silent. Only for a moment. Then he spoke once more, ever softer.

“She was your last sister.”

smack(ing) — the graves we dug (tgwd)

“I’ll leave you all to it. Be gentle with her!” Dove chided, smacking her ass playfully.