A collection of OOC things, my artwork and some general writings. Often involves NSFW and political content.

All of the pornographic stuff is tagged with #NSFW!


“Kiss me.” — Tethrien

For Zinmashar!

Six weeks.  He had given them fair warning after his return from Orgrimmar that in a short time he would be returning to assist in keeping peace and occupation.  Soon enough, the first four of rest were gone, and he bid Laevra and Lhysandra a brief farewell before returning to work with the Ascended and the other occupying forces within the city’s walls.  He had not asked the redheaded woman to go with him, not because of her injury but because he assumed she did not wish to return there so soon.  He understood without truly understanding her motivation.

Contact was kept however, both in written word to his daughter and the mental link between he and Lhysandra.  Even so, his lack of presence was felt keenly in the large house.  It was strange not to wake in the morning to the hammer of smithy hammer, to step within to see the forge cold, to not glimpse the large warrior sleeping in his well-worn recliner.

Six had passed, and the pale soldier returned via assistance of a particularly large proto-drake that did not seem to mind the smears of soot and dirt, the oil on too-fair skin and in silvered hair and the stink of the earlier day’s violent necessities.  

Lhysandra was settled on the edge of a table cross-legged, testing the edge of a freshly sharpened kitchen knife with a ghostly touch of fingertip.  The rest of the house was silent save the click of Gunther’s clawed toes on the second floor, but neither the warrior nor Zha’riin were quiet in their arrival—nor in the proto’s flight elsewhere.  She carefully set the blade aside and uncurled a leg as Tethrien pushed the door open with a heaved sigh, dully glowing eyes falling easily on the familiar form.  He paused for a moment as if he had not expected to find her there, then lifted his bearded chin and shut the door behind him.  The rattle of scabbard and bulwark thrummed an aching chord in her chest—when had six weeks begun to feel so long?

She rose with a return of tilted chin, sharp eyes raking over him for signs of injury.  He looked wild:  pale skin smudged haphazardly, wind and little care throwing choppy silver locks askew in a messy lion’s mane, armor and weaponry dirtied and dented from heavy use.  Her crooked grin was greeting enough.

Lhysandra at least allowed him to unbuckle his armor and set it aside for later cleaning, did not stop him as he unlaced the fitted jerkin to drop it nearby the pile of crafted steel.  Was he intending on bathing?

Tethrien had meant to speak, but he could feel her closeness, feel her heat, and he leveled his dim gaze upon the woman’s countenance with a tight knot forming in his belly.  When, indeed, had six weeks felt so long?

He was looking at her like she was a long drink after months in a desert, and she could see it as words dried and he resorted to his most familiar form of communication:  silence.  Her warm fingers touched the curve of a bicep, and she stepped close enough that even air had barely any room to pass between them.  She could feel the tenseness in his frame, but as she glanced up to his squared features, she could easily tell it wasn’t from aggression, not from anger.

So she decided to play a game, to push back against her own pressing want to take his threads into her hands and slowly unravel him.  He watched her with that hungry look, that savagery barely controlled, and she knew he could smell her just as she could him.  Teasing pressure rolled keloidal scarring beneath her touch, and he grew rigid like a stone wall, gaze narrowing in something that from anyone else would have been dangerous.  He was drawn taut like a bow, obvious in the straightness of his spine, and beneath the fitted leather of his trousers, she could see the bulk of thick thighs tighten.  His jaw clenched, hands hanging at his sides fighting against the urge to fist, to grab and take as masculine want reared.

He wanted her.  It was a plain and simple thing, a desire he did not dampen, did not try to hide.  He, however, did not act upon it.

Not until she lifted herself up on her toes, retracting her touch just enough that he could feel her closeness by her heat and the rustle of pale hair on his flesh, not until full lips curved and parted in wicked, crooked smile, not until she whispered.


And then he was on her in an explosion of primal ferocity just as she wanted him to be, played like a harp and strung tight enough to snap.  She did not protest the force with which he pinned her to the wall with his bulk, far larger frame hemming her in, and she in defiance curled her long legs around his waist to secure a hold, scoring lines of angry red across his back with the dig of nails.  Her lips hovered an inch away from his own, teasing and taunting and tempting as ever, a wordless demand.

Kiss me.




do not fall in love with people like me.
i will take you to museums, and parks, and monuments, and kiss you in every beautiful place, so that you can never go back to them without tasting me like blood in your mouth. i will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible. and when i leave you will finally understand, why storms are named after people.



Send one of these in my askbox to see how my muse reacts


  • "All I ever wanted was the simple things."
  • "I find your sense of humour spiteful."
  • "Feels like I’m growing weaker, much weaker each day."
  • "Your absence is taking its toll on me."
  • "I don’t think I can be anything other than me."
  • "I am human and I need to be loved just like anybody else does."
  • "I’d rather kill myself than turn into their slave."
  • "How strong do you think I am?"
  • "I know I deserve better, after all."
  • "I’ve watched a change in you."
  • "Don’t you forget about me."
  • "I’ll be coming for you anyway."
  • "Words are very unnecessary, they can only do harm."
  • "I’m having the day from hell…"
  • "Sing me to sleep."
  • "The cold never bothered me anyway."
  • Who would have thought that the ones who spoke of trust would come to betray us?”
  • "All the stars are coming out tonight."
  • "Some of them want to be abused."
  • "You shall hold your tongue. You shall keep it to yourself."
  • "I know they’re watching."
  • "I see your face, it’s haunting me…"
  • "You found me when no one else was looking."
  • "We all needed something to cling to."
  • "The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head."
  • "I’m happy just to have you."
  • "If it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad?"
  • "I’d never guess how we ever could have got here."
  • "Scary shadows of my past are alive."
  • "There’s no other place in this world that I rather would be."
  • "Don’t shoot to kill."
  • "You should have made some plans with me, you knew that I was free."
  • "Maybe I’ll come and have a look."
  • "You know how hard it can be to keep believing in me."
  • "I’ve tried so hard to tell myself that you’re gone…"
  • "Give me a reason to stay."
  • "It can’t rain all the time."
  • "Why was I never good enough?"
  • "Do I have to tell a story of the thousand rainy days since we first met?"
  • "Never thought I’d be the one who’d slip."
  • "We have the chance to turn the pages over."
  • "You’ve got to fight for every dream."
  • "I’ve learned to get revenge, and I swear you’ll experience that some day."

Foooor the usual folks, just let me know who!

Find the list here!



today a customer asked me for a “medium whatever” and then got frustrated with me when i asked him what he meant

this is it 

this is the post that 100% accurately describes working with the public

“Why are you here?” — Braegon

For Zinmashar!

It was not often that Xivarra grew openly frustrated.  Whether it was age or an admirable amount of self-control that kept fiery aggravation at bay he did not know, but the pinching at the corners of her eyes and the tightness of her mouth were sign enough that he had—again—pushed her to a point where exasperation was her only answer.

He hadn’t actually meant to, much like the other times it had gotten to this point.

She whirled on him across the table, facial tendrils almost seeming to quiver with her built up aggravation, bits of broken plate clutched in her hand.  The Draenei’s bright eyes widened slightly, tail coiling about a strong leg, and the scrunch of her nose was no longer quite so humorous.  Broad hands braced against the table where he’d leaned, and he looked over at her with a stoic expression.

"If you have such a problem with me, if you only ridicule me, why are you still here?”

The question struck Braegon as being quite understandable, but his expression did not shift at first.  This was one of those situations where he should have felt guilty about pressing her hard, about mocking her.  He should have felt guilty for essentially taking advantage of her hospitality.

But he didn’t know how.

Years of being trapped beneath a master’s thumb, thrown into arenas, bred only to die for another man’s glory, Braegon had never been taught the most basic of interactions:  empathy.

Silence stretched between them.  Xivarra continued to stare at him, still expecting an answer.  In her frustration, she wanted to hear it from him.

They both knew why he was still there.  

He didn’t have any other place to go.

Rather than answer, Braegon straightened and lifted his chin, staring across at the flustered Draenei before he crouched and gathered up the closest pieces of shattered tableware onto the wood surface between them.

Ignoring the tempting scents of a lovingly prepared dinner—as it always was—the former gladiator turned on his heel and strode from the room and toward the smaller quarters she allowed him to call his own without taking any of the food for himself.  Whether punishment or apology, he didn’t clarify, but one thing was for certain.

Staying here was forming an aching depth in his chest he had not recalled ever knowing before.  The world was massive, there was so much to learn and so much that others expected he should know already, but he was leagues behind everyone else.  Some days he wondered if accepting her offer for sanctuary elsewhere was a better idea.  At least then she wouldn’t have to deal with his social fumbling.

He had been taught to fight, taught to kill, taught to survive.  He had been taught to bite and claw and bark, taught to tear at everyone and everything.  He had been taught to destroy, and he had been taught to die.

But no one ever taught him how to feel.

· Drabbles · Braegon · Xivarra · Feels ·

Lok'tar O'gar →


If Eitrigg owned a Volvo, it would be a lok’tar o’car.

When Thrall plays a good round of golf, he scores under lok’tar o’par.

If Saurfang ruled Russia, he might be a lok’tar o’tsar.

Grom is getting drunk in the lok’tar o’bar.

Orcs don’t use winzip, they prefer lok’tar…


Oh no he has the right amount of beard.

Holy goddamn he has the right amount of everything


Forever wondering if I am contributing to a conversation by using my own experiences or being self centered and rude.

Jaime likes pie now.



Only 2 days ! Faite passer :)

Buy here : http://www.ulule.com/figurine-jon-snow-by-nemesis/

(2 days left) If you want to pre-order a Jon Snow exclusive chibi figurine it’s there!!-> http://www.ulule.com/figurine-jon-snow-by-nemesis/


· WANT ·


Dr. Frederick Chilton + Hands


It’s a little fucked up how into him with the cane I am.



There are two types of worgen: those that believe themselves to be human with an unfortunate affliction and those that believe themselves to be worgen with an old human form they see to be no longer relevant.

Which one is your worgen?

Langleigh has adapted surprisingly well.  He does not view the curse as ‘unfortunate’ because while it has caused excessive hair growth despite his wishes to remain smooth, there have been benefits to the change.  He doesn’t wander around in his shifted form often, but heightened senses have allowed him to better make use of his less socially acceptable skills (outside of the bedroom, that is).  He does not precisely thrill in his shift, but he makes good use of it when he needs to and does not waste time wallowing in his ‘misfortune’ of being Worgen.

Donaugh on the other hand is still struggling with the idea of his “unfortunate affliction”.  Although training with Pyodr has led to some understanding of hedge witchery and shapeshifting in general, his wolfish form is still an uncomfortable reminder of the things he did unwillingly to his friends and family in GIlneas following his being bitten.

viwan themes